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.