Book Review: Mind Gym
November 18, 2008
I am admittedly resistant to the “self-help” genre. Maybe this is because I just like to read stories, or because I value creative writing more than actual information. I’m not suggesting this is a good thing. And I’m not suggesting that I’m not in need of some help, and new perspectives now and then. It’s just that a lot of these books are so cliché and so cheesy. I find myself saying, “no kidding” a lot and rolling my eyeballs so much that I’m in danger of a sprain.
This said, I kept hearing about a book called Mind Gym: An Athlete’s Guide to Inner Excellence by Gary Mack with David Casstevens. About the third or fourth time it hit my radar, I was compelled to check it out. The basic premise is that athletes have to train their minds as much as they train their bodies. In other words, they have to build their mental muscle. Along these lines, Ty Cobb is quoted as saying, “The most important part of a player’s body is above his shoulders.” Likewise, golfer Bobby Jones has said, “Competitive golf is played mainly on a five-and-a-half-inch course: the space between your ears.”
Mack, a sports psychologist, uses quotes and anecdotal examples from famous athletes of the past and the present, including several skaters such as Sarah Hughes, Scott Hamilton, and Peggy Fleming. It deals with a lot of concepts that many of us are already aware of but could always use a refresher on, like: think positive, remain confident, and stay focused. Maybe it’s not even valid to call it a self-help book. I suppose it’s more like sports psychology watered down a bit, and snazzied up with anecdotes. The result is very readable.
I liked it. I found it helpful. Granted, it took me a long time to read (about five months!) but I think that’s okay and maybe ideal: it’s one of those books best digested slowly. It’s nice to keep coming back to it. I have an excellent book about writing called Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg that I’ve been reading over the course of at least 15 years. I suspect that when I finally finish it, I’ll probably start over again. It’s kind of like a steady, long-term companion. I can see myself taking Mind Gym off the shelf periodically in the future, if not to fully re-read then to review some of the sections I underscored as especially applicable to skating or just to life in general.
As a coach, I asked myself while reading: How can I use this to help my students? What tips can I pick up to motivate, to inspire, to help allay their anxieties and fears? Like I said, some of this information was valuable reinforcement of things I have picked up elsewhere. For example, Mack discusses the importance of focusing on the things you can control instead of the things you can’t. I started thinking about this simultaneously obvious and brilliant notion years ago after reading Caroline Silby’s wonderful book, Games Girls Play. (I highly recommend you read this, if you haven’t already – she is also a psychologist and a former figure skating competitor.) I have been trying to utilize and impart this mentality ever since, but it’s great to be reminded of it.
Similarly, Mack extols the power of positive thinking and demonstrates that even the words you use – either out loud or just in your head – impact this. For example, “I’m not going to fall on this, anymore” versus “I am going to land this.” It’s better to avoid the negative formulation altogether: just by planting that image of falling in your (or your student’s) head, you could increase the chances of it happening and vice versa. At this year’s PSA conference in Chicago, Frankie Perez did an excellent sports psychology presentation on this same topic. I have tried to keep tabs on my own phraseology during lessons since then – i.e. instead of “don’t bend your freeleg”… “straighten your freeleg” and I appreciate this as a more direct and clear way of delivering the message. And, even on a more everyday note, instead of “don’t forget your keys” how about, “remember to take your keys.”
Mack also delves extensively into the use of mantras and mental visualization in order to get in The Zone for game-time. While I was reading this, I had a student who was struggling with a moves test. A painful knee injury and a serious case of asthma meant that she could really only skate sometimes 20 or 25 minutes per day a few times a week. It was hard for her to develop confidence for the test without much repetition of the moves and without much cardiovascular training. Motivated by Mind Gym, I asked her to do a mental run-through of her moves every night for a week leading up to the test. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she ended up having one of her best performances ever, despite all the obstacles. She hurdled them and I’m happy that she now has the gold testing medal she deserves.
I have found that one of the more challenging aspects of coaching is helping students control their nerves on the day of the performance. On this topic, Mack provides one of my favorite anecdotes of the book, and one that I think is very relevant to skaters. He describes working with groups of new firefighters. He writes: “I often give a classroom demonstration. It is a test you can take yourself. If I asked you to stand on the seat of a chair or on a tabletop, would you have a problem doing that? Probably not. But what if that chair or table were twenty stories in the air, and I asked you to perform the same task? What thoughts would you have? How would you feel? Could you do it? The task is the same. So what is the difference? For many, it’s a four-letter word: Fear.”
I have been gradually sharing this excellent image with some of my older students. After all, what is the difference between doing your run-through during practice and during the performance? Only the judges. It is otherwise the same. In fact, it is arguably better, since there aren’t any other skaters on the ice.
In addition to reading Mind Gym from the perspective of a coach, I couldn’t help also reading it with the eyes of a former athlete. Wow, I kept thinking, what if I had read this or something like it, back then? I was not exactly overflowing with confidence as a skater. One of my own more memorable mantras before competitions was: “I just hope we don’t get last.” I was kind of joking and kind of serious. Mainly, I suppose this was a protective technique: if we happened to get, say, second to last, I managed to feel, if not thrilled, then at least relieved.
But what if? What if I had aimed for the so-called stars instead of planting such a negative image in my head? If I had believed that I could have climbed the podium, would I have increased my chances of being there more often? I suspect that’s possible, but there’s no use in wallowing in regret. I do think it’s useful to analyze these kinds of things so you can extract a lesson. As Joe Biden aptly put in that crazy Vice Presidential debate not so long ago: Past is prologue. What worked? What didn’t? How can you change your own methodologies or thought patterns to reach your own goals and to help others?
My brother and I were incredibly fortunate to be coached by Robbie Kaine. He was a positive force, indeed, and imparted an idea that Mack also touches upon: while you always want to try your best, the process is superior to the outcome. As Charles Barkley is quoted in these pages, “I know that I am never as good or as bad as any single performance.” I think I was slow to understand this, and, in fact, probably didn’t fully process it until after I was finished competing; it’s as if it had to percolate for a while or I needed distance and the resulting perspective in order to see it. Better late than never: now, as a coach, I try to pass this mentality onto to my own students. I can only hope they are more clear-sighted than I was.
Mack touches on so many other valuable concepts like, setting goals, trying to think yet not over-think, and to train in a way that allows you to run on autopilot once you arrive at the game or the performance. He addresses sportsmanship and the importance of loving what you do. I certainly get the impression, from these pages, that Mack is enthusiastic about his own field.
Finally, he encourages athletes to look in the mirror, to really see themselves as others do. I think this is one of the most powerful parts of Mind Gym. It’s not that we should value what other people think over what we think, but it’s good for all of us to realize that we are using our minds and our bodies in a larger context. As athletes, we can get very caught up in the minutia of technique, ranking, and the next competition. This is probably especially true in an individual sport like skating. But what effect might we have on other people as examples or as mentors? It’s great that he helps to broaden this perspective.
On this note, I’ll leave you with what I think is one of the best sections of Mind Gym. It’s toward the end, and if I take nothing else from this book (or impart nothing else in this blog), this quote makes it worth reading:
“Everyone eventually leaves the game. Imagine for a moment you’re attending a testimonial dinner in honor of your retirement from competition. Maybe you’re retiring after high school or college or at the end of a professional career. Maybe you’re a weekend warrior. Your friends are at the banquet and so are all your coaches, former teammates and those you competed against. Each one stands up and says a few words about your character and how you played the game. What would they say? What would you want them to say?”
Think about this for a moment. Whether you are a skater, a lawyer, a beekeeper, a banjo player…or a writer: what would you want them to say?
***
Have you read this book? Any other books that have been of help? Click on “comment” below.
For those of you who are interested, I have another book on deck that’s supposed to be great for skaters called, Skating out of Your Mind. Yes, I’ll reviewing this at some point in the near-ish future.
Thanks for reading.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Rink…
November 11, 2008
So I was going to post a book review today, but that will have to wait until next week. Something funny – well, more like “traumatic” – happened to me on the way to the rink on Wednesday morning and I feel compelled to share this tale of woah. In last year’s post entitled, “Morning Madness,” (to read, click here), I detailed my extreme difficulty with the morning shift. While some people seem to coach at the crack of dawn with relative ease, for me, it’s practically torture.
It’s not just that it’s cold, or that it’s early, or that I have trouble pretending I’m human at that hour. It’s also that weird things seem to occur when it’s still dark, and there are less people around to witness you then lend a helping hand if you need one. There’s a creepy vibe in the air.
This is how I felt the time when I still lived in the suburbs and I had an early morning, pre-rink show-down with a skunk in my driveway: it was like an old western movie, except he was the only one with a weapon. This is how I felt the time a cop brought the entire highway to a stop and then singled me out to pull over. My heart skipped several beats and I squeezed the steering wheel wondering if I’d been weaving across lanes in a daze, or if I’d been going 1000 miles an hour, or if I’d accidentally robbed an ATM machine in my sleep. I guess they were looking for someone specific: maybe my car fit the description yet I did not because as soon as he shined his flashlight on frightened me, he waved me away with disappointed disgust.
