Our Dream
The morning of February 15th was one of anticipation, freezing cold, and a bus ride full of sick cheerleaders. It was the day we had all been waiting for, the one that would prove if all of our hard work had paid off. The months and months of training and pushing our way to the top for this very moment: Districts Day.
We huddled together on the frigid bus. It was unnaturally cold that February morning, which may have contributed to the sniffles, hacking coughs, and constant vomiting of the majority of my team. Buckets were passed around as we tried our best to stay warm and keep food down. We would need our energy if we even hoped of qualifying to go to Regionals. Our coach was forlorn, looking upon us with despair. We all felt our dreams of being the first Saint Louis team to make it to States crumbling down upon us. We could barely even keep our breakfast burritos in our stomachs, let alone perform to the best of our abilities. Nonetheless, we all tried our hardest to stay upbeat.
It seemed like years later that we stepped off of that bus, each clinging to bags, bows, and buckets. We shuffled into the locker room far too small to be designated to four cheer teams. All of us who were actively sick took refuge in the small, oddly warm and dark shower portion, isolated from the rest of our team. We wanted nothing less than to infect them so soon before we performed. Lara passed around lemon poppy seed muffins, special made for my team. We all wished we could eat. We lied on the floor of the shower, which soon took up the nickname of The Gas Chamber, until we absolutely had to practice. We dressed and touched up makeup, straightened our bows and lipstick, and headed out with our buckets in tow. The practice rooms were familiar, as we had performed in the same gym just one week prior. The other teams were going full out. Flawless formations, overextended jumps, and incredible facials countered my groaning, pale, and depressingly sick team. Watching the other teams practice was the moment I gave up.
Taking the thin, deformed wrestling mat that constituted as our practice space, we tried our hardest to remember the team we had worked so hard to become, as opposed to the sniveling, sick, hoarse team we seemed to be. Formations were forgotten, minimal facials, our jumps were sadly low. Lack of enthusiasm plagued our performance. We exited the practice gym with our tails between our legs knowing we were beat, but willing to give our all every second on the floor anyways.
At this point I was not a part of Round 1. The spot that was originally mine was taken from me and given to a foreigner from Sweden named Jessika so every cheerleader could have a spot in at least one round. I had battled it out for this spot that I believed was rightfully mine, but decided after winning my spot back that I would allow Jessika to cheer for such an important competition. After all, I’m not the one who may never again have the opportunity to compete. This decision made, I watched my teammates struggle through the first hour before we could step onto the mats. I was snapping pictures along the way, and offering weak encouragements as even I wanted nothing more than to go home. We found refuge in The Gas Chamber every moment possible until Coach said the fateful words.
“It’s time to go, you’re in the hole.”
We clambered out of the suffocatingly-small locker room, knowing that it was time to push past our illness and persevere to achieve our goals. Only two teams left to go. We stepped into the gymnasium. They leave the mat. One team left. We huddled in a circle as coach gave us a talk to pep us up. We’re cheerleaders, which means we can push past anything if need be. The team ahead of us steps off the mat. It’s game time. We listen for any last words of advice from coach as our nausea gives way to adrenaline. We break apart only when we hear the crackle of the microphone.
“Saint Louis, you may approach the mat.” The girls on my team rushed towards the floor, careful not to touch the mats, which would give us a penalty before we even began. Our section of the crowd went wild. We waited, bouncing on our toes for the judges to grant us the privilege to perform.
“You may take the mat and begin when ready.” I watched the bittersweet moment through the lens of the camera, disappointed I wasn’t performing. The judges put their game faces on. Formations were stepped into. Half the team kneeled. Hands were placed on hips. Smiling faces beamed at the judges. You could feel the spirit in the air. This is where we belong, and we could feel it. Everything finally fell into place. Our sickness was the last thing on our minds. We watched for the thumbs up from our coach. There. It’s go time.
“Saint Louis. Stand out!” It was a strong start, every motion timed to perfection. we felt the reality of each word we spoke resonate within us. I snapped picture after picture, knowing the moments like these can never be captured in a single snapshot. My team gave their all on the floor. We always do. As they ran off of the mats cheering and positively glowing with the enthusiasm that only competing can bring, we looked to the judges. They were smiling as they wrote, which could be good or bad. Coach rushed over, tears brimming in her eyes. The reality of the situation, the knowing that this could be the last time we ever again performed this round, brought us closer. In that moment, we were one. The screams and cheering from our crowd was lost by the praise from our coach. We did our best, but only time would be able to tell if it was enough.
