For five years West Point has enjoyed the zany exploits of its head cheerleader, Lt. Gen. Daniel W. Christman.

The superintendent.

The "supe."

But, as of today, there is no more supe for him.

Those of you out there in the vast readership of this publication who happen to attend Army sporting events know quite well that over the past five years, if there was an Army athletic event going on somewhere, odds were that the supe was there.

Since I moved up to the big leagues here at West Point from the minors of Fort Devens, Mass., back in June 1996, I quickly came to realize that the supe was into his Army sports.

I have photographed my share of sporting events here since then and occasionally even venture offpost to do the same. If he could get way, he was there.

Covering Division I college sports, I thought as a young, newly arrived corporal, was cool.

I had it made, at least until I came back from an Army football game during the dream season of 1996 and found out that nobody cared about the great shot I got of Army quarterback Ronnie McAda diving into the end zone for a touchdown. No, all anybody wanted to know was "Did you get a shot of the supe doing the Macarena?"

The man changed the way Army football was covered, at least photographically.

No more could we innocently rove the sidelines in search of the perfect action shot. Army photographers became clockwatchers. We had to make sure that near the end of the third quarter we were near the Army spirit section when the supe led the cheers and was capable of doing almost anything to raise the spirit of the Corps of Cadets.

The action of the field became secondary, at least temporarily.

Many a time the supe would be leading cheers while sneaking a look over his shoulder at what was transpiring behind him on the field.

Even the events leading up to the games were different.

Football luncheons just weren’t the same if the supe didn’t ride in on the back of a motorcycle with Rangers crashing through the windows.

His Army-Navy bonfire antics are legendary.

I still think I have some hearing loss from being too close to the tank at last year’s "Patton" impersonation.

He even starred in an Army-Navy spirit tape that brought the house down at the 2000 cadet spirit dinner.

I have shots of him doing the aforementioned Macarena, the M.I.B. dance, as Harley man, as Elvis. I’ve forgotten just how many crazy getups I have shot him in.

I was standing next to him in November 1996 at Syracuse, N.Y., when the Army sideline was showered with foodstuffs. As a soldier in uniform next to him that day, I was embarrassed to be from Syracuse.

He has ventured to women’s flag football games at Annapolis, Md., to cheer on his charges in the wind-swept bitter cold.

He even showed up to a noontime intramural basketball game to see one of his cooks hoop it up.

Baseball, softball, hockey, basketball, soccer, rugby. Those are only the sports I can remember seeing him at over the years.

But my most infamous memory will always be the day I got to do the "chest bump" with him.

You know, where he squares off with his partner like a white-haired sumo wrestler and charges at you to meet in mid-air chest to chest.

The problem was I made a social faux pas of the largest order by calling it a "belly bump." How was I to know? I choked under the pressure and surprise of being included in such an august ritual.

I still haven’t lived that one down with my officemates.

But the biggest thing I will miss will be having to be ready to instantly answer how I think any in-season Cleveland sports team is doing.

As in, "Jimmy, how about those Indians?"

The supe is one of only two people in my life who I have allowed to call me "Jimmy."

My dad was somewhat surprised to hear that I put up with it.