Then there was the morning last year when I was on the Bruckner Expressway, minding my own business and a huge bag of trash appeared in my lane. The SUV ahead of me practically toppled sideways in an attempt to swerve around it. I made the split-second decision to instead align my wheels on either side so I could just sail over it. Well, it was too big: it grabbed onto the bottom of my car and held on so that within seconds my car filled with the noxious scent of burning trash. In my rearview mirror, I could see that sparks were flying and it looked like my car was pooping trash down the road. People alongside me were pointing in horror and indicating that I should stop, but I couldn’t figure out a safe place to do so.
When I was finally able to pull over, I saw that the bag was lodged in place and because it had started to melt on the bottom of my car, it just wouldn’t budge. There happened to be a sanitation worker parked nearby, but he responded to my damsel-in-distress request for help with a shrug of his shoulders and an unapologetic “sorry” before taking another bite of his Egg McMuffin. So I just laid down on the filthy ground, kicked at that bag angrily, and chiseled it away one nasty chunk at a time with my little ice scraper. When I finally got to the rink, I was practically in tears and, though I was already late, I washed my hands about 42 times. Later, my trusty mechanic put my car on the lift and removed gunk from its underbelly with the help of a blowtorch and a razorblade.
This leads me to my latest early morning misadventure. There I was at 5:45 AM last Wednesday, at a red light, waiting to turn onto 9A. I’d already been awake for an hour and in the car for 30 minutes. This is the time when I traditionally work up the nerve to look at myself in the rearview mirror. After wincing, I decide that maybe some lipstick will help. I reached into my purse and out jumped…A MOUSE.
It scurried right across my lap and disappeared in the darkness at my feet. I proceeded to scream at the top of my lungs and convulse with heebie jeebies violent to the point of whiplash. I turned on the interior lights in order to see better. Where was it? Would it crawl up my pant leg? Should I get out of the car and run for my life?
I noticed that my brother happened to be at the light right in front of me, as he was scheduled to start his lessons at the same ungodly time. If I could just get to the rink, which was only about 3 minutes away, surely he would save me from this unexpected invader. My brother would later report that he could see some woman freaking out in the car behind him, but couldn’t tell it was me. He claimed that either his “facial recognition software hadn’t yet fully booted up for the day” or that my face was so “twisted with terror” that I did not look like myself. He thought maybe “this lady” had spilled scalding coffee on her lap.
When the light changed, I sped out in front of him like a banshee, shrieking. I don’t think I ran any red lights but it’s all a blur. I still couldn’t see the little guy and I had no idea whether he was under my seat, under my tensed foot, or perched on the visor by my face. Now this was torture. It made the simple act of getting out of bed seem like a pleasure in comparison.
When I got to the rink, I jumped out of the car as if it was on fire and leapt from foot to foot spastically. “Mouse! Mouse!” I screeched, pointing to my car when my brother pulled up. “In purse,” I added, in a state of shock, as he started to laugh.
He swiftly took my bags out and sat them on the ground on their sides, as if to allow a whole family of rodents to exit. Then he slid the seats back and forth and peered under them, chuckling the whole time. It was evident that he was amused but I’m pretty sure he was also somewhat squeamish. We didn’t see the interloper, but it was pitch dark out, so he could have been burrowing anywhere or he could have made his escape right when I did.
Okay, so he was admittedly teeny, maybe two inches long. I’ve seen mice before and a few more, recently. The landlord is supposedly on the case. I live in New York, so, to a degree I’ve had to accept living in “close quarters” in many senses. For this reason, I keep my place clean, I keep all my food in the refrigerator (even dry goods), and I always leave my bags on a chair. But I guess the climbing talents of such critters cannot be underestimated.
After I taught my lessons, I approached my car as if it contained a bomb. I tiptoed around it and inspected the interior in the daylight. My brother helped me extract and inspect everything from my trunk, as my stockpile of scarves and mittens would certainly provide excellent nesting opportunities. We didn’t see any stowaways. Paranoid and positive it was going to scramble across me again at any moment, I nervously drove to the car wash and vacuumed. Still, I saw nothing. Maybe he’s still hiding in there somewhere, as one friend insists, or maybe he’s long gone. I’m just not sure I’ll ever be the same, in a psychological sense.
I keep replaying the morning: was he snoozing cozily while I ate my dry cereal and listened to the reports of the presidential election? Was he snooping around the car while I drove? Or was he, as my brother suggested, having a grand ol’ time in my bag, listening to my ipod, chewing my gum and putting on my make-up? (Lipstick on a mouse!) I don’t know. I’m just glad he didn’t scurry up my arm when I reached in there for the car keys. I’m also glad the “moment of discovery” happened while stopped at a light instead of on the highway.
In times of trauma such as these, I know it’s important to appreciate and acknowledge the support of friends and family.
So thank you to my brother for his prompt heroics. Thanks to my skating student who suggested I invite a cat to stroll around the inside of my car. And thanks to the same student who contended that mice, with their cute little pink bellies, soft fur, and tiny paws, are far more afraid of us than we are of them (though, in my case she is downright wrong). Thanks to the zamboni driver who offered, through laughter, to set a mousetrap. Thanks to everyone who humored me when I wondered aloud whether or not I should call in an exterminator.
Thanks to my mother who was appropriately dismayed by this tale/tail and admitted she would have gone equally berserk. Thanks to the friend who suggested that the mouse just wanted to help out by handing my lipstick to me. (Come to think of it, I’ve always thought it would be nice to have an assistant…)Thanks to the friend who suggested I set out some food in my car overnight to see if any nibble marks would show up in it the next day. When I was leaving her house, she provided a fancy Carr’s cracked pepper cracker (only the best) for this purpose.
Finally, thanks to the friend who posited that the mouse actually had amorous intentions and is now feeling low and rejected. This same friend insists that, having been dropped off at the rink, the mouse has very likely been inspired to become a skater. Maybe he’s working on his jumps right now in order to win my affection.
I am happy to report that I’m doing better. Those early morning freestyle sessions are so clear and productive that I just have to bounce back. There never were any nibbles on that cracker. But I now carry my purse over my shoulder at all times when I’m home, even while I’m cooking dinner, brushing my teeth, and going to bed. I think I’m going to get one with an industrial-strength zipper. And a padlock. Likewise, maybe I’ll get the interior lights of my car replaced with spotlights for improved visibility…
But surely nothing this crazy will ever happen again in the early morning, right? Right?
***
What about you? Anything weird ever happen to you on the way to work? Please share by leaving a comment below…
Truth be told, this unfortunately isn’t my first run-in with a rodent. If you didn’t already read about Ratgate 2008, click here.
What I Did this Summer
September 16, 2008
I’m back. I hope your summer was excellent and that your fall is coming together nicely.
Geeky as it may be, I used to love going back to school in September, mostly because that meant obtaining a new pencil case and also partly because of those What I Did This Summer reports we got to write. Of course, I also adored Show and Tell day, so imagine me reading this report in front of a classroom with the blackboard behind me…
Let me clear my throat and shift around up here somewhat nervously as I look out at the rest of you folded into your little desks…okay. So this summer, in addition to coaching, I did lots of writing, which involved obscene amounts of java, bleary eyes, and tense typing shoulders (otherwise known as “boulder shoulder” in certain circles.) For better or worse, my skin tone remained utterly unchanged. Rink tan + coffee shop tan = frightening white.
I did stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge once, meander through Central Park once, did enjoy the splendid view from a friend’s rooftop deck (24 floors above the city), watched the sun set once from a NYC bistro on the Hudson River, dined amid two flourishing gardens outside the city, and generally took advantage of as many sidewalk cafes as humanly possible. Mainly though, I tap danced my fingertips across my keyboard.
Recently, instead of telling my friends that I’m writing when they call, I say that I’m at the “office.” Of course, my office is nomadic; it includes a circuit of coffee shops (both in my neighborhood and beyond) and sometimes the desk in my apartment. I like how saying “office” sounds slightly official. I also like how it’s a bit unspecific. What I mean is that if I were to claim that I was writing, that might not literally be the case. I might in fact just be staring at the wall gearing up to write. Or I may be looking at my laptop screen, thinking. Or I may be fidgeting with my fingernails, thinking about gearing up to stare at my screen so I can think about writing. If I say I’m “at the office” this means I’m in the writing space, in the most general sense.
For example, I might answer my phone kind of softly so as to not annoy the fellow coffeeshoppers around me, “Hello?”
“You’re in ‘the office’ aren’t you?” my friend might say.
“Affirmative,” I might say back, cupping my hand over the phone and looking at the person at the table next to me with an apologetic this-won’t-be-long expression on my face.
“Okay,” my friend responds respectfully, but also probably smirking. “I’ll let you get back to work. I don’t want your boss to get mad.”
“Yeah, she’s been a real jerk so far today,” I say, furtively. “Call you later.”
