My hands clenched tightly around the shoulders of the girls on either side of me. I stood frozen as I heard the familiar voices around me, reassuring me that everything was going to be okay, unable to process who was saying what. I could tell that they had confidence in me, something that I had oftentimes lacked within myself.  At that moment, it seemed like it was going to be the last thing I did on earth. Looking back, my worries were insignificant. One day, years from then it would be camouflaged in my memory as just another time I had fallen. From behind me, I heard my back spot begin to count, as she grabbed my waist and threw me into the hands of my bases. I reluctantly opened my eyes as I felt my trusted teammates begin to lift me into the air. The brick walls of the three court gymnasium spun upside down as I began to plunge through the air towards the ground. I felt as though I was falling in slow motion, praying that someone was going to catch me. Gently, I was placed back on the red, cushioned mat safely, with blood rushing down my leg. A sigh of relief was released from the lungs of the girls who had been underneath me. What could have resulted in an unfortunate accident, ended simply with a small scratch on my mid-thigh, which remains a memory that I will carry with me forever, even after the scar fades.  

        When I was 12 years old I fell in love. Not with a dreamy boy who stood five feet tall when wearing his favorite pair of Nike shoes which just so happened to add a few inches to his height. Not with the star basketball player of the seventh-grade team that had disciplined his hair to flow just the right direction, with help from his mother, of course. Not with the boy who sat in the front row of science class, not because the teacher enjoyed his presence, but because she felt as though sitting him anywhere else would result in a safety hazard or disruption. Rather, I fell in love with a sport. I fell in love with the girls who wore a smile on their faces even after teachers had tested their patience, friends had lost their trust, and their parents had implemented new rules that were simply unfair. When we stood in the three-court gymnasium, we all had one thing in common, our love and devotion to our team. We all wanted the same thing, to win, which couldn't be accomplished without each other. Regardless of the color of our skin, the size of our matching t-shirts or the number of flips were were capable of doing, everyone showed up ready to practice.  

       Every day, at roughly 4:50, SUVs driven by our exhausted mothers began to arrive at the weight room entrance of the high school parking lot.  A drop off-line was formed as my teammates and I piled out of cars eager to practice. We would walk towards the heavy grey doors, leading to the gymnasium, usually propped open by a  dumbbell, courtesy of the weight room. Placing a weight in the door forbid the doors from closing, providing a cold breeze on winter nights, which felt refreshing as conditioning became more intense. The gym was longer than it was wide, consisting of three different courts, separated by a cloud grey curtain which created the walls of court B. Upon arrival, we were tasked with unrolling the mats that stood vertically during the school day, making a sound that echoed through the gym as we knocked them on their sides. 

      Although practice after practice began to blend together in the back of my memory, there is one day that I will never forget. After an unfortunate loss of a few teammates, my coach expressed her concern about our lack of flyers on the team. She gestured for me to sit as she began to talk to me slowly, in her reassuring, calming voice. The words flew off her tongue so easily, as if she had rehearsed what she was saying to me. She began to travel into further explanation behind her decision, but it was unnecessary.  I could tell by the way she was looking at me, she was simply desperate. As I stared past her at my teammates who had been watching so intently, curious as to what our private conversation was about, I knew that I had to face my fears, for the good of our team as a whole. I would attempt to do something that I had never done before. A task that I had never dreamed of accomplishing. Something so far out of reach that I had never even considered it. I had always been one to compliment the other flyers on their brave souls and perseverance. I never understood how someone could fail, and then rise again to attempt to accomplish perfection so quickly. Like most things, I failed at my first attempt. Although I was nervous, I knew that with my teammates below me, nothing was going to happen to me. This was only the first time that they had had my back when I needed them. As I  fell through the air, someone reached for me and accidentally sliced my skin with their nails, causing me to bleed, creating a scar that I will continue to carry with me forever. The scar is small and narrow, located on my left thigh. To this day I am unaware of who caused the white sliver, but it is inconsequential. It runs vertically and is no longer than a few inches. In the months of summer, it is unnoticeable, camouflaged by the sun's ability to tan my skin. In the months of winter, a time that I associate closely with competitive cheer, the scar is very much noticeable. 

      My teammates physically lift me up when I am down, most times catching me before I can even allow myself to obtain an injury. The number of broken bones, bloody noses, and bruises they have saved me from is probably larger than most would expect. The physical hurt that they have saved me does not even closely compare to the amount of emotional hurt that they have saved me. For years, through thick and thin, I have never felt as though there is one person on my team, whom I couldn't trust, and for that, I am forever thankful.