A typical practice:
“Handstand forward rolls,” I say. In this skill, a gymnast kicks one leg, arms raised above her head. Keeping her body in a straight line, she steps forward and places her hands on the floor, feet rising behind her and meeting over her head in a handstand. She holds the handstand for a moment—arms and legs straight, stomach sucked in, toes pointed—before tipping forward onto her rounded back and rolling up to stand.
Kelsey and Natalie nod and step forward. Brittany sits on the side, icing an ankle. Tia and Kathryn fix their hair in the mirror that runs along the wall next to the floor. Jamie makes faces at them. I can’t see Maya, most likely because she’s crawling under a mat. “Handstand forward roll!” I say more loudly.
Nothing.
“Jamie, Tia, and Kathryn!”
They stumble to attention. Tia mimes zipping her lips from singing along with Kanye on the radio. Jamie puts her arms up, steps forward, then stops. “What are we doing?”
“Handstand forward roll. For the third time.”
“Wait, what?” For the first time, I see Kasey standing all the way in the back.
“Handstand—Maya, get out of the there!”
Maya rolls out from under a mat. “Sorry!” she says. “What are we doing?”
“Handstand forward roll!” Brittany says from behind me. “She said it like a hundred times!”
“Sorry,” Maya says. She isn’t.
“Thank you, Brittany,” I say.
--
Both then and now, I look to see who burns the way I did. The way I still do. The good teams burn. Girls, coaches, parents. Maybe too much, the parents; at some meets, the parents burst into raucous shouts and clapping akin to college football games. Some of my old coaches and friends coach at those gyms now.
Kelsey burns, so much so that she cries “I can’t do it!” as tears run down. Same as Brittany, who at ten already has growth plate troubles and weak ankles. Natalie burns, but in a positive way; she is always either smiling or taking her turn. I’m not sure about Jamie. She’s talented but her drive comes and goes. Maya knows she's the best in the gym. That seems to be enough for her. Tia, who at 4’4” has difficulty generating any kind of power despite how fast she runs, has become tenacious lately. She wants it. Kathryn and Kasey? I’m not sure. I see it sometimes. Other times I can’t see anything.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Stratego
1. More time in the gym.
At this point, the ladies practiced two days a week, three hours a pop. We added two extra days, in which the girls/parents could choose a third day to come.
2. Changing of the guard...again.
On Mondays and Wednesdays, the ship was full: John, Greg, and me. On Tuesdays and Fridays, the extra days, the two guys were already coaching classes. So it was me, flying solo, with whatever girls showed up. Somedays, just one. Amy, a Level 4, and I spent at least two practices together where no one else showed up. Other days, eleven would appear. And always, on the busiest days, Maya showed up.
Maya's small but powerful at age 11. As a Level 6, she already has a full--a back flip with a full twist--on floor and back handspring on high beam (when she's not *too scared,* that is). She's also got an attitude that matches her potential: big and unavoidable.
You never know what kind of day it will be when she enters the gym. Some days, she's focused. She wants to do gymnastics. She listens. But for the most part, she walks in late. Her hair is down, she still needs to change into her leotard, she's already complaining. She does cheerleading, softball, lacrosse, basketball, theater, trumpet, and she excels at them all. At the gym, she lies on the floor. She whines. She talks when you're talking. She has an energy, regardless of her mood, that makes the other girls restless, too. They talk more, they do less when she's there. Neither threats nor compliments nor ignoring prompt any reaction. Except for one: "Maya, you want me to tell your mom?"
She stands up and gets moving. For the moment.
One Friday, so many arrived that I had them on bars, beam, and vault at once. The energy/goofiness level was high. So I made an executive decision: "If you girls do a good job, we'll run in the sandpit."
The sandpit is a small, minorly grassy patch of sand on the side of the parking lot. It is neither elaborate nor exciting. Unless you're ten. Then it is awesome.
"YEAHHHHHH!!!!" they cheered.
And thus they did a good job. And thus we ran in the sandpit together as the sun went down.
3. YouTube, YouTube, and more YouTube.
Even when the girls weren't falling, they did not look, well, good. They slouched. Their knees bent. They appeared indifferent to exhausted on floor.
When in doubt, I turned to YouTube.
It was there I realized that the girls were in fact all doing incorrect variations on the Level 5 routine. It was likely that Meredith had taught them the proper routines and, in the changing of the guard, they'd forgotten. At subsequent meets, I looked at the good teams. The girls with arms tight, razor-sharp toe points, perfectly measured movements. Sure, all gyms had girls who, when nervous, left out key parts of the routine. There were minor differences across the teams in small poses and arm positions. But the good girls scored so high that surely they were correct. So I retaught, taught myself to confirm, retaught, retaught again.
