The Level 5's and 6's could happily spend the rest of spring focusing on lacrosse, softball, dance recitals, frolicking at the beach. But the Level 4's still had work to do.
From those extra practices, I came to know the Level 4's: Amy, a very muscular girl who could beat up just about anyone in the gym, but instead feared everything; Alejandra, four feet tall, with no muscles but fabulous flexibility and dance; Christina, silent but a strong balance of strength and flexbility; Chloe, with a squeaky voice, big grin, and frighteningly bendy back; Laurel, wildly unflexible with perpetually bent knees, but very consistent, especially on bars; and Grace, who was in fact better than some of the Level 5's, but had the strange propensity to dart behind mats in the midst of some game in her mind.
Either the same age as or younger than the Level 5's, the 4's were easier to work with (besides when Grace refused to come out from behind the mats). They talked less and practiced without many interruptions. They were also needy: "Can you watch me? Can you watch me now? Can you watch me after her?"
Greg asked if I could come to their meets with him "to figure out that whole beam touch warm-up thing." At one of their earliest meets, I stood near the beam as Christina competed. About halfway through her routine came the tell-tale pause. The uncertain lift of her arms. Then she stood still, trying to remember. She looked at me. I looked back. She did a random skill then dismounted.
Next up, Amy. She saluted the judges. Then she turned to me. "Will you stand there for my dismount?"
Despite half-forgotten routines and talking to their coaches, the Level 4's scored far higher than the Level 5's, even when they stumbled, fell, or performed a bit sloppily. They especially racked up 9.0's on vault. Alejandra, not much taller than the mat she vaulted onto, pulled out a 9.45 at Team Cup.
But apparently the Level 5's had been successful in Level 4. They'd told me that Jamie had scored a 9.7 on floor. In Level 5, she was occasionally in the high 8.0's.
A disparity, indeed.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Floored
Floor: the event I most eagerly anticipated as a gymnast. I always hoped that it'd be our last rotation. It didn't matter if I'd done well on the other events or bombed them. With my love of dance and performing (oh, yeah, and tumbling), I could turn a good day into a great day. Sometimes, it sealed the deal: qualifying to States, making it to event finals at Nationals, giving us that League 3 victory! In the latter competition, my hair tie fell out during my first tumbling pass. Luckily, my hair was fairly short at the time. I also used to wear glasses with a really attractive athletic strap to keep them in place, and it helped with the hair. I pranced around like nothing had happened. And we were the champions.
If I accomplished anything that first season of coaching, it was acceptable leaps. Sure, most of them couldn't get their splits down. But I planned to work that dynamic flexibility for all it was worth. Kicks. Needle kicks. Kicks of all directions and creeds. Split jumps, on floor and tumble track. Leaps, leaps, leaps. And alas, it all came together: leaps that hit a full split.
::a divine light shines down::
While nobody particularly admires the compulsory floor and beam routines, the Level 5 floor routine really bothers me. Maybe it's the music choice. Or perhaps it's the silly prance steps. I mean, I'm all for prancing. But c'mon. Or maybe it was that, more than their beam routines, the girls had wide disparities in how the routine ought to be executed, and the re-teaching was more like an overhaul. It felt as if with all the time spent adjusting and figuring out the correct floor pattern and constantly trying to fix that inward half turn that confused them all, there was no time left to make the routine look, well, good. Polished.
At least Maya wasn't confused. In practice, she'd laze through her routine. But at the meet, she hit each pose crisply, attacked the tumbling, flew into the air for the back tuck.
For Jamie, tumbling came easily. As the warm-ups for floor wound down, I'd take her aside and guide her through the floor pattern, giving her points in the gym to look at during her routine. She remembered. Usually.
Unfortunately, Brittany's grace and lovely lines could not make up for her atrocious back extension roll nor the two slow back handsprings with bent legs. Those two massive flaws often plummeted her scores to the mid to low 8.0's.
Natalie, bless her soul, went for her floor routines with everything she had. Her legs were actually straight! Her chin thrown back, sometimes quite dramatically, her hands flicking to the music. Certainly, a girl after my own heart.
