Ho, ho, ho!

Two months and two days later, a blog post!

I've spent the end of this summer and the fall trying to mentally distance myself from gymnastics when I am outside of the gym. I'm still coaching. The kids are still cracking me up. I'm also now in the judging arena, which is a weird little universe with rules spoken and not.

So why the mental distance?

1.) I'm trying to imagine myself as a real person. When people ask what I do for a living, I intentionally place coaching as the second or third job on the list, not the first.

2.) I fear that by being too into the sport, I will both not be a real person, and will be disappointed.

Said disappointment would stem from the girls' competitive success (or lack thereof). You see, our kids are no longer the afterthoughts. I'm not saying they walk into the gym and the competition falls to their knees and begs for mercy, but they're good for several medals, some first places, and a team award.

Do I enjoy the success? Heck, yeah. Not in a creepy stage mom way (or so I hope). I'm proud of the kids. But I was proud of them even when they were little disasters forgetting the Level 5 floor routine.

A shift, however, at the beginning of this season. I felt myself less understanding of the cute blunders and the bent knees and the inevitable 7's on bars. One of the Silvers was at the end of a fantastic beam routine when she fell doing a silly, froofy turn. Even the judge looked upset that she fell.

"What did you do that for? We took that out!" I said as soon as she walked over. And thus she hid in a corner and cried as her 8.75 was raised.

I did not feel good about this.

Less of a tolerance for the all of the above makes me a better coach. I know that. But I just...I don't know. I just can't reconcile myself with the idea of being that person, the one who makes a kid cry because she made a mistake. The world didn't end. The wrath of God didn't rain down upon us as she fell from the beam.

So these months have been an effort in stepping back and saying, What is all of this really about? Still working on that answer. 

Keeping it cool

Too cool?

Yesterday, the kids had their first meet of the season. It was surprisingly disaster-free (everyone made it over the table, nobody melted down on beam) until bars, when young Larissa jumped to the high bar, peeled off, and landed on her neck.

Coach P., who had been standing next to the high bar, immediately dropped to the mat to assist her. There was the tense moment when we all watched: Is she okay? Will she get up?

She did get up, but she was in tears. Coach P. had her salute to the judges and then brought her to the side, where folks from the host gym arrived with ice.

What did I do? I set the board for Colleen. She stepped onto it, looking at Larissa with concern.

"Let's go, Colleen," I said.

Now I'm wondering if Larissa's mom thinks I was insensitive, or negligent, or something of the sort. But as soon as Coach P. went over to her, I knew that my role was to keep the kids calm and keep them moving.

When a kid goes down at the gym, I do the same thing. Keep the world turning. Do not yell, do not go running. I am not the one to play the first responder, although it has happened at times. But then, too, I maintain the same demeanor. Send a kid for an ice pack, sit with the injured girl while making sure the others are occupied, start telling jokes when it appears that she's okay, just scared.

But maybe too detached? Today makes me wonder.

That awkward moment

when a kid's parent friends you on Facebook.

What do you do?

So far, I've left the request hanging in the "yet-to-respond" pile. But another one hath arrived.

I don't want to reject. I know I can set it so that if I accept, they can't seem much of my wild and crazy (yep, so wild and crazy) life.

But then they can message me. And poke me. And send me requests for Farmville or whatever game's all the rage these days.

Once again: what's a sister to do?

Eureka!

I love that moment where you find a way to reach the unreachables.

Young Mariah embodies the phrase, "She wouldn't hurt a fly." Instead, she'd probably gaze at it and blink in wonder as it tried to suck her blood.

When you work with Mariah one-on-one, she's with you. She focuses as best she can. But when she's just one of the group, as everyone must inevitably be during practice, she moves about in a rather lost manner. The basic things you emphasized in one-on-one time -- pointed toes, straight legs, the finer stuff -- disappears entirely. You repeat yourself. She nods, then continues to bend her legs and drift along through her routines.

What was it that worked so well during the private lessons that was lost on her now, besides the extra attention?

Then I remembered.

"Mariah, I'm going to judge your routine," I said when she came over to the beam closest to me. "You have to get a 9.0."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no!"

But what happened? Toes pointed. Legs straightened. Turns completed and cartwheels stayed on the beam.

In a word: magic.

"I would do anything for love"

Meatloaf should have added, "Or for a brownie."

Over my few years here, I've witnessed many an incident of parent-gymnast bribery:

"If you get your kip, you'll get a cell phone."

"If you do your back walkover on high beam, you can have brownies."

"If you don't cry after your bar routine, we'll go to the mall."

Does it work? Kinda sort. Would they have accomplished the skills (or not crying) anyway? Probably, eventually.

I bring this up because Coach P. is concerned about the motivation of the Level 5s, who are a potential disaster waiting to happen. He's hit the conundrum that I've experienced many a time with the older girls: if you yell, they get sad, but don't work harder. If you're encouraging, they fool around. If you're somewhere in between, nothing happens.

It might be time to break out the baking sheet.

