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.