Final Blog Project: "The Truthfulness of Hips" (submitted to Speak Magazine)

Showtime.

The audience waited. The music began. Jess and I danced towards each other in front of the classroom, swaying our hips with all of our gringa glory. We bounced from side to side and spun each other around. We giggled.

"¿Alguien sabe el baile?"

"¿Cha cha?" someone offered.

We cued up the Power Point. "El merengue," we responded proudly.

"Oh," our professor said. "You're dancing to salsa music."

A fine start, indeed.

I would have made a lovely ballerina, but I’m not a terrible gymnast. I'm pretty solid in Spanish. Combine Spanish and dancing, and the phrase "analysis breeds paralysis" comes to mind: How come nobody else looks like an idiot besides me?

My incompetence was first revealed during Africana Dance last semester (which, ironically, nearly every gymnast in the class had to withdraw from due to injury). I was pretty good at slapping the floor to the drumbeat and waving my arms in a tribal manner. But when it came time to salsa, my professor inevitably walked over and poked my hips. Move those.

I moved them. All right. I had a rhythm going. The music was moving. I was moving.

I finally looked in the mirror and saw a pale girl dancing in the manner of a child learning to hula and failing at it.

I’ve yet to find a Latina or black woman incapable of rocking out to any rhythm. Turn up the music, clear off the dance floor, and watch them work their magic. Ah, if only my European ancestors had jumped and clapped to driving drumbeats instead of dancing stiffly in a parlor somewhere…

But I won’t take on the burden of my ancestors. So Emeline (the sole gymnast survivor of Africana Dance) turned on Shakira and gave me an impromptu dance lesson in her room one Saturday night before we went out.

“You know my hips don’t lie…” the Colombian singer crooned seductively.

"Loosen up your arms," my housemate instructed. "You're not doing a floor routine."

True.

Emeline poked my hips. She pretended to grind on me and I ran away. She spun in circles and I imitated, knocking a picture frame to the floor.

In the end, she stood back, watched, and said, "Much better than before."

My confidence boosted, I figured the two-step merengue would be manageable as our group project for Spanish 319. Jess and I danced to YouTube videos in the Mac lab. We talked merengue. We visualized it. Miranda was wise and opted to play the music instead.

Undeterred by that minor error of salsa instead of merengue music, we invited the class to join the "dance floor." Well, how about that? Our professor could do the merengue, and it looked nothing like our very enthusiastic version.

"That was perfecta," a classmate said as I took my seat.

Well, perhaps not. But I'll still be moving to music anytime I hear it. Regardless of how I look.

"All good things must pass" -- A reflection on Writing Sports Literature

Well, friends, it's been a ride.

Reading:
1] I've read many a pretentious "how-to-write" book in my day, and Writing True was the complete opposite. The book managed to be both helpful and encouraging, offering a variety of "Ways In" that encourage the writer to be original, rather than, "Follow this format because it's the proper way to write."

2] Several stories resonate from the collection we read: "Dirty Moves," "What Goes Ninety-five Miles per Hour for Seventeen Days...," "The Shadow Boxer," "A (Fishing) Hole in One" (yes, I actually liked that one), and "Raising the Dead." For me, these stories were the most engaging while smoothly combining research and issues. All effectively presented a non-mainstream sport in a way to engage an audience unfamiliar with the rules of wrestling or the dangers of scuba diving.

Class time:

Although we all groaned, writing on the chalkboard did indeed illustrate the structure of the stories: the issues at hand and how they moved, the details, the resolution. Variety during class, though, would help maintain the students' interest: perhaps having a group of students be responsible for illustrating a particular story for the class, or having the class direct the professor as he diagrams the story. Otherwise, the groups focused on their own section of the board without interacting with the other clusters.

The grammar presentation, especially the section about active v. passive verbs, was informative. (Ahh! There I go with a passive statement...) The presentation, however, would have been better timed had it been given before or right after Paper 1, instead of in the midst of Paper 2.

The few classes we had to simply work on our papers were the most effective for me. I could read over my own story or pass it to a friend if I so chose. While workshops are an integral part of the writing process, having the professor look over my paper was most beneficial to me. Sir Emerson took the time to sit down with each student and glance over his or her paper, although many other students waited.

Writing:

The blogs were a fine idea and, from what I've seen, successful. I like blogging.

I appreciated our professor's heavy emphasis on the importance of research: a necessary evil, indeed. The papers I've written for other classes usually include heavy citations from a story/poem, or are entirely creative pieces that don't need any sort of "tangible" foothold. And alas, my writing has drastically improved through the necessity of research. (The Prof. should subtitle this course as, "'Research' is Not a Dirty Word.")

Research was much easier with topics that I had little to no knowledge of -- after all, I was starting with nothing. I struggled with research in my second paper because my search queries were often too specific. Plus, having done gymnastics for many moons, many facts have become internalized over the years.

When I edited that assignment, however, I suddenly found new openings: ways to incorporate general research into a specific topic, thus making the story (hopefully) more relatable to non-gymnast readers. The ability to find, and utilize, such research has most certainly improved my writing. Who wants to read a story that they can't connect to?

The professor's requirement that we all submit to a publication (yeah, Transition!) made our writing a whole lot more "real." We weren't merely writing for a grade, but for (hopefully) a much wider audience. I'm not certain that the New York Road Runner will want to read my Paper 1. Someone out there, however, just might. Perhaps some high school girls on a bus somewhere to a meet...

Miscellaneous:

I learned how to play chess, which I probably wouldn't ever have had the time/motivation to do on my own. And whaddaya know? I really enjoyed playing, which allowed me to enjoy...writing.

Straight from the heart (Bryan Adams-style)

I actually used yesterday's snow day in an effective manner: I worked on my paper and played Steve in chess.

This paper has actually become close to my heart. It was a wise scheme, I believe, to choose a topic I knew nothing about. The more I unearth about chess, the more quirky -- yet normal -- find the game to be. I've been chipping at it for weeks now, and alas, I have arrived to the cusp of page fourteen -- enough pages in to know that there's much, much more to be said.

