(or, as Dom might say, delusions of grandeur?)
How do you take your gymnasts' success?
Though much of this blog details the less than glorious times, once in a while my ladies win. Kelsey and Brittany form the second place-third place punch in their age group. Alejandra wins beam. Maya places in the top three on vault. Christina, Laurel, and Grace sneak onto the podium in their Level 4 glory. Jamie places even on her bad days.
"It's all because of your coaching!" my mom says.
Thanks, Ma!
But I credit my own gymnastics successes to a team of coaches: Doug, who spotted me for back handsprings on beam even as my teammates packed up to go home and the owner shut off the lights; Jody, who had the gift of making the least graceful gymnasts look lovely; Andre, who taught front tumbling and mental empowerment; Matt, who said, "Why not?" whenever I asked him to spot me for random skills like front handspring step-out beam mounts; my first coaches, who drilled in the strength and flexibility that follow me still.
Yet who's up on that beam when the judges are watching? The one sweating, controlling anxiety, fighting to stay on? The gymnast.
So of course I'd love to pat myself on the back when one of the ladies runs up to the podium. But I must also salute Greg for his nitpicking analysis of her routine, John for his patience in helping her push past fear, and above all of us, the lady herself.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Spot On
I know the signs. She stands with her arms up. One toe pointed. Her hands drift back, then stop. Drift back and stop again.
Wait for it, wait for it...
"Can you spot me?" Maya stands on the beam for her fifth back walkover of the day.
In my day, I was a big fan of the "Just stand there and only spot me if I'm about to die, okay?" My girls aren't terribly different. Most of them become independent quickly, or ask for a few spots at the beginning of the workout and go forward from there. Of course, there are exceptions.
"You've already done four," I say.
"But I feel like I'm going to die!"
"You're not going to die."
"Please?"
The thing with Maya is that she can turn off the fear under pressure. At the meet, she'll go for the back walkover and make it. Some practices she connects back walkover to back walkover without a qualm. And other days are the "I'm going to die" days.
I'll be honest. Spotting makes me nervous. Really nervous. Not beam, so much. But vault does. I stack blocks next to the table so I can reach the girls. But there are so many ways their vaults can go wrong, so much potential to fly out of my hands. Tumbling, too. The older Level 4's ask for spots for back tucks, but their sets and flips are so inconsistent that in one turn, they flip at your shoulders, and in the next, their heads scrape the floor.
One day all of the girls tumbled together. Greg, John, and I supervised simultaneously. Greg's 6'3", John 6'0", and I come in at a whopping 5'0".
Natalie stood in the corner for her back tuck. Then she turned to me, ignoring my taller counterparts, and asked, "Can you spot me?"
I stepped in, but I needn't have. She flipped above my head.
A few months ago I kneeled next to the low beam as Maya prepared for her back handspring. Truth was, I'd never spotted a back handspring before on a beam of any height. But how much could go wrong on the low beam?
She lands. We both exhale. She goes again, and again, once slightly crooked. I put her back on the beam.
"You just saved my life! Thank you!" She meant it.
Wait for it, wait for it...
"Can you spot me?" Maya stands on the beam for her fifth back walkover of the day.
In my day, I was a big fan of the "Just stand there and only spot me if I'm about to die, okay?" My girls aren't terribly different. Most of them become independent quickly, or ask for a few spots at the beginning of the workout and go forward from there. Of course, there are exceptions.
"You've already done four," I say.
"But I feel like I'm going to die!"
"You're not going to die."
"Please?"
The thing with Maya is that she can turn off the fear under pressure. At the meet, she'll go for the back walkover and make it. Some practices she connects back walkover to back walkover without a qualm. And other days are the "I'm going to die" days.
I'll be honest. Spotting makes me nervous. Really nervous. Not beam, so much. But vault does. I stack blocks next to the table so I can reach the girls. But there are so many ways their vaults can go wrong, so much potential to fly out of my hands. Tumbling, too. The older Level 4's ask for spots for back tucks, but their sets and flips are so inconsistent that in one turn, they flip at your shoulders, and in the next, their heads scrape the floor.
