Facials, Verbals and Tears – An Awsome American Torment

©Dan White. No repro of words or pictures without authorisation.

In April 2001, as the rain drizzled down outside my north London home , I got a call from the Deputy Editor of Maxim Magazine telling me he was sending me on a ‘dream assignment’ to photograph untold numbers of nubile young women in short skirts flinging each other about in the bright Florida sunshine. What sounded like a dream very quickly revealed itself to be a nightmare as Daytona Beach Florida became a surreal reality.

Apart from their nationality, what do Ronald Reagan, Madonna, Jack Lemon, Meryl Streep and George W Bush all have in common? The answer is that in their college years they all practiced the peculiarly American art of ‘cheerleading’, a strange, hybrid potpourri of gymnastics, dance and rampant gurning performed in a spirit of mindless, puppy dog enthusiasm. In the United States of America it is sincerely believed that ‘cheerleading’ counts as a genuine sport.

It is a muggy night in the Florida resort town of Daytona Beach. The Cote d’Azure this is not. In some way the population seem to lack depth. The fact is that if you took everyone from the TV audience of the Jerry Springer Show, and all their families, and put them all in one run down string of shabby buildings fronting a white sand beach, then you may come close to understanding the atmosphere of Daytona Beach. Maybe then throw in the fact that, by State law, all men in the municipality must have a tortured mullet and all women must chew gum constantly; their mouths working in a gormless rhythm, their faces topped by painfully electric, bottle blonde, bouffant hair dos.

Those buildings that aren’t shabby concrete motels manned by strangely shaped middle aged people wearing a graceless air of impenetrable indifference, are shabby diners. Each eatery must have a theme. Some of them have names like “The old Cowpoke’s Rest”. Others, as all over the world, are shrines to a mythical fifties Shangri La where all men dressed like James Dean and all women stood over sewer outlets with their skirts flying in the air.

It is late. I sit at a table, my head in my hands, contemplating a snack the size of a post office. The fumes of petrol poison the taste of my beer. That is because the theme of this particular diner is motor car racing. It is, to all intents and purposes, a garage. Except for the fact that they don’t actually do anything useful. Like fixing cars for instance.

Daytona Beach is a place that adds a frisson of real desperation to the concept of ‘homesick’. But there may yet be a salvation. Tomorrow this dreary string of prefabs and concrete will be transformed in to Barbie Doll heaven. From all over America thousands of nubile young women will flood into the town for the All America National Cheerleading Championships. The effect this invasion may have on the local population of slack jawed rednecks should be a performance in itself.

Despairing of finishing the mountains of fries and grits and other assorted cholesterol rich foodstuffs on my plate, I decide to turn in and get a good nights sleep before the coming events.

The next day Daytona Beach is basking in bright, late spring sunshine. I would love to say it looks better in the daytime, but I would be lying. There is however, a change in the people. Whilst the sea front is still peppered with the usual obese and sartorially challenged holiday makers and residents, there is now a new contingent and this crowd look like an outing from the set of Baywatch.

Groups of tanned, lithe young woman dressed for the gym are wandering in groups and lounging on the seaside walls. Although smaller in numbers, their male counterparts, all of whom seem to be of hulk like proportions, are throwing Frisbees and conical footballs. Many are doing endless sets of press-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups. They are also making a lot of noise. Most of it is comprised of aimless, but friendly whooping and shouts of “yeah!!!!” and “alright!!!!” over and over and over again.

As I arrive at a grassy area in front of the main hotel the scene evolves into something truly bizarre. The cheerleaders have arrived and the show is underway. The competitors practice for this all year and what I am witnessing is the final dress rehearsal. In separate groups, teams of cheerleaders from all over the USA are flinging each other about in ways that look both reckless and impressive. One team from New England, who have “Dogs” written in large letters across their backsides, seem to be in the throws of a schism. Their trainer is yelling at the row of downcast faces, some of whose cheeks are smeared with tears.

“This not the max! Okay! You gotta go for the max and achieve the max. This awesome is not the max!!”

Turning on one girl who is gently and uncontrollably sobbing,  the coach vents his ire. “Candy, Your awesome is a disgrace and your facials are a joke.”

Utterly confused by both his tone and his language, I approach Candy as she takes a break and sips a coke. With tears streaming down her face she cries, “He is so on our case and we practice hours and hours every day! I can’t take it! It’s too much! How can I go to the max on my facials when I want to cry all the time because Brad keeps yelling at me for screwing up my awesome. It is so unfair!”

None the wiser, I seek out someone who may enable me to decipher this strange litany of angst.

