Women’s Country Club sports can be overly competitive. It is serious business—as if athletic excellence will result in a contract from Nike or Reebok. One of the most stressful decisions one has to make when one is on a country club team is whether they should “try-out” for a higher level—one must decide whether to “move-up.” And one needs to self-assess if you are indeed worthy. And there is much more than desire needed to move up to the next level—you must have a winning record on the highest courts against the best teams, and you also need an unbiased assessment from a pro—a pro assesses your technique and playing strategy. And the added piece is politics—does the “move-up” team want you?--and how many “spots” does the move up team have?—and is there a spot for your playing style: lefty or righty, deuce or ad- court player. I had been through the process many times. It’s grueling—it is not for the faint of heart or mind or body.
The pro assessment phase of the tryout process for platform tennis begins with 4 players going out on a court and warming up. Two players are at the net practicing volleys and overheads, and 2 players are on the other side behind the base line practicing drives or lobs. The point of the warm-up is to warm up—it is to get loose—it is intended to be non-competitive—country club etiquette deems the warm up process as “friendly”—there is an expectation that players will play “nice”—lady-like.
So when I was at the net during the warm up of one of my try-outs and the player across the net from me who knew the “rules” of warming up AND was a member of my social circle took it upon herself to beam me in the solar plexus with the intent of literally taking me out of the try-out competition; not only was I shocked and unable physically to breathe, but I was also greatly pissed off. You see, the woman who drove the ball at me was a shoe-in—there was no doubt that she had the skills necessary to move up—beaming me with the ball was totally unnecessary. I felt bullied. I felt bullied by someone purported to be a friend. And the woman who hit me didn’t apologize—she implied that my solar plexus was in the way of her shot—I was to blame, not her.
My daughter Kara has athletic talent. When Kara was 9 or 10 years old she picked up a golf club and had a natural ability to hit the ball with precision every time—and she would skip in between shots and say this is fun. And the beauty of golf is that it is all about you—you compete against the course, not an opponent.
When Kara hit middle school she realized that she loved field hockey. And to an extent one can say that field hockey is golf on wheels. And Kara was a strong player—with raw talent—and her talent was raw because I wasn’t a “sports-Mom.” I did not pursue placing her in double secret field hockey camps or teams. I did not pay for the personal trainer nor snuggle up to the coaches to get my kid more playing time. Kara had to do it all on her own. If her eventual goal was to make varsity field hockey in high school she had to make it happen for herself. I allowed her to take the lead while denying her nothing—-any camp or team she researched and signed up for I gladly supported. I just had no desire to be her sports agent. I am not judging—it just wasn’t my thing.
Garden City high school field hockey is nationally renowned. They have won more state championships than any other team in the country. Their coach, Diane Chapman, has been named national coach of the year on multiple occasions. She is in the hall of fame. Every year there are field hockey players from Garden City who are all-American. Competition is fierce. It is elite. And being overly competitive in the try-out process is not unusual —in fact, it is to be expected.
So when Kara hit freshman year and tried out for field hockey we had a little mother-daughter talk. And I told her this:
This is not golf where your score is your score. No one is your friend out there.—it’s every man for himself. If the person in front of you falls down, keep going---do not help her up. Understand that there is no “nice” in try-outs. Play your hardest every second you are out there. And don’t talk to anyone—the coaches hate it.
I did not make the “move up” team the year I got beamed in the solar plexus. I had to go through the process again that next spring. But that next time I tried out I succeeded. I moved up and I was on the team with the woman who beamed me. And Kara did not make varsity field hockey until her junior year. And she had to step over and around a lot of other players to do so. But she never stepped on anyone. And during a varsity practice game in which the coach was looking to select first line players Kara got beamed in the head with a field hockey ball and got a concussion from the hit. And the girl who hit the ball at her never apologized—ever.
But Kara went on to enjoy every minute she played varsity field hockey as I enjoyed every minute of playing flight 2 platform tennis. Playing sports is serious business. And the angst and pain is worth all the glory--- even if the angst is never receiving an endorsement contract from Nike or Reebok —and the pain comes from being hit by a ball—and especially when the glory includes witnessing the winning stroke from Eleni Andromidas in the finals of states or winning your division in platform tennis. In the end, the gain outweighs the pain. And that which does not kill you, only makes you stronger.
No comments:
Post a Comment