A Positive Spin on Things
The stifling noontime heat crushes in around me as I'm sitting on freshly mowed grass, head resting on my knees, literally reduced to sweat and tears. "I can't do this!" I sob for about the twentieth time. "It just won't work!" I'm dizzy. The loose grass is causing some kind of allergies, making it hard for me to breathe - or is that just because I'm upset?
On the grass around me are about six discuses, thrown down in frustration after yet another unsuccessful series of throws. Just last week, my track practices felt incredible - my technique felt right, my timing felt right, and those discs were flying farther than they ever had before. Now, I feel more like the armless Venus de Milo than Byron's Discobolus.
Slowly, I begin to regulate my breathing. Okay, I think, what's going wrong? What can I try? Problems like this really aren't all that unusual. Discus is a technique-specific event. If something isn't right, the implement simply won't go as far. The idea of practicing is, really, to iron out these kinks. Which is why I'm here - even if it's not exactly working right now.
I stand up, picking up a discus as I do so. Automatically, it settles into my hand the right way, a habit trained through lots of practice. I'm trying to accomplish this kind of muscle memory for the entire technique of the throw. Slowly, I step into the ring, feet settling into the exact same place as always - my shoes have left darkened marks from so much repetition. I drop the discus - slowly, I just run through the footwork, checking my foot placement, checking the position of my torso, stopping, correcting, analyzing for the xth time. This process is familiar to me, even if the results aren't always the same.
I've been going through this all week - some kink developed that threw off my timing, and with a meet looming this weekend, I need to work it out. Finally, after a few throws have looked at least decent, I pack up and head home. My legs are tired from a week of hard training, I tell myself. The next two days I will focus only in mental visualzation, and let the muscles take care of themselves. And if it doesn't work at the meet - well, then it doesn't work. And I'll keep correcting after that.
Discus throwing is my not-so-secret love affair, complete with all the joy and heartbreak. When other things irritate me, it's my outlet. When life acts as life generally does and throws those stormy curveballs of adolescence, the familiarity and rhythm help keep me grounded. Unfortunately, discus throwing is also full of ups and downs - and being emotionally invested in my "outlet" has caused some bad short-circuiting.
My best friend can't quite understand how throwing can be an outlet. "It seems so anger inducing," he says. We're sitting on the picnic tables at the icecream parlor - I'd randomly observed that I hadn't had icecream for nearly four months, and since I'd planned to dedicate this afternoon to not thinking about track, I wanted be be a little bit "rebellious." (I even ordered a medium cone instead of a small.) But now, as my conversations with Brendan tended to do, we'd started discussing more psychological matters, and my current frustration had come to the forefront.
"It's really not," I explain. "It's so technique oriented that you have to focus - it's relaxing.... Usually."
"I guess that makes sense," he replies. Brendan is a distance runner - his idea of blowing off steam is to go on a long, hard run. He once tried to get me into running - I even managed to run five whole miles once - but my fitness training is so focused on fast-twitch muscle fibers that my running usually consists of a 400 meter warm-up lap these days. Part of the reason we're friends, however, is that while we're polar opposites in many ways, we're both good at understanding things even if we can't really relate. "I guess it's your passion."
"Recently I've wondered if it's a passion or an addiction."
"What's the difference?"
I laugh sarcastically. "One is usually bad for you." I'm feeling really pessimistic now. Brendan just gives me a look. He knows I get like this sometimes. I doubt myself, and I doubt I'll ever be able to reach as far as I want to. But he also knows I'm no longer the little girl who quit piano lessons because she didn't sound good immediately.
Sooner or later, I'll give myself a little kick and realize, once again, that the biggest reason I throw is for love of the sport. In the meantime, I'll go to the meet, do the best I can, and then come home and start right back working on it. I've learned - this sport has taught me - to persevere. My fear of failure is overcome by my desire to succeed. At times in life, it's inevitable that one feels hopeless and out of control, gasping, "I can't do this." I sincerely hope that everyone can find an outlet that will teach him/her what throwing has taught me - it's okay to put your head down once in a while, but you should always, always get up and try again.
