Westminster's Swing Flash Mob Was Ready. The Loudspeaker Wasn't.

I have a full-time job and practice nothing in the afternoons. I am the amateur national champion of the couch.

The course ended with a flash mob in Malone, the dining hall. The plan, which the students called themselves the WaltzCats to carry out, was elegant: at lunch, as Walk the Moon's "Shut Up and Dance" played over the loudspeaker, they would subtly stand up in pairs and begin to swing dance.

The loudspeaker had initial technical difficulties. The music didn't start on time, leaving the eight of them unsure whether they could pull it off.

A flash mob without music is eight teenagers sitting very still in a cafeteria, knowing something.

They were all nervous already, one dancer told the paper, and "the added suspense of not knowing when the music would start" made it worse. Then the loudspeaker came to life, and two by two they got up and swung. "It was a bit awkward with all the chairs and people," he said, but he was glad they did it. Another dancer called it her favorite assignment of the month.

I attempted a flash mob once, at my cousin's wedding in 2004, with three other groomsmen and one rehearsal. Nobody had told the DJ. We stood up in the middle of the salad course, in formation, to absolute silence. My aunt asked if we were leaving. We said yes, and left, and danced in the parking lot, where nobody could see.

The Westminster students did not leave. They sat in Malone with the secret, between the chairs and the lunch trays, and waited for the speaker, and when it worked they danced anyway, awkwardly, among people eating. That is braver than anything I did at the wedding.

The youngest has asked me to teach her to swing dance. I said I would, as soon as I could find the music. She found it on my phone in four seconds, and pressed play, and we are still waiting for me to stand up.