They are the only nineteen that understand me. I am the only one that understands them. Nineteen fierce cheerleaders with their hair tied back and white shoes like mine. Nineteen who help define me. Nineteen cheerleaders and not one more. From 5 to 9 they practice, but nobody at school sees all the hardwork and dedication.

Their strength is masked. They send people soaring into the air. They fly and they tumble and they stunt and battle for that one two minute and thirty second routine. This is how they are.

Let one forget her reason for being, they’d all fall like toy soldiers, but each one will rise, working harder than before. Five, six, seven, eight they shout when they cheer. They smile.

When I am too tired and too sore to keep cheering when I am aged out against the sport. When there is nothing left to compete for. Nineteen who tumble and stunt. Nineteen whose only purpose is to challenge and compete.