I think I'm doing an all right job for a "newb," though.

And, of course, Steve owned me. I didn't even capture any of his pieces. But I didn't mind. Strange for a fairly competitive person to say. But really -- I've literally played chess twice. Every male that I've surveyed so far (and my mom, as it turns out) claims to know how to play. Gender isn't the issue, though; it's experience.

So as Steve's bishop slid towards my king and I worked to defend it with my knight -- and ultimately failed -- I was already contemplating how I could improve -- see more -- be better prepared.

I lose gracefully. You can't break my spirit.

Fantastic.

I knew there was a reason I'd decided to write about chess!

Aqui, amigos.

Oof.

Throw your hands up if the end of the semester is kicking your ass!

Slash and burn!

I enjoy revising.

Ooh! A shocking assertion, to be sure. Sometimes I feel "done" with a piece -- good, bad, or ugly, it's time to move on and maybe use the brighter glimpses of it for another (hopefully better) piece one day.

But usually I sense that something's amiss. Perhaps too much information, too little, not enough coherence, overclarification, etc. Perhaps fragments that don't really make sense, such as the one I just wrote. And thus I sit down, as I did this weekend, and stare at the document for a long while.

In some ways revision can be almost as daunting as writing a fresh piece. Sometimes the same despair creeps in: What am I going for here? Is this even salvageable?

On Saturday, though, some distance from the paper made it much easier to see where I could insert more research. I referred to specific overuse injuries common to gymnasts. I developed some of the other stories -- those of Kerri Strug and the experiences of my teammates. As much as we outwardly grumble about writing on the board (but, of course, inwardly love it), I've found that breaking down the readings into sections, and then analyzing those sections further, has given me a better sense of the structure to aim for in my own pieces.

I'm hoping I'll be able to pull the chess piece (my topic for the third paper) together in a satisfactory manner. I can see several stories: mental v. physical sports, the role of a women in sports, the simple challenge of playing the game. The second draft may very well end up being one huge mess. But hopefully it'll be a mess I can work through.

In the meantime, I've been focused on revising Assignment Two. I hit page 16 and realized that there's still much more to write. The paper feels better already, though: more universal, more connected. To be honest, I'll likely need another revision after this one. I'll probably have to cut down, though on what specifically, I can't tell just yet. Whenever the "research-y" paragraphs threaten to dominate the pages, I've tried to insert dialogue -- which, of course, serves to make the piece longer. But I feel that the story is starting to move somewhere else -- somewhere better.

It is raining right now and I feel nothing, really. A bit tired. A bit of heat from the laptop. A bit thirsty. A bit annoyed. A bit "I'm going to kick some ass." A bit "I know I won't really kick some ass."

A bit of nothing, really. My mind and I have been wedded for so long that anything on the verge of appearing interesting right now is shrugged off. All right, I guess.

I liked playing chess last night. The game finished almost an hour and a half after beginning due to instructional breaks and sips of Arnold Palmer.

"Non-linear," I repeated at one point, picking up my pen to write down the note.

Mike sighed. "I'm going to need patience."

My king danced around the board for a solid twenty minutes. He refused to get captured. Sort of like me in many things, I think. Losing but holding off the final moments, waiting for a breakthrough, a miraculous mishap, anything.

I liked having to think in all different directions, none of which would really mean anything in the end. But they did right then. It was so incredibly pressing that I move on this diagonal and not on that one. That I advanced up the side. That I stayed put and discovered a defense that I hadn't realized earlier.

I challenged Steve to a match:

"hahahaha is that what you needed help with???"

Well...yes.

"sounds reasonable."

Then later,

"P.S. Jay told me that he saw you at the library...practicing chess. I laughed. At you, naturally."

It's on, Steve. It is on.

I don't really care if it's on or not, though. It will be something to do. Something to write about.

It continues raining, something falls to the floor in another room, and I'm still here with not much of anything.

Sport?

As I trotted out of the library the other day, chess books in hand, I had a sudden thought : Is chess a sport? After all, it would be quite disheartening to write a glorious fifteen-page story on the beauty of chess only to find out "'tis but a game, good child, not a sporting endeavor."

Then the question shifted: What is a "sport"?

As with all questions that require an answer, I turned to Wikipedia.

"Sport is an activity that is governed by a set of rules or customs and often engaged in competitively."

I suppose that settles the issue.

But what about "competitively"? If you and I go head to head in some impromptu drinking game, does that justify our activity as "sport"? Laser tag? Kickball? Mario Kart?

What about exertion? If I play Solitaire to beat my previous time and you're competing in a triathlon, are they comparable sports? Does mental exertion matter as much as physical? Are they equal or will the physical always be more appreciated?

A friend argued once that sports which require judges are NOT sports due to their subjectivity. Of course, I vehemently disagreed. What sport isn't subjective? Hello, referees. (I then proceeded to storm away and fell down as I turned the corner, making a particularly effective argument for why gymnastics is a sport.)

Today, I passed a flyer in Van Hoesen advertising some sort of mystical class called "Writing Sports Literature." One of the black-and-white images on the yellow paper was a chess piece. I'm not skilled enough yet to identify which one, but it may have been a pawn or rook.

But the grainy image was all I needed to see. Through whatever definition you wish to use, chess qualifies as sport.

Notes

"What about the perspective of the pawn?"

Chess seems to be a solid task to tackle for the third paper. I've never played, so immediately I have more distance from the game than I would with track, gymnastics, lacrosse, etc. Dusty volumes from the 1950's fill a shelf section on the third floor of the library. Hits immediately jumped up from my search query, "How to play chess."

There's got to be a story -- or make that stories -- in the midst of this.

As I teach myself about the rules and wonders of chess, I'd like to set down some of the random facts I'm discovering on Wikipedia. (No worries, kids, I'll confirm all of these facts.)

