Victory Beyond the Sidelines
By Jane Avery
The crisp morning sun glinted off the blue-and-white pom‑pons as the BYU cheerleaders filed into the Ernest L. Wilkinson Student Center ballroom. Their expressions were fierce, their purpose unmistakable. For months, they had whispered strategies between stunts, trailing through training with purpose beyond routines. Today was their moment: the Board of Trustees vote on increased compensation for their squad.
It felt surreal. Just two years ago, they earned only a small stipend—barely enough to cover travel expenses and uniforms. Many stayed at jobs, struggled with textbooks, late-night shifts, and aching muscles. But led by senior captain Mia Hernandez, they had grown tired of cheering while managing financial hardship. They drafted petitions and teemed up with student-athlete advocates, documenting expenses, hours spent, and comparing pay to cheerleaders at peer institutions like Stanford and Washington, where stipends were 30–50 percent higher.
Their pitch was compelling. They compiled spreadsheets: travel hours topped 1,200 per season, including film study and choreography practices. They recorded over 80 home and away games annually. They pointed out branding: they were not “cheer squads” but ambassadors and marketers—echoing the Cougars’ fight songs, dancing through halftime, and representing BYU at national cheer competitions where their uniforms and precision broadcasted the school to millions of viewers.
Inside the ballroom, trustees seated themselves behind an elongated mahogany table. The cheerleaders stood center stage, pom‑pons at their sides. Hernandez stepped forward:
“We are not asking for charity,” she began, voice steady and resolute. “We are asking for justice.” Her teammates passed copies of their research—budget breakdowns, comparative data from PAC-12 and Mountain West universities, testimonies from current and former cheerleaders detailing exhaustion, missed internships, and academic stress.
Trustees leaned forward. Questions volleyed: “What about Title IX?” “How are other athletic teams compensated?” “Can it be budgeted without raising tuition?” Coaches and the athletic director joined the room, noting that basketball and volleyball athletes received more support. The athletic director proposed supplementing from marketing funds, citing the national TV exposure during football bowl games and the ESPN broadcast when BYU placed top three in cheer nationals.
Two hours of deliberation followed. In the hallway, the squad paced, clutching each other’s hands. When they were finally called back in, Hernandez exhaled slowly and looked at her teammates.
The chairman cleared his throat: “After reviewing your data, logistics, and the university’s broader branding needs, we have voted unanimously—cheerleader stipends will be increased by 40 percent, effective this upcoming semester. Furthermore, the Athletic Department will establish a scholarship fund for future cheerleaders.”
In that moment, tears welled—but this was not pity. This was victory. Their cheers, once only destined for the crowds at LaVell Edwards Stadium, now echoed within the walls of governance. Their fight had transcended sidelines. It was no longer just about support—it was about respect.
Outside, reporters gathered. The cheerleaders stepped onto the concrete plaza and erupted in a choreographed chant that shook the morning calm. Journalists snapped photos as Hernandez addressed the crowd:
“We didn’t just cheer for the team—we cheered for ourselves. Today, BYU cheered for us.”
As they rejoined their routines—rising again, throwing perfect extensions under the sun—they carried something larger than pom‑pons and smiles: they carried a new equation: hard work + proof + unity = recognition. And they’d rewritten the rules of engagement—on and beyond the field.
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