October 2004
Saturday October 2, 2004
The Hotdog and the Chicken
Since the end of last season, my skating has undergone a dramatic change. My speed and power has grown substantially. I can attribute this to many factors, one of which was availability of decent summertime ice. I lost no ground over the summer months and actually improved. Other influences include focus on dance and moves in the field and a few roller skating lessons. Over the years, I have been trained predominantly by male coaches. I worked with Geoff for about three years and another guy for three years before that. The coach who taught me to spin was a former male professional champion. Of course, I have also taken lessons from women; Cynthia most recently. We worked together for about two years. Early in my skating history, I took lessons from another woman for a couple of years. However, the influence of the men has been most profound. They tended to stress speed, power, and strength over grace and artistry.
Lately, I have been able to combine muscle with fluidity. I have taken Cynthia’s dance steps and learned to performed them with speed and depth of edge. I can literally fly around the rink in swing roll movements and other field moves, though no one would mistake me for a graceful nymph. I lack consciousness of my arms. Some skaters allow their arms to flutter in pretty curves that accentuate the simplest glide making it look like a choreographic marvel. One of my friends does this. She rarely jumps or spins, but performs the loveliest attitudes that meld seamlessly into champagne glass spirals. Meanwhile her arms drift and arch creating a glorious bodyline. I compliment her often on her elegance. Inspired by her example, I will concentrate dutifully on my arms and expression for a few minutes. My friend will watch and return the compliment. I apparently possess the fundamentally ability to skate like a lady but naturally plow across the ice like a bulldozer.
When I put my mind to it, I can jump like a spastic kangaroo. Lately, I have amused myself by executing loops out of the fastest backward crossovers I can manage. The loop has always been a favorite, and I have absolutely no fear of it. I cannot remember the last time I dumped a loop jump. I also enjoy similar flip exercises. If I were a little younger and stupider, I would be working on doubles again.
Today I fooled around with waltz jumps. My goal is to own an absolutely enormous waltz jump that hangs in the air like a split. For some reason I cannot achieve the same unbridled spring from a forward take-off as I can from a backward edge. Hence the common difficulty with the axel. As a pubescent girl, I taught myself to do a waltz on cheap quad roller skates. I have been able to do a waltz jump on the ice virtually from day one. Just doing a trick can be vastly different from doing the trick well. I must admit, my waltz is disappointingly mediocre. During every practice, I work on straightening my entrance, reaching higher with the leading leg, and pushing upward. I thought I might increase my hang-time by clapping my boots together while airborne. While I can perform this skill off-ice, I have never tried it with the slippery stuff under my feet. My former fearlessness went out the window as soon as I committed to attempting this stunt. What happened to the courageous hotdog who pumped around the ice like a senior lady warming up at Regionals? She apparently morphed into a chicken.
Today all I did was jump up as high as possible with my feet close together. This reminded me disturbingly of learning an axel. I even thought about trying it for a foolish moment. No, thank you. Next time, I will smack my boots together. Maybe.
Week of October 3, 2004
At Wounded Knee
I attended an afternoon freestyle session this week. As soon as I stepped on the ice, I felt as though quicksand were devouring my blades. My edges sunk in and stayed there. Movement required such effort, I might as well have been inline skating on rough asphalt. Some people like soft ice. Supposedly it lessens the impact of jumps. I hate soft ice. Soft ice drags me down like a murky, sluggish swamp. I like glassy mirror ice. Ice should shine. It should not be covered with opaque frost. Furthermore, my favorite jumping corner should not be pebbled like a curling rink. The ice was simply in bad shape; unusual for this rink. Although I did not inquire because I coach there and want to retain as favorable a rapport with the management as possible, the conditions may have been due to an equipment failure or other oddity. At least I hope so. I would despise skating on that mushy crap on a regular basis.
To make matters worse (yes, it can always get worse), small unnoticeable bits of foam rubber were scattered unobtrusively over the ice surface. These are the byproduct of small children using walkers. The walkers sport foam rubber hand grips, to give the beginner a sense of white-knuckled security. Unfortunately, anxious fingernails gouge the material right off the handles allowing it to fall unto the ice. They were virtually invisible until hit by a blade, a blade already slogging though mud. I felt so uncomfortable and dissatisfied, I could hardly wait for my hour to expire so I could leave.