"Chess can be played with a time control. This involves assigning each player a set amount of time to make moves. If a player's time runs out before the game is completed, he loses on time. The timing ranges from up to seven hours for long games to shorter rapid chess games usually lasting 30 minutes or one hour. Even shorter is blitz chess, with a time control of three to fifteen minutes per player and bullet chess, in which the allotment is under three minutes."

Seven hours!

"Introduced into the Iberian Peninsula by the Moors in the 10th century, it was described in a famous 13th century manuscript covering shatranj, backgammon, and dice named the Libro de los juegos.[6]" -- Yeah, Spain!

How about that? The queen is the most powerful piece.

Chess clubs formed in Europe and chess problems were printed in the newspaper. I've actually seen such problems in Newsday, though I never made any attempt to riddle through them.

Many male champions. Why do the men and women have separate championships???

(Clearly the chess scene has been waiting for me to join the circuit.)

"Chess moves can be annotated with punctuation marks and other symbols. For example ! indicates a good move, !! an excellent move, ? a mistake, ?? a blunder, !? an interesting move that may not be best or ?! a dubious move, but not easily refuted." Fabulous.

Stay posted as the adventure begins. Checkmate.

steps

I walk the streets of Japan
'til I get lost
'cause it doesn't remind me
of anything

I like to walk.

In the morning as sun strikes my eyes and my quads grunt against the incline of the hill. A song plays in my head, something inappropriately peppy for this time of day, and I think that perhaps the sun will make everything warmer later -- less sharp -- less inevitable.

I like to walk in the afternoon -- almost a run, really -- here, there, towards, away, rushing, thinking, scarce attention to a raindrop or a crack in the sky. Someone calls my name and I blink and wave. I walk quickly although I am not always late. On crutches, in leg braces, with foot boots to protect broken bones, I pass people. People with two solid legs and a leisurely gait. In the snow. How is that?

I prefer to walk at night, looking for cracks in the sidewalk and keeping my mind on the stars. I imagine myself flipping down this cement aisle. Sometimes I want to break into a run. No reason at all.

I let myself walk right now.

Sometimes I hear music. Often I imagine conversations. I wonder what you're doing beyond the hills.

I do not want to keep up with someone else's pace. Sometimes I call people. Multitasking, if you will, panting a bit as I turn corners and move up and down.

But I prefer to walk alone, even though I am not walking towards someone. I do not need you as a goal. I have enough myself. I am getting there, you see, moving from this one to the next. On my own.

Craft

As the venerable Professor Emerson and I discussed craft, an image came to mind: the girls fighting through one more floor routine, legs a bit sloppy in the air, landing heavily. And then the gymnasts warming up with a line of basic tumbling, bodies tight and perfectly controlled. They walk off the floor calmly: That will do for now.

I think similarly of words. Words that unobtrusively show you the story without working too hard (or at least, not appearing to work hard). Words that you almost don't notice until something beautiful happens and you think, Damn, I wish I wrote that.

Perhaps that's my problem with the whole emo genre of music. It's cool that groups of youths jam together and try to make it big. It's cool that they want to sing about relationships (or, more often, a lack thereof). But each song comes out louder, more angsty, and more "clever" than the next. The quest to show pain and be profound becomes too forced for me to sustain interest in an entire album.

Let it be. Let the story tell itself. With a bit of help from you, of course.

..

For my next paper, I'm thinking about exploring the theme of defense. Fighting against the opponent. What it means to be a team when members are truly out for themselves, and the excuses they use to justify their failures. The way the body defends itself against an injury. Or perhaps I'll go the injury route -- I've got several good friends bouncing about with reconstructed ACLs.

Suggestions for the above topics, or any other topic, are more than welcome. :-)

For now, I shall go for a run before practice. This is my favorite time of day to run -- the late afternoon sunshine slanting down, the day beginning to cool under blue sky.

See you out there.

Hips don't lie

Showtime.

The audience waited. The music began. Jess and I danced towards each other in front of the classroom, swaying our hips with all of our gringa glory. We bounced from side to side and spun each other around. We giggled.

"¿Alguien sabe el baile?"

"¿Cha cha?" someone offered.

We cued up the Power Point. "El merengue," we responded proudly.

"Oh," our professor said. "You're dancing to salsa music."

A fine start, indeed.

I would have made a lovely ballerina. I'm pretty solid in Spanish. Combine Spanish and dancing, and the phrase "analysis breeds paralysis" comes to mind: How come nobody else looks like an idiot besides me?

My incompetence was first revealed during Africana Dance last semester (which, ironically, nearly every gymnast in the class had to withdraw from due to injury). I was pretty good at slapping the floor to the drumbeat and waving my arms in a tribal manner. But when it came time to salsa, my professor inevitably walked over and poked my hips. Move those.

I moved them. All right. I had a rhythm going. The music was moving. I was moving.

I finally looked in the mirror and saw a pale girl dancing in the manner of a child learning to hula and failing at it.

But I've never been one to give up. So Emeline (the sole gymnast survivor of Africana Dance) turned on Shakira and gave me an impromptu dance lesson in her room one Saturday night before we went out.

"Loosen up your arms," she instructed immediately. "You're not doing a floor routine."

True.

She poked my hips. She pretended to grind on me and I ran away. She spun in circles and I imitated, knocking a picture frame to the floor.

In the end, she stood back, watched, and said, "Much better than before."

My confidence boosted, I figured the two-step merengue would be manageable as our group project for Spanish 319. Jess and I danced to YouTube videos in the Mac lab. We talked merengue. We visualized it. Miranda was wise and opted to play the music instead.

Undeterred by that minor error of salsa instead of merengue music, we invited the class to join the "dance floor." Well, how about that? Our professor could do the merengue, and it looked nothing like our very enthusiastic version.

"That was perfecta," a classmate said as I took my seat.

Well, perhaps not. But I'll still be moving to music anytime I hear it. Regardless of how I look.

good morning.

