I cried myself to sleep that night of the cuts. I'm sure it was a combination of embarrassment and the idea that I had disappointed my dad, even though he was quite understanding about it. I remember wondering why twirling was such a big deal.
The days and weeks following were torture. I dreaded going to school to hear my friends talk about practice the day before. I was ashamed. I felt like things would never go my way. At the time, I didn't realize I was experiencing typical feelings swelled by junior high hormones.
As an adult, I reflect on my teenage years often. I guess my job affords my brain opportunities to see similar scenarios on a daily basis. Even now, I struggle with focus when the pressure is on. You see, I work from both sides of my brain. It seems, at times, my logical side and artistic side battle it out. I do my best work when I have the music blaring in my office and a chart on my computer screen. It's my way of finding balance.
Intensity and competitiveness don't come naturally to me. What does come naturally is a desire to do my best. Not to be the best. But to be MY best. There was a day when I saw things differently.
I was 15.
I felt average.
I seemed to blend in with the crowd.
My confidence was not at its best.
I was a member of the Marcus Whitman Junior Varsity Softball Team. I would watch the older players everyday and wonder if I could ever be as good as they were. They seemed to ooze perfection. The more I watched them, the more nervous I became. To be honest, I didn't ever think I could be one of those players that made the big play. It consumed my thoughts.
One day, the varsity squad finished early. Our team was taking infield practice and I was playing first base. It was a normal day.
After taking grounders, we headed off the field to pack up. The varsity coach was sitting on the bench talking with my friend, Brandi. Brandi was in the same grade as me, but she was one of those players that made the big plays. She was a dynamic pitcher and athlete. I'm sure the coach and Brandi were talking about some really important pitching stuff when he turned to me, almost as a side thought, and said, "You have great hands."
To all my non-softball peeps, this may seem like an odd statement. To the 15 year old version of me, it was the best thing someone could say. I had worked hard on those hands. I had spent countless hours with my dad, Aunt Becky and Grandpa Ike throwing hard grounders at my glove. They would say, "Soften it up. Don't stab at it."
I decided that day to prove that varsity coach RIGHT. For the next three years, I worked hard to have "great hands". I wasn't a natural athlete and it didn't always come easily. There were a lot of failures and some really exciting successes.
Coach Brady was tough on me.
He worked me hard.
He never let me give up.
He never let me make excuses.
He never let me get in my head.
He believed in me.
Sometimes he would yell.
Sometimes he would kick dirt.
Sometimes he would make me run.
Its funny how those moments are blurred from my high school playing memories. What I do remember is a coach that saw something in me that I didn't see in myself. He saw a girl looking for something to be good at and a desire to have value.
He toted me around the State of New York on summer travel teams. He paid for my food and uniforms on more than one occasion. He even recruited me to play soccer my junior and senior year, giving me one piece of advice. "See that ball. Run as fast as you can and kick it to Brandi." I was fast and it seemed easy enough. Fortunately, Brandi knew what to do with the ball once I passed it off. The rest is history.
This parenting thing is tough. Robbie and I have been super careful with our kids and our approach to sports. Philosophically, we both believe kids have to love the sport and build relationships before they can master skill. For this reason, we have taken what seems to be an unconventional path in parenting from two former college athletes and college coaches. We were anxious, but we waited. We waited for the moment when they showed an interest in something. Once that moment occurred, we encouraged them to do their best and be a good teammate.
#7 had a rough start to the 2014 Softball Season. She tried out for a summer travel team and didn't make it. She cried herself to sleep that night. She decided she wanted to take pitching lessons. She found out a week later that her finger had been broken for some time. She would have to take some time out from sports. This kept her from her lessons and playing in the Recreation League in our town. She was devastated.
Despite the adversity, something happened this spring. Right after spring break, I found her in the yard, tossing the ball up to herself. She asked me if I would work with her and help her get better. Believe it or not, it was the first time she acknowledged I might be a source of help in the softball arena. Up to this point, I was just Mom, not former player and coach.
She was asked in April to play for a summer team. The team is short on talent and big on heart. They are undersized and often outmatched. None of this is important to Lily. She has willingly and eagerly given up summer playdates and activities to play on her TEAM. As a parent, it thrills me to see her desire to work hard and belong in a sport that I love. She is having fun and has a skip in her step that is irreplaceable.
Coach Brady came to watch Brandi and me play in college. Again, his words after the game stuck with me. "You've come a long way, girl."
Not such a long way. I still twirl when I'm nervous.
To Brady - Thank you for never giving up on that scrawny lost girl. You helped her find herself and a sport she still loves today.
~ao
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