Kelsey nearly always turned in a clean routine with excellent tumbling. Kathryn and Kasey...not so much.
And then there was Tia, who broke her hand in the fall mid-back handspring. Though she's quite small, her back handsprings moved slowly, labored, and somedays she could barely do one, let alone two. As a result, her scores hovered in the 6.0's, sometimes a generous 7.0. By the end of the season, she had it back. At our final meet, she went through the routine in her standard mechanical way. Her leap pass was lovely. Her back walkover, not too shabby. She ran across the floor, did the two back handsprings, and the girls screamed with excitement. When the 8.0 went up, she started crying--from happiness.
And thus our first season came to a close.
If I accomplished anything that first season of coaching, it was acceptable leaps. Sure, most of them couldn't get their splits down. But I planned to work that dynamic flexibility for all it was worth. Kicks. Needle kicks. Kicks of all directions and creeds. Split jumps, on floor and tumble track. Leaps, leaps, leaps. And alas, it all came together: leaps that hit a full split.
::a divine light shines down::
While nobody particularly admires the compulsory floor and beam routines, the Level 5 floor routine really bothers me. Maybe it's the music choice. Or perhaps it's the silly prance steps. I mean, I'm all for prancing. But c'mon. Or maybe it was that, more than their beam routines, the girls had wide disparities in how the routine ought to be executed, and the re-teaching was more like an overhaul. It felt as if with all the time spent adjusting and figuring out the correct floor pattern and constantly trying to fix that inward half turn that confused them all, there was no time left to make the routine look, well, good. Polished.
At least Maya wasn't confused. In practice, she'd laze through her routine. But at the meet, she hit each pose crisply, attacked the tumbling, flew into the air for the back tuck.
For Jamie, tumbling came easily. As the warm-ups for floor wound down, I'd take her aside and guide her through the floor pattern, giving her points in the gym to look at during her routine. She remembered. Usually.
Unfortunately, Brittany's grace and lovely lines could not make up for her atrocious back extension roll nor the two slow back handsprings with bent legs. Those two massive flaws often plummeted her scores to the mid to low 8.0's.
Natalie, bless her soul, went for her floor routines with everything she had. Her legs were actually straight! Her chin thrown back, sometimes quite dramatically, her hands flicking to the music. Certainly, a girl after my own heart.
Kelsey nearly always turned in a clean routine with excellent tumbling. Kathryn and Kasey...not so much.
And then there was Tia, who broke her hand in the fall mid-back handspring. Though she's quite small, her back handsprings moved slowly, labored, and somedays she could barely do one, let alone two. As a result, her scores hovered in the 6.0's, sometimes a generous 7.0. By the end of the season, she had it back. At our final meet, she went through the routine in her standard mechanical way. Her leap pass was lovely. Her back walkover, not too shabby. She ran across the floor, did the two back handsprings, and the girls screamed with excitement. When the 8.0 went up, she started crying--from happiness.
And thus our first season came to a close.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
In honor of doughnuts
Evidently Friday was "National Doughnut Day," and I had the honor of hearing this conversation:
Kelsey: "You should ask Anthony [another coach] to buy us doughnuts."
Marissa, age 5: "I don't want to ruin our friendship."
Kelsey: "You should ask Anthony [another coach] to buy us doughnuts."
Marissa, age 5: "I don't want to ruin our friendship."
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Flip the plank
Balance beam, you light up my life.
I loved beam as soon as I started gymnastics, quite possibly because I recognized that everyone else hated it. Four inches wide, four feet off the ground--what's not to love? (Plenty, apparently). This is not to say that I love everything about beam. I lived (and live, when I prance on it now) in fear of straddling the thing. I've had my share of wipe-outs, fear, and more wipe-outs. But I always came back for more.
I'm also aware that my gymnasts are not the biggest fans of the apparatus. But they deal. They have no choice. My beam methods are not ground-breaking, but they work more successfully than with the other events: make ____ repetitions of ______ skill. For some ladies, this task takes five minutes. For others, it takes the entire time we're on beam.