Assignment 2 is done. For now. While results about lab mice still came up as I perused Answers.com, I found that putting quotations around certain words did aid in finding useful material. I also found a page about the average heights of Spaniards, in case anyone's interested.

So how about Assignment 3? I'd like to write something abstract. Unusual. Intriguing. About what? "We'll see."

I don't usually write in the morning. Then again, I don't have a set time. While nighttime seems to be the most inspirational, sometimes morning can be most clear. At other times, something about the afternoon gets my mind running and it must be written immediately or else I can't concentrate.

SUBMIT TO TRANSITION! (My plug that will be repeated often and loudly.)

For now, I shall learn how to dance the merengue off of YouTube with a friend in the name of a group presentation. Bailamos!

Terms of encouragement

If you screw up, I'm pulling you out of the game. There's no "I" in "team" [but there is a "me," some wise-ass snickers]. HUSTLE. Cortland Dragons on three! Get in there! Get in there! Get on her! To the outside! Oh, what the hell, ref! Am I up? Start strong, finish stronger. One event at a time. It's over! Put it behind you! Let's go! Focus! You're falling apart out there. Good play. Good hustle. Call "Wildcat" on the next out-of-bounds play. Pass it! What are you doing with six girls on you?! We've still got a chance. There's a lot of things I liked about that jump. Off your toes! Box out! Pick and roll! Ref, that was a foul! Don't rush it. LET'S GO LET'S GO! You got it! Finish strong! Drive to the net! C'mon! Oh, Christ, what are you doing out there? I want to see you play like a team. Compete the way you practice. You're going in for her ready get out there good go. How badly do you want it? Are you all right? Shake it off. Walk it off. Can we get some ice? This is the most important game of your lives. Think about Nationals. It starts here, it starts now.

Don't blow it.

The trouble with parents

She had to vent. I went to make a delicious wrap for dinner and returned to a very accurate monologue:

"So I'm really beginning to not be able to tolerate parents in my gym anymore. I can't stand the parents of the 3 year olds who are only setting their children up for disaster. They let them get away with murder, so when I tell them that they aren't following directions or make a correction on a cartwheel, they sit and pout and cry for the next 10 minutes. Sorry kid, you aren't always going to be first, you aren't always going to do it right, you are never going to be perfect! And THEN I love the parents who can't realize that when their daughter gets a concussion because her arms gave out under her weight after doing a backhandspring that it might be the time to give up the sport. Gymnastics isn't meant for overweight children; try sumo wrestling. I also don't understand the parents who have the hundreds of dollars to buy their children every Webkinz under the sun, but then complain about entry fees and prices of tuition. People drive me NUTS!"

Hence why I run away from parents after every gymnastics class I teach.

Hence why the idea of irate parents on Parent-Teacher Conference Day was truly a factor in keeping me from choosing Childhood Education as a career path.

Hence why a part of ME is injured every time a child rolls an ankle or claims she "broke her head."

Hence why every good save isn't just a relief for the health of the child, but a relief from the vision of a lawsuit.

Oh, if only we could all frolic happily in our gymnastics bubble without the parents peering through the glass.

Online research

Obviously, I'd be able to find out a few facts online. Like the peak age for a female gymnast. The effects of age on the healing of a bone fracture. The year Mitsuo Tsukahara first tossed the vault now named after him.

Well, I've found out a few things about rhythmic gymnasts, learned that Beckham also broke his fifth metatarsal, and discovered that a female Russian gymnast first Tsuked (yes, we gymnasts use it as a verb) in 1974.

I am not sure if these facts will help my paper.

mikeyE876: you need to start thinking gayer and more positive

Thank you, Mike.

Well, I do have a story. I do have facts culled from years of being in the sport. And I do have the notion that I need to fine-tune my Google quests in some manner, or perhaps be a team player and ask my coach if he has any (gasp!) paper information on the above research topics.

Regardless, the quest shall be glorious.

Gymnastics on television(???)

Shouts. Fists against walls. Cell phones tossed to the floor. Grunts and slammed doors.

Then an eerie silence falls.

Just the aftereffects of the Mets/Yankees losses.

..

I'm not too interested in watching television, though I'd rather catch a baseball game than yet another silly reality show. But at around 3:00 on Sunday afternoon, word came out: gymnastics would be on NBC at 4.

As a sport that draws little public interest besides during the Olympics, finding gymnastics on television is an exciting surprise for the diehards. The broadcasts never fail to show only a few athletes, put in far too much filler, make useless commentary, and end too quickly. But we won't stop tuning in.

I hightailed it home. I brought my laptop into the den so that I could "work" and watch at the same time. "Turn on NBC now," I commanded several friends via Instant Messenger. It could never hurt to bring the ratings up a tiny bit.

The world championships had taken place in the middle of September, and video footage had been available on the Internet since then. The camera angles on the television broadcast were awkward, such as staying in the same spot for entire uneven bar routines. Even the film itself was different throughout the competition, as if there had been several cameras meshed together. Of course, Al Trautwig made his usual idiotic remarks. Of course, the men's side of the competition was summed up in about three minutes.

But there were highlights: a Russian gymnast stopping on her vault, 25-year-old Yelena Zamolodchikova still busting out elite gymnastics, a Romanian who did five (!) tumbling passes, and of course American Shawn Johnson, who will be my hero until she becomes an obnoxious sell-out (let's hope that doesn't come to pass).

The next broadcast? Likely the American Cup in early 2008. Will I be watching? As long as I know when it's being aired.

..

And as an aside, I'm always fascinated by figure skating whenever it's on TV. Sure, we snicker at the men, and the costumes can get a bit ridiculous. But for anyone who's not a hockey player, it's no small task to maintain your balance on skates while skating forward and backward, much less jumping, landing, and spinning on one foot.

So as you roll your eyes and prepare to switch the channel, ask yourself: Could you do that for four minutes without stopping?

Noise everywhere.

All around me, they pound their hands together and shout. Their heavily hair-sprayed ponytails bob up and down with every turn of their heads. Light hits the black leotards and glittery eye shadow.

