The Backpack Gets Heavier

Somewhere along the way, you realize you’re carrying a lot more than a backpack.

If you’ve been a cheer dad for any amount of time, you’ve carried the backpack. And it’s probably not exactly the same backpack you might choose for yourself. It’s covered in rhinestones, keychains, bows, pins, and enough personalization to make absolutely certain nobody mistakes it for yours.

It can also be heavy. Like, SUPER heavy. I’ve never completely understood what’s in there. Each item on their own doesn’t seem like much. Some shoes, makeup, emergency hair products, snacks, and maybe a small bowling ball?!

Outside of finding a small pocket to store my own ration of beef jerky, I stopped asking questions a long time ago. Our job is simple - Carry the backpack. And that’s exactly what we do.

We throw it over one shoulder, grab the suitcase with the other hand, balance a coffee somewhere in between, and follow our daughters and sons through another hotel lobby, airport, parking garage, or convention center. Usually while they’re walking approximately 40% faster than necessary.

But somewhere along the way, something funny happens. The backpack gets heavier. And it has nothing to do with what’s inside it.

When our kids first start cheer, we’re mostly trying to figure out what’s happening. Why does everything start so early? What is this “full out”? They make glitter in a CAN?! Why are we staying in a hotel 60 miles from our house? And maybe most importantly; How much did you say this costs?!

We learn quickly. The terminology starts making more sense, and the competition routine becomes more common. The cost become an investment in our kids and our social circles. We also learn to find the closest coffee shop or stand.

We learn that “awards are starting soon” is an incredibly loose measurement of time. I’m pretty sure the words “we’re running ahead of schedule” have never been spoken inside a cheer competition.

We even start recognizing deductions. On our own. Eventually, something we never expected happens. We become cheer people. You’ll be sitting there watching a routine and suddenly say something like: “That stunt didn’t hit.” This is generally followed by a little sense of disbelief about what just came out of your mouth. Who have we become? Going “full out” no longer comes with a morning hangover, which is definitely a good thing.

But while we’re learning about cheer, something else is happening that we probably don’t notice. We are getting a front-row seat to our daughters and sons growing up.

At some point, the backpack stops representing just cheer. It represents the drive to practice and the dinners in the car. It’s the weekends away from home, the flights, and the hotel rooms. It also becomes the wins and losses. The routines that hit, and the ones that didn’t

It carries the excitement of walking into a competition believing this could be the weekend. And sometimes it carries the disappointment walking back out.

As dads, we don’t always know exactly what to say in those moments. Sometimes our daughters don’t need us to say anything. They just need us to grab the backpack and walk beside them.

When our kids are little, being Dad is pretty straightforward. We protect them and provide for them. We teach them, make stupid funny faces, and sometimes we wear tiara’s.

And as dads, we like to fix things.

Flat tire? I got it.

Broken cabinet? Give me twenty minutes.

Wi-Fi isn’t working? Stand back.

But your daughter’s team just had a rough routine? That’s different. There isn’t a socket wrench for that, and sometimes there’s nothing to fix.

Sometimes our job is to simply tell them that we’re proud of them before grabbing the backpack and figuring out where everybody wants to eat.

And I’ve learned there’s a surprising amount of fatherhood contained in that sentence.

Eventually, they start becoming their own people. They have their own goals, friendships, disappointments, and battles. And we discover something that’s surprisingly difficult for dads: We can’t fix everything.

We can’t walk onto the mat or throw a stunt. We can’t make the judges change a score, or guarantee an outcome.  And apparently yelling, “COME ON!” from section 214 doesn’t help nearly as much as you’d think.

So, the job changes. You stop trying to control the outcome and start figuring out how to support the person experiencing it. This could be through encouragement, advice, or even a simple hug. And sometimes, this is recognizing that our kids absolutely do not want a motivational speech at that moment, and the best move is to just sit and listen.

This is an advanced Cheer Dad skill, and it can take years to master.

Here’s something else I’ve learned after years of carrying cheer backpacks: Our job isn’t to rummage through or understand the contents of the backpack. Our job is simply transportation. That’s it. If they ask us to get something out for them, Lord be with us that it’s sitting on top and easy to find. Otherwise, we might reach too deep and our family may never see us again.

Not that I was ever too concerned in the first place, but I have little interest about what all is inside. Because I’ve realized the backpack is basically the unofficial baton of Cheer Dad responsibility.

She finds you and hands you the backpack. There is no need for  conversation. It’s the universal cheerleader signal for: “You’re up, Dad.” And we know exactly what to do. Throw it over your shoulder, pick up your coffee, try not to take anyone out with whatever is hanging off the side, and follow. Because that’s part of the deal. She carries the pressure, the expectations, and the responsibility of performing when the music starts. And for a few hours, we carry the backpack. That seems like a pretty fair trade.

This is why I believe the backpack might be one of the most accurate symbols of being a Cheer Dad. It’s a small way of saying: I’ve got this part. You go do yours.

It isn’t glamorous. No one is going to applaud you for carrying it, and I’m fairly sure there is no award for Best Backpack Carry. Though maybe there should be. I could see some of us getting pretty competitive about it.

It’s just one of those little jobs you do because you’re Dad.

Carry the backpack.

Hold the water bottle.

Find the charger.

Locate food.

Move the suitcase.

Guard twelve jackets while everyone takes pictures.

Take 37 pictures yourself and somehow get blamed because nobody likes any of them.

Drive.

Wait.

Cheer.

Repeat.

None of these things sound particularly important on their own. But put them together over a season (or several seasons), and they start looking a lot like something else. Showing up.

Not in some huge, dramatic way. Just consistently doing the little things that say: “I’m here. I’ve got you. Go do your thing.”

So when she hands you that ridiculously heavy, rhinestone-covered backpack again…throw it over your shoulder, grab your coffee, and carry it proudly.

Because she has her job. And you’ve got yours.

Carry the backpack.

It’s heavier than it looks.

And worth every ounce.

— Cody
 Cheer Dad & Founder, Cheer Dads