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That kind of dedication does not help a twirler's grade-point average, or leave much time for hanging out at the Sonic Drive-In or the Emporium Pool Hall. Almost to a twirler, though, the girls think the tough regime is worth it. At heart they are neither cheerleaders nor team competitors, they are performers, smitten with the actor's urge to hold an audience. "It's like being in a Broadway show," says Tali Haenosh, a 16-year-old senior twirler who is the only Jewish student in Huntsville High and the daughter of an Israeli doctor. "We're there to entertain." Some get hit on the head at practice, or suffer a broken nose from a falling baton. Flaming batons sometimes even singe the twirlers' forearms, but the show must go on.
For some girls, twirling leads to a college scholarship, or a career as a twirling teacher. Both are goals of athletic, brown-haired Terri Burns, 17, "feature twirler" on the Huntsville line, which means she gets to perform solo at football games with flaming batons and "Samoan swords." "I always put twirling practice before guys," she says. "I've worked a lot harder to be a good twirler than I have to get a good date. You can date guys all your life but you won't always be able to twirl."
Lisa Cording's moment comes on a Saturday morning when 22 girls from Huntsville present themselves at Willis High School for the regional contest. Starting at 8:45 a.m. the Huntsville girls, one at a time, walk nervously onto a damp, fog-shrouded tennis court. Mothers and friends watch, perched on the hoods of cars pulled up on the grass next to the court. The girls, awkward in their skimpy stretch suits, take their turns alone. One contestant carries her "good luck" Teddy bear to the court and puts it down next to the judge, John Kunkel, an intimidating character slouched in a chair. There is no music. None of the rah-rah glamour of those intoxicating Friday nights. Each girl silently goes through her routine of tosses and twirls. "You look for baton speed, coordination and control," says Kunkel as he jots down impressions. "You look at their faces for confidence. It's called showmanship. I don't know too much about it, but I'm a nice old boy." Win or lose, it's over in two minutes.
Lisa grabs her French horn and band uniform. Her mother quickly drives her down the road to the Willis High Stadium where Wuensche's Wonders are about to perform in the marching-band competition. The sun breaks through the fog just as the music starts and The Wonders in their green-and-white suits and tall, furry white helmets begin some complicated step-twos and blockbusters. Wuensche is hiding under the bleachers, too nervous to watch. Finally word comes over the loudspeaker. Huntsville has won its ninth straight Division One.
The individual twirling results are being posted in the school office, amidst a clatter of prayers, joyous shouts and cries of disappointment. Lisa is actually shaking as she pushes her way to the board, then manages a scream: "I got a Division One." That says it all. Her comment sheet reads: "Work on your control. More will be required of you as you mature." — Bob Wurmstedt