Music blares from the speakers. One gymnast dances into the corner of the floor.

I stare straight ahead, hands on hips. My feet pace and pause, pace and pause.

“Let’s go! C’mon!”

I gotta pee.

“Aw, shit, how could she fall on that?”

She does it all the time.

“You got it! There ya go! Finish strong!”

Don’t miss –

“Another fall…we’re screwed.”

I should have done another full. Nah, I’m fine...

“Are you ready?”

Wasn’t ready when I landed before and I still feel the sting in my back –

“You looked great warming up.”

I hope I don’t throw up.

“Next up on floor is Diana Gallagher.”

Anthem

Because we've all got songs that get us pumped or just bring back some sort of sporting memories...

We're gonna win, we wanna win,
'cuz number one is everything...
Bryan Adams, "We're Gonna Win." Junior year of spring track.

How many people wanna kick some ass?
I do! I do!
Stroke 9, "Kick Some Ass." Very inspirational our tenth-grade year of running laps.

You will be nothing at all.
Stage, "I Will Be Something." Another song of yearning as we pounded lap after lap.

Yes, I'm the real shady.
Eminem, "Slim Shady." We got bored during lacrosse games in 8th grade.

Gonna get a lil' unruly.
Christina Aguilera, "Dirty." Theme song of our gymnastics "team dance" senior year that I refused to perform when my parents were present.

Why? Why do you always kick me when I'm high?
SR-71, "Right Now." Because Kelsey and I were "bad ass" as ninth grade nerds on the track team.

And worst of all, you never call, baby, when you say you will!
"Build Me Up Buttercup" (artist escapes me right now). Good clean fun to sing as we ran through the woods.

I would walk 500 miles...
The Proclaimers, "500 Miles." Appropriate, again, for long runs.

I will go the distance.
Michael Bolton, "Go the Distance." Not going to lie -- I secretly listened to this song on the way to gymnastics meets.

What if God was one of us?
For some reason, this song always had an uncanny way of appearing at gymnastics practice. We mocked it and wondered if we'd go to hell.

But she caught me on the counter...Wasn't me.
Shaggy, "Wasn't Me." We had strange musical tastes, okay?

The runner's low

So many people run every day, and so many people hate it.

Their breath puffs clouds into the cold morning air. Their gloved fists swing back and forth, back and forth. In the depth of summer, their clothes cling to their sweat-soaked bodies as they take another swipe at their forehead and keep on running.

Running on the pavement will give you shin splints. Running on the beach will strain your Achilles. Sprinting will pull your hamstrings. Long distance runs will break you down, slowly and certainly.

Your ankles can roll on the sidewalk. Your knees can twist as you stumble over a branch. Your groins can protest as you jerk around a corner. You will find it uncomfortably to walk yet possible to keep jogging. Just keep moving, you think.

At least I'm not walking, you think, as you trot up and down at a pace slower than your normal walk. At least you're out here moving, letting your skin touch the air, instead of sitting somewhere in a car or office or room. At least the world moves past you instead of remaining static while you run on a treadmill, sweating bodies beside you as they flip through magazines and wipe their faces with neatly folded towels.

You face yourself out here and sometimes you don't want to watch. It's you, all you. You stumbling. You struggling. You moving. You thinking. You stopping.

I turn up my music so that I do not hear my gasping breath.

Heat waves

God, I need ice. Or ice cream. Or shade. Or a pool. Or a blizzard.

We'd hoped all day that the game would be cancelled. Of course, we felt similarly on rainy days. But there was something more miserable about running on the grass as the heat tightened around us, more stifling than any defender.

But 4:00 came and we were on the field, kilts and jerseys in place. Our hands were sweating already as we gripped our sticks, tensed for face-off.

Not many fans came to watch junior varsity girls' lacrosse, and especially not on a day like today. Our teammates on the bench clapped half-heartedly. For once, being on the bench was enviable. In fact, with our small team, only two players were on the bench at a time.

For a time, the ball stayed in action towards the other net. I shaded my goggle-covered eyes and wondered if the ball would make it to this end before the end of the half. My fellow defenders were less diligent; some chatted with who they were defending and others stretched their arms to the sky in hopes of getting some color.

But an opponent came streaking down the field, cradling the ball. Soon we were all running, shouting, shoving, striking stick against stick. We didn't think about heat. We didnt think about thirst. We thought about getting the ball away.

I chased ground balls and batted them away from the other team. I fired the ball to the nearest open teammate shouting my name. As she sprinted the other way, the whistle blew.

We all looked. There hadn't been any fouls.

No, it was a mandatory water break. Everyone placed their sticks on the field to mark their positions. Then we trotted off of the field and drank the water that would be sweated out of our bodies as soon as we returned to play.

We remembered then that we were overheated. That the warm water would merely moisten our mouths. That the sun's descent couldn't happen fast enough. Our shoulders sagged as our coach critiqued our game thus far.

Then the whistle blew again. We jogged back onto the field. We took our slick sticks into our hands. And we began to play again.

Sunday afternoon

The deep blue sky could swallow everything, I think. You could forget that it's fall on a day like this -- warmth on your skin, rich green trees, people running and strolling and laughing outside.

A ball bounces by.

I would like to hit you out of my head, but my swings send the lime green ball soaring in a high arch that ends in a graceful bounce out of bounds. I would like to participate in a smooth volley where the ball always find the center of the racket and crisply darts back over.

I haven't played tennis since Debbie Lutjen's gym class at age 15, where my prorities were having Jeff, the cute one, as my doubles partner (I succeeded) and making sarcastic comments to Kelsey about our "written exams" (also successful).

It's just leisure, after all, but despite the excuse of my six-year drought, I am quickly frustrated. Well, hell, that backhand shouldn't have fired the ball into the fence.

We aren't moving much. Balls sail over our heads and we take up the fruitless task of jumping as high as we can to send them back. We miss every time. Only after my body realizes that it's in the sunlight do I begin to sweat.

