Cheerleader hell

Basically, I’m a big fat guy.
Funny then, when I walked into my daughter’s gym last night for a mandatory parent cheerleading meeting, I was one of the smaller bodies there.
Cheerleading moms are huge.
Looking to gain some sort of popularity they lacked in high school? Probably.
That’s sad.
But this isn’t a tale of fat moms living their sad lives through their sixth- through eighth-graders in short skirts and peppy ponytails.
This is how one observer – a journalist, mind you – got roped into going to the meeting in the first place. And what happened when I got there.
None of this is made up.
“OK, we had some drama last year, things got a little out-of-hand, but that’s not going to happen this year,” said the head coach, the mother of one of my daughter’s dance club chums. “Really, it was bad. I let things slip and it just kind of snowballed.
“But that was a first year in a lot of years of having a team, and we’re, well, we’ve got growing pains. It’ll be better this year, I’m much stronger now.”
This was her opening statement.
I flipped open the notebook to take notes; as a reporter, I smelled muckraking blood.
The meeting did not disappoint. I was one of three men there, in a sea of fat women and their pre-teen and teen daughters (my wife and daughter had a prior commitment; being the great guy I am, I went in their place).
The woman was completely disorganized.
Would there be tryouts?
“Yes, maybe, I dunno,” she said. “It looks like we can take all the girls, so that’s my hope.”
Will there be competitions?
“Oh, definitely, but I don’t know where or when. I’ll let you know, though.”
“I have seen on TV, cheerleading is full of drama,” said one mom, her arms and calves covered with really hideously bad tattoos. “Is that going to happen here?”
“Oh, it is, it’s really bad, especially girls of this age,” the head coach responded. “They’re at the age, you know, when they’re saying she’s fat, she’s ugly, yeah, it was bad.
“But not this year. I’ve grown, I think. I’m much stronger. I’m not going to put up with it.”
I am not getting that warm feeling that this will be a good environment for my daughter.
What did the coach know?
She knew that cheerleading is really, really expensive.
There will be a camp for the girls this summer. She didn’t know when. She did know that each girl would have to pay $130. Oh, and she needs it next week. Before the girls know if they made the squad or not.
And the outfit will be $500.
“And that’s so cheap, you don’t even know.”
I’m now starting to see some serious monetary problems.
But the coach keeps opening her mouth and the money issues fade. It gets more scary.
“Kendra will be the head coach,” the women said. “I’m an old fart, seriously, I was a cheerleader all through high school and I haven’t led a cheer in like 15 years.
“I don’t know the moves, so I’m just going to be at practice to monitor things.”
Problem is, Kendra is a ninth-grader, going into 10th. And she strikes me as a real bitch-on-wheels-in-training.
“We all know Kendra had some, uh, issues last year,” the coach said as Kendra laughs. “But she’s grown sooooo much, she’s really ready for this.”
I whisper the question; seems like Kendra and her posse of hell-bitch cheerleader pals from high school screamed at the girls last year. Screamed. Into these little girls’ faces. Many departed, their fragile pre-teen egos crushed by the Mean Girls.
By now, I’ve been in the hot gym for an hour. I’ve got pages of notes to take back to my wife and daughter. I’m smirking.
But the story needs an ending. Not a happy one, because there isn’t one here.
The coach doesn’t disappoint.
“Just so you know, parents, if you’ve got fifth-grade girls going into sixth, you’ll find out, just, well, just buy Midol right now and start giving it to them,” the coach said. “I had a lot of girls complaining of cramps at practice last year. A lot.
“I just tell them that they’re looking at a lifetime of cramps, so get over it and give them Midol.”
The cheerleader moms looked satisfied. The vice-principle, a man, looks stricken. I want to ask him how he though the meeting went.
But even I'm not that mean.