When we made it back to The Gas Chamber, our high was running out. We sprinted for the buckets placed neatly on the bench that had awaited our return. Even though we were sick, we had no down time. We were escorted immediately to the practice gym, Round 1 already forgotten. Round 2 was the only thing on our minds. I transferred the camera to Jessika as I took the mat. We worked on performance, last-minute tweaks, and the timing of skills. Heel-stretches, handstand-forward rolls, jumps, and splits were pushed without mercy. Perfection is expected. Sore and tired but ready to go, we left the room. Round 2 has started, and we were third in line. We step into the room. No time to be sick. As the second team leaves the mat, I could feel the nerves. I thrive in Round One, but Round Two is nerve-wracking with so much room for error.
“Saint Louis…” The rest of the sentence was drowned out by my coach. It didn’t matter. We know what he said.
“SHARK BAIT” She yelled. The entire audience hushed.
“HOO HA HA” Was our answering call. Nothing more needed to be said. We ran up to the mat. I gazed out at the audience adoringly. At the judge’s signal, we took the mat. The judge calls us onto the mats and tells us we may begin. My smile is no longer forced. This is where I belong. Stepping onto those big blue mats is a feeling I can’t describe. Imagine waking up on Christmas day as a little kid. The excitement is almost overwhelming. The pure joy as you look out into the crowd. We captivate them. They’re here for us. We won’t let them down. I feel my body go into autopilot. Coach’s words ring in my head. The round starts.
Squeeze tighter.
Be stronger.
Smile brighter.
Point my toes.
Jump higher.
Push harder.
And then it’s over.
I immediately start to second guess my performance. Did I hit a motion too early? Too late? Too tight? Not tight enough? Were all of my skills up to par? Deep breaths and water are my only solutions to the torrent of mayhem my mind produces. More breaths. More water that just gets chucked into an awaiting bucket. We called this competition Puke Bucket for a reason. We’re allowed to sit in the bleachers and watch the other teams perform for the first time all day. We know for a fact that they have superior skills and numbers of girls, but our execution and general impression beat them by a mile. We aren’t worried. The rest of the round passes in a blur, and before we know it it’s Round Three.
The practice goes awfully, only a few of the stunts hitting and looking solid and secure. Nobody comments on the fact that this round’s scores are a large determining factor on our overall scores. At this point in the day we were grumpy, tired, and burning up with fever, which most likely contributes to my lack of memory for the next hour or so. All I can say is that our stunts hit very well, and we did not receive any penalties. The next moment I can recall is taking the mats along with the nine other teams. I looked around, wondering which of us would qualify. Only four teams would make it. We held hands and sat somberly in a circle on the mat, oblivious to the dances and post-competition and pre-scores traditions that took place around us. It wasn’t until we heard the microphone squeal that we perked up. Time for scores.
We lied on our stomachs in a circle with our heads bowed and clenching eachothers’ hands painfully tightly.
“In tenth place… Springport!
‘Vassar!
‘Saginaw Nouvel!
‘Webberville!
‘Vermontville Maple Valley!”
In this moment we all held our breaths. Fifth place was about to be called, the spot none of us wanted to be in. Even last place is preferable to fifth, who have to live being the first loser. The fifth place team is the one who missed qualifying by just a hair, a tiny smidgen. We waited.
“Ithaca!”
We did it. We qualified. We squealed in delight because in that moment we became one step closer to States.
“In fourth place, with a Round Three score of 280.40 and a total score of 672.42 is the team from…. Montrose!”
“In third place, with a Round Three score of 293.00 and a total score of 691.60 is the team from…. Saint Louis!”
We erupt in cheers. Coach is crying, my team is crying… We did it. We proved that nothing can stand in the way of our goals if we believe in them and ourselves. The team we were wouldn’t even recognize us anymore. We’re strong and we’ll stop at nothing to reach our goals. To shatter our records. To leave behind our legacy. We are Sharks, and we want the whole world to know it.