4. Strength and flexibility, in moderation.
The girls needed muscles, and they needed them badly. And splits, and leaps that achieved a full split, and split jumps that also achieved a split...
Except we already had the next meet impending, and a gym full of five-and-six-year-old rec class kids, and team gymnasts coming late or leaving early.
So all of us coaches did whatever we could. Perhaps it was conditioning (a.k.a. strength, not what one does with one's hair) at the beginning or end of bars. Always, at the end of practice. Sometimes we'd join in as extra motivation. We did everyone's favorite stretching exercise: a split with one foot elevated on a mat (an oversplit). Greg and I led the stretches instead of letting the girls lead. We corrected their stretches, their toe point, their push-ups.
It wasn't enough. But it was a start.
At this point, the ladies practiced two days a week, three hours a pop. We added two extra days, in which the girls/parents could choose a third day to come.
2. Changing of the guard...again.
On Mondays and Wednesdays, the ship was full: John, Greg, and me. On Tuesdays and Fridays, the extra days, the two guys were already coaching classes. So it was me, flying solo, with whatever girls showed up. Somedays, just one. Amy, a Level 4, and I spent at least two practices together where no one else showed up. Other days, eleven would appear. And always, on the busiest days, Maya showed up.
Maya's small but powerful at age 11. As a Level 6, she already has a full--a back flip with a full twist--on floor and back handspring on high beam (when she's not *too scared,* that is). She's also got an attitude that matches her potential: big and unavoidable.
You never know what kind of day it will be when she enters the gym. Some days, she's focused. She wants to do gymnastics. She listens. But for the most part, she walks in late. Her hair is down, she still needs to change into her leotard, she's already complaining. She does cheerleading, softball, lacrosse, basketball, theater, trumpet, and she excels at them all. At the gym, she lies on the floor. She whines. She talks when you're talking. She has an energy, regardless of her mood, that makes the other girls restless, too. They talk more, they do less when she's there. Neither threats nor compliments nor ignoring prompt any reaction. Except for one: "Maya, you want me to tell your mom?"
She stands up and gets moving. For the moment.
One Friday, so many arrived that I had them on bars, beam, and vault at once. The energy/goofiness level was high. So I made an executive decision: "If you girls do a good job, we'll run in the sandpit."
The sandpit is a small, minorly grassy patch of sand on the side of the parking lot. It is neither elaborate nor exciting. Unless you're ten. Then it is awesome.
"YEAHHHHHH!!!!" they cheered.
And thus they did a good job. And thus we ran in the sandpit together as the sun went down.
3. YouTube, YouTube, and more YouTube.
Even when the girls weren't falling, they did not look, well, good. They slouched. Their knees bent. They appeared indifferent to exhausted on floor.
When in doubt, I turned to YouTube.
It was there I realized that the girls were in fact all doing incorrect variations on the Level 5 routine. It was likely that Meredith had taught them the proper routines and, in the changing of the guard, they'd forgotten. At subsequent meets, I looked at the good teams. The girls with arms tight, razor-sharp toe points, perfectly measured movements. Sure, all gyms had girls who, when nervous, left out key parts of the routine. There were minor differences across the teams in small poses and arm positions. But the good girls scored so high that surely they were correct. So I retaught, taught myself to confirm, retaught, retaught again.
4. Strength and flexibility, in moderation.
The girls needed muscles, and they needed them badly. And splits, and leaps that achieved a full split, and split jumps that also achieved a split...
Except we already had the next meet impending, and a gym full of five-and-six-year-old rec class kids, and team gymnasts coming late or leaving early.
So all of us coaches did whatever we could. Perhaps it was conditioning (a.k.a. strength, not what one does with one's hair) at the beginning or end of bars. Always, at the end of practice. Sometimes we'd join in as extra motivation. We did everyone's favorite stretching exercise: a split with one foot elevated on a mat (an oversplit). Greg and I led the stretches instead of letting the girls lead. We corrected their stretches, their toe point, their push-ups.
It wasn't enough. But it was a start.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Pre-flight
I remember that first meet well. I stood with my arms crossed, wearing the white cheerleading sneakers that I'd put baking soda in the night before so they wouldn't smell. My hair fell messily over my shoulders. If I left it down, I figured, I wouldn't be confused for one of the gymnasts. I am neither tall nor look anywhere near my age. Maybe I'd even, I don't know, look official or something.
