On Cheerleading Tryouts

and Other Astonishing Acts of Givenness

In the spring of my seventh grade year at Calloway County Middle School, a new girl named Heidi came to town, and she was eyeing my spot on the cheerleading squad. You probably think that was cruel of her—to hope to steal such a precious position right out from under me— but you’ve probably also never seen my back handspring.

I was, without question, the worst cheerleader on our squad of eight and Heidi was no fool. All she needed was to be better than one of us when eighth grade tryouts rolled around. Her bar was low. I was weak and unatheltic; I was afraid of heights; I was timid; I often did not understand what was happening on the field. If you are wondering how I made the squad in the first place, know that I have asked the same question. I think it had something to do with my grades.

But it was a coveted position for me and I did not want to lose it. What novelty to be able to walk into Denison-Hunt, the locally-owned athletic story in Murray, KY, to purchase a t-shirt that said “Cheerleader” in a little golden megaphone, and then to wear it to school the next day! I guess any person off the street could buy a shirt that said “Cheerleader” on it—who could stop you, really—but I could do it with a clear conscience.

My fellow cheerleaders were all very sweet to me, but I know that I slowed everyone down. By nature of my being the smallest girl on the team, and with no account of my bravery, I was dubbed the flyer. This meant that Bridget and Laura would hoist me up to their chin’s-height while I held a sign that said “Go Lakers!” or waved spirit fingers in the air. But nearly every time we did this, the girls had to take time to convince me that I was not going to fall. (And if I did, that would have been what— like four feet?) The first time we tried a build, my whole body rejected the notion and I aborted mission by doing a forward flip into Anne-Marie’s hands. This forward flip was the stuff of CMS cheerleading legends, and it was told and retold throughout the seventh grade halls.

The seven other girls could do their standing back handsprings so beautifully, and I couldn’t do one at all. Not even an ugly one. Not even with a running start. I watched them like I watched dolphins burst up from the water and make arches in mid-air; I watched amazed and I watched convinced that this was other-creaturely activity. I was sure that I was not like them in the same way that I was sure that I was not a dolphin.

During football season, Janessa had an idea: What if, during halftime, we all stood in a row on the track and launched into back handsprings in succession— like a wave, she said. Well, that sounded like a wonderful idea for seven of us. But how to solve a problem like Elizabeth? I told them I didn’t mind standing off to the side during this display of athleticism, really I didn’t. I could gesture toward them, and smile, and say to the crowd, “Look at what my beautiful and talented friends can do.”

”You are going to do this.” Becca told me. They wouldn’t accept my polite refusal, but to me it was just a statement of fact— like saying, I’m so sorry but I don’t think that I can grow gills and learn how to breathe underwater today.

But at practice one day after school, we discovered that I could do something that resembled a back handspring If I stood on a grassy incline between the track and the football field. It turns out that jumping backwards down a hill makes a person instinctively stick one’s hands out to protect one’s head, and then the sheer force of gravity pushes one back on their feet. And that looks something like a back handspring. The first time I tried this, the girls rushed toward me beaming.

“You did it, Elizabeth!” They cried.

They made me believe that I had: that I had become the dolphin.

But video evidence from a Friday night football game, where we attempted “the wave,” shows otherwise. The girls had all moved themselves from the track, which was the original plan, to the grassy incline beside me. I went first, perhaps strategically— so that the audience would be quickly distracted by beauty after whatever I was about to show them. I looked like a frightened frog who jumps straight up in the air and then immediately looses all sense of up and down. I was still brushing off grass from my knees when the last cheerleader popped up from her perfect landing, but I did it. Or something resembling it. And those girls made sure that I did.

When eighth grade tryouts were announced, the rumor mill started churning:

“Heidi is trying out for cheerleading, and Heidi can do a back handspring.”
“I heard she can even do a back tuck.”
”I heard that Heidi was the captain of her cheerleading squad in Illinois.”
”I heard she was cheerleader of the year.”

So Heidi was out to take my spot, and who could blame her? I thought she probably deserved it. My friends looked at me sympathetically—they all knew I was the weakest in the pack—but they weren’t going to let me go down without a fight. They made me stay after practice each week and work on my tumbling. And while I got better and better, I never could do a back handspring on my own without that grassy incline or one of those girls standing beside me, bracing my back.

At tryouts, I brushed shoulders with Heidi, walking in with her older sister, at the entrance into the middle school gym. Heidi smiled at me and then turned to her sister and said, “That’s the one I told you about.” We all took our seats on the wooden bleachers.

Heidi’s tryout was something to behold. She was composed, and graceful, and loud. She tumbled beautifully—arched through the air like a true dolphin. Anne-Marie looked at me nervously; I knew she wasn’t nervous for her own self.

I won’t keep you in suspense, dear Reader. I did end up making the eighth grade squad, along with the seven other original girls. Of course it makes sense to me now, that the coaches would need a really compelling reason to break up a group of girls who had already been together for a year. But I was dumbfounded then, and even a little heartbroken for Heidi.

I’m often still dumbfounded by the roles I’ve been given: in motherhood, in friendship, in ministry, in writing— rarely do I feel like I’ve earned my place in any given room. People talk about the reality of imposter syndrome, and most want to talk you out of it. Most want to convince you that you are blind to your own talent and that you do belong in the room. But I know what my own back handsprings look like.

Maybe the better thing is just to acknowledge the givenness of it all: that all of the best gifts come into empty hands. Freely I have received, and freely I will give this humble heap of talent and brokenness alike. Even as I’m trying to finish up this essay this morning, I’m keenly aware of its faults— of its frog legs in the face of the beautiful dolphin arches that I read in others’ words. But I’m going to give it to you anyway. I’m going to pull myself over to this grassy incline and give you what I’ve got. Maybe that will keep the gift moving—maybe that will make you go do the same.

And what about you, Reader? Do you have a story to share about a middle school try-out? Did yours end in humility or glory, or perhaps both?