was the end of last week at Claude-Robillard Centre. Yellow buses and vans parenting poured streams of young girls for a championship cheerleading. They have six, ten, sixteen, and they make pyramids and steppettes in the hope of winning teams ... guys. I admit that the vision of all these girls, Crimea, Masked, poupounées, bows in their hair, mini-skirts flush thighs, troubled me. Even large, lying on the floor to be coated eyelids of a thick mixture of paint and glitter with a friend, which she wore on her cheeks stars, clovers and little paws of cats doing the same shiny material.
One day in the editorial, I wrote an editorial opposition to the sport. I received tons of email: you do not know what you mean, it's a real sport, as difficult as gymnastics. I wanted to see them in action. He had to buy a ticket. No. I refused.
And I returned the other side of the pool, where my boys, and dozens of other boys and girls, running around the corridors in front crawl, back and butterfly.
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