Pretending I have an office and all-powerful writing boss helps me to best utilize the limited hours I’m away from the rink. But here’s the most beautiful thing…and can I get a drumroll for this please?… Here goes: if you put a space between the two syllables of the word office…you get ‘off ice’ and you don’t have to know me well to realize that I find this clever little word play downright delightful.
So the main thing I worked on when I was off ice this summer was my book, called “Skate at Your own Risk.” Many have kindly requested to see this manuscript and have been denied that pleasure. For that, I apologize, but I believe that “all good things come to those who wait” and “patience is a virtue.” Trust me, the book doesn’t rely on clichés nearly as much as that last sentence might imply. I just want the thing to be fully cooked before I serve it up. Some of you have seen some snippets and others, if you’ve been reading this blog, have gotten a taste without even realizing it.
To “show” the other things I worked on this summer, I present the following three links:
The first is an article about Tommy Litz for icenetwork describing his exciting foray into “phototivity.” I love to see how this sport can inform other areas of our lives and Tommy is making very cool connections between figure skating and art. To read, click here.
The second is another article for icenetwork about the venerable Wayne Seybold – he is now the mayor of Marion, Indiana. My brother and I trained alongside him and his sister, Natalie, when we first arrived in Delaware as teenagers. The Seybolds were a huge inspiration to us back then so I was thrilled to interview him about all he’s gone on to accomplish since competing in the Olympics. To read, click here.
Finally, I am excited to announce that I have become a staff blogger for a website called Uppereast.com (because there just wasn’t enough blogging in my life already.) It’s called the Upper East Side Informer. This means I go around and review different businesses and events in this quadrant of New York City. Basically, it’s a matter of enlisting my friends to join me in eating, drinking, and gallivanting through the neighborhood, while I take notes along the way. By the way, from here on, if you’d like to refer to me as the The Informer (as a few people in my life have sarcastically begun to do), you are welcome to do so. To read, click here.
Enjoy, and check back next Tuesday. For the months ahead, I’ve got lots of funny lined up, reviews of skating products and books, interviews, and even some “hard-hitting” journalism (note quotation marks).
If you send this link on to others who might appreciate it, I’ll be forever grateful. And I can aim that gratitude more specifically in your direction if you leave a comment telling me you did so…okay, or just telling me anything at all.
Thanks to everyone who weighed in a few months ago on their favorite installments and who made suggestions for future ones. It’s good to be back!
Beat the Heat
June 24, 2008
Back in January, I outlined (okay, whined about) the fact that coaching skating is “one of the coldest jobs in the universe.” Well, I’m happy to report that now it’s time to gloat.
For example, during a recent heat wave here in New York City, I found myself dialing up my non-skating friends to brag.
“Guess where I’m headed,” I said in the snotty tone of an eight year old who just got a new bike. I could envision my friend on the other end, slow-roasting in her apartment.
“Where?” she asked without interest, too hot and lethargic to actually play my little guessing game.
“Oh, just the ice rink. Yep,” I continued, “just taking my scarf and mittens over to that freezing workplace of mine.”
“Lucky,” she acknowledged, again without much enthusiasm and too overheated (or polite) to point out that I’d called to whimper about this same destination only six short months ago. After an awkward silence, she slowly said, “Look, I gotta go, I think my elbow just burst into flames.”
After we hung up, I dialed another friend to boast some more. I had a lot of time to fill since I was heading into work about four hours early.
Despite a well-meaning yet ineffectual air conditioner balanced precariously in my window, my apartment had become as hot as a sauna. As the temperature increased outside and the hot air easily climbed the five flights of stairs to my apartment, it started to seem more like an oven. When the sun rose, my “cozy” little nook started to resemble a broiler. The disturbing sizzling sound turned out to be emanating from my very own flesh.
Everything around me had looked as if it was starting to melt, kind of like the clock in that Salvador Dali painting. I was clearly becoming delirious. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t move. The fact that I didn’t even want to eat was probably the most alarming aspect of my condition. I’d basically lost the will to do anything other than stare at my ceiling.
Suddenly, I remembered that it was Monday and this meant it was time to go back to work! Though the rink is 30 miles away from where I live, I could see it with complete clarity right before my eyes, glowing like a frosty, blue oasis with angels singing in the rafters. Nirvana. I imagined staggering into the arena, aiming directly toward the ice surface then lying face-down, gradually returning to my former self.
I know that the sport of skating has been good for me in many ways but never before has it so obviously ensured my survival. Likewise, I enjoy my job, but I’d never headed toward it with quite this much enthusiasm. Granted, getting ready was no easy feat, since my fingers had swollen to the size of sausages and I had trouble fitting my hands through my shirtsleeves. Speaking of feet, I knew there was no chance mine were going to squeeze into my skates. No matter, I had every intention of going out onto the ice barefoot, anyway.
Once in the car, with the vents blowing AC on my face, I started to revive a bit. This is when I launched into that series of braggy phone calls. Afterwards, I felt somewhat guilty about flaunting my enviable work situation and I wondered, momentarily, if I really deserved such luxury. Of course I deserve this, I quickly decided. This is exactly what I earned when I contracted frostbite, hypothermia and shattered teeth (from chattering) during those long winter months.
Still, it didn’t really seem fair that I got to seek sanctuary while others suffered. On the street, people wiped their brows in misery. Other rink-less souls tried to take cover from the sun under awnings while their dogs panted and tried to fan themselves with their own ears.
What if? I thought. What if I rounded everyone up and took them to the rink? Sure, I’d like to buy the world a Coke, but I’d prefer to take them ice skating. By the busload. “Hop in!” I’d beckon from the driver’s seat. “Real refreshment awaits!” Then I’d deliver them to the hot-day version of heaven on earth. And for them, if only for a few hours, everything would be okay. Well, better than okay: Cool.
All right, I don’t own a bus and I don’t have a license to operate large vehicles. And I can’t fit more than 3.5 people in my car. Though I do have a brain, albeit modestly-sized, and I really attempted to use it the next 30 or so minutes.
What if? I continued my earlier theme. What if everyone in the universe turned off their lights and air conditioners for one day then strutted on over to their local ice rinks to beat the heat? How much energy could be conserved in this manner? It would be kind of like the cold version of carpooling. We could call it “coldpooling.” I’m surprised Al Gore failed to mention this concept in his otherwise brilliant documentary about the sorry state of our planet called, “An Inconvenient Truth.” I’ll have to discuss this with him next time I see him.
I’d like to point out that the general public is wrong to only associate skating with winter. In fact, it should be the exact opposite. People should be waiting in lines at ice rinks instead of smoldering away on the hot tar of amusement parks. And swimming pools? Last I checked outdoor pools adapt to the air around them rather than the reverse. Don’t even get me started on how beaches are hotplates and how lounging on them is basically grilling yourself like a piece of meat. Sunscreen works to a degree, but mix it with ocean water and what you have a salty marinade. All you can do is be sure to cook both sides evenly – I’ve learned this lesson the hard way.
I don’t want to sound like some kind of Summer Scrooge. I just want to be part of the solution. And I know first hand how uncomfortable it is to sweat: it’s an embarrassing and rather annoying part of being human and it tends to make people irritable. Why do you think crime rates soar in the summer? As temperatures rise, tempers flare, but can’t we all just get along? Can’t we all just lace up, lock hands, and skate a few laps together?
What could diffuse gang tension better than a skating party? Or: Mad at your neighbor? Miffed at your best friend for dating your ex? Upset that your partner embezzled those funds? Instead of saying, “I’ll see you in court,” why don’t you all just come on down to the rink? Let’s just cool down, literally and figuratively.
I really like that character on the TV show, Entourage, named Ari Gold. He is an angry entertainment agent who often loses his temper. After he unleashes his vitriol, he will often embrace his victim, saying, “Let’s hug it out.” You know what I say instead? “Let’s skate it out.”
As I drove toward work, I started to fantasize about becoming some kind of grand-scale mediator, or a skating missionary, determined to bring our nation and the people of all nations together through the Gospel of Rinks. It became gradually clear to me that many of the world’s most bitter conflicts are currently taking place in hot climates. What if, I thought, What if?
Michelle Kwan, our Ambassador, tell them, tell them all that the blade is mightier than the sword! Okay, scratch that. The blade is kind of like a sword and could be used in a similar fashion so…maybe skates themselves should be taken out of this particular mission. Maybe all these sweaty, warring factions should just come to the rink and slide around in their shoes. Perhaps we could organize a big, civilized game of…curling?
I pulled into my parking space at the rink quite pleased with all the excellent brainstorming I’d accomplished in the name of World Peace. I was really proud of how I’d turned all that gloating into something beautiful, something larger than me, something to be shared. I vowed to hammer out the specifics of my master plan, and pass it on to others…perhaps through the written word… perhaps delivered on the wings of a flourishing little bird they call the internet.
