San Diego, 1977
The radio in the employee breakroom crackled out Fleetwood Mac as Rose wiped her hands on her uniform pants and sank into a plastic chair. It was barely 9 a.m., but she felt like she’d already lived a whole day—got her daughter to school with only one meltdown (hers or the child’s was debatable), hit traffic on the 163, and now was starting her shift with a headache that tasted like instant coffee and exhaustion.
Ann burst into the room a moment later with her purse hanging off her elbow and her hair doing something wilder than usual, which was saying a lot.
“You will not believe the morning I had,” Ann announced, tossing her purse onto the table.
Rose grinned. “If it involves at least two kids screaming and one forgetting their shoes, then I absolutely believe it.”
“Three kids screaming,” Ann corrected proudly, “and I forgot my shoes.”
She kicked out one foot, revealing she was wearing her son’s too-big sandals. Rose doubled over laughing.
On the bulletin board behind them, half-covered by a notice about potluck sign-ups, was a glossy, bright poster: SAN DIEGO CHARGERS CHEERLEADER TRYOUTS — JUNE 18!
The women stared at it the way one might stare at a neon sign advertising adventure—or trouble.
“You know…” Ann said, dragging the words like a lure. “We could try out.”
Rose snorted. “Yeah, right. And next week we’ll join Charlie’s Angels.”
“I’m serious!” Ann plopped down beside her. “Why not? We used to dance. We’re not old.”
“We’re moms,” Rose corrected. “Moms don’t try out for NFL cheerleading squads.”
“In the seventies? Honey, everybody’s doing everything. We’re practically liberated.”
Rose lifted an eyebrow. “You tied your hair back with a shoelace this morning.”
“That is liberation.”
And that was how the idea was born—half a joke, half a dare, and fully irresistible.
They didn’t have much time. Between work and the kids and the entire planet resting squarely on their shoulders, practice had to happen where it could happen.
In the park after work, Ann’s daughters spun in circles in the grass while Rose tried to mimic a kick she hadn’t attempted since 1969.
“Oof—my hip!” Rose grabbed her side.
Ann waved a hand. “Ignore it. Pain is temporary. Memory of glory lasts forever.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my chiropractor I can’t afford.”
They practiced grapevines in widowed living rooms, pushing furniture to the walls. They practiced jumps while the kids ran through the apartment screaming, the older ones trying to help, the younger ones getting dangerously close to being kicked in the head.
They practiced after bedtime, whisper-counting beats while disco music quietly thumped through an AM radio.
Some nights they laughed so hard they couldn’t breathe; other nights they could barely lift an arm.
One evening, when the kids were all finally asleep, Rose collapsed on Ann’s couch. “Are we out of our minds?”
“Absolutely,” Ann said cheerfully. “But if we don’t do one crazy thing while we’re still under thirty, we’re gonna blink and be fifty and wondering why we never took a chance.”
Rose stared at the ceiling. “Do you think we’re bad mothers?”
Ann scoffed. “Bad mothers? Honey, bad mothers don’t worry about being bad mothers.”
Rose considered this. It didn’t make sense, and yet it did.
The big day arrived bright and hot. The tryouts were held in the stadium parking lot, and hundreds of women stood in line—legwarmers, short shorts, glossy hair, and enough hairspray to set off the fire alarms.
Rose looked at them and whispered, “Ann, we should turn around.”
“No way,” Ann said. “We’re here. We’re doing this. And if we faint, we faint together.”
They learned the routine in groups. Ann picked it up quickly—she always had rhythm. Rose… tried. Her body remembered some things but not all, and at one point she accidentally spun the wrong direction and nearly collided with a woman named Sherry from La Mesa, who hissed, “Watch the hair!”
Their final performance was far from perfect—but it was enthusiastic. Rose smiled so much her cheeks hurt. Ann winked at the judges. They ended breathless, sweaty, and proud.
“You think we made it?” Rose asked afterward, fanning herself.
“Probably not,” Ann admitted. “But my God, wasn’t that fun?”
Rose nodded. “Yeah. It really was.”
A week later, a thin envelope arrived in the mail.
Both of them got one.
Both envelopes contained the same message: Thank you for trying out. Unfortunately…
For a moment, Rose felt a pinch of disappointment. But then she thought about the late-night practices, the kids cheering them on, the laughter, the confidence she thought she’d lost somewhere in the chaos of motherhood.
She didn’t feel defeated.
She felt alive.
Ann called her the moment she opened hers.
“Well,” she said, “guess we’re not Chargers cheerleaders.”
“Nope,” Rose answered. “But my daughter told her whole class that her mom tried out. Said I was brave.”
“Mine told the neighbor I was famous,” Ann said. “Which is technically true. In this apartment building.”
They burst into laughter.
The next day at work, Rose hung the rejection letter on her fridge at home—next to the kids’ drawings and the grocery list.
Ann did the same.
It wasn’t a failure.
It was proof that they were more than tired single mothers trying to survive the day-to-day. They were women who took chances, who pushed past fear, who danced even when the world told them they were too busy, too old, too responsible to try.
A week later, Ann slapped another flyer in front of Rose at work.
“Community center’s starting an adult jazz dance class. Tuesday nights. Cheap babysitting included. You in?”
Rose grinned. “Absolutely.”
Ann hooked her arm through hers. “See? We didn’t need the Chargers anyway.”
And together, they walked down the hallway—shoulders back, heads high, knowing that sometimes the bravest thing a mother can do is choose something joyful for herself. The world would catch up. The kids already had.
They’d never forget that summer.
Because for the first time in a long time, they both felt like themselves again.