The gym I'd trained at for the majority of my career was there. My old coach and I hugged it out and she complimented me on how cute my gymnasts looked. I then proceeded to screw up the order of the beam warm-up for the girls. Good job, rookie coach!
What was going to happen today?
I'd like to believe that I'm a healthy mix of realist and optimist. Thus I hoped for the best. Clean vaults would mean mid-to-high 8.0's (say, 8.5, 8.7...) for the stronger vaulters and perhaps 7.0's for the weaker vaulters (re: those who could barely make it over the table). Beam: 8.0's, perhaps a 9.0 for Brittany with her dancer's poise. Floor: the same. Bars, well...I cringed inside. Who knew what would happen on bars?
Well, they all fell off beam besides Maya, our Level 6, who managed to forget her full turn and thus lost points for leaving it out. Kathryn went so far as to fall onto the beam post-cartwheel, splitting the beam and bouncing off in epic fashion. Tears ensued. But she finished the routine, wiping at her eyes with her elbow as she kicked into her dismount. Jamie, the youngest of the Level 5's at age 9 and quite possibly the most talented, forgot her floor routine at one point--the embarrassed grin and wide, alarmed eyes said it all. Tia, the shortest Level 5 at 4'4", swallowed a 5.0 on vault. Maya pulled out a 9.0. And bars, well, I think perhaps Natalie broke a 6.0. The rest occupied the 4.0-5.0 range. Nat also managed to win beam, even with a fall.
"I think they did pretty good!" my boss texted me after.
A generous assessment. Very generous.
We needed a plan.
The gym I'd trained at for the majority of my career was there. My old coach and I hugged it out and she complimented me on how cute my gymnasts looked. I then proceeded to screw up the order of the beam warm-up for the girls. Good job, rookie coach!
What was going to happen today?
I'd like to believe that I'm a healthy mix of realist and optimist. Thus I hoped for the best. Clean vaults would mean mid-to-high 8.0's (say, 8.5, 8.7...) for the stronger vaulters and perhaps 7.0's for the weaker vaulters (re: those who could barely make it over the table). Beam: 8.0's, perhaps a 9.0 for Brittany with her dancer's poise. Floor: the same. Bars, well...I cringed inside. Who knew what would happen on bars?
Well, they all fell off beam besides Maya, our Level 6, who managed to forget her full turn and thus lost points for leaving it out. Kathryn went so far as to fall onto the beam post-cartwheel, splitting the beam and bouncing off in epic fashion. Tears ensued. But she finished the routine, wiping at her eyes with her elbow as she kicked into her dismount. Jamie, the youngest of the Level 5's at age 9 and quite possibly the most talented, forgot her floor routine at one point--the embarrassed grin and wide, alarmed eyes said it all. Tia, the shortest Level 5 at 4'4", swallowed a 5.0 on vault. Maya pulled out a 9.0. And bars, well, I think perhaps Natalie broke a 6.0. The rest occupied the 4.0-5.0 range. Nat also managed to win beam, even with a fall.
"I think they did pretty good!" my boss texted me after.
A generous assessment. Very generous.
We needed a plan.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Half-in half-out
Sure, I knew all about the USAG system. But there was much more to learn.
Our gym is small and new -- six years running now. It's more or less two rooms. On one side, the floor and assorted mats. The other side crams the tumble track, uneven bars, parallel bars, pommel horse, trampoline, foam pit, small tumbling strip, balance beams, and the vault table. The runway can't be longer than fifty feet, maybe sixty. When I started, the gym had just moved from its previous location, which had been half the size.
In 2008-2009 (I like to think in academic calendars), the team was in its second year. The new Level 5's had just finished a successful Level 4 season. There was one Level 6, and a small group of Level 4's.
They eyed me with interest when I first walked in the gym. "Hi!" several of them called loudly, waving at me. None looked much older than ten, and some were downright tiny.
I coached them occasionally at first but spent more time working with the rec classes. They already had a coach, Meredith, but she was on her way out. Sometimes she just wouldn't show up, so I'd take over and join in with John and Greg, who coached team when they too weren't coaching classes. By December, Meredith was gone completely. Now it was my turn.
Greg primarily worked with the Level 4's. So it was John and me with eight very excitable, very loud Level 5's and 6's who had the first meet of the season coming up. They knew their routines...sort of. They had their front handsprings on vault*...sort of. Oh, and a whole two of them could do a kip on bars. Sometimes.
And thus the season began.
*Unless otherwise stated, these videos are not of my gymnasts, as I can only imagine one of their parents stumbling across this blog and crying out, "Why is my child's likeness posted on the Internet?" For now, I use clips posted on YouTube by proud parents of other athletes.