Fortunately, in my walk across the steamy parking lot, I temporarily came to my senses. When I opened the front door to the rink, I did not fall to my knees and cry out, “Hallelujah!” at the top of my lungs. I didn’t even lie down on the ice as I had planned or skate barefoot. I simply bundled up and taught my lessons.
Toward the end of the day, I was shivering and my toes were numb with cold. Pulling my scarf a little tighter, I gazed longingly at the sun streaming through the building’s front doors. I couldn’t wait to get back outside.
PSA Conference: Power in Numbers
May 27, 2008
Sunset from 95th Floor of John Hancock Building in Chicago this past Saturday.
Skating seems to be getting more quantitative. Ever since IJS landed in our laps, I’ve been wishing I had a Degree in Higher Math. Alas, I am more of a “word” person. Not that I have anything against numbers. In fact, I’ve always respected them quite a bit…from a distance.
Lately, I’ve noticed that there are a lot of nice things about numbers. How you can count with them, for instance. How, when you use them in order to back up what you’re trying to say, your statements can sound a lot more like objective facts. How you can maybe understand competition placements after analyzing columns of numbers on a Protocol sheet, and maybe even, with the help of numbers, control those placements more proactively in advance.
You always hear that there is “power in numbers.” This was hit home to me in several different ways last week at the Professional Skaters Association Conference in Chicago. First of all, there were a lot of coaches in attendance: approximately 800, maybe a little more or a little less, one of the largest Conference turnouts ever. We filled a large ballroom and according to more than one speaker up on stage, we, as a collective group, were rather intimidating.
Indeed, from where I sat, the sea of skating coaches around me was an impressive visual. I hate to sound new-age-y but it was a powerful feeling to be surrounded by that many coaches in one room. I imagined that I was somehow buoyed up by all those people with similar perspectives, experiences, schedules, frustrations, and successes…not to mention similar addictions to both coffee and fleece.
But what I’m really getting at here is the weird thing that happened this week: I started to see the world of skating and the world in general as a collection of numbers. I’m not claiming that I suddenly transformed into a Mathematician or that I became Rain Man, I’m saying that I was overcome with the strange urge to create… A Spreadsheet. I admittedly don’t know how to create a real spreadsheet (let alone flow one of these beasts onto this website), but even thinking about doing so makes me feel very “professional,” so bear with me as I present…
THE OFFICIAL CURRENT SKATE OF MIND PSA CONFERENCE “”SPREADSHEET”" (extra set of quotes intentional):
Number of Years PSA has been in existence = 70
Years Kathy Casey has been coaching = 30+
Number of days in the year we should wake up with a burning desire to be better coaches, according to the ever-entertaining Kathy Casey = “every day” a.k.a. 365
The Component Score Susie Wynne would receive on the transitional skating she demonstrated in her wonderful class called, “Simply Skated” if she were competing under the IJS system and I were a judge = 10
Grade of Execution Gale Tanger would have received for her Spiral up on stage (though we’d have to replay the video to see if she held it for 3 seconds) = +3
Number of questions Doug Haw asked Brian Orser in the brilliant segment called, “Inside the Coach’s Studio” modeled after the television show, “Inside the Actor’s Studio” = 29
Number of dizzying revolutions Brian Orser a.k.a. Mr. Triple Axel seemed to do on the floor of his living room in the classic black and white footage from when he was a toddler = approximately 35
Number of syllables in the word “momentum” as counted by Orser’s coach Doug Leigh in the video footage = 3
Number of pillows (both functional and decorative) on the beds at the Hyatt Regency O’Hare (and thank you to my conference buddy for helping me with the calculation of this statistic) = 7
Therefore, when two beds are in the room, the total number of pillows = 14
The deadline for coaches to complete their required Coaching Educational Requirement (CER) credits = July 2010
The number of people who currently understand exactly what this entails = 4
Latest ISU Communication that will probably change after the ISU Congress in June = 1494
Number of times presenters from the judging community encouraged coaches and skaters to aim for high GOE’s rather than high Levels = at least 10
Number of “extremely diverse” conferences simultaneously being held at the Hyatt Regency O’Hare = many
Number of people wearing one or more of the following items for a particularly “intriguing” conference that shall remain nameless on this blog for fear of receiving a crazy amount of unwanted spam: leather, chains, collars, and something I can only call a “skirt-less skirt” = again, many
Number of times I heard someone ponder whether or not the aforementioned conference had a tradeshow = 5
Percentage of sport success that is “mental” according to surveys of Olympian Athletes, as presented by USOC Sport Psychologist Kirsten Peterson, Ph.D. = 50-90%
Amount of training time that athletes spend on the mental side of their sport according to Olympian Athletes as shared by Peterson= not 50-90%
Percentage of human communication that occurs through words according to Psychotherapist Frankie Perez = 7%
Percentage of communication that occurs non-verbally i.e. through body language, tone, etc = 93%
Ideal height of a leg extension for ice dance according to coach Iouri Tchesnitchenko= 80 degrees
Price of an all-event ticket for the World Championships according to a friend who worries, quite rightly, that cost is negatively affecting the skating fan base = $1000
Amount of weight gained from uncontrollable buffet grazing = No Answer
Amount of weight my suitcase mysteriously gained though I did not purchase or steal anything (I suspect foul play: invisible bricks, perhaps?) = 5 pounds
Length of the maze-like hallway leading from the hotel to the Convention Center where some of the presentations were held on the last day (and thank heaven, because I had to walk off some of that buffet-ing) = 16 miles
Pages of notes I scribbled because I am an obsessive note-taker (though in my defense, the pages of my notebook were rather small) = 56
Floor in the John Hancock Building from which my conference buddy and I watched the sun set while enjoying a post-conference drink (see picture above) = 95th
Phone number of the JFK Jetblue baggage claim office in case they ever lose one of your bags = 7186326355
Total number of minutes they might keep you on hold over the course of 3 phone calls = 36
Number of skating blogs I’ll be able to write, thanks to all the information I gathered while on this trip (not that I was lacking for topics) = 477
TOTAL = Priceless
***
Please add to this “spreadsheet” by clicking on comment below.
And stay tuned. In future installments I intend to address such topics as:
Pair Skating in America: Ouch; Moves in the Meadow; The Ratings Game; Figures: Still Mourning; Youtube as Teaching Tool; Age: To Limit or Not to Limit
Finally, here is the article I wrote about the event for icenetwork: http://web.icenetwork.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20080527&content_id=48350&vkey=ice_news
Careers not Chosen
May 20, 2008
This week, I’m flying to Chicago for the Professional Skaters Association Conference. While there, I’ll be attending all kinds of seminars and seeing coach-friends (including former competitors and mentors) from around the country. Amid packing for this event and canceling my lessons, I have been thinking about career paths. Mine has been somewhat circuitous.
I’ve mentioned in previous installments that I didn’t know I was going to become a figure skating coach. Not that I didn’t admire my own coaches growing up; becoming one just didn’t occur to me, for some reason. I am certainly glad I chose this particular path but sometimes I just have to chuckle at where I thought I’d end up instead.
For example, when I was very young, it was clear to me that I was going to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. Through watching football (and rooting for the Packers) with my dad, it was pretty obvious that the cheerleaders for the Dallas team had the best sense of style. Their outfits were a little more glamorous (covered in silver stars!), their Keds (and smiles) were a little whiter, and their cheers a little more convincing. Of course, I suppose they had a few other famous “attributes” I didn’t even notice. Perhaps my own pom poms were the wrong color scheme (red and white for the Wisconsin Badgers) and the bleachers on our front lawn were empty (okay, not even set up), but I put in some long hours honing my high kick and my woo hoo! on our driveway.
Someone, probably after asking me, the What do you want to be when you grow up? question, convinced me that becoming a Dallas Cheerleader was extremely difficult, so I decided to reconsider this path and move on to something more realistic. I figured it would be a lot easier to become a…Supermodel. After all, all you had to do was look good. You didn’t even have to do any cheers. As soon as I heard that in order to excel in this vocation you had to basically stop eating, it started to lose its appeal. I figured I’d just hold this idea in reserve as something to fall back on, just in case.
From there, I took a slight left turn toward the sister industry of Fashion Design. I pored over the beloved “Fashion Plates” set I received for my 10th birthday. With these stencil-like panels, I created thousands of different wardrobe combinations and committed them to paper with the help of colored pencils. I’d later go on to design my skating costumes by sketching them out first on typing paper. I’d fold the sheet in half and draw my dress on one half and my brother’s costume on the other. I colored them in, down to the last detail, with that same trusty set of colored pencils.
I eventually discovered that, in order to be a Fashion Designer, you had to know how to sew. It was one thing sewing by hand and quite another when you got a sewing machine involved. In 7th grade Home-Economics class, I discovered that threading a sewing machine was the domestic version of Rocket Science. The few times I attempted to use my mother’s sewing machine on my own, it made a scary whirring noise. The thread flew off the spool and into a terrifying knot in the shape of a skull-and-crossbones. (Of course, now that would be a trendy fashion statement, so I was clearly way ahead of my time.)