When I returned on Saturday, the ice was back to normal. That prior fluke lingered only in my mind like a nightmare dimming with approaching consciousness. The previous night I had worked out on the exercise bike and completed a rigorous stretching routine. I looked forward to exploring my flexibility on the ice. However, I did not feel especially well. Not that I was sick again, but I felt disconnected. I have been purging a sinus infection and still struggle with congestion. This probably disturbed my equilibrium. In my last entry, I bragged that I could not recall the last time I fell on a loop jump. Of course, I spoke too soon. In my eagerness to skate will all of my might, I approached a loop with obscene speed ready to launch my ass into the rafters. Once airborne, I popped wide open and landed short, putting my hands down for the first time in years.
Alright, my boots are shot. They are broken down to the point of allowing my ankles to slip and twist at the worst possible moment. Determined to compensate for this handicap, I prepped another loop. This time, I over-rotated and landed on too deep an edge. This threw my knee out of alignment. I kicked and bent the leg, shaking off the pain. As I worked through the minor injury, I realized my knee could not support another big landing. It would not accommodate a back camel either.
I skated to the boards where the father of one of the coaches complimented my spins. This man skated in his youth and has been kind to me before. I accepted his compliment and complained about my present misfortune. He suggested I tape the joint and was surprised when I admitted to not carrying tape in my case. The elderly fellow, concern etched in his features, asked if I were quitting for the day. “You might drag me out of here if my leg were broken”. We both laughed knowingly, and I stepped back onto the ice. I skated until I could no longer feel the pain. I avoided jumps for the rest of the morning, but invested considerable effort in spins and footwork. I can happily announce that I no longer have much trouble with the dreaded backward inside three-turns, my former nemesis. Now I have to tackle the backward outside brackets. The fun never ends.
Week of October 10, 2004
Quarter Flip
The ice was bad again. This time, I found out why. The skating director shouted an exclamation of disgust as she glided across the frozen mess to deposit her supplies in the players’ box. She explained the center of the rink is sinking, and the maintenance crew is trying to level it with additional flooding. Apparently they are flooding the ice but not scraping it with the Zamboni. This leads to wavy perimeters of puddles frozen before they could spread to ultimate thinness. It also results in pebbling and cracking. The surface suffered from all of these malformations at the Saturday freestyle. Again, I was so disgusted I thought about leaving after an hour. However, this was my last week as a customer instead of a coach. With enrollment low following the summer months and the beginning of another school year, only half of the rink is used for group lessons after the freestyle session. Donna has given me permission to utilize the back of the rink for continued practice, so I have managed another hour or hour-and-a-half on Saturday mornings. That gravy train comes to a screeching halt next week. So, I stuck it out and did my best to skate on the bad stuff in my dilapidated boots for a total of two hours.
I accomplished very little. I did a few good forward camels, some other decent spins, and a few big loop jumps. My back camels were not up to par, and I could not invert worth a hill of beans. I played with backward inside three-turns, for which I have developed an unforeseen affection. I work them into crossover patterns and create interesting ways to cover the ice. A back inside double three is a clever way to enter a forward spin. It resembles the basic back crossover wind-up but incorporates an intriguing twist.
At afternoon freestyle sessions, I have observed a threesome of teenage girls who are competent skaters, one in particular who is quite good. She employs an interesting preparation for the double flip, a jump she performs exquisitely. A few years ago, I explored the possibility of learning this skill shortly before my time with Coach Geoff came to an end. The girl performs a one-quarter flip followed by a forward outside three-turn into the double flip. Her friends also practice this jump using the same formula. I decided to fool around with their approach to a basic single flip. Initially, I did a standard half-flip followed by a mohawk into a flip jump. This was awkward, and obviously not the same successful entrance steps used by the young skaters. A traditional half-flip picks in and lands forward on the opposite foot. It teaches technique for split and stag jumps. A quarter flip (if my understanding is correct) does not require a change of feet in the air. The skater taps in and lands forward on the same toe pick. This sets the skater up for another forward outside three-turn into a flip jump.
My first successful walk-through of this sequence resulted in over-rotation. I over-rotated a tiny flip taken with virtually no speed at all! I could immediately appreciate the importance of this series as a learning tool for the double. I repeated my experiment from a modest glide. A big uncontrolled flip resulted. I dared not try this at full throttle lest I wind up close to a double in shabby boots. Once I get my new, beautiful, sturdy boots; like a complete idiot, I am going for a double flip.