The person who enlightens me confesses himself to being a ‘tosser’. These are the male members of the troop who with precision, strength and skill fling and catch their lighter female teammates. If the tosser screws up the girl can die or be paralysed for life. It is a job they take seriously. “The facial is like so important! They have to look like they are so psyched when they do the routines. If the facial is bad the team loses points.”

So this is the only sport in the world where you get marks for smiling and looking a bit manic? “That’s right,” says Brad. I ask him about the problems Candy has encountered with her ‘awesome’. Brad explains, “an awesome is when the girl is lifted by the tosser and then balanced on his hand right up in the air. If she blows it on the facial, the tosser is gonna find it hard to trust her the next time on the awesome. We all train so hard for this.”

Although we share something approximate to a common language and I respect his obvious passion and professionalism, I realize that Brad and myself are as culturally far apart as pygmies and eskimos.

But he has a point. This ‘sport’ may be weird, but it is also very, very dangerous. Between 1982 and 1994 more female athletes were injured in cheerleading than in any other sport in America. In 1990 alone 12,000 cheerleaders were admitted to hospital with injuries. A number were paralysed for life.

Bearing this in mind it is with some interest that I witness the first heats of the competition. In a large, un-atmospheric hall under harsh strip lights team after team goes through their twelve-minute routines. A blur of tumbles twists and jumps and back flips. At first I look on with real admiration at the gymnastic and rhythmic skills of the contestants as the panel of twelve judges gives them marks for athleticism, creativity and rank insincerity of facial expression. But there are one hundred and eighty teams in this competition from the United States alone. That does not count the teams who have traveled from Canada, Costa Rica, Mexico and Japan to try and make their own dent on this free for all of American self-congratulation.

After the thirtieth team has gone through the motions of bumping, grinding, flinging, jumping, landing and slapping their perfect little backsides to a sound track of fifth rate stadium pop or harmless white boys rap, I am sick and tired of it.

I wander over and talk to one of the huge burly men who are in the business of cheerleader protection. Called spotters, it is their job to catch the girls if they fly off in the wrong direction. When not actually in action the spotter is posted directly underneath the mini skirted cheerleaders staring fixedly skywards at a never-ending succession of firm teenage behinds.

Not surprisingly, one of the spotters tells me, “it’s the best job in the world. If I catch them in a fall, they are often very grateful. Very, very grateful.”

After hours of being told things like, “cheerleading is a way to grow as a human being and learn to love others in a way that makes us all better as human beings,” by cheerleaders, trainers and judges alike, the spotter is the only participant whose motivation and sincerity I can completely understand without added explanation.

The spotter’s name turns out to be Steve and I ask him if the tossers from the teams see him as some kind of a threat. “Hell no!” says Steve. “Half of them are gay in any case so the percentages work out fine for us and them. Four gals to every red blooded guy.” Steve looks happier than a roadie on a Led Zepplin tour bus.

While he is in the mood for talking, I ask him who are the most fancied team from a purely non-technical point of view. “Well the girls from Georgia are sure the purtiest and they sure have the best asses. But the girls from Houston Texas are just downright dirty, so I sure will be hopin’ one or two of them takes a wrong kind of fall.”

Two thirds of the teams having been eliminated – God knows by what criteria – in the opening heats the next day sees the grand final in a magnificent outdoor arena almost completed surrounded in gleaming corrugated iron. Inside important looking men sporting fat arses and vulgar Rolex watches are busying themselves around the stage. They are, apparently, the national media.

Taking position at the front. I am informed that, “You cain’t stand there Sir.” The word “Sir” is uttered in a manner used only by Americans in authority and is delivered in a tone that implies his real meaning is not “Sir” but “douchebag”.

“This spot is reserved for National TV,” he says with a dreary flourish of self-regarding pomposity. Although he makes himself and the event sound more important than the Bosnia Peace treaty and a Cold War presidential summit all rolled into one. I make way both for him and his even more serious looking retinue of sour faced interns.

He is not the only one behaving as if all this meant something. Following Steve’s advice I seek out the team from Houston Texas. They are in a huddle giving each other strength for the upcoming routine. As I approach I realise that the only custom more vacuous in this event than the ‘facials’ must be the ‘verbals’.

“Love y’all!” Says one to all the others.

“Right on!…. To the max!” another replies.

“Love y’all,” adds another one.

“We are Houston! We are Houston!” her friend points out.

“Love y’all!” Another chips in.

Having grasped the gist of their strategy meeting, I return to the main stage. Where Georgia are now in full flood. Steve is right about their general outlines… And there he is looking eagerly at the subjects of his appreciation. After two days of this I, however, am now so bored as to make me dizzy. All the routines are exactly the same as the ones they did yesterday. Most of them are exactly the same as their competitors. That means that if you watch this whole event then you will watch the same thing nearly four hundred times over. It is the stuff of nightmares. A man can only endure so many back flips and inanely stupid facial expressions before he wanders off to lay his hands on an axe.