For a while there at the beginning of college, I thought I’d be a Lawyer, wearing slick skirt-suits and winning cases like the heroine in a girl-Grisham novel. The problem with this is that I wasn’t exactly one to speak up, either in class or in almost any group scenario. And I certainly wasn’t one to debate things.
From there, illogically, I decided that I was destined to become a Professor. I suppose the distinction for me was that, in a classroom, I could “share” my ideas rather than “argue” them like I’d have to in a courtroom. I was starting to become an avid reader and I had this image of wearing eyeglasses and my hair in a bun. (Okay, well… for those of you who know me, please stop laughing, and for those of you who don’t, I guess I should admit that I usually wear glasses and my hair pulled back in a bun.) I envisioned leading my eager pupils to the shade of a campus tree, where we could gather ‘round and dissect poetry.
In fact, I did eventually go on to teach a college course, Composition 101. It happened to be a night class for adults and I was the youngest person in the classroom. When I walked in on the first night and I put my satchel on the desk (a bag I thought seemed very academic), one of the students said, “You’re our teacher?” She loaded that you’re with disdain. She felt insulted by being taught by someone younger and her attitude was contagious: when I had the nerve to assign reading and essays, I was hit and wounded by many dagger glares over the course of those three months. Right around the time that I had to determine final grades (they weren’t all that great) that would have a ripple effect on GPAs and transcripts of people 5, 10, 20 years older than me, I decided that this was probably something I’d be better suited for once I had some more life under my belt. (Oh…to be too young for something, what a hardship.) So, just like my Supermodeling, I put this on the back burner.
There was also a brief stint as an Advertising Copywriter, enjoyable enough that it created a dilemma. Around the time I started teaching group and private lessons at the rink where I am currently on staff, I was offered a position at a firm on Madison Avenue in Manhattan. I could see it: the water cooler, the Happy Hours, all that hip, creative synergy. And of course the fashion component: the high heels, the slacks, the green leather briefcase purchased at a downtown boutique. But I also envisioned something else that compelled me to turn down the offer: I could see myself coming home at night and not wanting to write my own stuff after sitting at a computer all day writing brochures and radio ads.
Of course, this leads me to the other thing I thought I’d become. A Writer. This fantasy predated (and coincided with) all else, the Cheerleading included. In boxes at my mother’s house, there are laminated “books” I penned and illustrated. One details the adventures of a thumb (my thumbprint included.) Another is about a wounded bird my brother and I found in our backyard. Another is called “A Day in the Life of a Skater.” The protagonist, as you might imagine, is me.
Becoming a writer was probably the craziest idea of all, and, it turned out, impossible to let go of. When I flip through that ancient masterpiece about skating, it seems so obvious that I’d become a Skating Writer or a Writing Skater, but I’m glad I tried out some other vocations along the way, even if only in my mind. Besides, it occurs to me that, as a coach, you have to be a little bit of a cheerleader, a bit of a professor, and sometimes, if meeting with resistance, a bit litigious. Sometimes you have to give input on costume choices or designs, and sometimes, as an ice dance coach, you have to try and get your skaters to strut around the rink with the confidence of runway models. In this job, you get to wear many hats. Literally and figuratively.
The Sociologist in me (yes, I toyed with that for about 10 minutes in college as well) wonders how many people actually end up in the careers they youthfully identified when asked the, What do you want to be when you grow up question. Probably a handful, but it would be interesting to have some statistics…
I posed this question to some of my students today and their answers ranged from Engineer to Orthodontist to Veterinarian to Lawyer. One student, a 9 year-old blushed and answered, “Figure Skater” shyly, as if I might not think she’d qualify. Of course, I was flattered, though it should be noted that she did not say “Coach” – I suspect that her current idea of growing up doesn’t go too far beyond the age of 18. Over the next 10, 15, 20 years, I’ll have to keep track of how many of these abstract plans come to fruition.
I also asked a few coach-friends (all of whom obviously love what they do) to share three careers they thought they were aiming for, once upon a time.
One friend answered:
- Prima Ballerina
- Trial Lawyer
- Boutique Owner
Another:
- Journalist
- School Psychologist
- Sports Psychologist
And a third:
- Flight Attendant
- Scientist
- House Wife
And you? Whether you are skating coach or not, please share three “Careers not Chosen” by clicking on “Comment” below.
***
I anticipate that in next week’s installment I’ll be regaling you with my Chicago adventures. But then again, we’ll see, life doesn’t always turn out as expected….
Ice Dance: Crisis or Opportunity?
March 18, 2008
It has recently come to my attention that the ISU is considering downsizing Ice Dance from three events – Compulsories, Original Dance, Freedance – to two in order to make it commensurate with Singles and Pairs. This is a way to cut costs at competitions and it does make logical sense.
The problem is that most arrows point toward the eradication of Compulsory Dance at ISU competitions.
This would be catastrophic for Ice Dance and for the entire sport. As we saw with figures, their elimination from competition has resulted in extinction. If the ISU makes this decision when they discuss this topic this week at the World Championships, compulsory dances will be in similar jeopardy.
Taking compulsories out of the competitive “arena” will have serious, far-reaching and immediate ramifications. I write from the perspective of a dedicated ice dance coach who, in addition to teaching other aspects of skating, enjoys teaching compulsory ice dances and who has had anywhere from 10-15 students testing compulsory ice dances every three months for the last eight or so years. In that time, I have had a handful of ice dance teams in the competitive ranks.
I think it’s obvious that a new era of ice dance has dawned (here in the U.S., anyway). We have more ice dancers placing well in both Junior and Senior Events around the world than ever before. At Nationals this year, there were more spectators in the stands for ice dance. In fact, Senior Dance was a Saturday night, primetime event, sharing top billing with Senior Ladies. If handled correctly, this proposed downsizing could actually result in changes that would further popularize ice dance and benefit the entire sport. Eliminating compulsories all together is not the answer.
First, it’s necessary to ask the question: What is the most important factor in the continuation of this particular activity? What, in other words, does skating need in order to thrive? The answer is simple: Participation. The more kids who try skating and continue with it, the higher the level of competition, which leads to higher entertainment value, which leads to higher TV ratings and, finally to higher revenue for governing bodies. And the more exposure there is, the more skaters who are inspired to give it a try. It’s a chicken and egg situation: the ever-important bottom line is driven from both the grass roots (i.e. every local rink in the world) and from the top down (i.e. how compelling competitive skating and its stars seem.)
But in order for a large number of skaters to continue in a sport where the body type necessary to perform triple jumps (at least for girls/women) is becoming more and more specific, namely small, it’s necessary for there to be Options. This is why I am a proponent of both Ice Dance and Synchronized Skating, because a larger number of athletes and body types have the opportunity to participate and excel throughout their teenage years.
If I had never been introduced to the Dutch Waltz and then taken that test as an 8 year-old, it’s unlikely that I would ever had found my way to competitive ice dance in the first place, as a Preliminary then Novice dance team with my older brother. It is equally unlikely that I would have returned to competitive ice dance at the Junior level once it was clear that I was too tall for pair skating. It is probable that I would have quit skating at the age of 16 all together, quite possible that I would not have been drawn to coaching, and would therefore not be in the position to encourage more skaters to get interested in the sport and continue with it. And I was one of the fortunate few who had a built-in partner. It seems even less likely that skaters without partners (who might join up with partners in the future) would get involved with ice dance were it not for compulsory ice dance tests.
One of the best parts about Figure Skating in the United States is this highly organized merit-based testing system. I can say that, as a former skater and as a coach, this series of achievable goals helps considerably to get skaters motivated and educated…in other words, hooked. No matter what skaters and their families have seen on television, it is the testing process that lends structure to those burgeoning dreams. Skating is complex and the skill set is cumulative: this is perfectly demonstrated through testing.
In no other aspect of the sport is the testing process more effective, more-specifically focused, more rigorous and, in the end, more prestigious than in Ice Dance. The standards are high and obtaining a gold medal is extremely challenging. Many single skaters in my fleet, several of whom earn their gold medals in Moves in the Field and Freestyle, have taken up dance in order to improve their basic skating. These skaters will attest to the fact that mastering the requirements of silver, pre-gold, and gold ice dance tests is a serious undertaking indeed, requiring a great deal of practice and dedication.
This is not a matter of comparing Ice Dance tests to Moves in the Field or Freestyle tests, because I think they all have merit. It’s a matter of identifying what differentiates Ice Dance from Singles and Pairs and how the compulsory dances contribute to that. These dances promote posture, edgework, power, neat footwork, extension, rhythm, performance, timing, and dance ability, the translation of music into movement, in both subtle and overt ways through knee action, facial expression, and body movements. The fact that these patterns have a specific layout on the ice and that they are accompanied by music is critical.
Not only are the fundamentals of compulsory ice dances vital to performing accomplished, edge-filled and danced Freedances, but these skills are also becoming more and more essential to single skaters for step sequences, for overall transitional skating, and therefore for earning points in both their technical and component scores.