"All right, Tia," I said one day. "If you make your first beam routine, you can frolic in the pit."
Tia's eyes widened. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
Her face sets. She moves through her beam routine without any flourishes, but few wobbles. Until the cartwheel. Her hands touch the beam. Her legs kick over her head. She lands. One leg flails up. Now everyone's watching. "GO, TIA!" someone calls.
And with a dramatic "NOOOOOOOO!" she falls to the ground.
But in competition, Tia's fierce. More often than not, she makes her entire routine. Same with Kathryn, Brittany, and Kasey. The routines may not be breathtaking and they sometimes wobble enough to equal the deductions for a fall, but they don't give in.
I remember those days. Level 8 State Championships, where I wobbled quite a few times but placed tenth on beam. NAIGC Nationals, ending my college career with a no-fall routine. The high school battle for the League 3 Championship, where the gym was absolutely silent and my teammates held hands during everyone's routines. My college coach would tell us that just staying on beam wasn't enough. But sometimes, it is.
I loved beam as soon as I started gymnastics, quite possibly because I recognized that everyone else hated it. Four inches wide, four feet off the ground--what's not to love? (Plenty, apparently). This is not to say that I love everything about beam. I lived (and live, when I prance on it now) in fear of straddling the thing. I've had my share of wipe-outs, fear, and more wipe-outs. But I always came back for more.
I'm also aware that my gymnasts are not the biggest fans of the apparatus. But they deal. They have no choice. My beam methods are not ground-breaking, but they work more successfully than with the other events: make ____ repetitions of ______ skill. For some ladies, this task takes five minutes. For others, it takes the entire time we're on beam.
"All right, Tia," I said one day. "If you make your first beam routine, you can frolic in the pit."
Tia's eyes widened. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
Her face sets. She moves through her beam routine without any flourishes, but few wobbles. Until the cartwheel. Her hands touch the beam. Her legs kick over her head. She lands. One leg flails up. Now everyone's watching. "GO, TIA!" someone calls.
And with a dramatic "NOOOOOOOO!" she falls to the ground.
But in competition, Tia's fierce. More often than not, she makes her entire routine. Same with Kathryn, Brittany, and Kasey. The routines may not be breathtaking and they sometimes wobble enough to equal the deductions for a fall, but they don't give in.
I remember those days. Level 8 State Championships, where I wobbled quite a few times but placed tenth on beam. NAIGC Nationals, ending my college career with a no-fall routine. The high school battle for the League 3 Championship, where the gym was absolutely silent and my teammates held hands during everyone's routines. My college coach would tell us that just staying on beam wasn't enough. But sometimes, it is.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Friction
On my best days as a gymnast, I liked uneven bars. We tolerated one another. On typical days, I wasn't a fan. Burning and ripping your hands from swinging around wooden bars, releasing one bar to catch the other without seeing where you're going, doing routine after routine until you're sure your hands will peel off--it just doesn't seem like a good idea. Then again, what really does in gymnastics?
My gymnasts unanimously love bars. Perhaps the playground monkey bars come to mind whenever we head to the apparatus. I brace myself.
At one competition, Kelsey missed her squat-on twice in a row, with John spotting her for the third. Natalie, competing directly after Kelsey, did her one better with three missed squat-ons. For the other ladies, there was the usual mess of 3.0's and 4.0's, followed by a judge saying to John, "These girls should be in Level 4."
Ouch.
Strategy #5: Bars every practice.
This did not lead to vast, immediate improvement. But it did rough up the girls' hands, ripping and callusing their palms--an important step toward being able to hang onto the bars for an extended period of time.
Victories were tiny last spring but very much needed. Kasey's mysteriously vanished squat-on reappeared. Tia and Kathryn grew bold enough to leap from the low to the high bar by themselves. Kelsey made her kip at the end of the season! And I stood on mats alongside the bars, spotting just about every skill in the routine. An excellent way to keep the old arm muscles in shape and the heart pumping.
But there's only so much one 5'0" girl can do. I'd give Kasey a spot for her kip on the high bar. Nineteen out of twenty times, she missed it and dangled from the bar. I attempted to push her back up. Legs kicked. Arms strained to pull.
