SouthFlorida.com | City Link Magazine

It's 9 p.m. on a Monday, and just about everything in the six rows of nondescript warehouse/office space sandwiched between Rick Case Honda and the Home Depot in Weston has closed for the night. The secretaries from the loan office have long since gone home. The aluminum garage doors of the auto body shop are locked down tight. The parking lot, however, is still full. And inside TAG Gymnastics Training Center, Fat Joe suggests through the speakers that everyone "lean back." Future Carly Pattersons and Paul Hamms stream out the front door, ready to give bandaged ankles and wrists a good night's rest, but for the South Florida All-Star Renegades, practice is just getting started.

When the gym finally empties, a girl in red shorts and a loose gray T-shirt emblazoned with a Puerto Rican flag makes her way over to the stereo, and Fat Joe gets a little louder. The open cheer team, which consists of young women and men who have graduated from high school, is ready to start tumbling practice, except for one small problem: Their tumbling coach, Dre, is MIA. Bibiana Lara, the aforementioned stereo attendant, leans against a blue mat off to the side of the room, a cell phone pressed to her ear. Through a mouthful of braces, she sends some attitude to the person on the other end. "Dre, where the hell are you? Get your ass over here; we're all here waiting for you." The phone flips shut and Lara, an 18-year-old from Hollywood who carries a lot of sass in her lithe frame (even by cheerleader standards) and has a tattoo reading "Sexy Slim" to confirm it, continues her conversation with a fellow team member, something about boyfriends and 20-inch rims.

Propped up against another mat, Shannon Renna, also 18 but from Pembroke Pines, is miffed about Dre's absence, too. She was supposed to have a meeting with Dre and the Renegades' head coach and owner, Debi Phillips, following practice. "Dre better show up," Renna announces. "We were supposed to decide on practices, hair and makeup tonight." To the uninitiated, the agenda may seem frivolous, but appearance is just as important as tumbling, stunts and overall pep. One girl's hair in a ponytail instead of half-up/half-down (the top half of the hair is in a ponytail, the bottom half remains down) could mean the difference between first and second place. "I like half-up/half-down; some girls just don't look good with all their hair pulled back, and last year, I did everyone's makeup; it was silver and blue," she tells a teammate, running her hands across her eyelids. "It was tight."

The Renegades are one of more than 2,500 all-star cheerleading organizations across the nation. In an era in which seemingly every sport has a wilder, more intense alter ego, "all-star" can best be described as Xtreme cheerleading. According to Kevin Brubaker, president of Cheersport -- which hosts the largest single all-star cheerleading event in the country, the Cheersport Nationals in Atlanta -- all-star cheerleading has grown exponentially over the past five or six years. "In 1997, when we held our first Nationals, we had 32 teams from five states, 600 cheerleaders total," he says. "Last year, we had 811 teams from 35 states, 18,000 cheerleaders in total."

With approximately 100 teams, Florida ranks behind only Texas in number of all-star organizations statewide. None of the cheerleaders inside TAG Gymnastics could provide a concrete answer as to why Florida is such a hotbed for heel stretches and handsprings, but perhaps ESPN's coverage of myriad Tampax-sponsored, Bring It On-style competitions -- all of which seem to be held at Orlando theme parks -- has something to do with it. Or maybe it's because, like Texas, Florida loves it some football, and what's football without cheerleaders? If that is the case, then it was only a matter of time before cheerleaders grew tired of being on the sidelines. All-star cheerleading, which began to take root around 1990, made them the main event.

"All-star cheerleading isn't about a team on a field," says 22-year-old Miguel Gonzalez, who lives in Davie but commutes about 40 miles south to coach the Top Gun All-Stars in Miami. "It's about us; it's about competition. On a field, we're not able to do the kind of stunts and tumbling we can do in All-Stars." Apparently, plenty of other cheerleaders feel the same way: Within the past five years, all-star gyms have grown more than 10-fold, and Broward and Palm Beach counties are no exception to the trend. The Renegades compete with more than a dozen other squads between the two counties, all with equally fast and furious names like CheerFormance Xtreme, Fusion All-Stars, Cooper City Storm and Plantation Power.

