BUILT DIFFERENT -- The Detour
Before Gavin Goodrich believed in himself, someone else already did.
His dad never asked.
On the drive to visit the University of Arkansas, he glanced over and said almost casually, “Hold on. We’re going to make a detour real quick.”
Gavin was still half asleep when they pulled into the front of Razorback Stadium. As he sat up in his seat, he looked across the parking lot and saw the entire Arkansas cheer team gathering outside, climbing onto an 18-wheeler that would carry the Razorback mascot through town before kickoff.
“I remember thinking, ‘You’re going to make me talk to these people.’“
Before his dad had even parked, Gavin was already sliding lower into his seat.
His dad climbed out, walked toward the team, turned back and said, “Get out.”
“I was thinking, ‘Well... I guess we’re doing this.’”
While his dad introduced himself to everyone, a few of the athletes wandered over and struck up a conversation with Gavin. Slowly, the awkwardness faded. By the time they pulled away from the stadium, he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“I remember telling my dad, ‘I can’t believe you just made me do that.’”
Years later, that detour still feels like the first page of the story.
None of this was supposed to happen.
Growing up outside Dallas, Gavin played other sports. College always felt like the next step, but competitive cheer wasn’t something he had seriously considered. His father, a former North Texas cheerleader, saw something different. He understood what the sport could become for someone willing to step into it.
Gavin didn’t.
Not yet.
Back home, he walked into a gym for the first time and started stunting.
“I fell in love with it immediately.”
Progress came quietly.
At Arkansas, it looked like another rep. Another stunt. Another small improvement that didn’t feel particularly important at the time. Nothing about those early years suggested where the sport would eventually take him.
Oklahoma State asked more of him. During the summers, he’d return to Dallas and stunt with athletes like Maddie Hayes, pushing skills that challenged him in entirely new ways. Back in Stillwater, he began hitting those same stunts with different partners, understanding not just how to do them but why they worked.
“I don’t think there was one moment where I thought, ‘Oh, I’m really good at this,’” he says. “I just started realizing I could hit harder stunts with a lot of different people. I wasn’t just getting lucky anymore.”
For the first time, one thought lingered.
I might actually be kind of good at this.
Months later, another opportunity arrived.
He was skiing with his dad in Steamboat Springs, Colorado when his phone rang.
It was Maddie Hayes.
Drive needed a stunt partner after another athlete became unavailable. When she thought about who could step in, Gavin was the first person she called.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It just made me feel good that I was the person she thought of.”
It wasn’t just the opportunity that mattered. It was knowing someone he respected had thought of him first. There was one problem.
He still had to convince Oklahoma State head coach Lindsay “Salli” Vallaster to let him compete.
“I remember calling Salli and saying, ‘Please... please let me do this. This would be so cool to be part of the first season.’”
Permission came.
A few weeks later, just after New Year’s, Gavin walked into his first Dallas Drive practice.
For the first time, he could see a future beyond college cheer.
“I think it’s such a cool opportunity,” he says. “Hopefully one day people can actually do this full time.”
Until then, elite athletes graduated into coaching, clinics, or judging. The Pro Cheer League offered something different—a place to keep building.
During Team USA’s trip to Sweden, each athlete received commemorative pins featuring both the American and Swedish flags. On his father’s birthday, Gavin handed him one.
“I wanted him to know how much he changed my life,” he says. “I wanted him to know how thankful I was for putting me in those uncomfortable situations.”
Before all of it was his dad – willing to pull into a parking lot and ask his son to do something uncomfortable.
Yesterday, Gavin walked into another tryout.
Season Two.
Nothing guaranteed.
Returning athletes still have to earn their place, and he admits the nerves haven’t disappeared.
“I’m really praying my name’s on that list.”
Today, he hopes to become that person for someone else.
The teammate willing to make the phone call.
The person who sees potential before someone else does.
The leader who isn’t afraid to create a little discomfort if it means opening a bigger door.
Because sometimes that’s how entirely new lives begin.
Not with a championship.
Not with a medal.
Just a simple detour.