This is our time to prove who we are.
This is our dream.
We huddled together on the frigid bus. It was unnaturally cold that February morning, which may have contributed to the sniffles, hacking coughs, and constant vomiting of the majority of my team. Buckets were passed around as we tried our best to stay warm and keep food down. We would need our energy if we even hoped of qualifying to go to Regionals. Our coach was forlorn, looking upon us with despair. We all felt our dreams of being the first Saint Louis team to make it to States crumbling down upon us. We could barely even keep our breakfast burritos in our stomachs, let alone perform to the best of our abilities. Nonetheless, we all tried our hardest to stay upbeat.
It seemed like years later that we stepped off of that bus, each clinging to bags, bows, and buckets. We shuffled into the locker room far too small to be designated to four cheer teams. All of us who were actively sick took refuge in the small, oddly warm and dark shower portion, isolated from the rest of our team. We wanted nothing less than to infect them so soon before we performed. Lara passed around lemon poppy seed muffins, special made for my team. We all wished we could eat. We lied on the floor of the shower, which soon took up the nickname of The Gas Chamber, until we absolutely had to practice. We dressed and touched up makeup, straightened our bows and lipstick, and headed out with our buckets in tow. The practice rooms were familiar, as we had performed in the same gym just one week prior. The other teams were going full out. Flawless formations, overextended jumps, and incredible facials countered my groaning, pale, and depressingly sick team. Watching the other teams practice was the moment I gave up.
Taking the thin, deformed wrestling mat that constituted as our practice space, we tried our hardest to remember the team we had worked so hard to become, as opposed to the sniveling, sick, hoarse team we seemed to be. Formations were forgotten, minimal facials, our jumps were sadly low. Lack of enthusiasm plagued our performance. We exited the practice gym with our tails between our legs knowing we were beat, but willing to give our all every second on the floor anyways.
At this point I was not a part of Round 1. The spot that was originally mine was taken from me and given to a foreigner from Sweden named Jessika so every cheerleader could have a spot in at least one round. I had battled it out for this spot that I believed was rightfully mine, but decided after winning my spot back that I would allow Jessika to cheer for such an important competition. After all, I’m not the one who may never again have the opportunity to compete. This decision made, I watched my teammates struggle through the first hour before we could step onto the mats. I was snapping pictures along the way, and offering weak encouragements as even I wanted nothing more than to go home. We found refuge in The Gas Chamber every moment possible until Coach said the fateful words.
“It’s time to go, you’re in the hole.”
We clambered out of the suffocatingly-small locker room, knowing that it was time to push past our illness and persevere to achieve our goals. Only two teams left to go. We stepped into the gymnasium. They leave the mat. One team left. We huddled in a circle as coach gave us a talk to pep us up. We’re cheerleaders, which means we can push past anything if need be. The team ahead of us steps off the mat. It’s game time. We listen for any last words of advice from coach as our nausea gives way to adrenaline. We break apart only when we hear the crackle of the microphone.
“Saint Louis, you may approach the mat.” The girls on my team rushed towards the floor, careful not to touch the mats, which would give us a penalty before we even began. Our section of the crowd went wild. We waited, bouncing on our toes for the judges to grant us the privilege to perform.
“You may take the mat and begin when ready.” I watched the bittersweet moment through the lens of the camera, disappointed I wasn’t performing. The judges put their game faces on. Formations were stepped into. Half the team kneeled. Hands were placed on hips. Smiling faces beamed at the judges. You could feel the spirit in the air. This is where we belong, and we could feel it. Everything finally fell into place. Our sickness was the last thing on our minds. We watched for the thumbs up from our coach. There. It’s go time.
“Saint Louis. Stand out!” It was a strong start, every motion timed to perfection. we felt the reality of each word we spoke resonate within us. I snapped picture after picture, knowing the moments like these can never be captured in a single snapshot. My team gave their all on the floor. We always do. As they ran off of the mats cheering and positively glowing with the enthusiasm that only competing can bring, we looked to the judges. They were smiling as they wrote, which could be good or bad. Coach rushed over, tears brimming in her eyes. The reality of the situation, the knowing that this could be the last time we ever again performed this round, brought us closer. In that moment, we were one. The screams and cheering from our crowd was lost by the praise from our coach. We did our best, but only time would be able to tell if it was enough.