"You're on your own, kid," I said.
My gymnasts unanimously love bars. Perhaps the playground monkey bars come to mind whenever we head to the apparatus. I brace myself.
At one competition, Kelsey missed her squat-on twice in a row, with John spotting her for the third. Natalie, competing directly after Kelsey, did her one better with three missed squat-ons. For the other ladies, there was the usual mess of 3.0's and 4.0's, followed by a judge saying to John, "These girls should be in Level 4."
Ouch.
Strategy #5: Bars every practice.
This did not lead to vast, immediate improvement. But it did rough up the girls' hands, ripping and callusing their palms--an important step toward being able to hang onto the bars for an extended period of time.
Victories were tiny last spring but very much needed. Kasey's mysteriously vanished squat-on reappeared. Tia and Kathryn grew bold enough to leap from the low to the high bar by themselves. Kelsey made her kip at the end of the season! And I stood on mats alongside the bars, spotting just about every skill in the routine. An excellent way to keep the old arm muscles in shape and the heart pumping.
But there's only so much one 5'0" girl can do. I'd give Kasey a spot for her kip on the high bar. Nineteen out of twenty times, she missed it and dangled from the bar. I attempted to push her back up. Legs kicked. Arms strained to pull.
"You're on your own, kid," I said.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Oh, to run full-speed at inanimate objects
At the regular practices, John and Greg took the girls to the "manly" events of uneven bars and vault, while I coached balance beam and floor.
John's one of the most patient coaches I've ever met. I've never heard him raise his voice. There's no hint of exasperation when he explains a correction to the same gymnast for the hundredth time. Once in awhile, I get a text from him at, say, 11 p.m. that reads, "I figured out what Kelsey's doing wrong in her kip." Such an even-keel can lead to the girls running wild, knowing he most likely won't punish them. But it's perfect for the girls like the injury-prone Brittany, who easily becomes frustrated and afraid.
Greg has done an excellent job of preparing the Level 4's, including on beam and floor, where he often demonstrates with his 6'3" frame. Like me, he's only patient up to a point. He also has the wonderful fortune of making some of the female judges blush. One day, this will work to our advantage.
But on the extra days, with John and Greg busy with the class kids, it was a little bit of me everywhere.
I'm not a huge fan of spotting front handsprings on vault. A little shove for Kelsey when she needs more power or Brittany when she's being a headcase--no problem. It was Tia.
I'd drop the vault table a few notches. I'd stand on mats next to the table to make me taller. And every time Tia started running toward me, I held my breath.
Tia plays lacrosse and she's quite good at any running exercise. She's also skilled when it comes to naming songs on the radio, quick to let us know her commentary and all the lyrics. None of the above helped with her front handspring. She sprinted, she hit the springboard, and nothing happened.
I heaved her body into the air. Her hands slowly rolled off the table, and her feet landed on the mats. Sometimes.
"I do it better with John!" she complained.
Yes, because John can do the whole vault for you. Though I really wished he wasn't in the middle of teaching five-year-olds to do forward rolls on the floor. "I'm trying to let you do more of it on your own," I said. Wishful thinking.
Alas, one day I really did attempt to let Tia try more of the vault on her own. Her hands touched the table, her feet arched over her head, she flipped over, hit her back on the end of the table, and rolled to the ground.
"DOES SHE NEED ICE?" yelled Kathryn. In a flash, she returned with an ice pack in hand. Tia placed it on her back, fighting tears.
Good job, Coach.
John's one of the most patient coaches I've ever met. I've never heard him raise his voice. There's no hint of exasperation when he explains a correction to the same gymnast for the hundredth time. Once in awhile, I get a text from him at, say, 11 p.m. that reads, "I figured out what Kelsey's doing wrong in her kip." Such an even-keel can lead to the girls running wild, knowing he most likely won't punish them. But it's perfect for the girls like the injury-prone Brittany, who easily becomes frustrated and afraid.
