- Dec 14, 2009
- 276
- 185
Hi guys! Haven't been on here in quite some time and SO much has gone on since I was part of the All-Star cheer world. Regardless of all the crazy new and exciting changes, Tsunami has been a very important part of my life for years and that is one thing that will never change. What we experienced together will forever be irreplaceable. ANYWAYS, for my creative writing class, I had to write an essay about an experience that I am passionate about. I thought I would share it with you guys because you will probably appreciate it much more than my English professor haha. I miss you TSU<3
There we stood, arranged in our usual circle, gripping each other's sweaty fingers, with our arms crossed right over left. I could feel the bass of the music from the stage around the corner pulsing beneath my feet while another team was performing. The roaring crowd served as a nerve-racking reminder that we were up next to compete. United as a team of thirty-five athletes, dressed in matching black uniforms with Marlins written in shimmery gems across our chest and Tsunami down our sleeves, we waited backstage for our moment. The moment to show the five thousand fans in the sold out arena what we had been working so hard to achieve for the previous twelve months. The moment to prove to our coaches that they had successfully trained us for the biggest competition of the season. The moment to remind ourselves why we traded in our social lives year after year for long hours of practice, over three nights a week, where we lost gallons of blood sweat and tears. We, as competitive cheerleaders with no “off-season,” could be defined by that one moment. A two and a half minute moment-- And all thirty-four pairs of eyes were on me.
As I scanned the faces of my teammates, their furrowed brows and creased foreheads concealed nothing. Seventy-eight wide eyes, decorated with false eyelashes and theatric eye shadow, sparkled from glittery makeup and held-back tears gazed hopefully at me, searching my face for any clue as to what I was thinking. I attempted to rehydrate my mouth by gulping down the imaginary lump that had formed in my top of my throat. I hoped that I was doing a better job at hiding my nerves than the eyes that were begging for a combination of words to flow out of my mouth that would lower their furious heart rates. Instead of letting my face give me away, the heels of my hands took the beating while my unpainted chipped fingernails dug creases into my skin to distract me from the wrenching flutters in the pit of my stomach. I took a deep breath and let the aerosol-filled-oxygen inflate my trembling lungs and, as if on cue, the rest of Tsunami’s shoulders raised and fell in unison in response.
I always had a lot of trouble thinking of myself as a leader. I considered each of them more talented than I was and had difficulty understanding why they trusted me so much over the years. But there they were, believing in me just as I believed in them, practice after practice, and competition after competition. We built a strong family in our tiny gym and it's moments like that one backstage that linger in my mind. I cannot tell you how many times we fell at practice, or remember how many times one of us got hurt. I can't tell you how many times I had to miss parties in high school because long practices ran until after they were over. But I can tell you about how intoxicating it feels to hit a perfect routine. I can tell you that I miss our coaches screaming at us during the summer months to push through the pain during workouts in a gym with no air conditioning, in efforts to make us stronger. I remember writing "Don't Stop Believing" and "Make it Happen" on the tops of our shoes for good luck, and the scent of the sharpies as we passed them around. The passion in their eyes as they all examined mine is something I will carry with me forever.
I would tell you what I said to my team right before the announcer called us on stage, but I can never recall the words. When I replay that memory, the words do not seem relevant. I always led Tsunami for them, not for me. Whichever words I was lucky enough to find seemed to give them the courage to walk onto the mat with their heads held high. Watching them present themselves so bravely and unafraid was unbelievable. I saw their faces minutes before and I knew the emotions that they were concealing beneath those smiles. Seeing them embody the power and strength of warriors was magical, and it made me feel powerful too. We fed off of each other just as we always had, waving to the screaming fans while we glowed with pride. As each of us found our places on the mat, and after the crowd fell silent, we stared down at the smudged words on the tops of our shoes and anxiously waited for the rush of the music.
There we stood, arranged in our usual circle, gripping each other's sweaty fingers, with our arms crossed right over left. I could feel the bass of the music from the stage around the corner pulsing beneath my feet while another team was performing. The roaring crowd served as a nerve-racking reminder that we were up next to compete. United as a team of thirty-five athletes, dressed in matching black uniforms with Marlins written in shimmery gems across our chest and Tsunami down our sleeves, we waited backstage for our moment. The moment to show the five thousand fans in the sold out arena what we had been working so hard to achieve for the previous twelve months. The moment to prove to our coaches that they had successfully trained us for the biggest competition of the season. The moment to remind ourselves why we traded in our social lives year after year for long hours of practice, over three nights a week, where we lost gallons of blood sweat and tears. We, as competitive cheerleaders with no “off-season,” could be defined by that one moment. A two and a half minute moment-- And all thirty-four pairs of eyes were on me.
As I scanned the faces of my teammates, their furrowed brows and creased foreheads concealed nothing. Seventy-eight wide eyes, decorated with false eyelashes and theatric eye shadow, sparkled from glittery makeup and held-back tears gazed hopefully at me, searching my face for any clue as to what I was thinking. I attempted to rehydrate my mouth by gulping down the imaginary lump that had formed in my top of my throat. I hoped that I was doing a better job at hiding my nerves than the eyes that were begging for a combination of words to flow out of my mouth that would lower their furious heart rates. Instead of letting my face give me away, the heels of my hands took the beating while my unpainted chipped fingernails dug creases into my skin to distract me from the wrenching flutters in the pit of my stomach. I took a deep breath and let the aerosol-filled-oxygen inflate my trembling lungs and, as if on cue, the rest of Tsunami’s shoulders raised and fell in unison in response.
I always had a lot of trouble thinking of myself as a leader. I considered each of them more talented than I was and had difficulty understanding why they trusted me so much over the years. But there they were, believing in me just as I believed in them, practice after practice, and competition after competition. We built a strong family in our tiny gym and it's moments like that one backstage that linger in my mind. I cannot tell you how many times we fell at practice, or remember how many times one of us got hurt. I can't tell you how many times I had to miss parties in high school because long practices ran until after they were over. But I can tell you about how intoxicating it feels to hit a perfect routine. I can tell you that I miss our coaches screaming at us during the summer months to push through the pain during workouts in a gym with no air conditioning, in efforts to make us stronger. I remember writing "Don't Stop Believing" and "Make it Happen" on the tops of our shoes for good luck, and the scent of the sharpies as we passed them around. The passion in their eyes as they all examined mine is something I will carry with me forever.
I would tell you what I said to my team right before the announcer called us on stage, but I can never recall the words. When I replay that memory, the words do not seem relevant. I always led Tsunami for them, not for me. Whichever words I was lucky enough to find seemed to give them the courage to walk onto the mat with their heads held high. Watching them present themselves so bravely and unafraid was unbelievable. I saw their faces minutes before and I knew the emotions that they were concealing beneath those smiles. Seeing them embody the power and strength of warriors was magical, and it made me feel powerful too. We fed off of each other just as we always had, waving to the screaming fans while we glowed with pride. As each of us found our places on the mat, and after the crowd fell silent, we stared down at the smudged words on the tops of our shoes and anxiously waited for the rush of the music.
But if you've already turned it in, then it's perfect!)
But I'm always catching stuff like that AFTER I turn papers in and it makes me crazy.