I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation

(But I'd like the kids to be looked upon well.)

There are the coaches who embrace the judges and ask about their children. The coaches who know every judge by name and have a history. The coaches who seem to eke out that extra advantage.

Then there's us.

I don't converse with judges more than necessary. Many of them remember me from my competitive days -- they'll call me by name -- but there's not much else to say. Whenever there's an inquiry, I send in one of the male coaches so they can work their manly magic. I get nervous. Maybe that's it.

Since we started an IGC program, there have been whispers. One person heard from this person that the judges have said, Those girls are much better now. Their scores and placements reflect this.

Still. You wouldn't watch a meet and think, What's up with those scores? Those girls are getting extra tenths because of their gym name. We're not at that point. (Yet?) And is it really that desirable for the kids to get inflated scores? I say nay. But, of course, it will happen inevitably, if not to us.

In addition, the judges don't approach me to say things like, "What great routines." My friends who work at the well-known gyms say they're experienced it: judges coming up to them after the rotation or after the meet, unsolicited. I suppose that's cool. I suppose it could happen one day.

But if our kids are getting the same -- or higher -- scores than the fabled gyms, I'll happily live without the pat on the back.

hey, blog, hey!

It's been a long hot summer. At least, I think it was hot. I was in the gym for much of it. (In the AC -- YEAH!)

To borrow from Santana's "Maria, Maria," the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. Which is to say that the girls who came to practice regularly (who were, for the most part, already our better girls) have continued to improve. And those who didn't show up for the entire summer, or one day a week, didn't exactly accomplish anything.

I was pleased by the discipline the kids displayed, especially our older kids. They were the first to complain about the summer schedule: "But we can't go to beach! What if our friends want to hang out?" (Rest assured that they had the majority of the hours in the day to hit up the beach.) But those who complained the most ended up having the best attendance, and with little 'tude in the gym to boot. It's the latter that's always the miracle.

As the season quickly approaches, the IGC girls look solid. You couldn't always say that. But now, it's true. They'll go out there and perform anywhere between great and serviceably, but the embarrassing times will be fewer.

The Level 4's have become Level 5. This does, in fact, have the potential to be scary. Front handsprings over the table look like slow, slow handstands falling to the floor. Bars are gross. Quite gross. The thing is that the kids don't seem to mind at all. But they will mind when they go to a competition and don't win any awards. The true motivation for our youth.

Whenever the new Level 4's perform a beam or floor routine, something that is beautiful and pristine in our world (a work of art, a statue) weeps. But I like this new batch because almost all of them catch on quickly. They're young and hyper and all demand my attention at once. I almost went hoarse trying to teach them the beam routine en masse. Yet there's some real ability buried beneath the flexed toes and splayed fingers.

The question is, do I have the patience and the skill to unearth it? I hope so, so long as I don't lose my voice.

Empathy pangs

Today, I'm sore.

Abs wince when I laugh or cough. Back tightens when I sit against the car seat. Shoulders tender from spotting children/saving a few lives.

Two emotions simultaneously:

1. I feel out of shape;
2. I like the hurt; I feel like I'm doing something good for myself.

By Wednesday, the gymnasts complain, "I'm sore." They still have two more days of conditioning and practice to push through.

"I couldn't walk down the stairs this morning," Jamie says dramatically (but her presence at practices proves that she found a way, apparently).

"My back is killing me."

"My legs are soooooooo tired."

And so on.

Sympathy says, "Aw, that's too bad." Empathy says, "I know exactly how you feel."

I think that as coaches, we need to maintain empathy as we push the athletes. We want them to become stronger, faster, more flexible, more capable of enduring floor routines and bar routines. But we also have to remember what it feels like.

The fatigue. The feeling of, "There's no way I can do one more." The "my legs might fall off of me when I walk down the stairs." The "let me check how many muscles hurt before I try to get out of bed."

We cannot become so far removed from our own experiences, so satisfied with our methods, that we forget.

Physiologically speaking

As I pranced around the gym this evening, my left foot rolled and I fell to the floor.

Then I rolled around, getting the sting out, moving quickly so nobody would see my face. I knew immediately: not so bad. My ankle wouldn't swell and if I gave it a moment or two, I'd be able to run around again.

I broke my foot about four years ago. Landed a Tsuk on my side and groaned. One of the doctors said he was impressed that I didn't break my ankle -- which would have made the recovery much longer.

Compare this to one of my friends. One morning practice back in the day, we were sashaying about the floor to warm up. She was smiling and laughing even though it was 8 am. In the next instant, she was on the floor crying. Rolled ankle. Out for two months. She could never stop spraining or breaking her ankles. At the beginning of practice, she laced up her braces the way basketball players prepare for the game.

Some of my gymnasts are this way, too. Amy rolls her ankle and it immediately swells purple and blue. Brittany spends about half of every practice icing.

It seems that despite preventative measures and conditioning, at the end of the day, it's all about how you were born. There's only so much you can do to change your natural construction.

Can you hear me?

