Doylestown, Pennsylvania—population 8,300—is just an hour north of downtown Philadelphia, close enough to share Philly's accent and an occasional FM radio signal. But it's otherwise a different universe. Country-road billboards market deer-proof plants; a sign advertising a "Goats N Hoes" farm may or may not be ironic. Just east of the airport, tucked away on the outskirts of town, the training facility of the Victory Vipers All-Stars—a local competitive cheer squad—is situated in a vinyl-sided industrial warehouse next to an auto parts store.
On a typical weekday evening, a steady stream of minivans and SUVs cycles in and out of the parking lot, lining up to deposit or collect ponytailed, water-bottle-toting athletes in T-shirts and cheer shorts. Team sports are life here in Bucks County, where one player's town might be a half-hour drive from another's. Your squad becomes your world.
Last year, before the pandemic temporarily closed the gym, Madi Hime was 16, a Victory Viper who had recently joined the team. She fit right in with the other cheerleaders, documenting their lip syncs and dance routines on Instagram and TikTok (where Madi has almost 100,000 followers). Even during the competition off-season, the Vipers spent a lot of time together: Cheer training happens year-round, typically three days per week. Athletes need to maintain peak conditioning in order to pull off precise aerial stunts, and they need to work as a group. Any false move or miscommunication can cost points in a high-stakes competition. It can also mean a sprained ankle, a fractured wrist, or worse.
Madi was both a "flyer" and a "base," meaning she alternated between soaring through the air and helping support others who did. Her teammate Allie Spone was a full-time flyer—a more exalted designation on the cheer scene. But although intra-team competition could be intense, the girls got along just fine, says Allie. She was even at the sleepover where the video that would soon make national headlines was allegedly filmed.
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