One day all of the girls tumbled together. Greg, John, and I supervised simultaneously. Greg's 6'3", John 6'0", and I come in at a whopping 5'0".
Natalie stood in the corner for her back tuck. Then she turned to me, ignoring my taller counterparts, and asked, "Can you spot me?"
I stepped in, but I needn't have. She flipped above my head.
A few months ago I kneeled next to the low beam as Maya prepared for her back handspring. Truth was, I'd never spotted a back handspring before on a beam of any height. But how much could go wrong on the low beam?
She lands. We both exhale. She goes again, and again, once slightly crooked. I put her back on the beam.
"You just saved my life! Thank you!" She meant it.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Remember, remember, the 5th of November
If you can't remember that, how about your beam routine?
Generation 4.0 exhibits desireable traits: they pay attention, talk little, and work hard. Except their memories are like water to a duck. Nothing stays put.
"Roundoff from one knee," I say.
Colleen cocks her head, long ponytail sweeping over her face. "What's a roundoff?"
"You just did one."
Colleen doesn't believe me. Then the epiphany: "Oh." She does a cartwheel.
"Land with your feet together."
She nods. The ponytail waves like a flag. She does another cartwheel.
I look at the clock. Two hours to go.
The learning process for the beam routine is arduous. Larissa and Dana remember. Except there are a few parts they forget, and no matter how many times we review, they still forget. Holly's the most solid. It's hard to tell if Mariah has forgotten, or if she's just pausing every three seconds from fear. Colleen prances as she wishes, puckering her lips on the "fish pose." Nina and Allison look at me bashfully. They're lost.
Greg suggests that we designate each beam as a different part of the routine, and have them practice piecemeal. I support this idea. Except nobody besides the former three remembers those parts. Nor can they put the parts together for one cohesive routine. Then you've got Nina and Mariah scared to do handstands, Allison rolling her ankles and stubbing her toes constantly, Colleen lying on the beam pretending to swim, and Larissa and Dana already bored of the routine.
"All right, let's get a drink!" I call.
Generation 4.0 exhibits desireable traits: they pay attention, talk little, and work hard. Except their memories are like water to a duck. Nothing stays put.
"Roundoff from one knee," I say.
Colleen cocks her head, long ponytail sweeping over her face. "What's a roundoff?"
"You just did one."
Colleen doesn't believe me. Then the epiphany: "Oh." She does a cartwheel.
"Land with your feet together."
She nods. The ponytail waves like a flag. She does another cartwheel.
I look at the clock. Two hours to go.
The learning process for the beam routine is arduous. Larissa and Dana remember. Except there are a few parts they forget, and no matter how many times we review, they still forget. Holly's the most solid. It's hard to tell if Mariah has forgotten, or if she's just pausing every three seconds from fear. Colleen prances as she wishes, puckering her lips on the "fish pose." Nina and Allison look at me bashfully. They're lost.
Greg suggests that we designate each beam as a different part of the routine, and have them practice piecemeal. I support this idea. Except nobody besides the former three remembers those parts. Nor can they put the parts together for one cohesive routine. Then you've got Nina and Mariah scared to do handstands, Allison rolling her ankles and stubbing her toes constantly, Colleen lying on the beam pretending to swim, and Larissa and Dana already bored of the routine.
"All right, let's get a drink!" I call.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Of 8's and 9's
Just how do the girls handle their vacillating scores?
A little too well.
Kasey, bless her soul, shrugs off the 4.0's on bars. "Hey, I got a 4.5 this time!" she'll say. "I improved!" Amy's spent so much of her first Level 5 season falling on every event that there's no point in looking at the scores. Same for Natalie in Level 6. The older Level 4's seem immune to all scores good and bad, besides Alejandra, who proudly mentions her 9.45 on vault at last year's Team Cup whenever it's relevant.
On the one hand, more distress might serve as a sign of caring. Of motivation, will to improve. On the other hand, I appreciate their cheerfulness.