The same can be said for Pair Skating and echoed for Synchronized Skating. In fact, more and more, coaches of Synchronized teams are highly recommending and even requiring ice dance tests as a way to improve the ability of their team members and intricacy of their programs thereby increasing the competitive and entertainment value of this discipline. I dare say that, more than ever before, all parts of skating are recognizing and capitalizing on the specific skills of ice dance. And compulsory dances are the heart of this. If the ISU takes away compulsories, it will be harmful to the entire sport.
This is why I support the idea of combining the Original Dance and Compulsory Dance together as one event, literally combining them into one program. This is one of the innovative proposals of coach Bob Mock, Member of the National Ice Dance Committee. As he has recently pointed out, the Original Dance in its current form is really just another Freedance, and many teams use the same step sequences, lifts, and spins in both programs. But if teams were required to include one or two patterns of an already-existing compulsory dance into their choreography, this would have several happy consequences.
First of all, it would secure the testing process. In addition to all of the above arguments for this, it would foster the continuation of dance test sessions, which earn money for skating clubs. Second, if compulsory ice dances are couched amid original choreography, they will receive more exposure. Aspiring ice dancers would still have the opportunity to see their heroes performing recognizable patterns that they, too, have learned or will learn in the future.
Keep in mind that Single Skaters and Pair skaters attempt many of the same elements as one another such as Double Axels and Split Twists. In Freedances and Original Dances, due to the high level of innovation, there is less that is standardized and therefore recognizable. Keeping compulsory dances in the competitive realm maintains an essential sense of continuity between the lower and higher levels. (This, by the way, is the primary argument against those who would contend that compulsory dances could effectively remain in the background just like Moves in the Field. Beginner ice dancers need to be able to see some connection between what they are doing and what the dance stars are doing and this needs to happen in a public forum, in case they do not have high level dancers in their rink.)
Furthermore, combining the two events in this manner would more firmly attach ice dance to its roots in ballroom dance: Foxtrots, Polkas, Waltzes, Sambas, Tangos, etc. In fact, the name of this combined event could be changed to something like Ballroom Dance, closely associating it with something that is extremely popular and experiencing a resurgence in our culture. Notice the popularity of the television show, Dancing with the Stars. Note also the increased tendency of couples to take ballroom lessons leading up to their weddings in order to smoothly perform that celebrated “first dance.” The term Ballroom Dance would also nicely differentiate it from the Freedance, which refers to a greater freedom as far as musical and stylistic choices. Alternatively, Bob Mock suggests that it could be called Creative Compulsory Original Dance (CCOD).
Finally, it would be beneficial to offer more modern and appealing music for this new combined event. Perhaps the ISU could provide 3-5 songs with the appropriate rhythm for whatever dance is assigned for that competitive season and couples can choose from one of these. Or couples could obtain their own music as long as it has the number of beats per minute that correspond with compulsory requirements.
Incidentally, over the years, I have had many skaters who have begged to work on their ice dances in their lessons or to learn the next ice dance. I repeat: I have students who beg to work on their compulsory ice dances. When time permits, and we spice them up ever so slightly with an arm movement or a bit of introductory or ending choreography, they are thrilled. Likewise, I would be remiss to not mention the large population of adult ice dancers who attend dance weekends, skate on social dance sessions, and who comprise a huge portion of the ice dance fan base. It would be a shame to lose this entire opportunity for figure skating enthusiasm.
This potential downsizing is valid. The eradication of compulsory dances is not. Combining Compulsory Dance with Original Dance is the most logical solution. Think of it as The New Adventures of the Old Compulsory Dance: it brings compulsories more into the spotlight and lends a more standardized and recognizable aspect to original choreography. It is a win-win concept and one that I hope will be given serious consideration.
***
If you are similarly concerned about this situation, whether you are a coach, a skater, a parent, or a fan, please pass this link onto others and lend your voice by leaving a comment below. Other ideas and suggestions are encouraged. The ISU is tackling this issue THIS WEEK so now is the time for members of the American skating community to be heard.
Update, April 1, 2008: For those of you wondering how ”The Fate of Compulsory Dance” discussions went at Worlds, it sounds like the ISU is going to very likely downsize the dance to two events BUT so far, they have approved the idea of combining the Compulsory Dance and Original Dance into one. This has to go through a few more rounds of approval within the ISU, but tentatively, it is good news. Thanks to everyone who has written comments on this site on this topic.
Rental Skate Riff
February 12, 2008
There are many different parts and pieces to an ice rink. There’s the Zamboni, the ice itself, the receptionists, the skate guards, the janitorial staff, the administrative staff and, of course, the coaches. I’ve thought long and hard about (and written about) the pros and cons of my particular role but I think it’s pretty obvious that there’s one rink job far more difficult and underappreciated than the rest: the job of the Rental Skate.
I’ve been working alongside Rental Skates for years, and I’ll admit it, I’ve never taken much notice. Well, that’s not true. I have noticed them and I’ve laughed. I’ve ridiculed. Okay, the full truth: I have been downright disrespectful, maybe even discriminatory.
One day, a child in my beginner class tugged on my coat sleeve. “Teacher?” she said (I’ve long stopped hoping for them to try and pronounce my name). “Teacher, my skates are broken.” I looked down. Her Rental Skates weren’t actually broken but they were in sorry shape. The buckles were undone, the tongues were wagging, and they were foaming at the mouth. It looked as if they had been run over by a car. “Oh, my,” I said to the little girl, trying to disguise my horror. I am ashamed to write that I did not feel empathy for this feeble footwear…I felt disgust.
“Where is your mother?” I asked. I certainly wasn’t going to bend down and touch them. Besides, performing triage right now would take time away from the other students. “She’s over there.” The little girl pointed her mitten toward the lobby at the other end of the rink, which might as well have been 100 miles away. I told her to wave, which she did, vigorously, but no one made any motions to come over. I considered sending this skater back out to the rental desk alone, but I knew that wasn’t particularly responsible, so I yelled out to the rest of the class, “Okay, try some dips!”
I sighed. I took off my own mittens (the coach version of rolling up the sleeves) and got down on bended knee. I first tried to stuff the plastic tongue back into the left skate without knocking the child over, but it seemed to have lockjaw. So I had her sit down, and I took the skate off her foot in order to deal with it more directly. I didn’t mean to be rough with the skate, but I was in a hurry. Despite being rushed, I did notice that the blue plastic was covered in lacerations. Out of curiosity, I quickly turned the boot over and ran my finger along the blade. It was sharp, yet, not in right direction; the bumpy nicks almost made it seem as if the toe pick extended along the whole length.
I finally got the tongue properly reinserted and had her push her foot back inside. I fiddled with the ski boot-style buckles, explaining while I did so that the skate should really be hugging her ankle and should feel a bit tighter than her sneakers. Then I started to address her other foot, except, wait…something was amiss. This one looked exactly the same and I don’t just mean that it had many similar injuries (which it did), but it was “exactly the same” in that it was also a left skate. Now I stood up and waved my arms wildly toward the lobby as if I were stranded on a highway. Help! S.O.S! Come now! Eventually, a mother stood, gathered up her coat, her toddler, and another kid in a stroller, then started making the trek toward the rink door.
The situation was quickly rectified. We all said “woops!” chuckling, and moved on. But ever since then, I’ve been paying closer attention. What I’ve discovered has changed my perspective and I hope it will change yours, as well. What I’m asking, here, is to consider, really consider the plight of the Rental Skate.
Imagine that, basically, you are a knife for hire. You are worn by people who don’t really know how to correctly use you. Though you exist in the name of fun, you unintentionally harm beginner skaters on a regular basis, and get directly blamed for broken bones, sprains, and an unfathomable number of bruises. Every day, you participate in what are basically demolition derbies. You slam into the boards, you crash into other Rental Skates and every lap includes a number of near-misses that would make professional stunt men close their eyes. This has left you scarred.
But you really weren’t all that handsome to begin with. Maybe you are the tan-ish variety, the same color as paper bags, and striped red at the heel in the same manner as your cousin, the Rental Bowling Shoe. Or you are an elder figure skate, circa 1943, and you are graying and sagging with age. If you are the newest version, you are off-white with black trimmings. You are composed of extra-stiff plastic that is also somewhat shiny, so that you kind of look like a little white Darth Vader. But really, most of you are that weird color of blue plastic, not quite Smurf and not quite Blue Man Group, some indefinable shade in between. However you started out, you’re getting uglier by the session. Unfortunately, “plastic” surgery is not an option, or it’s never been offered, anyway.
Too often, you are forced to work in environments not included in your job description: the metal bleachers, the cement on the other side of the rink, even the parking lot. You are not provided with the protective gear, a.k.a. blade guards, that are always used in the private sector. You have no health insurance and the doctors assigned to your care have very little training. Mainly, you suffer from neglect, your ailments unnoticed or unreported. Instead of getting a bath, you get occasionally sprayed with noxious, aerosol “perfume”. At the end of the day, you are thrown into a heap and haphazardly sorted.
