"It's the only sport I know of where the coach requires the team to wear makeup," I said. I knew it wasn't proper English, but sometimes I'm a rebel who likes to break the rules. She laughed at that-- the makeup observation, not the rebel thing--and had to agree.
Saturday, daughter and her team of made up maidens, rouged rogues, painted performers, maquillaged mesdemoiselles--or, more accurately, highly talented and skilled troupe of beautiful young women--put on a spectacular display. To describe the exhibition as "super awesome" would be to damn with faint praise.
I had never before been to such a competition. It was much more crowded than the wrestling tournaments that I used to attend with some frequency--actually it was with my son, but his name is not "some frequency."
Lack of knowledge about the requirements of the competition did not deter me from making my own knowing critique. I first contented myself with counting the number of participants on each team; I would tell my wife how many I had counted each time, and say something about whether I thought that was a small number for a school of that size--she was enthralled with my expertise. The team with the fewest members had 4--just under half of the student body (or bodies) for that school. ("Half of the student body" just seems morbidly wrong, perhaps giving the wrong impression of the nature of the event; it wasn't some CSI competition). The team with the most members had around 22-25 on the floor; about the time I had counted up to 20, they started their routine; it's very difficult to count them when they're racing about the floor, leaping, tumbling, bouncing, and crowding about one another. Often, they would come together like a pack of hounds fighting over a bacon-wrapped feline; suddenly, one of their members would be squirted, cartoon-like, into the air to spin, flip, and otherwise contort (like said bacon-wrapped feline in a frying pan) before landing safely in the arms of the team. (For the record, I am vehemently against the swaddling of cats in sowbelly, or any other pork products...it's a terrible waste of bacon...and very likely to result in a visit to the emergency room...I won't be trying that again).
The uniforms constituted another item on my critique list. Color: Some were too dark; some were too light; only a couple were just right. The teams probably weren't judged on their uniforms, but the color and contrast presented by the parts of the uniforms, and the pom-poms contributed to the spectacle of the presentation...and the visual spectacle was what it was all about for me. Style: I had some extremely detailed criteria in this category: Did I like it? The short version is that I liked some and not others. I could expound on that...but neither of us would be a better person my having done so. So, I won't, other than to say, that it had to do with whether the uniforms looked smart (a technical fashion term, I believe), and if they stayed in place during the routines.
Finally, I declared myself chief judge of showmanship by critiquing the performances themselves. I judged the visual display, including how well the team appeared to know the routine; how synchronized and precise they were in their movements; how well the bases and fliers got into position; and how well the fliers and bases maintained balance and position as they went through those elevated exhibitions.
One team stood out in all of the categories that I had selected as being critical. (The number of members on the team did not factor into my judging). The actual judges must have agreed with my assessment; my daughter's team finished first in each of the routines it performed.
You've probably figured out by now that I was attending the combined high school curling and skeet shooting championship. Maybe that wasn't it; it was something much better. Best of all, no one ate Tide pods, or tried to lecture me about the meaning of the Constitution.
It may not have been my idea of an ideal Saturday, sitting on hard benches in cramped crowded conditions, but I got to watch many talented youth perform. Their performances probably won't change the world, but the time and effort that they dedicate to the task certainly changes them for the better--and that does change the world. It was a competition. Not everyone could win. The hot, wet tears of disappointment stained many pretty faces. Tears dry; character abides.
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