In the studio

Dolled up in Lands’ End, they drive Dodge Caravans, often blaring Celine Dion, to soccer fields throughout the country. Once on location, the subject dances up and down the sidelines, gossiping with fellow fans one moment and shouting things like “All right! Beat the other guys!” or “Way to get a good head on the ball!” the next. Yes, we’re all familiar with the phenomenon known as “the soccer mom.” This new American icon is an easy target, but the fact remains she’s out there supporting her kids week in and out, and she’s doing it in exceptionally tasteful clothing.

I’m happy to report that I’m leading the local charge on a very similar phenomenon. Like the soccer mom, my cohorts and I are out-of-place, relatively unfamiliar with the activity we’re watching and viewed with ridicule by many others. Some call us the “Dance Dads.” I prefer the term “Ballet Bros.”

The name “William Sands” was dropped upon my head after my birth in the Nixon era. The naming was significant. Not only was I a “William,” I was the seventh (that’s first sons of first sons) in a row. Among the others were a Revolutionary War hero, a congressman from one of the original 13 states (How’s that for patriotism, Mr. Zimsky?) along with a host of middle managers, failed inventors, journalists, petty criminals and other unseemly tradesmen (OK, OK. I’ll retract the prior statement).

The upshot of this history lesson is that my wife and I only had one name picked out for our first offspring. It seemed a safe bet. For one, the unborn child was wild beyond belief, turning cartwheels day and night and kicking with the fury of a World Cup player. There must be testosterone at work, I thought. Plus, seven for seven is a pretty persuasive argument. It must be genetic, I assumed. There has to be magic in those pipes.

However, fate and karma laughed at my presumption and intervened. Somehow I broke the family streak, and as my daughter popped into the world, five of the seven Williams turned over in their graves. The other two breathed sighs of relief. The curse had ended.

Let’s jump 3½ years forward in time. Despite all my efforts to raise a skier, a cyclist and a modern-day revolutionary, my daughter Skyler announced she was ready for ballet last fall; the first five Williams did another subterranean roll, and by chance the Ballet Bros were born.

On the first day of class, I sheepishly wandered with my tutued daughter into the downstairs Dance Center studio at the Smiley Building. “Uh, hi,” I mumbled to the instructor. “We’re here for

ballet class. I mean, she’s here for ballet. I mean … .”

Moments later, a mustached man and his daughter repeated my missteps. A hulking man clad almost entirely in capilene and his little girl arrived shortly thereafter.

Over the next few weekends, the three of us watched as our young daughters started getting their ballet slippers wet. One of the bros was an accomplished aid climber. Another was a dedicated ski mountaineer. And the other lived and breathed cycling. Like soccer moms, we managed to gossip our way through the sessions, easily chatting the 45-minute classes away. And just like soccer moms, we did it while watching from the sidelines, so naturally we missed a few of ballet’s finer points.

“Wow, that was awesome,” I told Skyler after her second lesson. “You caught really big air on the jump.”

“That was a leap, Daddy,” she corrected me. “And I didn’t catch air, I flew.”

My fellow bros made similar missteps over the next couple months. Still, we were always on hand for our daughters. And the gear talk always stopped for the plies and the “leaps.” On the final day of class, when the parents were brought into the studio to see what their daughters had learned, all three of the Ballet Bros were more misty-eyed than any of the mothers in attendance. I even cranked a little Celine on the way home from that session.

Through those misty eyes, I recalled that since Skyler was born, I’ve always felt a responsibility to raise a strong woman. At first, I put more value on “strong” than “woman,” as evidenced by any of our grueling excursions into the San Juans.

Thanks to some help from the Ballet Bros, I’ve grown up a little since that time, and now I’m letting my daughter lead the way and do the teaching. I realize now that it’s my job to champion the “woman,” and it’s a lofty aim, especially in this tortured age of the W.

So last Saturday, Skyler and I started the cycle anew. A couple months ago, she said she was ready for class again, and so once again, we’re spending our weekend mornings in the dance studio. Dad’s starting to pick up on some of the vernacular and has even tried a little Baryshnikov in the privacy of our home (that’s strictly between you and me).

I’m also happy to report that the craze appears to be spreading. A couple of new Ballet Bros sheepishly walked into the studio last Saturday. Just like me, they mumbled their introductions and in doing so, somehow they gave us all a little hope for the future.

– Will Sands