But I have to stay to see if Houston, now my adopted team, can stay the course. Dirty they might be, but they have lost the plot when it comes to flinging each other about. They are a disaster. Two of them tumble right off the mat, much to Steve’s gleeful satisfaction no doubt. Their awesome crumbles and they come bottom of the heap. Funnily enough I don’t care. I have had enough.

At the end of the afternoon the losers drown their sorrows in alchopops. The winners strut the promenade and whoop alot. But in a country that doesn’t tolerate anyone losing the winners console the vanquished with wisdom. A girl from the winning Georgia team has her arm around a losing tosser from Houston. “You didn’t lose! You came tenth!”

Not daring to ask what you would actually have to do to be a loser in this town, I content myself with watching the event bought to a close with a mass simultaneous ‘awsome’ of a hundred girls. It is an impressive sight. A forest of nubile flesh. A hundred beautiful teenage girls all doing exactly the same thing at exactly the same time. It is a superb national party trick and every mulleted redneck in the town stands transfixed. I look again. It is impressive. Very impressive. But I can’t help thinking….. What is the point?


Chasing Alligators… The things we do for cash…

©Dan White. No repro of words or pictures without authorisation.

Ten years ago today I was terrified out of my wits in a Florida swamp for the, now defunct, UK edition of Maxim Magazine… The things we do for cash…

Sitting in the passenger seat of a pick up truck only inches away from the jaws of an agitated and lethal reptile is alarming to say the least. The fact that the only thing between him and me is a thin layer of metal casing made by Ford Motors is little comfort. Only minutes before this same ten foot alligator attempted to consume a horse, nearly pulled three strong men into a lake and then thrashed like a banshee on speed as it was bundled into the back of the vehicle. I have the feeling he could open the passenger compartment as easily as a tin of sardines, if he could only get free of the flimsy electrical tape binding his jaws.

If you are contemplating a holiday in the warm sunshine of Florida, be aware of one thing. Although the average Floridian homo-sapien is a friendly beast, there are things lurking out there which are far more menacing. The whole state of Florida is teeming with these scary visitors. They get on golf courses and into municipal ponds. They lurk in the shady lakes of old people’s retirement homes and slither in ditches parallel to the main highways. As their natural habitat in the watery wilderness of the Everglades is diminished by the encroachment of man made civilization, so the alligators – a relic from the age of dinosaurs – encroach on the suburban habitats of the only predator they have to fear. That means you.

For those unlucky enough to find a giant reptile making a home in their back garden or swimming pool there is only one course of action. It is time to call Ricky and Lee Kramer. They are the father and son team that usually spell a dramatic end to the territorial ambitions of Florida’s most toothy and unpredictable residents. As an alligator catcher licensed by the State of Florida’s Game and Freshwater Fish Commission, Lee Kramer has been hauling giant, thrashing alligators by their tails from puddles and ditches for thirty years. Over five thousand of them to be exact. If there is an alligator that is deemed to be a threat to humans or animals then Lee and Ricky are licensed to hunt it down and shoot it dead. They earn their money by selling the skin and flesh. Alligator is priced by the foot.

A self-confessed redneck Lee’s leathery features break into a sly grin.

“The ladies love the alligator man, and truth be told, the alligator man loves the alligator. Its just a pity we got to shoot them in the head ‘stead of lettin’ em free. I truly do respect the alligator”.

Pulling up at the curbside of a suburban home in a wealthy residential district a hysterical and dangerously overweight resident approaches the pick up at speed.

“He’s bigger ‘an a car and he just slipped back into the river. Bastard killed my dog”.

Ricky and Lee look at each other with just the faintest hint of a smirk. As Fido’s remains are hauled back from the murky deep and into a waiting bin liner, Ricky and Lee scan the water for signs of the beast that did the deed. They silence the hysterical householder with the important snippet of information that alligators have better hearing than bats and, if she carries on squawking, the alligator would soon be miles away, sporting ear plugs and contemplating nurofen.

But this time Lee and Ricky seem to be in luck. A hundreds yard out in the lake a pair of malevolent eyes and a scaly back break the placid surface of the water.

Lee and Ricky go into action.

They wait patiently for the gator to come into range. Then a skillful game of expert marksmanship comes into play. Lee casts a line from his rod into the lake and over the alligator’s back. Winding in the line the hook catches on the scaly skin of the reptile. Realizing it’s plight the gator dives into the depths of the lake to escape.

Now is when the real artistry comes into play. In order to bring him in, Ricky must cast a second line into the water and put another hook into the fugitive. This is all done by guessing the position of the alligator under the water. They listen, wait and try to gauge the position of the alligator from the pulls on the single line that is already in place. After the eighth or ninth attempt at dragging a hook through the water and into the flesh of the animal, Ricky feels tension and then a pull. He has hooked him.

