I was a Radcliffe cheerleader. Now that mays sound strange, because the two are obviously mutually exclusive. A Radcliffe girl spends all her time studying, occasionally stopping to push a wisp of long dirty hair out of her eyes or to pull another book from her handy green bookbag. But she doesn't run around in a short red pleated skirt in the freezing cold for three and a half hours, waving pompoms, shaking her hips, and wheeling carts.(carting wheels?)

Like the man who cornered two of us in the stands at half times. "Hey," he leered, "they say you go to Radcliffe." "That's right," quoth we. "Oh, come on," he grinned confidentally, "you don't really go there, do you?"

Or like the two youths about fifteen who tried to pick us up. They came down to the front of the stands and casually asked, "Hey, what high school do you girls go to?" When we gently answered that we went to college, they were visibly shocked. "You go to cawlidge?" they asked incredulously; then they laughed.

Traumas

Even the very beginning--before the kickoff-was traumatic. As we walked from the Patriots' office into the stadium we somehow lost our captain. She--very busy writing down all our cheers as she walked--suddently looked up to find that she was all alone. Frantically clutching her pompoms and megaphone she went up to the nearest gate and tried to get in. "I'm a cheerleader," she explained, but the guard was unimpressed. After a few more abortive attempts, she finally managed to sneak in through the service entrance.

United once again -- secure now that our leader had returned -- we braced ourselves and ran out on to the field, smiling expectantly at the stands. Nobody noticed. We lined up by the goal posts, prepared to cheer The Team as it ran onto the field. But somebody had neglected to tell us that, since the game was televised, players from both teams would be introduced individually. Right in the middle of a loud and lusty cheer for the first man, we noticed somewhat shamefacedly that he had on a Jets uniform.

We had a number of encounters with the Portsmouth High School Band (it was Partsmouth, N.H. Day in Fenway Park). We stood attentively by the goals posts as they played the "Star Spangled Banner," then calmly watched them turn and march right down the field toward us. It seemed only logical at the time that they would break ranks right before they reached the goalposts, but one of the two groups obviously needs a lesson in logic. Almost before I realized what had happened, I found myself staring deep into a tuba as its owner relentlessly marched onward. Somewhat dazed, I looked for the other cheerleader, but all I could see was trumpets and clarinets.

Packing the Mules

It would seem that cheerleading would be one endeavor in which experience wouldn't make a whole lot of difference, but it did. Last year we kind of resembled pack mules. We had laboriously prepared signs for our favorite Patriots; and not just one sign for a player. We had all the letters for spelling out G-I-N-O and B-A-B-E and C-A-P-P-E-L-E-T-T-I and P-A-R-I-L-L-I on separate cards, plus additional cards for B-O-S-T-O-N and P-A-T-R-I-O-T-S. The Pats gave us regular big megaphones and little electric megaphones.

We had come to the game with something of a misconception, thinking that we'd stay in one little spot (or at least on one side of the field) for the whole game. But high school was never like this. When we got onto the field, they told us that Patriot fans sat everywhere and we would have to cheer all around, moving from spot to spot. So we picked up our cards and our pompoms and our electric megaphones and our regular megaphones and we staggered off.

One of the big benefits of this year's game was that it was being televised all over the East Coast. So all we publicity seekers who were undecided about cheering again had our minds made up for us. Unfortunately, the TV cameramen couldn't have been less interested. And they got really annoyed when we kept tripping over their cable as we doggedly pursued them around the field.

In return for showing up when they didn't want them. Just as we established ourselves on the 50-yard line, the TV-camera truck started to move, headed right for our choice location. "Stay there, girls," yelled the fans. "Don't let them block our view." You could see their point. They hadn't paid six dollars apiece for the best tickets, only to spend the game looking at a great big yellow truck. But that same yellow truck was now relentlessly bearing down on us. Loyalty to the fans is one thing, but there are limits. We moved.

Unpatriotic Fans

It can be a very frustrating experience to be a cheerleader for the Boston Patriots. Harvard fans are known for their lack of enthusiasm at times, but nothing compared to the Boston rooters. Especially since the Pats have won only one game this year. I mean, how you ask somebody to yell a Victory cheer when his team has just fumbled the ball for the fifth time in a row? At one point,the score was 24-17, and it really looked as of "our boys" might have a fighting chance. So we did both victory cheers really fast, before the Jets had a chance to score any more.

Being an optimistic bunch, we had prepared a whole list of offensive cheers-the old standards (We want a touchdown; let's go; fight) plus a few original little goodies like our kick-line can-can cheer and "shaboom"--but our repertoire was sadly lacking in defensive cheers and in this game that was a serious mistake. After we'd screamed "hold that line" for the fifty-second time, we decided maybe it would be better if we just kept quiet until the Patriots got the ball.

Packing the Stands

There was one section of the stands where we were sure of loyal support. The Pats gave each cheerleader one complementary ticket and donated six to members of the Radcliffe administration (last year all the Deans came to the game, but apparently once was enough). Since these complementary seats are all together, they form a nice block of people who are genuinely interested in the cheerleaders and would even cheer.

But there was one problem. The seats, understandably, are the least expensive, and consequently are located in the middle of what would be the bleachers if it were the spring and the Red Sox instead of the Patriots were in Fenway Park. These seats are so far away from the field that it's really difficulty to establish any sort of communication. Our fans were so distant that they couldn't hear what we were saying; and if they tried to cheer along, there was necessarily a time gap just because of the time it takes sound to travel. So when we were screaming "block that kick," they were still on "hold that line."

Also, through a stroke of luck, we lost some of our most dedicated rooters. The neighbor of one of the women connected with the Radcliffe gym has season tickets on the fifty yard line, which were generously donated to about six of our staunchest supporters. Ordinarily, this would be fine--we could see them and they could hear us and maybe their enthusiasm would be contagious. BUT, the seats were on the side of the field where the players sit; directly in back of the Boston bench, in fact.

Now you may think that Harvard is prejudiced against female cheerleaders (and you're right) but it's got nothing on Coach Holovak. We'd been warned before the game to get nowhere in the vicinity of the Patriots' bench, and if we had to pass by, to do it as quickly as was humanly possible. So we gave our fans a few quick "Rahs" as we dashed by, but they really didn't have any time to respond.

Most of the male fans were friendlier than the coach, however, at least as the game and the beer were nearing an end. "We want cartwheels!" was the cry. We compiled, feeling pretty proud of ourselves until a small boy called out from the stands, "My grandmother could do better than that!" Such boys were, for the most part, completely unimpressed. "Would you girls get out of the way? We came to see the game.