It's not easy to handle being judged. I just want to go out there and hit four for four and have fun is the canned response of elite gymnasts. But what more can you do? Some days you're at your best and you're rewarded. Other days, you're robbed. On your bad days, the scores tell it like it is. Other times, you get lucky.
Kathryn was so proud to get her kip. But all of her competition bar routines feature multiple pauses, poor form, and tiny, tiny swings. 6.0. She cried the first two meets when she saw the score. Then she came to the third with new resolve: "My mom said if I don't cry today, we can go to the mall."
At a recent meet, Maya fell off beam twice. She walked away nonchalantly. Only when her 7.5 was raised did she care. Hysterical tears ensued.
"Hasn't she missed practice for like the past month?" Greg said.
"Yep," I said.
"What does she expect?"
Exactly.
But it goes both ways. Kathryn scored an 8.375 on floor. During the awards, gymnasts stepped onto the podium with scores in the 9.0's. Then Kathryn's name was called. She ran up there, ahead of girls from the good teams, placing third or fourth. John, Greg, and I looked at each other. What?
Turned out somewhere between flashing the score and entering it into the computer, someone had accidentally changed the 8 to a 9. We knew. Kathryn's mom knew. But Kathryn didn't. She bounced back over to us with her ribbon. "I got a 9.375!" she exclaimed.
"Good job!" I high-fived her. She could keep her victory.
A little too well.
Kasey, bless her soul, shrugs off the 4.0's on bars. "Hey, I got a 4.5 this time!" she'll say. "I improved!" Amy's spent so much of her first Level 5 season falling on every event that there's no point in looking at the scores. Same for Natalie in Level 6. The older Level 4's seem immune to all scores good and bad, besides Alejandra, who proudly mentions her 9.45 on vault at last year's Team Cup whenever it's relevant.
On the one hand, more distress might serve as a sign of caring. Of motivation, will to improve. On the other hand, I appreciate their cheerfulness.
It's not easy to handle being judged. I just want to go out there and hit four for four and have fun is the canned response of elite gymnasts. But what more can you do? Some days you're at your best and you're rewarded. Other days, you're robbed. On your bad days, the scores tell it like it is. Other times, you get lucky.
Kathryn was so proud to get her kip. But all of her competition bar routines feature multiple pauses, poor form, and tiny, tiny swings. 6.0. She cried the first two meets when she saw the score. Then she came to the third with new resolve: "My mom said if I don't cry today, we can go to the mall."
At a recent meet, Maya fell off beam twice. She walked away nonchalantly. Only when her 7.5 was raised did she care. Hysterical tears ensued.
"Hasn't she missed practice for like the past month?" Greg said.
"Yep," I said.
"What does she expect?"
Exactly.
But it goes both ways. Kathryn scored an 8.375 on floor. During the awards, gymnasts stepped onto the podium with scores in the 9.0's. Then Kathryn's name was called. She ran up there, ahead of girls from the good teams, placing third or fourth. John, Greg, and I looked at each other. What?
Turned out somewhere between flashing the score and entering it into the computer, someone had accidentally changed the 8 to a 9. We knew. Kathryn's mom knew. But Kathryn didn't. She bounced back over to us with her ribbon. "I got a 9.375!" she exclaimed.
"Good job!" I high-fived her. She could keep her victory.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Generation 4.0
Now there's a new group in town, none of them much over four feet tall: the non-sanctioned Level 4's.
A Tale of Two Groups of Level 4's? Somewhat.
We keep the older, experienced Level 4's with the Level 5's. The youngins are fresh off of Level 3. "Non-sanctioned" means that their meets are non-threatening: their scores don't count for anything (some meets don't even have scores), no scores are raised, and at the end, "everyone's a winner."
Like their older counterparts, these Level 4's bring a certain level of sass (or, at least, entertainment). There's Colleen, whose attention is always on something other than gymnastics; Mariah, who cries over anything; Dana, a silent, tenacious child; Nina, who doesn't realize how good she is; Allison, always a step behind; Holly, wildly inflexible (why must this be a trend?!). And then there's Larissa.