Note:
At the end of the Saturday session, a parent and her two small daughters complimented me on my skating, particularly my wonderful spins. The mother told her children that if they practiced hard, they could be as good as me. I was terribly embarrassed, not because the woman was overly complimentarily, but because I had skated so badly. Blushing as though caught in a lie, I began to babble about the broken-down condition of my skates. The woman did not hear any of this nonsense and continued to talk to her girls about practice. Hopefully, someday these people will see me skating up to my typical standard. I can be an impressive skater, but I certainly was not on that occasion.
Week of October 17, 2004
The Divine Order of the Jacket
A few weeks ago, Autumn**, an adult skating friend who also teaches Saturday morning groups, asked me if I had received my coaches’ jacket yet. I told her I would not start teaching until sometime in October. Maybe Donna would present the official garment to me then. As weeks passed, I eyed other people’s jackets covetously. My pro card, membership dues, and insurance may make me a professional; but one of those jackets would induct me into the coaching staff. I had to earn one of those jackets!
This Saturday I met Autumn in the ladies’ room before the freestyle session we enjoy for free before giving lessons. This would be my first Saturday back on the job; although I had taught afternoon classes during the week. I related the story of my experience to Autumn. A couple of days after teaching, I received a phone message from Donna, the skating director. She desperately needed to know if I would be at the rink on Saturday. When I returned her call to confirm that I would keep my commitment to weekend teaching, she informed me that, due to continued low enrollment, she decided to reassign my weekday classes to a Russian woman who coaches fulltime. Donna even made a point of mentioning that I have a fulltime job. I was shocked and hurt. I repeated what she said just to make sure I was not suffering from an auditory hallucination. Donna apparently felt badly enough to compensate me with free skating. I told her I teach skating because I love it; not to hurt anyone or steal anyone’s livelihood.
Autumn tried to put herself in my position and admitted she would be upset too. I felt humiliated as though I had been fired or laid-off, though Donna plans to give me more classes if and when enrollment increases. During the time I have worked at this rink, I have been a dedicated employee. I always come to work on time, give ample notice when I will be absent, and students and parents like me. Nothing I did prompted her decision to give my classes away. However, last spring when Autumn asked me if I would be attending a coaches’ seminar over the summer, I shared my concerns with her about my future in this profession. First, I do not consider myself a “coach” regardless of vocabulary used in this journal. I am an “instructor”. A coach is responsible for the overall training of an athlete, including preparing that individual for tests and competitions, something I do not have the time or experience to do. Initially when Donna hired me to teach, I told her up-front that am not a former child skater with a resume of tests and competitive experience. She accepted me as is. Autumn is in the same situation, but she has taught group classes at other rinks for a few years. I warned her that once this new rink develops a staff of highly qualified coaches, we may be out on our butts. So, I saw this coming.
The Russian coach in question is a very good skater. She grew up in the former Soviet sports machine. Skating is her life. She gives private lessons and is available twenty-four hours a day for lessons and trips to competitive events. I am not. There is no doubt this woman is more qualified to teach skating than I am. There are plenty of people more qualified to teach skating than I am. I do not want her job. I could not do her job. I prefer not to get involved in competitions. I would be in over my head. I know my limits, but I want to continue to function within them. For me, that means teaching a few groups every week during the regular season. I will enjoy it for as long as I can. When it’s over, it’s over.
On Saturday, I greeted my students wearing my fleece vest and began to teach. I felt shabby and illegitimate. A short while later, Donna glided over to me holding the most prestigious of all skating paraphernalia, a coaches’ jacket. I tried not to look immature and overly excited. She presented me with the exalted garment, hoped it fit, and skated unceremoniously away. I pulled it over my vest and returned to my class. I had been installed as an official staff instructor. After the session, Donna told me the jacket was mine to keep, and she ordered another esteemed item for me, a name badge.
In the midday sunshine, I walked out of the rink pulling my wheeled case, wearing my jacket. I did not take it off until I got to my car and tossed it on the passenger seat so I could glance at it all the way home.