I've spent my mornings teaching writing and the afternoons coaching, and I've come to observe a similar phenomenon.

Talk talk talk and the kids slump, stick their feet out, gaze at some point behind me. For the young writers, it's the window. For the gymnasts, it's the pit.

"What did I just say?" I say.

They repeat it verbatim without making eye contact.

Maybe it's a specific task. Or maybe it's one of those talks about hard work and diligence, about attitude. The kind of talks where the kids give you an attitude without saying a word or showing that they're paying attention.

Yet the next day, or the next event, or the next writing task, it's these kids who have snapped in. They ask, "Can I try one more time?" when you tell them to get a drink. They bust out a poem when you think they've fallen asleep.

It all sinks in.

The world's longest competition season

has finally concluded!

The kids already ask, "Do we get new routines?"

Is it wrong that I want to take the next month (or two, or three) and go backpack through South America?

Floor Music Friday, straight out of our Italian restaurant

And we're back, folks, with Floor Music Friday!

And there was much rejoicing.

Anywho: this week's pick for potential floor music goes out to the Piano Man.

There is the wistful, classic opening (1:02 - 1:43).

The playful and whimsical center (2:24 - 3:03 -- after 2:48, the vocals cut out).

This rocking part (4:29 - 4:52).

And the conclusion, grander and yet more wistful than before (5:55 - 6:27; 6:49 to the end).




Heck, I may try to cut this one myself.

The art of the chuck

For anyone out there who has done junior high or high school gymnastics, you know where I'm coming from.

How did I learn a front tuck off of beam? A mom who was a volunteer coach for our middle school team stood next to the beam one practice, and we all tried it. No drills. A nice, battered four-inch mat covering the gym floor served as our landing area.

But I can't just have my kids chuck it. Right?

Ankles. Knees. More ankles. Hyperextension. I can see it all.

A few of the Bronze kids competed roundoffs and front handsprings off of beam as their dismounts this season. I'd like to teach them a real (read: salto or aerial) dismount. However, two of them already have a history of ankle injuries and one has patellar tendonitis. So I will need to proceed with caution with the fragile ones.

Which leads me to an interesting juncture: coming up with progressions for a skill that I learned in one fell swoop. Breaking down something that I can do intuitively but now need to explain. Much like teaching grammar, though hopefully more fun.

The other life

In keeping with the discussion of "real coaches":

The main reason I write this blog is because I enjoy coaching: the stories, the subsequent struggles, and the victories (when they happen). Why do I coach? Because I enjoy it. And that comes from seeing the kids enjoy themselves.

I believe that kids can, and should, have fun in competitive sports. Sports serve as a beautiful metaphor for many aspects of life. But your daughter's Level 4 gymnastics meet is not the culmination of her (or your) life.

I love seeing my girls win. I'm proud, they're proud, parents are happy. It's good for business and morale. But I wouldn't look forward to work at the gym if the girls were robots who focused only on gymnastics. I'm glad that they have personalities and way too much to talk about. If I remain their coach, I'm confident that they won't walk away from gymnastics emotionally traumatized.

So what about me? What are my goals? Whatever I do in my real life, I'd like to continue coaching. I'd like to learn more and teach more difficult skills. But for me, as with the kids, I need the outside life. Other dreams. Other places.

Too good to not repost

From Adie:

"I overheard one team's coach reminding the girls that they get 20$ for every first place finish... Whaaaaaaa!?!"

?!

It's like kids who get major money when they lose a tooth. What happened to the thrill of one dollar under your pillow? What happened to the awesomeness of standing on first place with your gold medal? Since when does a coach need to bribe a kid to WIN?

Besides, is that even legal? Someone call the NCAA.

That "real coach" swagger

Having had the opportunity to be around coaches (and gymnasts, and the smell of hot dogs) for a very long weekend, I'd like to share some areas of dissent. I'd also like to share huge, gaping holes between bullet points, because otherwise they're all smushed together.

• Pot bellies who call the kettle black. You know what I mean. Large-bellied coaches who criticize their gymnasts for lack of core strength and/or fitness. Okay, Coach, you may have had a great career as a slim and trim athlete. But who are you to berate your girls when you clearly don't follow the same principles?

• Music choice...or lack thereof. Some of the teams we competed against were tremendous. As a result, all of the kids had the same floor routine. That's okay. But can they at least have different music, or several music pieces to choose from? There's a reason this isn't the compulsories.

• "Hail to the no" hair. Huge bows, feathers, fake flowers, ribbons that belong on birthday gifts. In moderation, cute (maybe). In excess, not so cute. Matching hairstyles seem to be a religion for some teams. As mentioned above, it can create a cute, unified look. But the team that dominated all of the levels, all weekend, did not have a mandated hairstyle. Which leads me to whisper loudly: "The judges don't care what your hair looks like as long as it's out of your face."

