What’s not to love about a Minnesota autumn? Ordinary green trees turned fiery multi-colors, crisp mornings, cuddly sweaters, and the unspoiled promise of a new year. No matter how long I’ve been out of school, it always feels like the start of a new year to me.

But there was one fall that definitely stood out, it being my first time and all. I never even considered doing it before my senior year of high school. I just wasn’t one of those kinds of girls. Or so I thought.

I still rarely admit to it, even though incriminating photos exist. I can only thank God it was before the time of omni-present videocameras and the internet.

But the truth is… once upon a time, for one short school year, I was a varsity cheerleader. A full-fledged, letter sweater wearing, pom-pom waving rah-rah-rah girl.

This was not a title I had long aspired to.

Besides my immediate tomboy aversion to the idea of dressing up all girly and prancing around on the sidelines – while the boys had all the real fun on the field – I wasn’t a fan of the whole cheerleader image.

As in not the brightest bulbs on the block. Wattage dimmed from huffing all those hairspray fumes, or from tight sweaters cutting off the circulation to the brain.

But as the spring of my junior year zipped by, I started to think, this is it. One more year, and I’m outta here. Eventually, an unsettling realization dawned on me.

Time was running out. And though I tried mightily to believe sports were my true calling, reality was that any chances of a late growth spurt or newfound athletic coordination had passed me by.

Pretty much like the coaches did whenever looking down the bench for players to send in to the volleyball games.

Dirty rotten bastards. Like my being small, weak and sporadically coordinated was any excuse not to let me play. Well, I’d show them – I quit.

Well, actually, I decided that I simply wouldn’t go out for the team the next year, but I’m sure they were crushed.

Which spawned a new dilemma – what was I going to do with all my newfound free-time?

In my small town, there weren’t many options. Neither the idea of sitting at home alone, or going out and getting stoned with the other misfits held much appeal for me.

If you’d told me even a month before what my answer would turn out to be, I’d have laughed at you for suggesting it.

Or slapped you, depending on my mood. Coordination may have eluded me, but PMS was thriving.

Who knew that my best friends would end up recruiting me into doing the very thing I’d reviled for years?

Seduced, in the end – or perhaps more accurately, seduced by the ends – the promise of primetime viewing of the finest male assets in the class. At least that’s a motive I admitted.

But deep down my reasoning was even more pathetic.

I simply thought I’d never be picked.

Talked into trying out, I was sure it was just one of those “experiences” I’d chalk up to having given a shot.

After all, I’d spent my entire high school career to that point ignoring the whole idea. I wasn’t a fan, much less a wannabe.

But some of my friends had been cheering for years – even teammates on the volleyball team.

In a moment of weakness, I let them talk me into trying out for two sports – fall football and winter wrestling.

They gave me a crash course in all the required jumps, stunts, moves and cheers – my own personal “cheerleading for dummies” camp.

I can’t claim I was a natural, but drill me on something long enough, and I can usually pick it up. I’d always been able to pull off a decent cartwheel, and daily practices eventually limbered me up enough to stretch into a passable version of the splits.

As for cheering, lord knows I could be loud when necessary – at last, a payoff for all those screaming family fights!

I wasn’t phenomenal, but it’s not like that was a requirement in our little town.

Still, at best, I was hoping I’d make the winter squad, cheering for wrestling. As my brother, Jerry, helpfully pointed out, “All they do is sit on their butts and pound the mat.” I could do that. Thanks for the support.

Trying out for the football cheerleading squad as well was just a whim – what else was I going to do in the fall when avoiding the volleyball court?

It was the most competitive of the tryouts, and I was a total newbie – what were the odds I’d be picked for both seasons?

When the wildly improbable and unexpected happened, all I could think was – damn! Now I’m really going to have to do it.

Once I got past my shock that I had committed to the whole cheerleader thing for the year, I spent the summer working my butt off to learn the routines. I didn’t even know the school song, and I was the only first time cheerleader on the squad. Thankfully the other girls were patient with me, and by the time the first game rolled around, I felt like I knew what I was doing, and had a pretty good idea what to expect.

Only not so much. Because while my fellow cheerleaders were some of my best friends, they’d also been doing this gig for years.

And as I quickly found out, when you get caught up in a game, your past experience and instinct kicks in – or not, if you don’t have any.

As in calling for a specific cheer in reaction to a play – which oh by the way, happens to be something you never introduced, much less practiced, all summer.

The first time this happened, I thought maybe I hadn’t heard the squad captain right when she called for the cheer.

As I muddled through trying to follow along, it finally dawned on me, “Huh, they forgot to show me this one. Bummer.”

I called them on it right away, and thought that was the last of it.

Too bad there were a couple more cheers they’d never taught me. By the third time, I gave up any pretense of pulling it off and just laughed and followed what I could.

Any illusions I’d had of an impressive debut were pretty much dead in the water before the halftime buzzer – like the other cheerleaders would have been if they hadn’t been my friends.

After the game we all had a good laugh about the night – probably them more-so than me, but who’s counting. We also scheduled extra practice time so I could actually learn these mystery cheers.

By season’s end, I’d say I felt pretty good about knowing what I was doing. Not to brag, but I even had a fan club.

One Friday night game a classmate brought her brother to see me on the sidelines, waving me over to talk between cheers. As she held him up, he beamed at me and said, “You’re cute!” Made the highlight reel of my season.

I suppose you noticed the “as she held him up” part, though. Okay, so he was just a little kid, does that make it any less flattering? Not in my book.

After all, just because he couldn’t yet tie his own shoes it didn’t mean he didn’t have a fine eye for beauty. The same rule applies to pretty much anyone who gives me a compliment – just because they’re, say, strung out on crack, it doesn’t mean they don’t have great taste.

You grow up with smart-aleck brothers intent on smashing your ego, you learn to take what you can get.

And as for little Mr. Good Taste – we all grow up eventually.

In fact, many – oh so many – years later, I told this story to one of my brothers’ wives, and remarked that I noticed that he had grown up into a rather nice-looking young fella.

As I was newly single, I joked that I was thinking about digging out that old uniform, calling him up and suggesting that we could make that old fantasy of his come true.

“Well you could,” she said. “But his fantasies probably involved Match Box cars.”

Dream killer.

So back to the past – I’m still embarrassed to admit how completely I succumbed to the role. By parent’s night in the cafeteria, we lined up, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, earnestly singing “We love you Tigers” to the team.

Now there’s an image that still makes me cringe. But I remember it as completely sincere, springing out of our desire to support our team. It was all about them!

At least I thought so at the time.

I didn’t question this belief until the end of my first year of college, when someone asked me about my town’s high school football games.

I couldn’t recall if I had gone to any games at all my senior year – didn’t remember the whole “I was a cheerleader and went to every single game” thing for an entire day.

At which point I smacked myself.

Maybe the hairspray and sweaters had gotten to me after all.

Ah, so what – still worth it for the “cute” part.

Hm, maybe yesterday’s Matchbox, today’s Match.com – it could happen.

What better ending for this story than a little last hurrah?