We laugh and I do an occasional handstand. What matters most right now is that I am not inside and thinking about being outside. That I am not tempted to fall into old habits, but to try to forge new paths that perhaps I'll stray down again on an afternoon like this.

"You can get a cheap racket at Wal-Mart," my partner says supportively.

Maybe I will, I think. I don't plan to impress anyone. But perhaps a racket would be good to have, in case I feel inspired one day to hit my returns into the net and duck from serves coming at my face.

No, nobody would be impressed by that.

We're not keeping score. It doesn't really matter, does it?

Two-dollar Tuesdays

It's 9:00 on a summer Tuesday night. As the other girls warm up on vault, I sneak into the back room of the gym and grab my cell phone. It flashes red, signifying a voicemail.

"You up for two-dollar bowling?" Kelsey's recorded voice asks.

Heck, yes.

So is Nick. And Jill. And Zach. And Lauren. And Jamie. And Carissa. And Brian. And Danielle.

After 10:00, we descend upon Coram Country Lanes en masse. Afterwards, half-priced appetizers at Applebee's will entice us. Cheap food, cheap bowling: a winning combination for college students on Long Island.

We take over two neighboring lanes. After balls and beers are selected, it's time to bowl.

The males, of course, need to be champions. "This lane sucks!" they complain each time they fail to pick up a spare. "I hate the balls here. Port Jeff Lanes is so much better."

Matters are much calmer on the female side. Jill bowls another one into the gutter. Danielle is just hanging out before heading off to a party. Kelsey breaks away from a conversation to toss the ball onto the slick wood. The males snicker.

But little do they know that Lauren and I are ready to take up the slack.

I'm not too subtle when I do well. I still claim that breaking into the double digits is a victory (which it really isn't, besides maybe for Jill). I jump happily whenever I get a strike, and Lauren and I promptly break into our imitation of a Grateful Dead tribute dance.

My bowling experience has been limited to birthday parties and the sporadic outing such as this evening's. I pretend to not be competitive. But I am.

I hold the ball and pause, staring down the lane. I ponder the perfect angle. I hold my breath. I exhale. I try to find an inner calm. I try to ignore the heckling males.

Then I swing my arm back and forward again, dropping the child-sized hot pink ball towards the arrows on the floor and watching it roll. My form is nontraditional -- as soon as I lean forward to release, my right leg flies up behind me for balance. Sometimes I try to keep my leg pinned to the floor, but this method has not proven itself to be more successful than my typical form.

The ball rolls too slowly, I think. It creaks into the pins. 3. 5. 7. All. fall down.

Lauren quietly slides the ball into spare after spare. I go strike, spare, strike, spare. "Diana! You're awesome!" Danielle declares from her seat at the table.

Not usually. I'm also sure that Lauren could take me on handily if we were to go head-to-head. But I'll pretend to be awesome right now.

Meanwhile, Zach fires the ball down the alley when he's not trying to help Jill with her form. His ball even acquires a touch of curve before it crashes into the pins. Four go down. He grimaces and turns his back to the lane, shaking his head.

"Whoever loses buys the other team a pitcher -- right, Zach?" the girls taunt him.

"Whatever. We're going to have a comeback," Zach says with a smirk.

I break into the 160's for the first time ever, beating my previous best of a 123 with bumpers. A glorious evening, indeed! Lauren finishes close behind me. Our teammates are a bit more leisurely in raising their scores.

So after two games, Zach's about right. Usually the two teams are separated by a matter of a few pins. Of course, the grounds for victory are changed at this time: "Only the first game counts." "No, it's both."

"Applebee's is closing soon," Jamie points out.

In the end, everyone pays their own way. "You owe us next Tuesday," Zach announces with yet another smirk.

We'll see about that.

Amber mentions at 3:00 that we have conditioning today at practice.

"Seriously? We do?" Tanya cries. "I'm not mentally prepared!"

What is it about the repetition of strength exercises -- none harder or more physically demanding than the skills we do voluntarily -- that wipes the smile off of anyone's face?

Back in the day at the tender age of 11, we used to have four sets of fifty push-ups, three sets of seven pull-ups, three sets of ten leg lifts, and an assortment of other activities that took up a good chunk of practice time. We also had an infamous routine of "vaulting drills," which involved conditioning that moved up and down the seventy-foot runway. These activities ranged from sprinting to sitting on the runway, legs stretched out in front of us, pushing off of the floor with our hands, scooting our legs forward (no use of the butt allowed), then sitting again. For the length of the runway. And back again.

"Good," our coach said once after we'd finished, panting. "Now do those all over again, and do them right."

It came to the point where you either sobbed or simply embraced the situation. (Or, of course, cheated.) I'd like to think that I have some integrity. And thus I attacked every repetition. Eventually, strangely, I gained a certain pleasure from this repeated pain-and-relief-and-pain cycle.

I would like to tell you that conditioning works miracles. That if you can do all of those push-ups, there's no limit to your skill level.

But I've seen plenty of cheaters with better success than me. They'd do twenty lame push-ups as I worked through my fifty, then bounce off to get a drink. I kept going.

When it came time for gymnastics, I found that I was still terrified of new skills in spite of my newfound strength. And I found that those who cheated could easily toss skills without any lingering thoughts of, "I really half-assed that last jog around the floor."

And so it comes to me at age 21, still pumping out gymnastics and learning to enjoy conditioning. Perhaps that's what happens to the "leftovers." Well, you may be two levels higher than me, but damn, can I do a leg lift!

The Most Dangerous Game

I don't care what they say. Tag is not innocent.

Of course, it was awesome if you were chosen to be "Buffalo Bill" or "Buffalo Jill" in second grade gym class. I'm not sure how this version of tag differed from any other, besides that the tagged had to sit "Indian-style" (a very politically correct game, indeed) on the hardwood floor.