When we made it back to The Gas Chamber, our high was running out. We sprinted for the buckets placed neatly on the bench that had awaited our return. Even though we were sick, we had no down time. We were escorted immediately to the practice gym, Round 1 already forgotten. Round 2 was the only thing on our minds. I transferred the camera to Jessika as I took the mat. We worked on performance, last-minute tweaks, and the timing of skills. Heel-stretches, handstand-forward rolls, jumps, and splits were pushed without mercy. Perfection is expected. Sore and tired but ready to go, we left the room. Round 2 has started, and we were third in line. We step into the room. No time to be sick. As the second team leaves the mat, I could feel the nerves. I thrive in Round One, but Round Two is nerve-wracking with so much room for error.
“Saint Louis…” The rest of the sentence was drowned out by my coach. It didn’t matter. We know what he said.
“SHARK BAIT” She yelled. The entire audience hushed.
“HOO HA HA” Was our answering call. Nothing more needed to be said. We ran up to the mat. I gazed out at the audience adoringly. At the judge’s signal, we took the mat. The judge calls us onto the mats and tells us we may begin. My smile is no longer forced. This is where I belong. Stepping onto those big blue mats is a feeling I can’t describe. Imagine waking up on Christmas day as a little kid. The excitement is almost overwhelming. The pure joy as you look out into the crowd. We captivate them. They’re here for us. We won’t let them down. I feel my body go into autopilot. Coach’s words ring in my head. The round starts.
Squeeze tighter.
Be stronger.
Smile brighter.
Point my toes.
Jump higher.
Push harder.
And then it’s over.
I immediately start to second guess my performance. Did I hit a motion too early? Too late? Too tight? Not tight enough? Were all of my skills up to par? Deep breaths and water are my only solutions to the torrent of mayhem my mind produces. More breaths. More water that just gets chucked into an awaiting bucket. We called this competition Puke Bucket for a reason. We’re allowed to sit in the bleachers and watch the other teams perform for the first time all day. We know for a fact that they have superior skills and numbers of girls, but our execution and general impression beat them by a mile. We aren’t worried. The rest of the round passes in a blur, and before we know it it’s Round Three.
The practice goes awfully, only a few of the stunts hitting and looking solid and secure. Nobody comments on the fact that this round’s scores are a large determining factor on our overall scores. At this point in the day we were grumpy, tired, and burning up with fever, which most likely contributes to my lack of memory for the next hour or so. All I can say is that our stunts hit very well, and we did not receive any penalties. The next moment I can recall is taking the mats along with the nine other teams. I looked around, wondering which of us would qualify. Only four teams would make it. We held hands and sat somberly in a circle on the mat, oblivious to the dances and post-competition and pre-scores traditions that took place around us. It wasn’t until we heard the microphone squeal that we perked up. Time for scores.
We lied on our stomachs in a circle with our heads bowed and clenching eachothers’ hands painfully tightly.
“In tenth place… Springport!
‘Vassar!
‘Saginaw Nouvel!
‘Webberville!
‘Vermontville Maple Valley!”
In this moment we all held our breaths. Fifth place was about to be called, the spot none of us wanted to be in. Even last place is preferable to fifth, who have to live being the first loser. The fifth place team is the one who missed qualifying by just a hair, a tiny smidgen. We waited.
“Ithaca!”
We did it. We qualified. We squealed in delight because in that moment we became one step closer to States.
“In fourth place, with a Round Three score of 280.40 and a total score of 672.42 is the team from…. Montrose!”
“In third place, with a Round Three score of 293.00 and a total score of 691.60 is the team from…. Saint Louis!”
We erupt in cheers. Coach is crying, my team is crying… We did it. We proved that nothing can stand in the way of our goals if we believe in them and ourselves. The team we were wouldn’t even recognize us anymore. We’re strong and we’ll stop at nothing to reach our goals. To shatter our records. To leave behind our legacy. We are Sharks, and we want the whole world to know it.
This is our time to prove who we are.
This is our dream.