We are the Gators; That is Our Name
We Are the Gators: That is Our Name
The sweet moment of District Championship!
No one would call me a sporty. As a girl, I played compulsory field hockey, softball and lacrosse. In all cases, I was afraid of the ball, the last chosen for a team, and a slow runner who wheezed. I would daydream, hoping not to have to do anything. I could neither catch nor bat nor dribble with any skill.
My emergence as a sports fan began with heading a girls’ school in Ohio. I know the research. Most female CEO’s played a team sport. Athletics matter for girls. As the Head, it was important for me to show up at sporting events, to cheer on the girls, to chat with parents. Early in my headship, on the soccer field, I screamed, “We love you, Laurel.”
My Admissions Director pulled me aside and said, “You can’t say that.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“It’s just not how we cheer,” he offered kindly.
The next day, girls stopped me in the hall to thank me for coming. “We knew it was you,” a player smiled, “because you are the only one who would say you love us.”
It became my signature cheer. I am, to my knowledge, the only person who hollers, “We love you, Laurel.” My husband has grown used to this expression of my loyalty and my pride in our girls. My adolescent son rolls his eyes. Parents of players smile indulgently. I have been a head for a long time.
Once I arrived at a playoff game wearing the colors of the opposing team. I invested in more green and white clothes, our colors, and acquired a set of green and white pompoms. My enthusiasm grew.
Our athletic fields, bordered by woods, are gorgeous in spring and late summer and fall. I try to get to several games in each sport every season. When the girls wear helmets and mouth guards, it’s hard for me to make out individual players. Across the field, one ponytail can resemble another. I hate it when either side takes a knee, meaning that a player is hurt. I am not their mom, but in those moments, worry clogs my throat as if I am. I’m not great a tennis spectator because you have to be quiet, and golf matches often happens at a more distant location where loud fans are not encouraged. The softball and lacrosse seasons are brief because the spring is notoriously muddy and wet in Northeastern Ohio. Track and cross country are more individual and require a significant time commitment. Swimming is very exciting at the end of the season when our girls often go to compete at States, but the pool tends to be loud and hot, and, in their caps, it is, again, hard for me to tell who’s who. In the fall, our un-airconditioned gym can be uncomfortably hot, but I love watching the fast pace of volleyball, the way the team works together.
I’m not sure when basketball claimed my heart. One year, I taught a lot of the JV players in my 9th grade English class, so I got in the habit of dropping in to watch a little bit of a home game before I left for the day. Soon, our son, a Middle Schooler, was practicing with the Varsity girls; he became a mascot of sorts, forming deep friendships with kind, older girls, keeping the books for some games, wearing the official team coaching polo. Before long, my husband was a fixture at every game, sitting in the last row of the bleachers, next to a former coach and our Athletic Director, cheering on our Laurel Gators. And this year, unless I was traveling, I did not miss a home game.
“Why was that a foul?” I’d ask and someone nearby would explain. I learned more about the game, more about how each girl played.
Our team was on fire, winning continuously. They are fast and aggressive and fabulous. The twins, Juniors, have a twin language on the court, passing to where one understands the other twin will arrive. They are remarkable, scoring and rebounding and making the game appear effortless. G., a four-year senior, has come into her own as a leader with confidence and skill. Anna, recovering from a torn ACL, was a steady, kind leader. Terrific newcomers in ninth grade have added speed and skill. As the season proceeded, the team attracted attention from the press. We believed we might have a shot at States.
We won Districts and headed to regionals, winning the first play off in a nail biter. I told our Upper School we needed to learn real cheers. “De-fense, de-fense” was not enough. They rose to the challenge. The parents had created a Gator Clap. Each play-off game had a theme—a white out, a green out, wear your favorite athletic jersey. A school-wide search ensued for our Gator mascot costume. The whole school was energized, excited. We practiced our fight song, “We are the gators; that is our name.” We felt buoyed by our team. Everybody loves a winning team. The little girls were thrilled, “Will you be at the game, Ms. Klotz?” they asked in the halls.
“Of course,” I smiled.
When several Upper School girls arrived in my office, wanting to know if we could have the day off when we went to States, I cautioned them not to get ahead of themselves.
“We’ve got plans,” I reassured them, imaginging a school-wide pep rally, the possibility of canceling school to take them all to States, “but remember Zeus,” I chided. “He’ll zap us with a thunderbolt if we are too prideful.” I tamped down their pride and my own; I was afraid to want the win as much as I did. I allowed them to order an inflatable gator to wear at the game since we couldn’t turn up the real one. When some Juniors told me in horror that they had learned the other team had a racist mascot, I counseled them to focus on supporting our team, to rise above, to cheer on our players. And they did, two bus fulls of fans—hollering cheers right till the bitter end.
On Friday night, our ebullience popped like a bunch of helium balloons, green and white tattered bits abandoned on a wet pavement. We lost by four. Our shots didn’t go in. Theirs did. We played great defense, but our high scoring players didn’t score. One of the twins fouled out. We trailed by more points than we had all season and we couldn’t get it back. Nerves? An off night? Hard to know. Our girls were grim, determined. They played fiercely till the end. I was proud of them and heartbroken for them and for the rest of the girls who cheered them on with vigor. I felt sad for the players’ parents and coaches and for my son, who, in a play that night and unable to see the game, wept when he heard the news. We came so close. And then It was over. The other fans were terrible—parents and children. I have never heard such rudeness. I try to remember that they wanted it as much as we did. But somehow, it was worse to lose to nasty people.
On the snowy drive home, I tried not to see the girls’ sad faces. We are the feisty underdog in Cleveland, rich in love, but never arrogant. We had pinned our hopes on our basketball team. The loss felt bitter. My dreams that night were full of the Corona virus and shots that wobbled on the rim and did not go in. I could hear those ugly fans screaming at the refs. I saw myself screaming at the men behind us in the stands, “Behave yourselves; these are young women.” I saw myself hugging hordes of weeping girls and then pushing them away, bewildered, for fear that I was contagious. I knew, in real life last night, to keep my chin up, not to rebuke the opposing fans, to smile and hug my brave and brilliant players, who fought so hard. But waking this morning, tears leaked from my eyes.
“What is this?” I asked myself. One team loses. That’s the way it goes. Yet our meteoric rise had felt symbolic, a good omen, a rallying point, a source of pride. Like the flat ginger ale in a glass by my bed, all of that joyous energy leaked away in the last quarter. I was helpless as our glory dissolved. Of course, we’ll bounce back. We always do. We’re resilient. The team is young. And yet…
I am not an athlete, merely a devoted and devastated fan, acknowledging how sad I feel for my girls and my school.