But if you were that lucky cowboy or cowgirl, you had all the power. Everyone skirted away from you in terror, shrieking and contorting their bodies as if the stretch of your hand made their skin curve away. With gleefully sadistic grins, you bounded all over the gymnasium. Sneakers squealed in protest.

At first, victims were defeated in swarms. Reach your hand into a group and you were bound to get at least two people.

But those still free knew how to dodge you. They darted around corners and sacrificed their friends to keep themselves safe. Two would bond together. As you approached them, they split and ran around you. It was up to you to catch the slowest.

And the last man standing was the only one who could turn your power against you. That cocky boy with the skinny legs evaded you again and again. Sweat glistened on both of your faces. The initial adrenaline turned to frustration. It was mind games now. He had you wondering where he'd bolt next. He could saunter and then sprint away as you approached.

Unless he did something stupid, you would never catch him.

Now the kids sitting Indian-style were rooting against you. Even your best friend hoped for your demise. They cheered him on every time he missed your once-potent tag.

Sometimes the teacher would finally intervene after this one-on-one had stretched on for a long while. Some of the tagged kids were getting antsy. "Okay, good job! Let's play again!" The teacher clapped and picked some other student to be "It." And you were relegated to being one of the herd.

But other times, even the teacher stood back to watch the battle.

You started to wish you'd never had this responsibility. Yet would it have better to been merely one of "them," running away in fear? Or to be feared and risk falling short of that image of invincibility?

Maybe time would run out before you fell short.

Your shoelaces flapped around your feet. Your shirt hung about you like a damp flag. Whatever intimidation you once inspired had certainly evaporated.

Wasn't this what you wanted?

Eventually, it ended. The other kid, becoming overconfident, made a mishap. Or perhaps he secretly felt bad for you. Either way, skin touched sweaty skin, and like that, it was all over.

As everyone surged back to their feet, you lingered by the water fountain. You weren't dehydrated enough to not smile faintly at your victory. Because while the game lasted, you had been someone. Someone frightening. Someone fast.

Someone dangerous.

2007 World Gymnastics Championships (I know -- it's what you've been waiting for)

Shawn Johnson is my hero.


Yes, she's a 15-year-old girl and my housemates and I gather in our living room to watch her. She frolics in a leotard and we're captivated. And no, we are not ill individuals.

The perfect storyline follows her: the young underdog who bursts out of the junior ranks and upsets "aging" former champion Nastia Liukin (a senior in high school) for the national all-around title. Then, in the pivotal year before the Olympics, she wins the World Championship title with a clutch performance on floor, an event which she later wins. Nastia finishes a distant fifth.

Let the hype begin.

But this gymnast is legit.

She lands dead-on the balance beam and steps forward without a flinch. She propels herself into the air with outstanding height for a girl under five feet tall. Then she returns to the ground and grins. She's from Iowa, and she's young, and it's clear when NBC interviews her that she's thrilled to be alive and hasn't yet resorted to the cliches of, "Well, I just wanted to go out there and do the best that I could."

She's like Kim Zmeskal, U.S.A.'s first female world all-around champion in 1991. A spritely girl with big skills and a certain innocence about her. She's not jaded or obnoxious (or, at least, hasn't shown herself to be so yet).

Then, of course, Kim fell off of beam in Barcelona, stepped out of bounds on floor, and finished 10th in the all-around. Let's hope for better tidings for Shawn.

The women's team won the team title as well, which is nothing to sneeze at. Perhaps they can repeat the glory of the 1996 Olympics team -- videos that my housemates and I, again, watch religiously.

The men took fourth as a team, a respectable leap from a dismal finish last year. Men's gymnastics still fails to receive the respect or attention that its difficulty and strength should. If you doubt me, search "men's high bar releases" on YouTube. Or gymnastics falls for both genders -- now that's a good time.

Clearly I'm heavily biased. But clearly gymnastics is awesome. Not only that, but the United States holds its own against the former communist powerhouses and one current one: Russia, Romania, and China.

There's a new scoring system that was implemented after the 2004 Olympics, where scores are no longer out of a 10.0. Instead, it's "open" scoring. So people are getting 15's and 16's, and to be honest, I find it inexplicable. But that won't stop me from appreciating the skills, the artistry, the stories, the stumbles, and the outcome.


And perhaps you will as well.

*The all-around is the summation of the scores on the four female events: vault, uneven bars, balance beam, and floor exercise.

Pre-gaming

Sun streamed over the green grass. We squinted our eyes, secretly hoping that we'd get tan. About half an hour remained before the other high school team would arrive in a yellow Laidlaw bus and mosey down to the track. In the meantime, our teammates were more blatant in their desire to tan -- laying out on the track, sprawling the limbs not clad in blue and yellow.


"All right," Lauren said. Jill and I turned our faces from the sky and looked at her. "It's time to fairy."

And "to fairy" it was. With a series of skips, grapevines, and other movements akin to children frolicking on a playground, we moved up and down the field. All in the name of warming up for high jump.

The fairying was followed by a few stretches and light conditioning, including a manuever that our friend Danielle named "the pissing dog." It's undeniable that we looked ridiculous. It's also true that we dominated high jump in many meets. The link between our exercises and our success, however, has never been proven.

Every team has some sort of warm-up ritual: passing drills, running laps together, circling up for an organized stretch, simultaneously stripping down to the competition uniform. Some inspirational or possibly rap song pumps in the background.

The night before, there's the obligatory pasta party. For girls, the hair session can also be a factor. What should everyone's hair look like? Are cornrows too ghetto? There will always be a few rebels who prefer to wear their own style, which leads to some muttering about whether or not this person is a "team player."

Tempers flare in the hour before the competition begins. Funny remarks are not at all amusing. Someone forgets a vital part of the uniform, like the shirt. Others show up late. Body parts are sore. Simply put, people quickly begin to hate each other.

Then there's last call. One person mentions the bathroom and it quickly becomes contagious. When the event is held at an unfamiliar venue, mass pilgrimages must ensue. "Don't leave me!" feet in the stall beg as teammates begin to file out.