Greg has done an excellent job of preparing the Level 4's, including on beam and floor, where he often demonstrates with his 6'3" frame. Like me, he's only patient up to a point. He also has the wonderful fortune of making some of the female judges blush. One day, this will work to our advantage.
But on the extra days, with John and Greg busy with the class kids, it was a little bit of me everywhere.
I'm not a huge fan of spotting front handsprings on vault. A little shove for Kelsey when she needs more power or Brittany when she's being a headcase--no problem. It was Tia.
I'd drop the vault table a few notches. I'd stand on mats next to the table to make me taller. And every time Tia started running toward me, I held my breath.
Tia plays lacrosse and she's quite good at any running exercise. She's also skilled when it comes to naming songs on the radio, quick to let us know her commentary and all the lyrics. None of the above helped with her front handspring. She sprinted, she hit the springboard, and nothing happened.
I heaved her body into the air. Her hands slowly rolled off the table, and her feet landed on the mats. Sometimes.
"I do it better with John!" she complained.
Yes, because John can do the whole vault for you. Though I really wished he wasn't in the middle of teaching five-year-olds to do forward rolls on the floor. "I'm trying to let you do more of it on your own," I said. Wishful thinking.
Alas, one day I really did attempt to let Tia try more of the vault on her own. Her hands touched the table, her feet arched over her head, she flipped over, hit her back on the end of the table, and rolled to the ground.
"DOES SHE NEED ICE?" yelled Kathryn. In a flash, she returned with an ice pack in hand. Tia placed it on her back, fighting tears.
Good job, Coach.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Stand and unfold yourself
Just who are you, Coach? What do you stand to gain?
The easy and common transition is from competitive gymnastics to coaching. I'm still competitive, still a perfectionist. I can't relate to the inability to straighten one's legs, or the lack of awareness that one's legs are in fact bent. Sure, sometimes we all need to be told something more than once. But every practice? On the same skills?
Maya's not the only one with a full schedule. Nearly all of them play at least one other sport or are in school plays and bands and the like. That was my life, too. Basketball, lacrosse, cross-country, varsity gymnastics, indoor track, outdoor track, a couple of plays. Except I always wanted to do gymnastics the most. When it came down to a performance of the school play or the county championship, I chose counties.
I strive for consistency in coaching. Some days, it's not easy. I come in ready to work and the girls goof around. I come in exhausted and they complain about everything. Sometimes, we're all on the same page.
On one of those "I'm exhausted and in no mood for nonsense" days, all of the Level 5's and 6's showed up to practice. I tried a new approach.
"Listen up, ladies." I gathered them around. "I am really tired today, and really cranky. If you annoy me, we'e going to have problems."
A couple grin.
"What are some things that annoy me?"
"Talking when you're talking!" one called.
"Running across the tumble track!" added another.
"How about we avoid those things?"
They nodded.
Maybe honesty does work!
..
My problem is that I tend to laugh. I crack jokes. I overhear snippets of conversations and I'm amused. I compliment the girl whose twentieth back walkover was less horrendous than the previous nineteen. The tough coach does not settle. I'm afraid that I might.
I only yell when I absolutely have to, and it stops the girls in their tracks. They know they've gone too far or not enough. They know that when I send one of them to the lobby, they had all better be on their best behavior. I've made a few cry. And then I felt terrible about it.
I give them specific numbers and let those numbers set the rules. Two minutes in an oversplit, and the team gets three warnings for people coming out of their splits. If three of you come out, we start all of the splits over. Slacking on your kicks, your push-ups, your handstands? Start over.
It's easier with the younger girls, the ones who love just gymnastics and nothing else. They don't know how to battle back yet. Maybe they won't want to. The older girls are coming closer to middle school and soon they'll be pulled everywhere, and not necessarily toward the gym. Is it worth the yelling and the prodding if they'll retire soon? Is it worth the pushing when they're in Level 5 and 6 and not the upper levels, and don't seem to have the drive to achieve those levels?
I don't believe in age as a factor. Many coaches do. If you're not cranking those big skills by eight, nine, ten years old, you're done. I began gymnastics at age eleven and powered through the levels. It can be done, if you want it enough.