We've all known a Larissa. The one who stands out. The one who learns quickly. The one who never seems to get tired. Larissa started gymnastics in September. She was the first girl in the group to get her roundoff back handspring. Now she has a cartwheel on high beam, a back walkover on low beam, and not-too-shabby attempts at kips. She's on the verge of surpassing Dana, the previous leader of the group. She's tiny, flexible, strong, and six years old.
I'm afraid to get too excited about Larissa's natural ability. Sure, she's excited about gymnastics now. She comes to every practice. While her teammates giggle, she stays focused. Give her one correction and she understands. But we've had these talents before: Maya, whose interest in gymnastics is inversely proportional to her mother's prodding; Jamie, who can't decide if she wants to be a real gymnast or a girl who does gymnastics; and another girl of Gen 4.0, who showed as much promise as Larissa but faded out.
We're waiting for the girl who will take the flame and run with it.
A Tale of Two Groups of Level 4's? Somewhat.
We keep the older, experienced Level 4's with the Level 5's. The youngins are fresh off of Level 3. "Non-sanctioned" means that their meets are non-threatening: their scores don't count for anything (some meets don't even have scores), no scores are raised, and at the end, "everyone's a winner."
Like their older counterparts, these Level 4's bring a certain level of sass (or, at least, entertainment). There's Colleen, whose attention is always on something other than gymnastics; Mariah, who cries over anything; Dana, a silent, tenacious child; Nina, who doesn't realize how good she is; Allison, always a step behind; Holly, wildly inflexible (why must this be a trend?!). And then there's Larissa.
We've all known a Larissa. The one who stands out. The one who learns quickly. The one who never seems to get tired. Larissa started gymnastics in September. She was the first girl in the group to get her roundoff back handspring. Now she has a cartwheel on high beam, a back walkover on low beam, and not-too-shabby attempts at kips. She's on the verge of surpassing Dana, the previous leader of the group. She's tiny, flexible, strong, and six years old.
I'm afraid to get too excited about Larissa's natural ability. Sure, she's excited about gymnastics now. She comes to every practice. While her teammates giggle, she stays focused. Give her one correction and she understands. But we've had these talents before: Maya, whose interest in gymnastics is inversely proportional to her mother's prodding; Jamie, who can't decide if she wants to be a real gymnast or a girl who does gymnastics; and another girl of Gen 4.0, who showed as much promise as Larissa but faded out.
We're waiting for the girl who will take the flame and run with it.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Selling the Drama: All that glitters
can be turned to gold.
"Why do I get such low scores on floor?" Kathryn says.
"Because it looks like you're falling asleep in your routine," I say.
"Ohhh."
I firmly believe that if the presentation is good, you can sell anything. Especially floor routines. I never had the most difficult tumbling. Occasionally I fell on my face or off the floor. But if there was one thing I could do without fail, it was to perform my routine with love, joy, and drama. Sharp arms! Head turns! Plunges to the floor! Sword fights! With toes always pointed and solid jumps and turns, I'd often beat the girls with the big tumbling passes. No coach taught me the art of presentation; I had watched enough gymnastics competitions on TV and on old videos to see how it was done (back in the days when gymnasts actually danced in their routines). I took all of it in and put it back out with spirit and gusto.
It is time for my girls to do the same.
And it will be no small task.
"We are going to add pizazz to our floor routines," I say in January, emphasizing the word in hopes that it sounds exciting.
They look back at me with faces of, Um, okay.
I've already learned that calling out, "Lift your chin!" and similar directions does not work when the girls are mid-routine, especially when 1. they're tired and/or 2. on the verge of forgetting the routine if their concentration lifts for an instant. So we go back to the beginning of the routine. I instruct them exactly when to lift their chins. How to tilt their heads. What their hands should do at each instant. Where their arms should be. Over the course of several practices, we make it through the entire routine and then review.
Of course, some of them forget. Repeatedly. None of them match the robotic precision of the top teams. But then again, I never did either. Kelsey and Jamie start pulling in the 9.0's. So do the Level 4's. Their chins are up, they hear the music, they're learning to pay attention.