The crowd files in and fills up the bleachers. Warm-ups are over. First call is made to the track, buzzers signal both teams to clear the court, and everyone suddenly realizes that this is real. There's a certain chill that everyone tries to pass off as adrenaline or excitement or an impromptu breeze.

But you're scared.

It is at this time that the team pulls itself together for its last effort before the event: The team chant. The team gathers into a huddle. Amongst the inspirational tidbits come a hissed debate:

"We did that one last meet."

"I don't remember all the words."

"Who starts it?"

In the middle of this discussion, the other team begins cheering. Always loudly and always obnoxiously, while your team, on the other hand, is nothing but awesome. Now the heat is on. Not only are you going to beat these amateurs, but you're going to shout louder, too.

"Go, Cortland, Go, Cortland, GOOO!!!"

Winded, everyone breathes and smiles at each other in satisfaction. High-fives are exchanged. Coach swings by for a few last words.

You're exhausted. And the game hasn't begun.

Virtual athletics

Most sports don't have that incessantly cheerful music in the background during the throes of a close game.

But partners can still run into each other, the f-bomb gets dropped, and players toss their arms up in disgust or cheer after a particularly clutch manuever.

The thrill. The agony. The sweat...of virtual sports.

Because it's true. There's an adrenaline rush to swinging the bat, charging towards the end zone, or watching to see if your ball lands on the fairway, even if you're only participating in an animation.

Granted, it's a little bit weird when grown men get into heated debates about fantasy baseball leagues (a la Knocked Up). Weirder still is that a game which isn't, well, tangible can provoke such strong emotions.

Confession: I find Mario Tennis to be both absurd and addicting. The players on the screen do not in any manner represent actual tennis players. I often accuse the controller of preventing me from doing what I meant to do (like hit the ball over the net).

But we operate in pairs while it rains outside or the rest of the world is too cool or too boring for us. Usually someone is a new player. Their partner steps up as coach, giving a few brisk instructions while the game loads. The newby, nervous about stepping into this starting line-up, quickly confirms, "So I press A to hit, right?"

And the shenanigans begin.

The volley can last for minutes. "Nice!" one teammate says to another while the opponent's onscreen character collapses to his knees in frustration.

Inevitably, the mood will turn tense. One too many misses. One too many instances of a character accidentally spinning in circles instead of swinging at the ball. The nearly-obligatory "I thought you were going to get that," and thus both players stand still while the ball hits the court. The high-fives cease. Bad manuevers are acknowledged with a grunt.

There's no excuse of poor lighting or weather conditions. The crowd isn't too loud. Heck, the only thing you can really pick on is that god-awful tinkly music that's still playing. And maybe your partner's innate ability to consistently hit the ball out of bounds.

When the game ends, the same letdown exists as after a "real" game. You put down the controller and blink. Slowly you realize that the game is over. That there won't be a sports editorial in next week's paper discussing Shy Guy's tenacious aces. That there's still a weird smell coming from the kitchen, you still have work to do, and instead of running on the clay, you're on the same sagging couch.

But someone will say it. Your partner, the opposition, perhaps yourself. "Wanna play again?"

Controllers up. You almost reach for a Gatorade to refuel. Game on.

What I do

Gymnastics manages to both amaze and bore the spectator. The flips -- the twists -- the landings with nary a step -- the obscene flexibility -- the awe-inducing crash and quick recovery -- the quiet calm with which a gymnast executes all of this as if it's perfectly natural.

Then come the inexplicable scores from judges -- judging delays -- awkward dance moves -- the seemingly random bursts of applause from teammates in matching leotards and hair styles.

It's a strange sport, and those who pursue it long enough can't help but be somewhat strange themselves. Spending that much time upside down, repeatedly jolting sore body parts, denying to yourself that you're injured, subjecting yourself to potential failure in public, and breathing in excessive amounts of chalk -- it simply can't be good for you.

Some gymnasts spend their lives in the gym. I've always liked to include other sports, especially ones that I am too short for, like basketball, high jump, and lacrosse. Granted, one needn't be particularly tall for lacrosse. But for some reason my coach always placed me on defense. I rather liked it; catching the ball during a game was not one of my strengths, though I became skilled at chasing it on the ground. I stalked the player I was defending, my stick and kilt echoing of a modern Braveheart battle.

I did play offense one day and scored my one, and only, goal that broke a tie and led us to junior varsity victory. Then I was put back on defense.

I enjoyed track and field, too. The masochism from gymnastics gave a certain pleasure to running excessively and continuously every day. Weirdly enough, I called track my "fun" sport. Because in the end, it really did come back to gymnastics. It can be painful and detrimental to one's sense of self-worth, but it is also undeniably addictive and joyous.

Determination. Tenacity. Perseverance. Passion. The inspirational posters around the gym and in the gym's bathroom will assure you that you will acquire these qualities throughout your gymnastics pursuit.

I have gained several skills: falling, injuring my right leg, moving mats while on crutches, and screaming loudly.

At home in my youth, we were prone to chucking skills almost at random and then never really practiced them until the meet came around. For some reason, although caution and stress follow me closely, this system always worked.

Meanwhile, at Cortland's structured, well-planned practices, injuries have became an every-other-year affair. ACL + MCL + Meniscus = freshman year in the training room. Sophomore year brought the comeback, although my knee was reluctant to straighten when I did any activity besides, oddly, gymnastics -- like walking or sleeping. This past year's season had gone fantastically. Just some sore shins, shoulders, groins, quadriceps, Achilles, forearms -- nothing a leaking ice bag couldn't help.

Then I happened to fall on my side one day and broke the fifth metatarsal of my right foot. Not exactly a career-ending blow, but in late February of a winter sport, it was enough to keep me out for the rest of the season. And for the spring. And the beginning of summer.

I haven't had a formal X-ray since May. But that's long enough. I'm healed, I say.

So add another skill to the list: Getting back up.