Cheerleading? Mom Isn’t Jumping for Joy

She does cartwheels on the soccer field during warmups, practices the splits on the basketball court while her teammates line up for layup drills. She would rather be Olympic gymnast Dominique Dawes than Lisa Leslie or Mia Hamm.

So why was I surprised by my 10-year-old’s announcement this summer: “Mom, I want to be a cheerleader”?

And why did that prospect break my heart?

*

I have nothing against cheerleaders. I was a cheerleader myself all through junior high and high school. Many of my fondest adolescent memories involve saddle shoes and short, pleated skirts. But that was in an era when there were few sporting options for would-be female athletes.

Today there are girls’ teams in almost every sport, and I have pushed my daughters to find their niche on the courts and the playing fields. Now they play year-round. Basketball, soccer, volleyball . . . at school, at the park, outside our home.

I have watched them reap the benefits of competition and teamwork; seen their confidence grow, their courage blossom, their concentration improve.

Now, I cringe at the thought of pom-poms and short skirts replacing the jumble of jerseys, shinguards and soccer shoes that fill my middle daughter’s drawer.

I know I’m being unfair, irrational even. I know firsthand of the camaraderie and teamwork cheerleading inspires, the energy and stamina it requires, the opportunities it provides for athletic girls to stretch and grow.

“Cheerleading is a sport,” my friend Jeanne reminds me. Her 13-year-old has spent years cheering for our local Pop Warner team, and she could probably outrun and out-jump my girls if she ever took up soccer or basketball.

Still, I feel disappointed . . . and I’m not sure why.

It probably reflects my own frustration at having spent my athletic youth on the sidelines, leading the cheers for the boys on the field. We worked hard--summer practices, nightly workouts, weekend clinics--but we were the sideshow. And as much fun as it was back then, cheerleading now seems to smack vaguely of second-class citizenship.

Is it shortsighted for me to see this as a step backward? Am I selfish to want my girls to step up to the plate, to reap the benefit of all the open doors in women’s sports these days?

All she knows is that it sure would be fun to learn to do a back-flip, to lead the crowd in cheers.

So I promise to let her try.

*

But letting my daughter follow her dream will not be so easy. There’s a hitch: Cheerleading, it turns out, follows the same schedule as soccer season.

And it is no halfhearted endeavor . . . more demanding even than soccer or basketball. Practices four times a week, two hours each of calisthenics, stretching, tumbling. Games every Saturday, at the same time as soccer.

“These are not pom-pom girls,” the squad leader warns us when we show up at tryouts. “This takes a lot of commitment. There is no way you can do both.”

My daughter and I head home deep in thought.

She’s wondering which will be more fun this autumn, sideline gymnastics in cute, flouncy skirts, or the rough and tumble of the soccer field. And I’m considering her choice a referendum on what kind of child I’ve raised, what kind of girl she will become.

For days, she vacillates. I hear her in the bedroom, practicing her cheers. I see her turning cartwheels on the front lawn, while her soccer ball sits untouched.

Then, the first day of soccer practice arrives. She takes the field and jostles for position, fires a kick that soars down the line.

“Did you see that?” she calls out later, as she leaves the field for a water break. “I almost scored!”

Still, I see her glancing across the field, where the cheerleading squad is practicing. And I cannot read the look in her eyes.

The ride home is quiet. I am afraid to ask the question, to force the decision. I wait.

“I’m going to need new shoes this season,” she tells me. “These are too tight; they hurt my feet.”

“Soccer shoes, right?” I ask casually.

“Right,” she says, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. “But don’t get them much bigger. I might not need them next year.”

Her inner cheerleader, it seems, is still alive and well.

Sandy Banks can be reached at sandy.banks@latimes.com.