But it's easy to say this in the gym. It's quite different at the competition, when your girls sneak into tenth and eleventh place (if at all) and the other gyms sweep the awards. Then I think that it's time to stop joking. I want to see my girls win. On the occasion that one places first or second, I'm delighted. But then again, I'm also happy for the girl who placed fourteenth.
What does victory mean? Does it validate me as a coach? Give our gym prestige? Is it a simple case of one gymnast having a better day than another? As gyms make most of their money from recreational classes and birthday parties, does it matter all that much how the girls perform on one day in one gym? Yes and no.
What do I stand to gain? I love gymnastics but I don't plan to become a full-time coach. John works at the gym full-time, but Greg's looking to another career, too. I want to keep coaching regardless of where and what position I find. But I don't know if it'll ever be about the glory for me.
The easy and common transition is from competitive gymnastics to coaching. I'm still competitive, still a perfectionist. I can't relate to the inability to straighten one's legs, or the lack of awareness that one's legs are in fact bent. Sure, sometimes we all need to be told something more than once. But every practice? On the same skills?
Maya's not the only one with a full schedule. Nearly all of them play at least one other sport or are in school plays and bands and the like. That was my life, too. Basketball, lacrosse, cross-country, varsity gymnastics, indoor track, outdoor track, a couple of plays. Except I always wanted to do gymnastics the most. When it came down to a performance of the school play or the county championship, I chose counties.
I strive for consistency in coaching. Some days, it's not easy. I come in ready to work and the girls goof around. I come in exhausted and they complain about everything. Sometimes, we're all on the same page.
On one of those "I'm exhausted and in no mood for nonsense" days, all of the Level 5's and 6's showed up to practice. I tried a new approach.
"Listen up, ladies." I gathered them around. "I am really tired today, and really cranky. If you annoy me, we'e going to have problems."
A couple grin.
"What are some things that annoy me?"
"Talking when you're talking!" one called.
"Running across the tumble track!" added another.
"How about we avoid those things?"
They nodded.
Maybe honesty does work!
..
My problem is that I tend to laugh. I crack jokes. I overhear snippets of conversations and I'm amused. I compliment the girl whose twentieth back walkover was less horrendous than the previous nineteen. The tough coach does not settle. I'm afraid that I might.
I only yell when I absolutely have to, and it stops the girls in their tracks. They know they've gone too far or not enough. They know that when I send one of them to the lobby, they had all better be on their best behavior. I've made a few cry. And then I felt terrible about it.
I give them specific numbers and let those numbers set the rules. Two minutes in an oversplit, and the team gets three warnings for people coming out of their splits. If three of you come out, we start all of the splits over. Slacking on your kicks, your push-ups, your handstands? Start over.
It's easier with the younger girls, the ones who love just gymnastics and nothing else. They don't know how to battle back yet. Maybe they won't want to. The older girls are coming closer to middle school and soon they'll be pulled everywhere, and not necessarily toward the gym. Is it worth the yelling and the prodding if they'll retire soon? Is it worth the pushing when they're in Level 5 and 6 and not the upper levels, and don't seem to have the drive to achieve those levels?
I don't believe in age as a factor. Many coaches do. If you're not cranking those big skills by eight, nine, ten years old, you're done. I began gymnastics at age eleven and powered through the levels. It can be done, if you want it enough.
But it's easy to say this in the gym. It's quite different at the competition, when your girls sneak into tenth and eleventh place (if at all) and the other gyms sweep the awards. Then I think that it's time to stop joking. I want to see my girls win. On the occasion that one places first or second, I'm delighted. But then again, I'm also happy for the girl who placed fourteenth.
What does victory mean? Does it validate me as a coach? Give our gym prestige? Is it a simple case of one gymnast having a better day than another? As gyms make most of their money from recreational classes and birthday parties, does it matter all that much how the girls perform on one day in one gym? Yes and no.
What do I stand to gain? I love gymnastics but I don't plan to become a full-time coach. John works at the gym full-time, but Greg's looking to another career, too. I want to keep coaching regardless of where and what position I find. But I don't know if it'll ever be about the glory for me.
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