Though everything you do is a team effort, you sometimes get separated from your partner and re-matched with a Rental Skate of a different size or, as highlighted above, with your exact twin. You are basically abused, misunderstood and considered inferior to the other privately-owned skates in the rink. And you’ve seen how well those other white and black skates are treated. They are handled lovingly and gently wiped off. They are regularly taken for check-ups. They don’t hang upside-down on a hook all night, but are tucked into their own individual bags. Some of them even have fuzzy slippers and their own stuffed animals (Stink-eez!) designed to help them smell better.
Imagine that your life is very very long. And that you work for its entirety, with no hope for retirement. You’ve never experienced anything like respect, or appreciation, or even, (until now) sympathy. The worst part is that, thanks to all of the above challenges and hardships, you’re not even very good at what you do.
In fact, the only pride you can take in your job is that you are an effective middleman. After wearing you, many decide to procure their own skates, those other ones. And, wait a second, when you think of it in this light, you, oh, Rental Skate, are truly a hero…you may be regularly dismissed, degraded, and quite smelly, but you are like a bridge, the best kind of bridge, because you lead to something better. It is with you that many dreams begin.
***
While working on this installment, a few people shared some funny Rental Skate stories…
One rink manager told me that people don’t really steal the skates that much anymore but… “We had that problem when we first opened up. There were a few creative ways. The most common was to bring a ratty pair of shoes, give those in exchange for rentals and put on your real shoes from your bag. We had a few weird ones. In one instance, a woman claimed that the rentals were actually hers, stolen from her by one of our employees. Another time, one guy, an adult, asked to buy a specific pair of rentals, as they fit him so well. I explained that I couldn’t do that. Two weeks or so later the skates were gone. I saw them on the guy a month later at public session, painted an awful brown color. You can’t make this stuff up.”
A man whose family has run a skate shop and rental window at another local rink since 1960 told me that when the kids hand over the skates, sometimes he’ll, as a joke, hand back only one shoe in return then go about his business, pretending not to notice. One little kid, who seemed like he was probably only about three years old, looked a his one shoe for a moment and then, with perfect aim, threw it right at this man’s head!
Thanks for reading. I’m sure you have some good stories as well. Please contribute to this Rental Skate Riff by clicking on “comment” below.
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To read my icenetwork interview with the Gilles Family, click:
http://web.icenetwork.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20080207&content_id=43520&vkey=ice_news
Also notice that I’ve added some Interesting Links, over there, under “Pages” in the right hand column. Enjoy.
The Coldest Job in the Universe
January 8, 2008
Well, the holidays are over. I don’t know about you, but I’m experiencing a bout of post-holiday blues; my cozy, pajamas-on-the-couch vacation is behind me and the long, cold winter stretches out ahead.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: coaching skating is a great gig, and there’s nothing else I’d rather do (well, besides cashing lottery checks and even if I did win, I’d probably still teach lessons). But the temperature of this profession from November through March can be more than a little problematic. Of course, in the summer, it’s a downright godsend, but that’s light years away, at this point, and not the focus of this discussion.
Allow me to clarify that there is a gigantic difference between skating in a cold environment and coaching in a cold environment. Even when you glide around with your students, you rarely generate enough body heat to have a real effect. The temperature is usually tolerable for the first hour or so, but once you get three or four hours in, you inevitably start to feel like an underdressed Eskimo.
There are times, at the end of a workday, when I’m so cold I can hardly think, or I can only think about lasagna…diving into a large vat of it. There are times when my hands, my feet, and my face have gone beyond frozen to a scary state of numb. My shivering probably makes me look blurry to my students, as if I’m one big hummingbird wing. After my last lesson, I rush into my car and put the heat on full blast only to rediscover that it always starts off as an arctic wind far colder than air conditioning. While I wait for it to heat up, I worry that the violent chattering of my teeth could result in a jaw sprain or a cracked tooth. I wonder: when exactly does “hypothermia” set in?
A few years ago, I tried to comfort myself by making a list of careers that must be colder than ours. This is all I could come up with: 1. the foreman of an ice cream factory, 2. a roofer specializing in igloos, 3. a busker who plays guitar on Mt. Everest. Composing this list did not make me feel any warmer. In hindsight, perhaps burning it would have…
It could be that I’m particularly wimpy. I’m open to this theory because I am wimpy in many ways, however, I did grow up in Wisconsin in the years before global warming. (See prior installment – my father transformed our driveway into a rink with the simple spray of a garden hose.) In my formative years, on the rare days when I was not at an ice rink, I spent many an hour helping my brother construct sophisticated snow forts and extra-plump snowmen. I helped (okay lackadaisically, but still) my father shovel the driveway and helped my mother shovel our car out from various snowdrifts. So I’m no stranger to the cold.
It could be that the rinks I teach at are particularly chilly. You know how, when you come in from the cold, your face sometimes burns for a few moments? One night, when I came home from teaching at an outdoor rink, my face didn’t stop burning. I looked into the mirror to discover that my skin had become disturbingly splotchy and it stayed that way for hours. Those of you who know me are aware that I have an abnormal affection for polka dots – but not on my face! A call to my doctor the next day confirmed that I was probably going to live, but that I had contracted the very first stages of frostbite. I know a few coaches who have gotten more advanced frostbite in their toes, and this does not sound like a pleasant experience.
The temperature of indoor rinks varies. Ice surfaces apparently need to be somewhere between 24 to 28 degrees and the air is usually somewhere in the 50′s. Though, recently, at one of the rinks I teach at, an adult skater brought in a digital thermometer, just for kicks, and let’s just say that the reading was…well below the 50′s. It suddenly made perfect sense how, about a month ago, the ice pack I was using to nurse a shoulder injury was more frozen (rock solid!) at the end of my workday than at the beginning. Similarly, this New Year’s Eve, the rink nicely chilled a bottle of champagne I had tucked in my bag for later consumption.
Unsurprisingly, one of the most commonly uttered phrases in my work life is, “It’s so cold.” We coaches say this to each other as if it’s a revelation, as if it’s something new, as if we haven’t already mentioned it to each other four times that day and 65 times that week. Hearing the heartfelt, “I know,” in response, as your co-worker burrows further into her scarf, is comforting: at least we’re in this together.
During the ice cuts, we purchase more coffee or tea, we blow on our hands (or run them under the hot water in the restroom.) We sit in the lobby commiserating and fantasizing. Our eyes gloss over as we talk about things like electric blankets, and heated vests. One of my friends enjoyed the benefits of this latter invention until it busted. The other day, someone was regaling us with a tale about a rink somewhere in Massachusetts where there are a series of heating panels installed behind the benches for the benefit of the coaches, which sounds to me like nirvana. My latest hair brain idea is to develop and bring into fashion a sort of “nose cozy,” perhaps knit in a variety of styles: an orange beak, a pink snout, or a red homage to Rudolph. What do you think?
All of us have already devoted a lot of cognitive energy (and funds) to combating the cold.
Of course, the most important survival mechanism is strategic layering. For me, this starts with a layer of long johns and ends with a ball-gown length down-feather coat. It’s kind of a like a sleeping bag with arms. Of course, every time I want to demonstrate something, I have to hike it up to my waist like a bride walking through a puddle so that my students can actually see my feet and legs. The middle layers consist of a combination of fleece, wool, gore-tex…and, on the advice of a friend, I have recently discovered the thermal power of cashmere. I’ve always owned a few cashmere sweaters, but I’ve made the mistake of saving them for special occasions (a.k.a., when they could actually be seen, silly me). I didn’t realize, until now, that this luxuriously soft material is also quite practical. Snowpants are also a key ingredient. The few times I’ve tried to cut corners and teach just in my jeans, I might as well have been naked.
What you have to remember is to put on your skates before you apply your final layers because the bulk factor can make it difficult to bend forward. In fact, not being able to reach your feet is a good way of gauging whether or not you have enough layers on. Of course, once I have all my gear in place, I look about as large as a Kodiak bear. In the summer, it is common for skating parents who observe us coaches arriving at the rink in our shorts, to marvel at all the weight we’ve lost. Of course, in actuality, it’s just that they’re not used to seeing us in less than 44 layers.
Hats are a given, though your hair will pay the price, as it will look perpetually smooshed. I’ve found that mittens definitely trump gloves; it’s optimal for the fingers to huddle together. And, on the most extreme days, if you supplement with one of those handwarming pouches, it’s as if your fingers have all gathered around a virtual campfire. The downside with mittens is that they severely affect your dexterity: you have to take them off in order to write anything down or to play a CD. They also impact your ability to give your student the “peace sign”, the “okay sign”, or the “do two more sign” with your fingers. Fortunately, you can still give an effective thumbs-up, or thumbs-down, whichever the situation calls for.