On the grass around me are about six discuses, thrown down in frustration after yet another unsuccessful series of throws. Just last week, my track practices felt incredible - my technique felt right, my timing felt right, and those discs were flying farther than they ever had before. Now, I feel more like the armless Venus de Milo than Byron's Discobolus.
Slowly, I begin to regulate my breathing. Okay, I think, what's going wrong? What can I try? Problems like this really aren't all that unusual. Discus is a technique-specific event. If something isn't right, the implement simply won't go as far. The idea of practicing is, really, to iron out these kinks. Which is why I'm here - even if it's not exactly working right now.
I stand up, picking up a discus as I do so. Automatically, it settles into my hand the right way, a habit trained through lots of practice. I'm trying to accomplish this kind of muscle memory for the entire technique of the throw. Slowly, I step into the ring, feet settling into the exact same place as always - my shoes have left darkened marks from so much repetition. I drop the discus - slowly, I just run through the footwork, checking my foot placement, checking the position of my torso, stopping, correcting, analyzing for the xth time. This process is familiar to me, even if the results aren't always the same.
I've been going through this all week - some kink developed that threw off my timing, and with a meet looming this weekend, I need to work it out. Finally, after a few throws have looked at least decent, I pack up and head home. My legs are tired from a week of hard training, I tell myself. The next two days I will focus only in mental visualzation, and let the muscles take care of themselves. And if it doesn't work at the meet - well, then it doesn't work. And I'll keep correcting after that.
Discus throwing is my not-so-secret love affair, complete with all the joy and heartbreak. When other things irritate me, it's my outlet. When life acts as life generally does and throws those stormy curveballs of adolescence, the familiarity and rhythm help keep me grounded. Unfortunately, discus throwing is also full of ups and downs - and being emotionally invested in my "outlet" has caused some bad short-circuiting.
My best friend can't quite understand how throwing can be an outlet. "It seems so anger inducing," he says. We're sitting on the picnic tables at the icecream parlor - I'd randomly observed that I hadn't had icecream for nearly four months, and since I'd planned to dedicate this afternoon to not thinking about track, I wanted be be a little bit "rebellious." (I even ordered a medium cone instead of a small.) But now, as my conversations with Brendan tended to do, we'd started discussing more psychological matters, and my current frustration had come to the forefront.
"It's really not," I explain. "It's so technique oriented that you have to focus - it's relaxing.... Usually."
"I guess that makes sense," he replies. Brendan is a distance runner - his idea of blowing off steam is to go on a long, hard run. He once tried to get me into running - I even managed to run five whole miles once - but my fitness training is so focused on fast-twitch muscle fibers that my running usually consists of a 400 meter warm-up lap these days. Part of the reason we're friends, however, is that while we're polar opposites in many ways, we're both good at understanding things even if we can't really relate. "I guess it's your passion."
"Recently I've wondered if it's a passion or an addiction."
"What's the difference?"
I laugh sarcastically. "One is usually bad for you." I'm feeling really pessimistic now. Brendan just gives me a look. He knows I get like this sometimes. I doubt myself, and I doubt I'll ever be able to reach as far as I want to. But he also knows I'm no longer the little girl who quit piano lessons because she didn't sound good immediately.
Sooner or later, I'll give myself a little kick and realize, once again, that the biggest reason I throw is for love of the sport. In the meantime, I'll go to the meet, do the best I can, and then come home and start right back working on it. I've learned - this sport has taught me - to persevere. My fear of failure is overcome by my desire to succeed. At times in life, it's inevitable that one feels hopeless and out of control, gasping, "I can't do this." I sincerely hope that everyone can find an outlet that will teach him/her what throwing has taught me - it's okay to put your head down once in a while, but you should always, always get up and try again.
posted by Anna | 2:44 AM
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