Sport Spotlight: Ballet

By George Liley and Freddie Nathan

Our immediate feeling once our gleeful editor told us we would be attending ballet for this article was trepidation. Our preconceptions of males and ballet were bothering us. Self-consciousness was the order of the day. The regulars’ looks as we walked into the dance hall were ones of suspicion and inquisitiveness in equal measure.

FN: We started without George, whose lateness was annoying; another confused and nervous co-editor would have made things considerably easier for me and our awkward-looking photographer. The class began with a warm-up of jogging, side-steps and stretches – focused mainly on the thighs, calves, knees and feet. The instructor told us to run on the balls of our feet. Horribly unnatural. Suitably warm (in a freezing dance hall), we ambled to the side where a wooden bar became our friend for the next 25 minutes.

GL: After making my excuses to the letting agency of how I desperately needed to attend a ballet class at the University, my own warm up was a full-on sprint from the city centre to the dance studio, pulling on various garments along the way. It was like a scene from Billy Elliot, but I felt more like Billy Bunter when I turned up red faced and half limping from the muscle I had pulled on the way. After being asked whether I was staying for the advanced session afterwards, I laughed, hoping the comment was a passing joke.

I then spotted my graceful co-editor, who was sending the S.O.S signals from a bar on the far side of the room whilst attempting to limber up with the rest of the class. I headed over, attempting to catch up with the others. With one arm on the bar and left foot turned outwards, I proceeded to expertly point my right foot forwards, backwards and to the side, in time to the music, whilst theatrically gesturing with my arms in the same way everyone else was. I was holding out surprisingly well, demonstrating grace, poise and flexibility.

FN: Yet Mr Liley was clearly misguided in his self-appraisal. Initially, we received pitying looks from the instructor who clearly thought we were very weird men. Then, when she realised we were actually trying our best, stern professionalism shone through as she decided to improve us. After yanking my limbs into position, my leg somehow was raised to new heights, toes down, head still and abdominals sucked in, of course. But soon the pain was too much, and she let go. George, however, tried to impress all and sundry with his flexibility. Bad move. Safe to say, the squeal could’ve been heard from 22 Acres. From the bar, we moved into the centre and started ‘walks’ and ‘gallops’.

GL: Confused by endless French terminology, we prepared to embrace the only two moves that made sense. The walk itself was more challenging than we first thought, as it involved turning the leading foot outwards, at the same time trying to make it fairly graceful. We could see ourselves in the mirror, and my ‘walk’ just resembled that of an arrogant flamingo. The gallops were no better, and turned out painful for both of us. As we cantered towards the different corners of the room, Freddie, the sap, began to complain about his foot. This whole ballet malarkey was turning out more difficult than we first envisaged.

FN: Yep, my left foot was causing me much grief, as was my back, my groin, my legs, the works. So it was perhaps ironically fitting that the next move we attempted was jumping in the air and landing on the tips of our feet. I can only assume this improves the springiness of the discerning ballet dancer. Absolute torture. This first jump served only as a warm up to without a doubt the most difficult move of the session, a jump from the right foot to the left, in what we can only describe as like how a frog jumps, complete with a poised. elegant finish. This was one step too far for this deputy editor, who, for the first time looked at the clock and wished for it to say that 6 o’clock had arrived. Yet this was actually a testament to the class, that as apprehensive as I was beforehand to take part, the hour went remarkably quickly. Indeed, my esteemed colleague wanted to stay for the advanced class which started at 6 and disclosed his excitement for next week. Hmm.

GL: By the end of the session I was buzzing for ballet. I was very tempted to take on the advanced classes, away from the glare of the Vision camera (that’s cheating – Ed.), but I chose to gallop home instead, while Freddie was licking his wounds. I was blown away with discipline involved, as the rest of the class exhibited perfect professionalism throughout, holding complicated positions whilst Freddie and I were busy making fools of ourselves. Balance is of course crucial, and I can see why sportspeople undertake this discipline to improve posture and fitness. On one occasion the class could only watch in confusion as I mindlessly galloped away from our two lines, as if entranced by the music, towards the mirror and almost into our instructor at the front.

FN: Yes, I was in pain (and for days, too), but that does not mean I do not appreciate the merits of ballet. I can see why people enjoy it, due to the combination of a workout and the performance element, if someone chooses to pursue such a career. While I personally would prefer to be out on the football pitch, my fervent discrimination towards ballet beforehand has definitely now been tempered.

GL: Ballet was certainly a real eye-opener, and something which I thoroughly enjoyed being a part of. I would advise anyone at all to attend ballet classes on Monday, with basic session at 5 and advanced classes at 6 in the dance hall. Admittedly my ballet skills are hardly Black Swan material, but I would really urge others to take to the floor and give it a go too.