Back in the Saddle

This past Saturday I stood back in a familiar place: on a padded cheer floor about an hour from my apartment, in front of a table full of judges, standing beside thirty or so impossibly fit men and women, my wrists secured with athletic tape, and with a fresh sweat dripping down my back from warming up. Nearly 18 months after dismissal by the team, triple-fusion spine surgery and a month removed from my 35th birthday, I was back at Clippers Fan Patrol tryouts.

Just so I don't ruin the suspense for you, I didn't make the team. But, in defense of that failure, I didn't actually try out. After months of agonizing over whether or not I should/would, I made the decision to show up and support the few folks I had trained with, help with warmups, and generally get back in with the crew - but not to submit an application and try out. I had spent the weeks before attending open gyms and reacquainting myself with the basic mechanics of partner stunting. Turned out it was much like riding a bike - except that you have a hundred pounds of girl balanced on your outstretched arm. In that short time, I remastered most of the stunts that I was able do before the surgery, and bulked up sufficiently to look (for the most part) just like I did when I trotted off the court in February 2008. And, even after all that, I decided that I wouldn't be casting my hat into the ring.

Of course, my return to the cheer floor took more than just a few weeks of stunt practice. For the first month after surgery I wasn't allowed to do anything. For the month after that I was only allowed to do twenty minutes on the seated bike. I had lost over 25 pounds and hardly recognized myself in the mirror. I was so embarrassed to be in the gym that I abandoned my evening "rush hour" workouts in a fitted t-shirt for 6 am workouts in a dark ballcap and sweats.

Two months after surgery, despite being cleared by my doctor, the NBA folks thought it was too risky to allow me back on the court for the last game of my last season. After a week of feeling truly crappy about it, I went back to the gym. Soon after, my doctor cleared me for light weight lifting and the elliptical trainer. For the next 3 months, I toiled with 15 pound dumbbells and empty Olympic bars in the wee hours of the morning. After 6 months, I got the green light to train for real. I tenuously ran a mile on a treadmill for the first time. I bench pressed 135 lbs with no more confidence than the first time I had done it nearly 15 years earlier. I still didn't want anyone to see me in the gym.

Two months later, I did a photo shoot for my spine surgeon and the hospital where I got my operation, as a "success story". It was the first time I had even thought about cheerleading since my surgery, and my good friend (and 85 lb flier) Tami agreed to stunt with me for the cameras. The weakness in my right arm was still palpable and visible, but they were able to get some decent shots, and I ended up in an ad the LA Times. Yet, I was still training in relative secrecy. I tried dating again, and it was a mess. I didn't feel like myself and couldn't face myself in the mirror for the first time in almost a decade. I tried alternative therapies - anything I could find, and it slowly began to get better. Injections, ingestions and even accupuncture. Ever so slowly, my arm got stronger, the atrophy in my chest and back began to fade. I started working out without a ballcap. Eventually, I even returned to working out in the evenings - and in a fitted t-shirt no less. I had regained the 25 pounds, and even just a little of my weight room swagger.

Today, my right arm is still not as strong as it was two years ago. I still can't lift quite as much and it's still difficult to see myself in the mirror after a shower. The weakness, even the small amount of it that persists, is still overwhelming.

But I went back to open gym, because I needed the visceral atheticism of it. Of course, I know what you're thinking, visceral athleticism in cheerleading? Listen, once you've taken a girl and throw her from the ground to standing on one arm stretched over your head, you can tell me whether or not you think that's athletic. Until then, shut up. But defense of cheer notwithstanding, I needed to feel that rush, that power again. And I did. The date for tryouts was rapidly approaching and impossibly, I was ready.

But then I thought about what I really missed about being a part of the Clippers Fan Patrol. I first auditioned for the team less than three weeks after moving to Los Angeles. I was completely new in town, with no friends, and no idea what I was getting into (in the city or with the Clips). I had a new grown-up job, where I similarly didn't know anyone or anything. It was crazy to even consider being a professional cheerleader when I had only recently become an attorney. But I made the team nonetheless, and it became my de facto family. It gave me my first real friends in the city: first, David and Steve and later, Joey (who are still my closest friends today), and my first real thing to do besides work. Before I could even catch my breath from moving down from the Bay, I was on the floor at STAPLES Center, throwing around girls in front of screaming fans, the LA elite and more a few celebrities. Our locker room was right across the hall from the team's and running around backstage with NBA players was completely surreal.

For as hard as we worked, we had a blast. We laughed, sweated and yelled. We were a team. We went to the playoffs. We had a time we'll never forget.

But it ended. Because things end. And not always how we want them do. Which was certainly the case with the Fan Patrol. Some of us walked away, others were asked to leave. We made time for other things and came back to games as spectators; which turned into reunions with old friends - ushers, season ticket holders, staff and others. We laughed when asked about when we were coming back to the team. We thought about next year, we thought about never. We talked to the new team members, and listened to how much things had changed and how much they hadn't. And on Saturday I realized, there wasn't going to be any David, any Steve or any Joey on the Fan Patrol next year or any year. And that's when I knew there also wasn't going to be any Glenn.

In the end, no matter how good it used to be, or how much you miss a time, you can't go back again. And trying to do so just seems to cheapen the memory. I made it all the way back to that floor on Saturday to prove to everyone, including and most importantly, myself, that I could. I walked away from it for the same reason.