Confessions of a Former Ballerina
06 Mar 2010 Leave a Comment
in Ballerina, Basketball, High School
Confession #1: I used to be a ballerina.
Confession #2: I dropped out of ballet class at the tender age of 6.
Confession #3: I’ve never turned a cartwheel–despite my best efforts.
Confession #4: I dropped out of the beginning ballet class because I couldn’t turn a cartwheel.
Confession #5: I’ve never liked pink since.
Sitting on the bleachers in my post-game Cherokee Indian blue sweatsuit, I ‘d watch the cheerleaders at my high school cartwheel out onto the gym floor at halftime of basketball games. Although I could fly down the court in my Nike shoes, I couldn’t turn a cartwheel. For that reason, I envied those svelte girls in their miniskirts.
The chunkier ones (and there were a couple) didn’t cartwheel or backflip onto the court, but they shook their pom poms a little more furiously than the other cheerleaders, their voices a little louder. Maybe they were compensating for their lack of cartwheeling skills. I don’t know for sure. But, I liked to think they were. I secretly liked that a couple of the cheerleaders couldn’t turn cartwheels–even if they were the “fat” ones.
Long and lean, I easily made the cut for the basketball team. (But, then again, no one was turned completely away in our small school.) I wasn’t that fast. I’ve never been a strong runner, but I have this amazing cardiovascular endurance. My dad used to marvel at how I could run upstairs and not even breathe heavily at the top. I could swim for hours without stopping in the river near our house, hike up the mountain paths, and ride my bike all over the roads only huffing a bit up the hills. (Now that I’m 30 and overweight, I’ve noticed that endurance wane a bit, but it’s still there.)
My basketball coach, somewhere between the 9th and 10th grades, decided that the girls’ basketball team needed more conditioning. He ran us each day at practice till some of us vomited. Others nearly passed out. Some quit the team. Hell, one ran out the door in the middle of a suicide and never came back–a suicide, I might add, we were running for her insubordination to Coach.
Coach took us to the track that circled the football field. We ran lap after lap. We ran up the bleachers, down the steps, up the steps. We did leg lifts. We sprinted, ran suicides, did vertical jumps. At the end of “practice,” he’d toss out some basketballs, telling us to practice free throws. For each one we missed, we ran something of his choice–a sprint, a suicide, maybe both.
I hated almost every minute of these practices. My 15-year old body had barely a lick of fat on it. I’d get home after practice, grab some dinner, and head to my room. Sometimes, hours later, I’d wake up, still in my practice jersey and sneakers, almost unable to remove them I’d be so tired.
I hated the practices, but they were so much better than ballet practice where I’d stand, my tiny body wrapped in a pink leotard, my bigger-than-average feet decked out in pink slippers. I’d wait, holding the rail as others danced forward and turned their cartwheel.
Then, it was my turn. I stood, saw the signal to go and ran off, trying to prance or frolic or whatever those other girls were doing. When I made it to the spot where I was supposed to launch into a cartwheel, I stopped. I bent down instead of tossing my body into that magical wagon wheel. The teachers stopped the line, tried to help me. After practices, they’d talk with my mom, how it just didn’t seem like I was going to get it, but that I should practice. So, my dad and I practiced cartwheels. I never got the hang of it.
Flash forward about 10 years, and I’m a starter (most nights) on my high school’s basketball team. My small school’s team was really awful. We made headlines when a team broke their 30-game losing streak by beating us. We sucked.
It’s a home game, and we’re not losing horribly to a really good team. We’re just a few points down a little before halftime. I’ve had several assists, and I’ve scored 8 points so far. (Even having 8 points on our scoreboard before halftime was a miracle for us.) I see Tracy, a hefty black girl and she looks me in the eye. I’ve got the ball a bit inside the lane, under the net. I know if I pass it to her, she’ll score. So, I do and she does.
We run down the court in defense mode. I hear the Phil Campbell butch ladies pounding down the court. Somehow, we stop them, and we’re heading down the court again. I see Tracy again, and we run our new play again. I take the ball into the lane, under the net, pivot, and pass the ball to Tracy, she scores. We run down again for defense, and then we’re back on offense. Tracy shoots and misses, and I’m there inches taller than the other team’s players. I nail the rebound into the basket just seconds before the halftime buzzer.
We run into the locker rooms, and I notice out the corner of my eye as the cheerleaders cartwheel onto the court.
