The rush of adrenaline melted away as I hit my last motion. I waved to the crowd and started looking for my friend. I ran to her and crashed into her arms, pulling her into a long hug as we got rushed off of the luminous blue mats. I could feel my face beaming a bright red and the struggle to breathe as the crowd roared with applause. I knew that we had hit a perfect routine — I could already imagine the firstplace title being ours.

My team walked into the hallway of a school filled with winter-themed decor. Paper snowflakes of different blues and whites hung from the ceiling and homemade good-luck signs were lazily taped onto walls. I read some of the closest signs to me: “A team is only as strong as its weakest member.” I didn’t understand. If there was one bad person on a team, but the rest of the team was amazing, wouldn’t that mean they could still be great? I got into the hallway and half my team was in tears. As the reality set in, my feet and back started to ache.

“Be back in the gym at noon, no exceptions,” my coach yelled over us with a smile plastered across her face. I skipped off to the cafeteria and looked for my mom. With big eyes and a wide smile, I finally found her in the crowd. We went to a circular lunch table and wiped away some of the crumbs left on top.

“Do you want to see the video of your routine or is that bad luck too?” My mom asked sarcastically. I always tell her my cheer superstitions: not watching other teams before I perform, putting on my left cheer shoe before my right one for competitions and football games, putting on my right cheer shoe before my left one for practices and tumbling lessons. I gave her a stern look. “I’m just kidding, you know that,” she said as she pulled out her phone from her pocket. She hands me her phone and I watch carefully to examine for even the smallest error.

I watched in awe of all the sequences and ripples. The beautiful stunts that I knew firsthand took endless amounts of practice to perfect. The graceful tumbling took months of pain and effort into nailing. My stunt for the cheer was the corner group: an elevator to press-up, then a cradle. Easy enough, I’ve been doing those since I was in second grade, I thought. I grabbed a sign from my flyer’s hands to throw it into the back corner of the mat. I watched in horror as the sign landed on its sharp corner, causing it to flip over and fall short of the corner. I messed it up — at least half of the deduction was probably caused by me. I knew it wasn’t totally in my control, but I could have done more to stop it. I could have taken an extra second to slide it instead of throwing it, but I may not have had enough time to ensure my flyer got up into the extension safely. Would it have been worth it?

I suddenly felt the stomach acid rise in my throat, threatening to come out. I swallowed it back, leaving a burning sensation in my mouth. My face got red and my eyes swelled up with tears. I did my best to hold them back and pretend they weren’t there, but it all came crashing down. The tears flooded my eyes, blurring my vision. I got up from my seat and walked to a secluded bathroom to pull myself together. I grabbed toilet paper from one of the stalls and wiped my face. My vision became less spotted, but my eyes were swollen and my under-eye bags repped a clownish red hue, making it obvious that I had been crying. I splashed some cold water on my face, causing the makeup to run down my face. I rushed to my team’s area and got out my makeup bag in order to reapply. I looked into the mirror and took a step back, making sure that my uniform was fine and my hair was still intact.

I got into the gym as the final five teams of the session performed. I joined a chunk of my team members and coaches sitting near the edge of the mat, waiting so they could get a spot for the awards.

As the last team finished up their routine, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. What if I was the reason we didn’t get first? Or even worse, what if I was the reason we didn’t even place in the top three? I would never be able to forgive myself if that were to happen. And what would happen if my teammates found out what I had done? Would they comfort me or tear me down? This whole mess could have been avoided if I had just slid the sign. It wasn’t a hard task to do — it would have taken two seconds. As the final team got off the mats, all of the teams ran onto the mat. Mine ended up getting a spot closest to the trophies.

It was time: the judges were announcing the winners.

They announced seventh place, not us. Sixth place, not us. I sat in anticipation. Fifth place, not us. Fourth place, not us. I was shaking. Third place, not us.

“We are in our top two, your 2019 WACPC state runners-up, give it up for Franklin Sabers Junior Cheer.”

Not the worst, not the best. As it goes, the second place is the first loser. I wanted to feel upset, but being runnerup still felt pretty good. We passed around a pile of medals, each carefully picking one up and putting it around our necks. I couldn’t help but think that maybe I was the reason we weren’t first, maybe
the judges didn’t notice or didn’t care, but the likeness of that is none.

I bit the inside of my cheek, as my coach retrieved the scoresheets. As she walked back, I did a little jog to her to ask about the scores.

“In the cheer, I noticed my sign hit its corner and flipped over. Did we get any deductions from it?” I ask nervously.

“Let me check,” she said as she flipped papers over, making me more and more anxious with every turn. Written in big, bold letters under the deductions label of the scoresheet was a .5 and a circle around a safety issue. A note said “sign safety hazard in cheer.” My face fell and I felt as if I had just failed the biggest test of the year. I walked up to the room and grabbed my bags, found my mom, and got tons of praises that felt like they were trying to comfort me.

“Second is still great.” But it’s not first — second is a participation award.

“You’ll beat them next weekend.” If we couldn’t do it the first time, why even attempt to? It would save us all from embarrassment.

“Next year will be the year.” How do you know? If we’re expecting the first-place title next year, wouldn’t getting our hopes up cause us to not work as hard?

I got in the car and put on my headphones. I rested my head on the car window and tried to fall asleep. I thought long and hard about how I could have been better and how I could put in the work to become great.

I realized that there was always next weekend, next year, and the year after that, and I was planning on working harder and pushing myself to become the best I could possibly be. I now knew the meaning of the saying “A team is only as strong as its weakest member,” and I made amends with becoming the greatest, weakest member in the state.