"Why do I get such low scores on floor?" Kathryn says.
"Because it looks like you're falling asleep in your routine," I say.
"Ohhh."
I firmly believe that if the presentation is good, you can sell anything. Especially floor routines. I never had the most difficult tumbling. Occasionally I fell on my face or off the floor. But if there was one thing I could do without fail, it was to perform my routine with love, joy, and drama. Sharp arms! Head turns! Plunges to the floor! Sword fights! With toes always pointed and solid jumps and turns, I'd often beat the girls with the big tumbling passes. No coach taught me the art of presentation; I had watched enough gymnastics competitions on TV and on old videos to see how it was done (back in the days when gymnasts actually danced in their routines). I took all of it in and put it back out with spirit and gusto.
It is time for my girls to do the same.
And it will be no small task.
"We are going to add pizazz to our floor routines," I say in January, emphasizing the word in hopes that it sounds exciting.
They look back at me with faces of, Um, okay.
I've already learned that calling out, "Lift your chin!" and similar directions does not work when the girls are mid-routine, especially when 1. they're tired and/or 2. on the verge of forgetting the routine if their concentration lifts for an instant. So we go back to the beginning of the routine. I instruct them exactly when to lift their chins. How to tilt their heads. What their hands should do at each instant. Where their arms should be. Over the course of several practices, we make it through the entire routine and then review.
Of course, some of them forget. Repeatedly. None of them match the robotic precision of the top teams. But then again, I never did either. Kelsey and Jamie start pulling in the 9.0's. So do the Level 4's. Their chins are up, they hear the music, they're learning to pay attention.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Every rose has its thorn
(Or storm, as Francesca would say!)
That first meet blew last season away. Surely there was nowhere to go but up.
Until the next meet, of course.
This competition was a tremendous invitational, the kind in which sessions run all day and night, the awards ceremony takes almost as long as the competition, and you come to memorize the placement of every mat and chair in the gym, every hokey announcement by the meet director. Beforehand, I had the tremendous fortune of losing my voice to a combination of bronchitis and extreme Rock Band singing. I tried writing notes at practice. Didn't hep.
The Level 4's turned in lackluster performances. Christina and Laurel were decent but didn't score high. Grace and Alejandra weren't as sharp as usual. Chloe, a nervous twig of a child, competed as though the wind might knock her off the beam at any moment.
The Level 5's, in the next session, were just as uninspired. Kelsey pulled together an 8.1 on bars, but I don't think anyone broke a 9.0 on the other events. Oddly, they all managed to win a bunch of awards.
And the next day, with my voice at new levels of scratchy, the 6's (Maya and Natalie) bombed bars and beam like there was no tomorrow. Maya earned an award for vault and Natalie finished with one of those "every child's a winner" medals.
I wish I had put on a leotard and competed for all of them.
That first meet blew last season away. Surely there was nowhere to go but up.
Until the next meet, of course.
This competition was a tremendous invitational, the kind in which sessions run all day and night, the awards ceremony takes almost as long as the competition, and you come to memorize the placement of every mat and chair in the gym, every hokey announcement by the meet director. Beforehand, I had the tremendous fortune of losing my voice to a combination of bronchitis and extreme Rock Band singing. I tried writing notes at practice. Didn't hep.
The Level 4's turned in lackluster performances. Christina and Laurel were decent but didn't score high. Grace and Alejandra weren't as sharp as usual. Chloe, a nervous twig of a child, competed as though the wind might knock her off the beam at any moment.
The Level 5's, in the next session, were just as uninspired. Kelsey pulled together an 8.1 on bars, but I don't think anyone broke a 9.0 on the other events. Oddly, they all managed to win a bunch of awards.
And the next day, with my voice at new levels of scratchy, the 6's (Maya and Natalie) bombed bars and beam like there was no tomorrow. Maya earned an award for vault and Natalie finished with one of those "every child's a winner" medals.
I wish I had put on a leotard and competed for all of them.
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