• Too cool for the kids. Gymnastics meets are long. There is much waiting around and doing a whole lot of nothing. I noticed that some coaches didn't sit anywhere near their kids for most of the competition, only approaching them when it was time to compete. Maybe this is to foster some kind of independence, I'm not sure, or to reinforce a barrier. Either way, I think it's a missed opportunity to get to know the kids better, as people and not just as gymnasts. And vice versa.

And we arrive at my personal favorite:

• Public humiliation. Greg and I are chilling there and two girls from another team are not a foot away, crying. It's a cramped space, and you know the "I hate my life" tears. They just can't be held back. Heck, my first year at Level 9, I cried at every meet, and I was 16. It was a really excellent season. Anyway, Coach of the Crying Girls approaches. He rips into the girls. Tells them that they fell off beam because they've been lazy for the past two months, and they're out of shape, and concludes it with, "I'm disappointed in you." Not only are Greg and I, total strangers to this team, sitting there, but so are the rest of the girls' teammates. Everyone hears it.

As a coach (and a person), I get frustrated. You get frustrated. He/she/we all get frustrated. But to say it simply, there's a time and a place.

Shady's back, tell a friend

Through endless sessions and the same music played over and over and over again -- I've made it through!

I am here to report that we have:

• 1 (one) state beam champion;
• 1 (one) state floor champion;
• zero falls on beam!!
• medals for all of the girls (beyond the "thanks for showing up" medal);
• very few broken dreams.

I was nervous in the early sessions because the scoring was tight. Few 9.0's on any event. Then the scores went up (or maybe the performances improved), but I stayed nervous, and maybe got even more nervous as the girls placed higher and higher in each session.

I just wanted to see one of them win.

Victory does not change these girls, though. They still come to practice the day after and complain when they have to do strength, and giggle during routines, and trip over themselves. I like them that way: successful but silly. Still being whoever they want to be.

"Where is your gym?" a coach from another team asked at the competition, and I told her, and she looked puzzled. She had not heard of us. But that's okay. We have put the word out.

Bubble wrap

is what we need to put the girls in between now and the competition.

(Evidently upcoming meets bring out the blogging fiend in me.)

Two girls hurt themselves in February. Freak things: one stumbled off the edge of a beam mat and the other landed awkwardly. The first is healed, but not going to States, as she was cleared last week to return to sports. The second is still on crutches and the doctors aren't clear on what she did to herself (good luck telling that one to Mom).

This week, a third child hurt her ankle by jumping from the low bar and missing the high bar. Another left practice early the other day because her forearm hurt (??).

There wasn't too much that could have prevented the first two injuries. (I wasn't there for the high bar mishap, but Colleen, age 8, solemnly swears that "I told Hollie she shouldn't jump to the high bar but she didn't listen.")

And the forearm, well, I have no idea what's going on with that. Normally I'd be more sympathetic. But she has a penchant for drama, and not wanting to do bars, so this seems pretty convenient. And if it is, in fact, a "convenient pain," she'd better suck it up. Her bar routine consists of six skills, the most difficult being two kips. We need the 8's. We could ideally use 8.5's. If someone gets a 9 on bars, I will throw a fiesta.

NO MORE SILLY INJURIES.

::end scene::

She's Still Kickin'

Today I'm on beam with the Level 4's, and I've just about lost patience with the fact that while all of these girls can do cartwheels on beam, some back walkovers, they do not, on their lives, understand how to keep their arms up while jumping. Or how to create a split-like position in a leap.

"Can you do it?" asks Colleen.

"Yes," I say.

"Can you show us?"

And these mini-people stop and watch as I step onto the low beam and leap. ('Tis best not to risk straddling the beam when you're trying to demonstrate a point.)

"Wow," Colleen whispers to Larissa. "That was amazing."

I only put myself in the position to demonstrate things I'm good at, like leaps and jumps and kips with the bar down low to show that yes, kiddies, you can hold your feet up, and I'm taller than you! (Some of you.)

Nothing very impressive, but it's a little flash, a reminder: hey, I know what these things are like.

Stateside, or "Are we there yet?"

We are super close to States, which will be my first time coaching at such an event. I know it's basically the same as all of the other competitions, and that for twelve-year-olds competing at a fairly low level, the stakes aren't high.

I've been looking forward to States, mainly because we've had some winning performances this year and it'd be pretty sweet to say we've coached a state champion. Put a little announcement on the website, have the parents realize that we actually know what we're doing, etc.

Except this week, the girls have been driving me up the wall and I'm now on the warpath.

In my day, if States were approaching and my coaches had signified that this was a big deal, which I knew it was, I got to work. I was always working. You wouldn't find me sitting on the floor giggling at the end of the vault runway, or missing squat-ons, or pouting because my coach made me work on a skill that I struggled with. Our girls excel at all three of these things, and then some.

I don't understand.

I've made motivational (at least in my mind) speeches. I've yelled and threatened. I've offered encouragement. But at the end of the day, there are two possible outcomes for States:

• Great Success: Overall, strong performances. If that's the case, we'll have some kids on the podium. Maybe even in the top three. A team award will be won -- not first place, but a real placement, not the "thanks for showing up" team award.

