Jesse White Tumblers keep rolling forward after 65 years of shows locally, globally

The older man in the fire-engine red shirt and pressed white pants shuffled over to the gym mats and began growling commands.

“No, no, no! Don’t reach back — reach forward,” he told a 10-year-old girl with ropy braids.

Then came the next child.

“Don’t fall over like spaghetti,” he said, reaching out a hand to guide her into a forward roll.

There was no “I don’t want to do it that way,” no sulking, no words at all — and certainly no one daring to call the 90-year-old man “Jesse.” It’s always “Mr. White,” or “Yes, sir.”

It’s a reverence that has accompanied the now-retired Illinois secretary of state since at least 1959, when he assembled his first group of kids for a gym show in the field house at the Rockwell Gardens housing project on the Near West Side. At the time, White was an elementary school gym teacher and had yet to enter politics.

White doesn't do modesty. Almost every inch of wall and desk space in his office at the Jesse White Community Center and Field House, 412 W. Chicago Ave., is covered with either a commemorative plaque, a glittering award or a celebratory photograph. And he's more than happy to have a visitor thumb through two thick scrapbooks filled with photographs of more plaques and awards. And why should it be otherwise?

In 65 years, some 20,000 kids — mostly African American — have been through the Jesse White Tumblers program.

They’ve backflipped, somersaulted, twisted and soared through the air like Superman — at block parties; in NBA, NFL, MLB stadiums; during two presidential inaugurations, and at events in Israel, Croatia, Canada, China, Japan and beyond.

“Less than 20 have got themselves in trouble with the law as a result of being a part of this program because there’s no drinking, smoking, swearing, dropping out of school or practicing pharmacy without a license,” he said, sitting in his office. “They’ll say to you that they’d rather be in trouble with the police than with Mr. White.”

White still comes to the office most days, and at 90, he hasn’t entirely put his own tumbling days behind him. He’ll still do the occasional headstand, he said.

In an age when kids would seemingly rather while away their spare time in front of a smartphone or laptop screen, how does he explain the tumblers’ enduring appeal?

“They like the idea of performing before an audience. … They like to feel good about wearing a uniform because now they’re part of an organization that’s well-liked and highly respected,” White said.

For kids — many of whom may not have ever left Illinois — there’s the chance to see the world (children as young as 6 are accepted into the program).

Anthony Cavin has been with the organization for 33 years. He’s 54, 5-foot-6 (“and a half”) and muscular with gray in his beard. He’s a coach, but he still tumbles, even though he’s previously torn both Achilles tendons, had reconstructive surgery on his right wrist, and as a kid, was hit by a ricocheting bullet. Oh yes — he had a kidney transplant in 2002.

But he loves the tumbling organization, the feeling of belonging — both because of what it’s done for him and for what it can do for kids coming up.

“Even the ones who have an attitude problem, we still embrace them, (telling them), ‘There’s a better life that you can be living,’ ” Cavin said.

To really understand the appeal, you have to see the tumblers in action, like Trenton Davis, 26, who is a current tumbler and coach. On a recent Thursday evening, he was helping train a group of future tumblers. At one point, the other coaches had the trainees assemble themselves into a human pyramid. Davis hurtled across the gym toward the trainees, hit a mini trampoline, and flew some 15 feet into the air before doing a midair flip and then landing on his feet.

In one maneuver, a tumbler will launch him- or herself over a line of side-by-side fellow tumblers — a human chain — that might stretch to 15 or more people. The record, set in the mid-1980s, is actually 27.

You can perhaps see why the flyer is called "Superman."

"You run, you jump off the trampolette, you squeeze every muscle that you have in your body," said Emmanuel McGhee, 37, the tumblers' head coach. "As you jump, you extend your body in a flying position. Then you float over."

Ten-year-old Skylar Cadichon is dreaming of being Superwoman. She practices two hours a day, four days a week. One day, she said, she'd like to leap over a chain of 20.

“It feels like you’re floating on air," Skylar said.