One thing that has helped me survive morning teaching (but just barely – see the installment entitled Morning Madness) is my own personal space heater, which is about the size of an eight-inch cube. Lots of fellow coaches have invested in these. The problem, which we have learned the hard way, is that you can only plug so many of them into a power strip before you blow a fuse.
Sometimes, the only thing that will thaw you out this time of year is a long, scalding shower or a very hot dinner. For this reason, last week I implemented Project S.O.U.P.. I made three different kinds and I’m happy to report that my freezer is now stocked with 17 servings of liquid heat. Next, I’m going to purchase some boot covers, which many claim to be lifesavers, or toe savers, at least. All these methods will surely help with the winter blahs, but I know, as we dig deep into February, I’ll need to employ more extreme tactics. Specifically, I’ll have no choice but to board a plane to visit my oldest and dearest skating friend. She now lives in Puerto Rico.
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If anyone has any other useful ideas or remedies on the topic of temperature, whether serious or facetious, please bring forth by clicking on “comment” below. And, I implore you, if I show up at the rink one day wearing a bank-robber style face mask or some kind of cashmere beak, please intervene.
So the day I’m posting this missive, it is 65 degrees in New York. January 8. Go figure.
Ha! A special thanks to Commenter #8 who has provided us with a link to a knitting website that includes an actual nosewarmer! That is just not something you see everyday…
Morning Madness
November 20, 2007
(Note: This installment is dedicated to all the coaches who subject themselves to the Before-School Shift, a concept surely invented by a madman, or Lucifer himself.)
I am a wimp. I only coach one early morning per week, Wednesdays. One season, I scheduled lessons on Friday mornings, as well, and it just about killed me. Several of my colleagues rise at the crack of dawn three, four, five times per week. I’ll never understand how they do this. I suspect that, despite how human they seem, they are in fact robots specifically programmed to coach at ungodly hours, to also coach later in the day, and, to do all of this, miraculously, with their eyes open.
The reason to go in early is that the sessions are less crowded. Skaters can actually fit in a run-through of their program or an entire pattern of a dance. They can even skate the Spirals from the Novice Moves without beheading anyone or spraining their own necks trying to see who is behind them.
Okay, the main reason to go in early is that, strangely, some skaters want to take lessons at this time! This is also difficult for me to comprehend. When I was a kid, there wouldn’t have been enough money or chocolate to coax me to the rink before school. Granted, I skated early every Saturday and Sunday of my young life, which severely impacted my visibility on the slumber party circuit, took me out of the Saturday morning cartoon loop, and to repeat a refrain from above, just about killed me.
I’ve learned that there really are two kinds of people in this world – night owls and early birds – and it’s pretty obvious which category I’m in. Believe me, I’d go to sleep earlier if I could, but there’s so much to get done (both petty and profound) and insomnia has long been a loyal companion.
If Early Morning Coaching were a reality show, the producers would probably assign us three extreme, nearly-impossible challenges: Getting Up, Getting to the Rink, and Coaching Coherently. Here is what the viewing audience might see, in my case.
Challenge One: Getting up.
I have proven that I am incapable of using the so-called “snooze button” responsibly, therefore, I no longer purchase alarm clocks that offer this function. Instead, I set two alarms, 10 minutes apart and place them across the room so that, in order to stop their screeching, I have to actually stand up and take a few zombie-like steps. But after that first alarm rings at 5 AM, I promptly re-bury myself under the covers deep enough for a whole winter’s hibernation or, at least several more hours of slumber. After all, it’s so cold outside that bed, and the rink is at least 75 times colder.
Of course, sleep turns out be impossible since my brain is busy cataloguing legitimate reasons to cancel. Perhaps the weather is too bad (this may require a peek out the window). Perhaps all the north-bound streets in New York City are randomly closed. Maybe my garage guy has lost my car keys. Unable to come up with anything external that will get me off the hook, I decide each and every Wednesday morning that… I just can’t do it. Plain and simple.
Next, I compose a mental list of the phone calls I need to make. The problem is that my commute is longer than any of my students’ so even my first student probably isn’t awake yet and my later students won’t be up for hours. I imagine groggy, confused parents croaking the word, “Hello?” into the phone so I can tell them, “I just can’t do it.” In order to avoid waking them up, I plan to make one cancellation call every half hour. It takes me a few moments to realize that this means I definitely won’t get back to sleep. And right about now, it also starts to dawn on me how ridiculous my excuse is.
I eventually admit to myself that it’s easier to just go in. But, still, I am unable to get up. The only way I manage to finally get out of bed (and turn off that other alarm before it rings) would make Homer Simpson very proud: in my mind’s eye, I dangle a donut.
Challenge Two: Getting to the rink.
The good news is that it doesn’t matter what you wear in this business since it’s just going to get covered in several layers of fleece, Gore-tex, and down-feather coats, anyway. For the record, I’ve never worn my pajamas to the rink, but I have contemplated it. The only form of primping I can manage is deciding which baseball cap I’m going to hide under. I live in the illusion that this disguises how tired I look (and if not, please don’t burst my bubble.)
It’s weird how empty the sidewalks of New York are at this hour. It’s dark, quiet, and downright eerie: I swiftly cross the street and sneak around the block toward my garage with my eyes darting around nervously. In the three years I’ve lived in the city, I’ve only had one slightly distressing early-morning incident and this wasn’t nearly as harrowing as the time, back in the suburbs, I had a pre-dawn stare-down with a skunk.
I am fortunate that, as a customer of an indoor garage, I never have to warm up my car or scrape snow off the windshield. Though, sometimes I do have to wake up the attendant by pressing the obnoxious buzzer. If that doesn’t work, I call the garage phone located directly beside his ear. As he stumbles toward the security gate, I greet him apologetically and we both shake our heads, in mutual misery.
Once in my car, I ponder two things. 1) Who are all those people in the diner on the corner? Have they gotten up early just to beat the omelete rush or have they been partying all night? And: 2) Though the sidewalks are empty, the streets are teeming with traffic. Who are all these crazy people on the roads already and what could possibly be so important that they need to be getting to it this early?
To describe my state once I am out on the highway, I must once again conjure the image of Homer Simpson, who is prone to falling asleep at the wheel. In one episode, his eyelids slowly close as his car transforms into a plush, four-poster bed carried along on the wings of angels…
Thankfully, I’ve never dozed off while driving, but I have to constantly and vigilantly resist it. One of the ways I do so is by striking up the old Coffee Debate: Will I or will I not purchase it? And then: What size? And after that: Will I really indulge in a donut? I believe that coffee is unhealthy, so I’m not proud of this addiction. The styrofoam it’s served in is horrible for the environment. And, really, I need a donut about as bad as I need to install a spare tire around my waist, an eventuality to which a donut is only going to contribute. Then again, don’t I deserve some kind of reward for getting up this early?
Results: My car makes a right turn into Dunkin’ Donuts 100% of the time. I order a medium coffee without fail. I add a donut to my order about 1 out of 10 Wednesday mornings and gobble it down voraciously, messily, and guiltily before I even pull out of the parking lot.
Challenge Three: Coaching Coherently
Upon entering the rink, I make the morning’s first attempt at a smile. My target is the zamboni driver who seems to be in a trance at the front desk. The bags under his eyes are almost as large as mine. While lacing up my skates and chit chatting with whomever else is on the benches, I pretend I am awake. I pretend I am chipper. I pretend I am happy to be at the rink.
Once on the ice, I groan along with the sparse collection of other coaches, who would like me to believe they are struggling with this early hour as much as I am (and which is surely not the case.) We engage in a camaraderie that I’m only be able to fully appreciate after I open the little tab on my coffee cup and take exactly four swigs.
Fortunately, music is already playing. I have instructed my first two students that, on Wednesdays, they are not just skaters but also DJs. I don’t care what this music is, as long as it’s pumping loudly throughout the arena (and it’s not ice dance music). They happily oblige by queuing up the playlists on their ipods. The combination of music, caffeine, and the expectation that I am supposed to be a source of information is what finally snaps me fully awake.
Thus, the teaching begins. I find that, usually, the skaters are in much better shape than I (in more ways than one.) If, every once in a while, they complain about how tired they are, I look at them incredulously and take a few more sips of coffee. “Are you kidding me?” I cry with exaggeration. “This is the best time of the day! Are you saying you don’t love this as much as I do? This is the first day of the rest of our lives and we have the honor of starting it off in this beautiful rink!”
I rattle off a few more lies before I notice that they can see right through me. I might as well come clean. “Yup,” I back-peddle. “I know. This early morning stuff stinks.” I gesture toward the rink with my mitten. “…But at least we have clear ice?” On this point, they agree with me, and head out to skate upon it. I drink yet more coffee and embark upon what usually turns out to be, despite all the resistance and all the pain, some of the most productive lessons of the week.
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Do you have any tips on surviving Early Morning Coaching for the rest of us? Please advise.
Note the newest CSOM addition: I have written a few articles for icenetwork.com and you can link to them, over there, in the column to the right.
Thanks for reading and Happy Thanksgiving.