Our gym is small and new -- six years running now. It's more or less two rooms. On one side, the floor and assorted mats. The other side crams the tumble track, uneven bars, parallel bars, pommel horse, trampoline, foam pit, small tumbling strip, balance beams, and the vault table. The runway can't be longer than fifty feet, maybe sixty. When I started, the gym had just moved from its previous location, which had been half the size.
In 2008-2009 (I like to think in academic calendars), the team was in its second year. The new Level 5's had just finished a successful Level 4 season. There was one Level 6, and a small group of Level 4's.
They eyed me with interest when I first walked in the gym. "Hi!" several of them called loudly, waving at me. None looked much older than ten, and some were downright tiny.
I coached them occasionally at first but spent more time working with the rec classes. They already had a coach, Meredith, but she was on her way out. Sometimes she just wouldn't show up, so I'd take over and join in with John and Greg, who coached team when they too weren't coaching classes. By December, Meredith was gone completely. Now it was my turn.
Greg primarily worked with the Level 4's. So it was John and me with eight very excitable, very loud Level 5's and 6's who had the first meet of the season coming up. They knew their routines...sort of. They had their front handsprings on vault*...sort of. Oh, and a whole two of them could do a kip on bars. Sometimes.
And thus the season began.
*Unless otherwise stated, these videos are not of my gymnasts, as I can only imagine one of their parents stumbling across this blog and crying out, "Why is my child's likeness posted on the Internet?" For now, I use clips posted on YouTube by proud parents of other athletes.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
"Hold up. What IS Level 4? Is it like World of Warcraft?"
Nay, Virginia, it's a whole different world.
The USA Gymnastics Women's Junior Olympic system ranges from Level 1 to Level 10, followed by Elite.
In recent years, an alternative competitive system has been implemented - USAIGC (Independent Gymnastics Clubs). That will be the subject of a future post!
"Wait one second. I turn on the T.V. and see girls scoring 16's. What happened to the 10.0?"
The 10.0 is still used for the levels below Elite. 10.0 = PERFECTION! While 10.0's are handed out like candy at NCAA gymnastics competitions, they're much, much rarer in other competitions.
Elite now uses an open-ended scoring system, in which a.) the execution score (out of a maximum 10.0) and b.) the difficulty score (unlimited) are added together.
Congratulations! You now know more than the average parent bringing his/her child to gymnastics!
The USA Gymnastics Women's Junior Olympic system ranges from Level 1 to Level 10, followed by Elite.
- Levels 1-6 are compulsory; USAG choreographs the routines, and they are performed identically throughout the country. For example, a Level 5 in Arizona does the same floor routine with the same music as a Level 5 in Vermont. As you can imagine, these competitions are quite riveting.
- Levels 7-Elite are optional. As long as a gymnast meets specific requirements in her routines, she's free to choreograph and use skills as she wishes.
- Some states allow gymnasts to begin competing at Level 3. At many gyms, gymnasts begin competing at Level 4 or 5.
- Gymnasts cannot skip levels. They must compete in at least one meet per level and attain the minimum mobility score (these vary by state) to move to the next level.
- Levels 5 through 7 have a state championship. Entry to these competitions is based on achieving a minimum all-around score. Level 8's can qualify to the regional championship from states, Level 9's and 10's can qualify to national competitions, and Elites, well, they can take on the world. These are the girls you see on T.V.
In recent years, an alternative competitive system has been implemented - USAIGC (Independent Gymnastics Clubs). That will be the subject of a future post!
"Wait one second. I turn on the T.V. and see girls scoring 16's. What happened to the 10.0?"
The 10.0 is still used for the levels below Elite. 10.0 = PERFECTION! While 10.0's are handed out like candy at NCAA gymnastics competitions, they're much, much rarer in other competitions.
Elite now uses an open-ended scoring system, in which a.) the execution score (out of a maximum 10.0) and b.) the difficulty score (unlimited) are added together.
Congratulations! You now know more than the average parent bringing his/her child to gymnastics!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
It was all perfectly logical;
After all, I'd competed Level 9 in USAG. Participated in Division III and NAIGC gymnastics in college. Coached recreational gymnastics throughout--chased little kids around the gym, dealt with tears and "my head's broken" and pee on the mats. The whole gamut, really. Everything you could ever wish for.
When I began grad school, I found a nearby gym seeking a coach for Levels 4 through 6. Perfect. I've got this in the bag.
Or so I thought.
When I began grad school, I found a nearby gym seeking a coach for Levels 4 through 6. Perfect. I've got this in the bag.
Or so I thought.
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