The problem with Great Success is that they'll think they're great, which they do after every meet. They'll think that the amount of work they put in is enough. For a few, it is. For the rest, not really.

The other possibility is:

• Epic fail: Oh, Epic Fail, you're always lurking! This would mean some disasters and an overall lackluster effort. Few to no awards, and the "oh, yeah, we did compete here today" team award.

Lately I'm not opposed to Epic Fail. It's humbling. It's an opportunity for introspection.

Except I know, I know that instead of, "Well, I only come to practice two days a week and maybe I should have stepped up my game" or "Hey, my coaches were right when they said I needed to lean over the bar in my squat-on," it will turn into the Blame Game: "I didn't like the bars at the meet. I was tired. So-and-so was injured and that's why we didn't get a team award." And so on.

So I look forward to States. With caution.

Floor Music Friday

When I was 16 and super into Incubus, I told my high school coach that I wanted the intro to this song as floor music.

She listened and was "meh" about it.

I see her point. It's repetitive and I ended up sticking with my usual music of dramatic symphonies.

But I like the funkiness and the darker edges of this intro. I think in the beginning, there could be all sorts of interesting body shapes to match the music. A gymnast with a rocker's soul.

Nowadays, with all the music editing software out there (not like I went to high school back when you had to walk uphill both ways in the snow, but it's much more accessible now), I think this music could stand a chance. Cut some of the repetition. Maybe remix it with something else. (If we were in NCAA, it'd probably get inexplicably remixed with Lady Gaga.)

Maybe it will never see the light of day beyond my old Make Yourself CD. But it still makes my Floor Music Friday cut.

Don't hate; appreciate

You gotta give the girls some props.

They drive you up the wall, they complain, they cry, they inadvertently pick wedgies in the middle of their floor routines.

But I've said it before and I'll say it again: they're the ones who get out there and do the routines in front of the judges.

I've also come to believe that they take in more than they let on. We give them correction after correction. I like to throw in some pep talks. They nod, giggle a little, glance off into space. But later on, they're more precise. I hear them talking about States and how they want to win another trophy. Little things.

Last year, I used to make little things out of cardstock for them every meet: an inspirational quote coupled with a photo of a famous gymnast. They loved them, but now that the team has grown exponentially, I don't have as much time to crank such things out each meet.

So this year, my boss and I are in cahoots for a surprise to give them at States: festive flip-flops with fabric ties that match the team colors. If I know my girls, they'll be super psyched. And hey, they're the ones who have put in the work.

Floor Music Friday

Whoa! Maybe I'm on to something.

Thanks to YouTube, Aliya Mustafina's old floor music, sans the vocal assistance. I'm kinda digging it this way. Could make for a lovely, mature, powerful routine.

Here's her routine from Rotterdam, when she won the all-around title:



Too much lingering in the corners. I think that in the lower levels, where there is time to dance, there's potential for fantastic choreography to this music. It's interesting, though, how Mustafina doesn't have to do very much dance to have a presence. She takes ownership by stepping onto the floor.

Coming of Age, or "My Life is So Hard Because I'm Thirteen"

I knew this day would come.

Or, should I say, "these days." Suddenly they're all turning thirteen. It's an epidemic. "My birthday was Sunday." "Mine is in ten days." "Mine is in May."

Hold up. Slow down. Why do all the hormones and the boy woes and the eyeliner and the stomping-off-to-get-water have to happen to all of you simultaneously?

So it's not really "all." Just a few girls. But I've seen it approaching. They are getting taller, some a little heavier. They sigh more when you give them a correction, get frustrated easily. Tears. Tears. Tears. Moaning and groaning. Repeat.

I know which girls I can push and which I can't. You can be harsher with some, in both tone and assignment. Make them start over (again, again) and they'll be frustrated, but it won't end their day. Raise my voice. They might get a little cranky, but they'll make visible attempts to improve. Others don't need a harshness with their push. They'll keep working.

The sensitive ones (so far, two of the freshly-minted teenagers) are another story. When I push, there are tears. Outbursts and red faces. In the end, inactivity. The sensitive ones are freakin' stubborn. They won't budge. You know they'll be writing sad poetry in their journals, just like their coach at that age.

When I say nothing as they miss cartwheel after cartwheel on high beam or squat-on after squat-on on bars, skills they know how to make easily, there are still tears. But my blood pressure is lower. I'd call that a victory.

Seriously, though, I'm not sure how to handle these super-sensitive souls, besides pawning them off to Greg (which I do sometimes), giving them corrections that upset them for God-knows-why, yelling, speaking quietly, positively reinforcing, making deals ("do[insert number] of these and you can move on"), resisting the urge to send them home (though the threat rises on occassion).

Thoughts/sad poems/etc.?

NCAA links

(For Emeline, and the world!)

Kim Jacob, 9.95

Watch more video of 2011 NCAA Women's Gymnastics National Championships on gymnastike.org

Kayla Hoffman. Super, super clean.