**Not her real name
Saturday October 30, 2004
Eddie Says
In total, I have taught group skating lessons for about three or four months. I did not teach over the summer and just returned to my duties last week. So, I have not processed hundreds of kids through the program. However, most of them are eager and enthusiastic. I have taught capable students, those who can barely stand up, and plenty who were placed in the wrong level. In one of my very first classes, I had a girl who would not pay attention and wandered off. In retrospect, I jokingly call her my “ADD Student”. Children who have trouble focusing in academic situations are often diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) or its cousin, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). The difference between the two conditions is obvious. The wandering girl was definitely not hyperactive, she just could not focus for more than a minute or two. She was the only anomalous departure from the model happy skating child I met until encountering a kid who would be a terror in a school classroom, a boy I shall call “Eddie”.
Eddie** and I met during Saturday lessons. He could not remain vertical without clinging to his sister who whined incessantly for me to remove her parasitic brother. As usual, I show my beginners how to bend their knees, position their arms for balance, fall safely, and get up independently. Eddie’s sister, Emily**, completed these tasks readily, her pleasant face requesting further instruction. Eddie was not so quick to learn. Emily continued to shake off his grasp. We marched in place, held hands, and played ring-around-the-rosy. Eddie exclaimed sharply, “When are we going to skate?!”
Fine. He was obviously comfortable standing upright. Let’s move on. I instructed the kids to march forward toward a hockey marking on the ice. Eddie, the mouthy big shot, once again gasped his sister’s arm. Emily bawled at him to release her and beseeched me to get him away. I made him take a big step (or a few little ones) sideways to give poor Emily some breathing/skating room. Satisfied that the compliment of beginners was ready to forge out on their own, I distributed water color markers and told the kids to skate as far as they could across the rink without falling, then draw a picture on the ice. This would be each person’s “spot”. We would use the set of “spots” as a course for various movements, such as “touch your toes when you get to Emily’s kitty cat”.
Eddie found this ridiculous and demanded to know the point of such a silly activity. Note, Eddie is a little boy, about eight years old. “Why, why, why?” he insisted, “What are we going to do? What is a spot for anyway? Why do I have to make one? I don’t get it!” I tried to calm the child by telling him the spots were part of a game and it would be fun. Satisfied, Eddie went on his way. My back turned to help another student, I caught Eddie clinging to the barrier to push himself farther across the rink than any of his peers. “Get away from the wall, Eddie. You can do it on your own. Let me see you march.” He marched a bit, plopped and began to scribble. Fully absorbed, he did not want to stop drawing. I could not have pried that pen away from this kid until he was good and ready to surrender it. He claimed to be making an obstacle course, so we would not have to use anyone else’s spot for the game, since his creation provided sufficient challenge for the entire class.
When the other children moved from spot to spot, Eddie preferred his own artwork and refused to leave it. Fine. “Eddie, show me a dip on your obstacle course. Show me a little hop.” He would not even try to dip or hop. Instead, he demanded a different color marker. Ah, a bargaining chip! “Not until you dip, hop, and touch your toes.” Initially, the kid ignored me but eventually realized he would not get a pen without doing what I asked. He reluctantly conceded. “There, can I have the marker now?” I made good on my deal, and gave the boy a pen.
For the last few minutes of class, I gathered the students for a game of “Simon Says”. Eddie immediately wanted to be Simon. I told him I had to be Simon first to get the game started. Eddie decided he would not play under those conditions and returned to stomping around his obstacle course. The other kids giggled while they marched, dipped, turned, and stopped to the demands to a grown-up Simon. A couple minutes later, Eddie wanted to join us provided he could be Simon. I opted to allow all of the participants to take turns. Eddie could go first. He resolved to change the name of the game to “Eddie Says”. I avoided rolling my eyes heavenward and sighing deeply.
“Eddie says: skate to the wall, but you can’t touch it. Don’t touch the wall! You can’t touch it! Eddie says.”
I diffused the kid after a couple such commands. He was just too much. Besides, it was Emily’s turn to be Simon, and Emily was “Simon”, not some sort of bossy demigod. Predictably, when dethroned and stripped of power, Eddie quit the game and returned to his obstacle course to stomp around in the private world of Eddie, Master of the Universe.
After the session, I related the story of “Eddie Says” to my friend, Autumn. “Good thing we don’t get too many of those.”
**Not their real names.
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