Fort Lauderdale even hosts one of the all-star cheer season's main events, King of the Jungle, which will take place Jan. 7-9, 2005. A themed competition put on by a company called All-Star Challenge -- which will also host Clash of the Titans in Jacksonville, the LoneStar RoundUp in Dallas, Return to Atlantis in Baltimore and Battle Under the Big Top in Atlanta -- King of the Jungle will feature a stage transformed into something out of a Rousseau painting: fierce jungle cats, a canopy of lush greenery and undoubtedly more than a few interspersed wildcat growls. It's all part of the show, and if there's one thing all all-stars have in common, it's the desire to perform. "Sure, you perform when you're cheering at a game," Gonzalez says, "but when you're at an all-star competition, the audience is cheering for you, not the team running with the ball behind you."

When you click on it, the South Florida All-Star Renegades' Web site, www.eteamz.com/sfarenegades, blasts Rage Against the Machine's "Renegades" as the home page loads. Gun-totin' Yosemite Sam floats in front of a galactic background with links to practice and competition schedules, a message board, picture galleries and SFA's mission statement: "The South Florida All-Stars will take any child with an interest in cheerleading, teach [her or him] and develop the inner talent that every child has." That means the Renegades, unlike many of their competitors, don't turn anyone away. "We don't recruit," coach Phillips says. "We make cheerleaders." This "everybody's a winner" philosophy has its pros -- no one leaving with teary eyes or low self-esteem because she or he wasn't good enough -- but not being able to pick and choose means, come competition time, they'll be up against teams that do have some sort of athletic criteria. Winning, Phillips tries to teach, isn't everything. For other all-stars, however, winning is the only thing.

Bettis Richardson is a winner. With caramel-colored skin, dark hair and even darker eyes, the 21-year-old North Lauderdale resident tried out for the second season of American Idol and made it. Barry White-piped Ruben Studdard walked away with America's vote, but like most, if not all, of the contestants, Richardson saw Idol as his potential ticket into show biz. Although that ticket didn't quite cash in -- he made it to the top 32 before getting cut -- Richardson knows his time will come. He spent $17,000 on a demo last year and is living at home to try to save up enough money to move to Los Angeles. Growing up idolizing Janet Jackson, Richardson has been a performer for as long as he can remember, recalling an eighth-grade dance where, in a very You Got Served moment, a circle formed around him on the dance floor. Dancing eventually led to tumbling, and tumbling led to cheerleading.

Not satisfied with his high-school cheerleading squad's level of competitiveness, however, Richardson went all-star. Although he coaches an all-star team in Broward -- the Cooper City Storm -- he, like Gonzalez, travels south to train with Top Gun's open team. "We have kids who travel as far away as Naples," says Kristen Rosario, who owns and runs Top Gun and its sister center in southwestern Florida along with her husband, Victor. "Half of the open squad is from Broward or Palm Beach counties."

Dressed in a black shirt, silver-and-black basketball shorts and matching silver-and-black sneakers, Richardson multitasks, alternating between flipping and discussing his all-star status. "I travel all this way because they're the best," he explains, "and I want to be part of the best. When people hear the word cheerleading, they usually think 'rah-rah.' That's such an outdated perception."

In fact, to call it cheerleading is almost insulting. It involves no pompom, no megaphone and, with the exception of perhaps one or two occasional yells about being No. 1, no cheering. You will never be asked, "We've got spirit, how 'bout you?" at an all-star competition. While dealing with cheerleading's stereotypes, male cheerleaders have to take extra flak. "When people hear that you're a cheerleader, for a guy, they automatically think you're gay," Richardson says. "When I was on American Idol, I was doing an interview with Paul and Ron on Zeta [94.9-FM], and they saw on my r�sum� that I was a cheerleader. So they immediately asked me if I was gay." Sure, most of the guys on the team could pose for next season's Abercrombie and Fitch catalog, but most A&F models probably couldn't do a standing back tuck with a twist.

