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.