Watch more video of 2011 NCAA Women's Gymnastics National Championships on gymnastike.org

And Megan Ferguson from Oklahoma, with a very cool beam routine, as well as crazy hands (this clip from another meet). She looks incredibly small. Turns out she's 4'11", a.k.a. barely shorter than me. Oops.

Alabama wins!!!

I've never followed college gymnastics too closely, but as I took a gander this season, Alabama impressed me the most. Clean and fierce. Kayla Hoffman is lovely and Kim Jacobs is a rock star on beam -- and just a freshman!

w00t!

working hard to get my fill

In my real life, whatever that means, I have a job that, apparently, my coworkers like to skip out on. Therefore, I'm chilling "in the office" on my laptop on this beautiful Friday, following the preliminary sessions of the NCAA Championships. Life is good.

Another treatise on motivation

(but not lack thereof -- at least, not today).

We have six weeks until the state championships. That's a long stretch without a competition. How do we keep the girls fresh and interested, not burned out, while still perfecting their skills on the way to States? How do we, the coaches, not get bored?

Here's what seems to work so far:

• Switching up events: Greg and I decided to swap events. I haven't coached the older girls on bars since the compulsory days. Alas, since they no longer need to be spotted for every skill in their routines, I can watch and crack down on connections, form, casts, the finer things in life. Meanwhile, Greg goes to beam to create tiny dancers. It throws the girls off a little. It's nice.
• Mixing in new skills: As flexibility in jumps and leaps continues to make me weep internally, those must be done every day. But new skills are at the end of the tunnel. "Practice back handsprings on the line," I say to quiet Christina, who looks surprised yet intrigued.
• Rearranging the order: If it seems like a process is working, I still like to mix it up and have the girls practice skills at different points in the workout.
• Prospects of glory: Because who doesn't like a pep talk about potential medals and trophies?

pobrecita Mustafina!

Even in pain, she looks regal.

A slice of awesome

WOWZA.

Mind Games



Get yo concentration on.

 I don't recall any of my coaches telling us to sit still and visualize our routines. But I did read it one hundred times over in my various gymnastics books/biographies. The power of mental imagery! All of the testimonials: "I was injured and visualized my routines so much that when I returned to the gym, I didn't lose a thing."

Truth be told, I always struggled a bit with visualization. I switched in and out of being in my own head to watching myself. While still being in my head. If you know what I mean. A flip from internal view to external, like a camera following the action. Either way, visualization certainly never hurt any of my performances and it was a convenient way to zone out in school/the car/boring conversations.

"Everyone sit down and close your eyes," I tell the older girls.

"I don't want people watching me while I have my eyes closed!" Jamie says, and throws herself face down on the mat.

Okay.

"You're going to visualize your beam routine, and I'm going to time you. When you're done, open your eyes and look at me. Don't say anything. Don't move around."

The goal: to visualize the routine in real time.

Not surprisingly, there are suppressed giggles and full-out laughter in the first few tries. But then they quiet. Some eyes open after thirty seconds, others after 1:30, but most are on time.

"Where were you when you did your routine?" I ask Jamie.

"Uh. Here."

"What time of day was it?"

"It was sunny," she says, looking confused.

"I was at the World Championships," Kelsey throws in. "Everyone was cheering for me."

I explain that the more detailed the images are, the more engaged they are in the mental experience. (Or maybe it's just the writer in me.) I say that we can be physically prepared but we also need to train our minds. That this is a tool they can practice outside of the gym. Nod nod nod.

Will it help? Who knows. Will it hurt? At least I know that it won't.

Level 3 and Rising?

Courtesy of the lovely Anon, here are the proposed compulsory changes for 2013 and beyond: http://usagym.org/PDFs/Women/Junior%20Olympics/2013-2020Finalelementlist-March2011.pdf

Thoughts/Feelings/Reactions/Word-Like Things:

• Is there hope in the darkness? Is the mill circle FINALLY not (completely) required?
• I'm intrigued by this shift of the skills to the next level down. I'm not sure if I like it or dislike it, hence "intrigued." But I'd imagine that Level 3 will become a "real level," as opposed to its present "sometimes real and sometimes just for funsies," the way it is around here.
• And for all the literature out there about the present Level 4 as a "sometimes real and sometimes just for funsies" level, we all know that's a lie. In fact, we all know that any system which promotes "fun gymnastics" will invariably have participants (a.k.a. coaches and gyms) that take it very, very seriously. I digress.
• I also imagine that IGC will continue to gain ground in this next cycle. I mean: back handspring on beam in Level 5? I recognize that it's "optional," but we all know that those serious, serious participants will not allow their gymnasts to compete anything less.
• Which leads me to my biggest concern: By adding another level of optional competition, are we increasing the potential for burn-out for these little phenoms who fly through compulsories?

P.S.

Somehow, I just managed to accidentally start following myself. And I can't make it go away. Win.

Like a real team or something

Whoa! I'm finally back.

Yesterday, I was in the midst of saying something to Jamie on beam. I have no idea what. But when I finished, she said suddenly, "We're doing really good this year."