It is the all-star teams' superior level of tumbling and overall athleticism that draws cheerleaders away from their high-school squads. "High-school cheerleading is keeping me in business," Phillips says. "If high schools offered the level of competition all-stars does, I wouldn't be able to compete." She is probably right. It costs about $3,000 a year to cheer on an all-star squad, while there are no dues to cheer for a high school. At the college level, many universities even pay the cheerleaders, offering at least partial scholarships.

Nevertheless, all-star cheerleading is big business. Gonzalez, like Phillips, has made a lucrative career of all-stars. In addition to coaching for Top Gun, he choreographs routines and mixes music for other teams around the country. Last year, he says, he pulled in about $50,000 from choreographing alone. And those sped-up hip-hop medleys mixed with the occasional whip crack or jet fly-by whoosh go for $500 a pop. "Most of my business is by word of mouth; I say I coach at Top Gun, and they know they'll get their money's worth," he says. "I get to travel, meet new people; I love it."

In addition to tapping into the high-school cheer market, all-stars also attracts gymnasts who have never picked up a pompom in their lives. The all-star routine, after all, is basically the equivalent of a gymnastic floor routine -- except with dance-club music and exaggerated facial expressions. "I was a gymnast growing up, so cheerleading is new for me," says Lashawn Greaves, a 27-year-old mother of two who competes on the Renegades' open squad. "But I figured, Why not? So much of all-stars is tumbling anyway. I hadn't done a back handspring in I don't know how long, but I just decided to try it the other night, and I did it. I guess it never really goes away."

Dre is still missing, so a group of teammates decides to try a stunt -- the element of cheerleading in which one or more cheerleaders, usually girls, are tossed or lifted into the air. Greaves has never stunted, but after taking off her jewelry in preparation, she insists her teammates "put her up." They lift her awkwardly into the air, grasping her ankles as she wobbles above them, trying to gain her balance while lifting her arms into a perhaps-premature triumphant V. "Hey Lashawn," Bibiana Lara calls from the sidelines where she sits cross-legged, leaning against the mirrored wall, "stop flashing your high beams!" Greaves laughs and crosses her arms over her chest -- neither action helping her attempt to catch her balance -- and she immediately falls into her support team below as they fumble to bring her down without anyone getting a shoe in the face.

Despite the failed stunt attempt, everyone is smiling. Greaves explains that she's here to practice and be an active member of the team, but she's here first and foremost to have fun and do something most women her age -- who would more likely sign up for step aerobics or Zumba -- wouldn't even think of doing. The consensus, in fact, seems to be that they would rather be here -- practicing or not -- than anywhere else. "This is my second family," says Lara, who has been with the Renegades for six years. "I'll do this forever, or at least until I can't anymore. And even then, I'll still come back."

Finally, Dre arrives. The team greets him with a chorus of "Where the hell were you?" and "It's about time." He greets them with a few brisk claps, and playtime is officially over. The Renegades began their competition season in November with regional tournaments, while most of the state and national tournaments will take place from January to April. Although King of the Jungle will be in their back yard, the Renegades have chosen instead to travel to Atlanta for Battle Under the Big Top, coming up Dec. 10-12. "We usually travel to one big tournament a year," Shannon Renna explains, "so we didn't want to stay here when we could go somewhere besides Florida." For them, tournaments are part competition, part vacation. "It feels great to win," she adds, "but what we really look forward to is just the competition itself -- traveling, performing in front of an audience, the whole experience as a team."

Back at Top Gun, Richardson and his team members have been instructed to come up with a tumbling pass that they would like to use in the routine. "I want to give a performance that makes people not want to blink," Richardson says. Then, he gets up from the white-plastic patio chair in which he has been sitting, half jogs over to the corner of the spring-loaded tumbling floor and, charging forward, dives into a series of backflips, his legs extending up and over his head, his hands never touching the floor, a couple of twists for good measure. Before you know it, he has arrived at the opposite corner. No one blinked.