Entry IX: Cheer Ye, Here Ye
The week had been nonstop. Each day was a new cycle of sweat, effort, and echoing cheers as we rehearsed over and over again for our Bench Yell performance. Our mornings were packed with classes and assignments, and our afternoons were almost always reserved for practice. It was exhausting, but it also brought a sense of unity, even if we were too tired to notice it at times.
While most of us practiced for the Bench Yell, our four athletes trained separately for their events: basketball, volleyball, sepak takraw, and baseball. They rarely joined the rest of us in practice, which was understandable, given the different kind of pressure they were under. One day, during a rare moment without a scheduled practice, I found myself talking with Yair Levi Hidalgo, our baseball representative.
He approached me while I was organizing my notes for class. "Hey," he said, clearly thinking about something. "I've been wondering. If we join the events, will our grades be affected? Like, will we get some bonus or something?"
I looked up from my notes. "Well, that depends on your coach. Who's coaching you for baseball?"
"Engr. Narvaez," he replied, glancing sideways as if unsure whether that was a good thing or not.
I gave a small chuckle. "Oh, that's great then. He's our Chemistry teacher, right? There might be plus points there. But of course, it will all depend on his conditions and how he sees your performance and participation."
Yair nodded slowly, thinking it over. It was clear he wasn't just concerned about the sport itself, but the ripple effects it might have on academics. I understood him completely—we were all trying to keep our heads above water.
That same day during our afternoon practice, we gathered at the ground level of the COE building. It was our usual spot—open, shaded, and big enough to fit us all. While waiting for the others to assemble, I found myself talking with one of the SEs. We were joking around to lighten the mood, and in the heat of the moment, I impersonated our Engineering Drawings and Plans teacher, Engr. Cornelio.
I didn't mean any harm. It was just a playful mimic of how he explained things in class, and it got a few laughs. But just as I finished the punchline, I saw someone's head peek through the nearby door. My heart dropped.
It was him. Engr. Cornelio himself.
I froze, and so did the SE beside me. We held back our laughter with all our strength, expecting a scolding. But instead, he just smiled.
He stepped into the room and said warmly, "Hey, good luck on the Bench Yell everyone. I will give plus points if you all get an award on the Bench Yell."
Then he turned and left, walking casually with the other faculty members. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. That was close.
When the afternoon settled in, it was time for our final preparations. We were instructed to wear black shirts and black pants. Each of us was also required to wear a white hard hat—one of the visual symbols for our course and our strength.
Inside one of the classrooms, our arms were painted with alternating orange and white stripes. One of my classmates looked at himself in the mirror and joked, "Man, I look like Vector from Despicable Me."
That made everyone laugh. It was a much-needed moment of relief. Then came the face paint—two bold orange stripes on each cheek. We looked like warriors going into battle. It wasn't just about aesthetics; it was about unity, presence, and school pride.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, we made our way to the Grandstand located at the back of the university. The cool evening breeze did little to calm our nerves. We had to wait for a long time before our turn came up—other departments had to perform first. It wasn't until 7 PM that we were finally called.
We slowly climbed up the bleachers, each movement synchronized and precise. It took us ten whole minutes just to get into our positions, but it was worth it. The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation.
Then Engr. Cornelio took the stage. He looked proud as he took the microphone.
"With 300 students from the different courses of the college, let us now witness the performance of the Engineering Jaguars!"
The crowd erupted with applause. Then the drums began to roll.
Our performance was electric. Every yell, every stomp, every clap was perfectly synchronized. We didn't just cheer—we performed. We told a story. We uplifted our college name with pride and discipline. The coordination, the energy, the sheer passion—it was all there, blazing in every beat of the drum.
When the final beat dropped, we held our final pose and the audience cheered. We had done it. We slowly descended from the bleachers, another ten-minute process that we executed with the same precision we'd shown on stage.
Afterward, I did my duty as Class Mayor—I double-checked attendance. Everyone had made it. All were present, all were accounted for.
It was a tiring day, yes, but one that ended with pride swelling in our chests. We had trained, prepared, and performed together—not just as classmates, but as a family of aspiring engineers.
And in that moment, standing under the grandstand lights with orange stripes on our cheeks and sore muscles in our legs, we all felt that unity. We were the Engineering Jaguars. And we roared loud and proud.
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and then Add to home screen.