The following is part one of a two-part series involving Rob's weeklong experience with joining the Marquette Dance Team, Intensity, during which he performs along with other assorted males in the guy/girl dance at the men's basketball game Sunday.

Regardless of whether or not the men's basketball team makes the Big Dance, one thing is for certain: I'll be participating in one of my own Sunday.

When I got the opportunity to join Intensity, I jumped at the chance.

After all, I had prepared by watching "Dirty Dancing," and I sure as hell wasn't going to let anybody put Baby (or me) in the corner. I had listened to "Dancing Queen" over and over, until ABBA's moving ode to dance resonated endlessly in my eardrums. I had confidence. I had control. I thought I had charisma. In other words, I was an idiot.

Once practice commenced, my world became a blur. First, we were supposed to snap a couple times. "OK," I thought. I had mastered that awhile ago.

Next, we had to do something with our imaginary hats. Easy. Imaginary items are easy to manipulate. More finger-snapping. So far, so good.

Next came body movements. This is where I started to run into a little trouble. We were supposed to gyrate in a fashion called a "body roll." The only body rolls I had been familiar with until this point were the parts of my stomach that hang over my belt line.

Subsequent moves included something called the "Snoop Dogg" (surprisingly, no rolling involved) and a bunch of other leg movements with names that have evaporated from my memory — much like my confidence had at that point.

Apparently, I was desperately in need of something called rhythm.

I knew I shouldn't have practiced "getting down" to my old Hootie & the Blowfish records in the weeks prior, but it was much too late now.

My dancing could best be described of that of a hamster in one of those plastic balls: cascading on a collision course toward imminent destruction, plowing over anything and everything fateful enough to find itself in my path.

"You need more enthusiasm," someone says. It's like being told to smile at a funeral.

Things get a little bet better when the girls get involved.

My accommodating and gracious partner offers me encouragement with a tone of either hope, despair or disgust; perhaps a combination of all three.

The girls lead us and push us around (this sounds familiar) and before I know it, the whole dance is finished.

I'll report back from the front lines next week. Well, actually I'm in the third row, but we move around.

This article appeared in The Marquette Tribune on Feb. 17 2005.