Now the technique is to let the panicked gator twist, turn, dive and move in an attempt to throw off his captors. The gator men will let him do this, giving him enough slack so that he won’t break the lines. After half an hour or so the Gator will have warn himself out and be short of air. Then it is time to reel him in.

Slowly, slowly they wind the reels. Even though he is tired the gator exerts an incredible amount of pressure and both lines are bending the rods like a long bow. Slowly, slowly he is dragged into the shallows. Lee makes ready to jump in and drag him on to the bank by his tail. Too late. This is one lucky gator. The second line has snapped. The pressure on the first line is now doubled. With the choice of hanging on or letting go the slack to start the whole casting process again, Lee decides to take a risk and hang on. As Ricky casts again at short range, he is up against the clock. He misses and the gator takes his chance. Finding reserves of strength, he thrashes and pulls. The remaining hook is worked loose and the giant gator plunges to safety.

Lee and Ricky are tired, but resigned.

“Is he gonna come back?” asks the fat lady.

“Yep”, replies Lee. “I been chasin’ that Gator for five years. This is the second time I’ve hooked him.  Never been closer than this. The bank over there is all swamp. He can come and go, as he wants. You better watch out for the puppies if you are lookin’ to get yourself a new dog. You got my number. You give us a call now if he shows his head around here again.”

Leaving her pop eyed with spent adrenaline we get back into the pick up and are only ten seconds out of her driveway before Lee and Ricky are lost in fits of uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. They have to stop the car until they recover.

“Bastard ate her dog!” howls Ricky.

“Jeez! I love the gator!” answers Lee.

The next call is even more bizarre than the first. A rogue gator has found its way into a channel at the end of a paddock in the grounds of a high society polo club. The gator has been behaving badly (you know the kind of thing…. snubbing the chairman’s wife….. drooling on the canapé’s and taking a pop at a tethered horse). Greeting us at the clubhouse is a man kitted out in jodhpurs and a cravat.

“We are in the realms of the Sosumi tribe here. If this reptile so much as scratches one of my members I am finished.”

His tones are so plummy and British, that he could only be an American.

“Yep… Its’ a small bit of water. I reckon that gator just took himself down a dead end. I think your members are gonna be fine”, drawls Lee.

We approach the pond on tiptoes in order not to frighten away the culprit. It is there, static on the other side of the pond. Lee gently kneels at the banks. He cups his hands over his mouth and makes a strange croaking sound. It is the mating call of the alligator. The interested other half glides towards him and as he does so Ricky casts and gets a line on him. The gator dives, but like lightening Lee is up with a rod casting into the water. This is a shallow pond and with two attempts the gator has two lines on him and it starts to thrash and squirm.

Soon he begins to slow down and Lee and Ricky start to reel him in. As he is pulled unerringly to the bank, Lee passes his rod to one of the farm boys and wades into the water only feet from the thrashing gator. With the water around his ankles, boiling like a bowl of feeding Piranha fish, he puts a noose on a stick around the gator’s open jaws drawing them closed. He then grabs it by its thrashing tail and hauls it backwards out of the water yelling, “Got ya peckerhead!”

By this time Ricky has jumped on its back whilst avoiding its flailing tail. Lee tapes up its jaws with gaffer tape. With one quick movement the gator is lifted into the van, its tail thrashing but making contact with nothing but air.

By now there is a small audience of Floridian high society watching events from a safe distance. As the van pulls away a round of polite applause sends us on our way. The man in the jodhpurs looks relieved.

Half an hour down the road the gator has regained some of its strength and that’s when it starts thrashing against the sides of the pick up. Weighing up the possibilities of the gator’s escape I ask if the best thing to do is to heed oft-repeated advice and run in a zigzag pattern?

“Nope, that’s horse shit”, replies Lee. “Most folks just zig when they should be zaggin’ and run back, right into the jaws of the gator. Best thing to do if you are bein’ chased by a gator is to run like hell.”

Our last port of call is to fish a gator out of a swimming pool. This is done with blasé efficiency in a matter of minutes. Whilst the family dog yaps at the reptile from behind the safety of the French windows, Ricky grabs it by the tail. This is a nippy customer and the gator turns around on its own axis and tries to remove Ricky’s left kneecap. Howling with laughter Ricky starts kicking his legs like a demented can-can dancer as the gator goes for each one in turn. He then deftly puts the noose on its jaws and the fun is over.

As the sun goes down on another day’s work Lee and Ricky take off the days catch to certain execution. I, for one, have seen enough to make sure that I give a wide birth to anything in Florida that resembles water. It’s like a jungle out there.