This is true.

Last year, the gym had zero team trophies. So far this year, with the combined powers of Level 4, IGC Copper, and IGC Bronze, we have eight. Bronze keeps winning second or third as a team. Copper won their first meet and took second last time with just three competing. The Level 4's have become a force, led by Larissa, who never scores less than a 36 all-around unless she falls (twice). Last meet they all broke into the 36's.

I feel most responsible for Bronze. Not for their success this year so much as their failures in Level 5. I keep thinking about what could have been done differently to have prevented them from that disastrous first season. Maybe they'd still be in compulsories now, and doing well with them. The traditional route. I keep thinking that their parents are thinking the same.

But the girls seem to look back gleefully. "Those were like the dark ages," Kathryn says. "Look at us now!"

It's no lie that the collective interest level, motivation, and enthusiasm has spiked dramatically with the shift to IGC. Maybe that's the important part. Maybe it never would have happened had we stayed the main course.

Dear Valeri, Look no further

Clearly, WOGA needs my resume.

For all my shawties

(This is in fact the same vid I posted last time. But now I call your attention to a new area.)

This here gymnast is what my friend Flo might call "beastly," and I mean that in the most complimentary way. Hilary Mauro is 4'9" and busts out that opening pass like no one's business. Like it's no big deal to run a few steps and flip twice in the air before landing.

Check her out at 9:41.

NCAA to start the day

I'm not in love with this floor routine, but I am in like with it.

Music is strange, but Shayla Worley is commanding. Check out that sass in the beginning as she lowers herself to the ground. It's like, "You will all bow to me."

(starting at 1:47)

Super Epic Floor Music, Or: Getting Back in Touch With My Inner Nerd

Dude. How did I fail to require that one of my girls use THIS as floor music?

Or this: lassos, boulders, and Harrison Ford, oh, my!

I was also advised to check this out. Makes me think more of figure skating music, but it's still lovely.

Thanks, Academy!

Born This Way

Ah, and as the girls age closer to middle and high school, the cattiness begins.

We have a squadron of new girls, strictly IGC. Emily is a little younger than the rest of the group. She's flaky. Marches to her own drummer. All those metaphors. Genuinely a good kid who wants to make others happy, though.

The other girls didn't pay much heed to Emily until Gail started in. At first it was the little things. "What are you doing?" she'd say to Emily whenever Em unwittingly cut ahead of her or took an extra turn, all huffy-like, all "You don't know what you're doing." I made a mental note to talk to Gail about her 'tude. She tends to be 'tudey anyway, Gail does. She's 10, but she will be a delightful teenager, I'm sure.

Then McKenzie joined in. McK's a generally laidback, happy-go-lucky sort of girl, which made her open annoyance with Emily surprising. I can also see that she's the cool kid of the group; all of the girls want to be her friend. So if McK's picking on Emily, you can bet that Gail feels encouraged to continue.

"I finished!" Emily bounces over to me, hair flapping in her face.

"She didn't really do all of her handstands," McKenzie says, looking perturbed.

"Yeah, Emily, I'm only on my third one," Gail says. Her 'tude face is set.

"Why don't you girls worry a little less about Emily's handstands and more about your own?" I say.

At the end of the rotation, I take Gail and McKenzie aside. Look, I know Emily is younger than you, and sometimes she gets in your way, but that doesn't mean you can be mean to her, I say. They nod and nod.

It happens another time. My boss has a talk with the whole group. Emily, in keeping with her character, is perfectly oblivious the entire talk.

Will it happen again? Probably. Am I ready to lay down the law? Yes. Get those parents on the horn. You can be frustrated, and you can get a little annoyed, but if you're going to be mean, you can get out.

College Lite

One thing I learned from college is the power of a group of screaming and cheering girls when the pressure's on and you're standing in the corner for your last tumbling pass. You may want to die. You may only think of collapse. But with that wave of sound, suddenly this is possible.

Thus I insist my girls cheer for one another, namely our older girls. (The Level 4s are still getting the hang of the whole, "Wait, is this the warm-up or the real competition?" thing.) I don't mean half-assed clapping. I mean names called out, shouts of "C'mon!" and "You got this!", wild applause even if the routine sort of sucked.

It's 9:30 pm and the girls are finally competing floor three long rotations. "I want to hear all of you," I say as the first girl salutes the judge. "You need to wake up these people."

And they do. They clap, they cheer, and after Kelsey's back tuck, they're all shouting, until I realize that Grace, who stands next to me, is just making loud noises without words, until I look at her and we both start laughing.

Whoa!

Back from hiatus!

Just like our friends from New Directions.

Why the absence?

1. This whole "real job in accompaniment with coaching" shenanigan.
2. Things are going well at the gym.

In regards to the latter, I feel like I'm in a groove. There's always much to learn. But right now my methods are working. Routines look sharper, new skills are underway, scores are breaking into the 9.0's. Lately, no one has broken herself. ::knocks on guitar for good luck::

Could this mark a new era for Level 4 and Rising?

