Being Coached

I never had a coach in the traditional sense of the word. I never played competitive sports. I was on the debate team, but I never got any real coaching tips from the adult advisor. I did, however, letter in debate and I’ve got the nerdy letter sweater to prove it. Yeah, I was a total geek.

Who are we kidding? I’m still a total geek.

A couple things have happened in the last couple days that made me truly appreciate having a coach.

The first thing happened this weekend. Fresh Meat Mama Biz announced to the Derby league that our Fresh Meat group has now achieved Rookie status.

I fully intend to do the Fresh Meat training again. I need to be a better skater before I can feel comfortable even calling myself a Rookie. But with the lessons taught by Biz and Fresh Meat Aunties Jane and Nina--combined with the extra practice and encouragement by the rest of the league--I am slowly improving. I know I’ve worked hard, but I couldn’t have gotten anywhere without being coached.

Here is what a nerd I am: I bought a book on how to train for Derby. I literally read up on how to do a T-stop. But reading every Googled description of the T-stop cannot give me the same amount of know-how and skill that five minutes with one of these awesome ladies can provide to me.

I needed to call on my second coach this morning. This one was my parenting coach. My precocious son called me from school complaining that he got hit in the head during PE. He said he had a headache and blurry vision. Two thoughts ran simultaneously through my mind: “Oh great, another concussion” and “He is just trying to get out of school.”

I was very frustrated as I drove him to the Instacare clinic. There was no knot on his head, no bruise, no visible sign of injury. And this kid has a history of suddenly becoming ill when school gets a little boring. He has cried wolf once or twice. But I took him to the clinic, where I paid $50 for him to get an Advil and a printout about concussions. Better safe than sorry. But there goes the money I put aside for his new karate uniform.

I texted my frustration to my Sister MSW, who is my Masters of Social Work sister and my go-to parenting coach. She reminded me that my kid was super smart. We so often think of him as so mature that we are shocked when he acts like a 9-year-old. She coached me through the conversation I need to have with him tonight.

When I think about the people that have most influenced me in my life, I come up with a list of teachers. And really, isn’t that exactly what a coach is? I think of my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Aaron, who knew I was bored with the school assignments and would slip me handouts about Algebra, the rainforest, or the periodic table. High school English teacher Mrs. Harrison was the first person to tell me that I was a good writer and encouraged me to work for the school literary magazine. My favorite college professor Fred Fogo told me to stop taking the easy assignments for the campus newspaper and challenged me to work harder.

And I think of Biz, Jane, and Nina. Their ability to push me to do better while simultaneously allowing me to go at my own pace was exactly what I need. Sister MSW reminds me that kids will be kids.

Thank you to all my coaches. Especially Biz, Jane, and Nina, who are helping making this derby dream come true.

Nervous Systems

I can’t do a crossover. I know the mechanics. I know that falling really doesn’t hurt. I know it is an issue of mind over matter. But right now, I don’t trust my mind. So pushing through that fear and distrust is difficult for me.

I’m skating so much better than when I first started. I’ve had help from the veteran skaters, who tuned my skates to my skating style. Who knew you can tune your skates to get them to perform the way you want them too. My coaches have observed my skills and given me very specific and helpful pointers to help my form. Improving my form improves both my strength and my endurance. I’m not spending all my energy compensating for my lack of ability.

But I can’t get myself to do a crossover. I get close, and I chicken out. I ramp up my speed on the straightaway, get to the turn, and pick up my right leg for one brief second. Then my brain overrides the vote of my legs. Cowardly brain.

Nerves are obviously not my strong suit. Literally and metaphorically. It’s funny, though… If it wasn’t for my traitorous nervous system, I would never have set out to find courage. My rebellious brain has not only triggered optic neuritis. It has triggered this determination to test my courage.

You know who is one of the bravest people I know? My niece, who is starting kindergarten in a couple weeks. It’s not that she is incredibly tough. She isn’t especially daring. She just never lets anything get in between her and what she wants.

When she got her ears pierced last year, we warned her that it might hurt for a minute. She said that she didn’t care if she cried. She got the first one done, and it did cause a couple tears. But she just powered through and got the other one pierced.

Her first loose tooth was ready to come out, and she let me try to pull it. We got it most of the way. She got upset (I think more because it was bleeding a little, than because it hurt). Then she marched into the bathroom and finished the job herself.

That girl, she is brave. She is my great reminder that bravery does not mean never crying. It’s not about pretending something doesn’t hurt. It’s about doing it anyway, even if it does hurt.

The incredibly brilliant and talented J.K. Rowling once said, “You sort of start to think anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.” I need to find that nerve within myself. I need to do a crossover. I’m sort of starting to think it’s possible.