Let's find out.

Robogymnast

At meets there's invariably a phenomenon: one team who has gymnasts that perform identically. Same rigidily pointed toes and straight legs. Same super stiff arms, fingers splayed apart for "artistry." But that's okay because the kids are young and they think of art as fingerpainting. Stomachs are sucked in. Shoulders thrown back. You could replace any of their faces or hide them altogether, and you would think you were watching the same girl.

How do they (the coaches) do it?

Larissa, our Level 4 rock star, scored a 9.5 on floor last meet, with an all-around score in the 36's. When she was a Level 4, Jamie scored a 9.7 on floor. She's also back from her retirement! It's only been a few weeks but her old form comes through. And Erin, our IGC I'll-try-anything-with-a-smile girl, will be competing for the first time this weekend. Even if she bombs, chances are that she'll score respectably.

What I'm getting at is these three girls, arguably our top performers, all have poise. Body tension. Fluid performances. Everything you need to bring in the desired scores. Coaching-wise, these three show that we're on the right track.

But when they perform, they look nothing like each other. While all are strong and flexible, their body types are completely different. The way they hold themselves is different.

So I return to the original question: How do you do it, coaches?

The Triumvirate

Ever since Coach P. came around, my stress went down. Why's that? Well, if a man from the former U.S.S.R. hits the same roadblocks I do with these ladies, it proves I am not alone.

We have a nice balance at the gym and I am glad for this, that I don't need to feel uptight beside my coworkers with the need to outdo them.

Coach P. is the master coach. He can teach anyone anything. Our girls who didn't have back handsprings at this time last year have standing back tucks now. He can instill fear but maintain a sense of humor.

Greg is the utility man. He can go from spotting vault to coaching beam dance. He never reverts to, "But I'm a guy and don't know how to teach this stuff." He finds a way.

Me, I stick with beam and floor these days, and make the occasional guest appearance on vault and bars. You could say I fill the role of "tiny dancer." Fixing those turns, working those leaps, always urging those chins to be up. Oh, and comic relief.

When competitions go poorly, I can't stop analyzing them on the drive home. Why did that happen? Why does it keep happening? What can we change? Man, I'm a terrible coach.

But then I realize that Greg is probably thinking the same thoughts in his car, and that somewhere, Coach P. is still shaking his head and sighing. I am not alone.

2000 Fail

I rushed back to watch the 2000 Olympics documentary last night, and while there were inspirational stories of equestrian and much track and field, there was NO GYMNASTICS.

But upon reflection, I wonder: Were those Olympics good for anyone?

Consider:

• The USA finishes in fourth place, much to the chagrin of USAG, and ten years later earns the bronze after a Chinese athlete was found to be underage at the Games.
• Andreea Raducan stripped of the all-around gold after testing positive for using cold medicine.
• The vault:

And some more vault:


Perhaps the gymnastics was best left out of this one.

Friendly suggestions

"Good practice today," Greg says to the girls as they line up.

Kathryn's hand snakes up. "You said we had a good practice."

"Yes."

"And we didn't do bars today." Her face becomes hopeful. "Does that mean we should do bars less?"

Good try.

Betwixt the thrill and the agony

If you live in the U.S. and receive the Universal Sports channel, perhaps you, like me, have been watching the "Nine Nights of Glory" -- Bud Greenspan's Olympic documentaries. Last night was Nagano 1998. Tonight, Sydney 2000. Vault and drug scandals, Svetlana Khorkina -- I'll be tuned in.

I'm sad I missed Atlanta 1996, as I am sure we saw a little Kerri Strug vaulting and Magnificent Seven, maybe even a side of Lilia Podkopayeva. Alas, life intervenes.

To get you in the Olympic spirit, just watch :10-:15:

It's still rock and roll to me

My good friend suggests a song by her namesake, Florence and the Machine, with "Kiss With a Fist" as floor music. A little rock 'n roll kick. Also, you gotta love the uber low budget music video.

Made me think of Jet's "Are You Going To Be My Girl," and this instrumental definitely has solid moments (may have to omit the chanting in the background, however!).

Rock on!

Fittingly epic jams

To take a page from my good friend D's book, I'm thinking 2011 should be a year of new, hopefully fantastic floor music (or potential floor music).

Will I search for it every day? Probably not. Will I post the good stuff? Indeed. Keep your ears ready.

Here's the maiden music:
"Flynn Lives" - Daft Punk

Of resolutions and other non-keepable intangibles:

Between cracks about "See you next year!" at the last practice, I say, "Let's make some resolutions about our gymnastics."

No one responds. I think it's possible one or two of the older girls will, the ones who are already motivated. For the little girls, I wouldn't be surprised if a few of their parents have goals for them.

But I don't dwell on it today. Instead I clap. "And see you next year!"

You may ask, How about you, Coach?

I resolve to do as I have: to learn as much as possible, to be open to hearing and testing new techniques, to persistently search YouTube, and to maintain a sense of humor. And to blog about it all.