EXPLODING THE MOMENT: SCAR
I tried to concentrate and focus, but my eyes kept drifting everywhere around the gym. From the girl tumbling high above the floor, to the girl in the blue spandex landing her vault, to the girl smiling a wide and fake smile while saluting the judges. The compulsory music the girl danced to on the floor was ringing in my ears, as my rival team clapped to the beat. They distracted me so much; I felt the urge to clap along with them. Even though this was not my gym, a setting like this usually comforted me. But now my attention was cast over to the rows and rows of bleachers where my teammates’ parents were watching; noticing their “oooh”s and “ahhh”s as I wobbled or made a mistake. I was at a gymnastics competition, competing on the balance beam hoping to qualify to the State Championship.
It seemed like I was in the dark, flipping and taking flight over the four-inch beam. I felt the adrenaline coursing through my body from my head to toe. I tried to take a deep breath in to assure myself, but the air just stood in my lungs. I took my first leap eight feet over the ground, sliding my foot hesitantly against the leather bound edge. I landed in relief, wobbling slightly, but then regaining my balance. Whispers of my coach’s voice kept repeating in my head, “You know you’re not going to make it to the next level. You’re not good enough. You can’t do it.” I tried to shut out the thoughts in my head, but then I kept thinking Don’t fall! Don’t fall! My head was pounding with the thoughts that were going through my head at ninety miles per hour. My mind was clouded as my thoughts collided. Head check here! You can’t do this! Wait, Yes you can! You’re not talented enough. Just like practice. Point your toes! I tried to motivate myself with the fact that my team needed me to stay on the beam; I could at least help them win in the team finals. I stretched my body as tall as I could, tensing every muscle I knew as I cartwheeled over the beam. When I thought my foot was completely planted, I pulled up to finish the skill but before I knew it, I lost balance and collapsed onto the firm blue mat. I felt the whole audience’s eyes stabbing into me, even with my head down.
All the numerous hours of training day in and day out, repeating these routines and getting up after the countless falls for this perfect moment vanished. Along with the hundreds of times I had performed this routine with ease. I couldn’t fail my expectations for myself any more than in this moment. I felt so much anger I didn’t know how to release it physically or mentally. I was going to explode with how dissatisfied I was with myself. But then I heard the reaction from the parents, all gasping, bringing me back to the moment. I moved too quickly getting back on the beam, taking no time to orient myself. Similar to that feeling you get when you walk into another room and forget what you needed to remember. That’s when my body got really spastic and my heartbeat got out of control. I continued onto the next series hurriedly. I jumped and split my legs in the air anticipating the landing. But when my toes hit the beam my ankle couldn’t steady itself, and my body shifted to the right and I stumbled onto the ground again.
I almost lost the confidence to get back up there and finish. I was already scared to compete and have the judges tell me how imperfect I was, especially recovering from an ankle injury; but then I also had the pressure from my team and coach. I couldn’t believe I was mentally weak letting my coach get to me. At that point my eyes were blurred from stifling my tears and I remounted the beam again. I stood there paralyzed for a few seconds, staring blankly at the length of the beam. When I started moving again, I wobbled on the last few dance elements before my dismount. And just when I thought I couldn’t fall again, I lost my stability and watched as my foot slipped off the beam. All I recall is feeling the impact come up through my body. This third fall for some reason seemed to happen in slow motion, unlike the others. I was completely humiliated.
I knew my teammates and coaches were watching, their families were watching, and other teams’ coaches as well. And worst of all, the other competitors who saw all my mistakes and felt sorry for me, but deep down were glad that it hadn’t been them who fell three times. The thought of proving to myself and my coach that I could do it was gone. I willed myself onto the beam for the last time and completed my dismounted. I raised my hands to salute the judge, looking towards them but at nothing in particular. Immediately after I put my arms down, I felt a weight alleviate from my shoulders because the routine was finally over. I ran into my teammates arms with my eyes casted down, hugging her and hoping to disappear from everything. I listened to the empathetic slow clap that came from the audience. I glanced reluctantly at the scoreboard, and discovered I had received a 6.95 out of 10. I tried to shake it off and thought to myself, “If I don’t look to intently at the scoreboard I won’t remember how awful the score is.”
I knew as an athlete I had to move past this and forget the history of my mistakes. But I also knew that this moment would say a lot about my character, if I showed I was able to come back mentally stronger and control my emotions in competition. And that’s exactly what I did. Two seasons later I was at a higher level scoring 9.7’s, and receiving first in my division at each meet. Including ranking seventh in the nation. Little did I know this would be teaching me a lesson that would last a lifetime.
It seemed like I was in the dark, flipping and taking flight over the four-inch beam. I felt the adrenaline coursing through my body from my head to toe. I tried to take a deep breath in to assure myself, but the air just stood in my lungs. I took my first leap eight feet over the ground, sliding my foot hesitantly against the leather bound edge. I landed in relief, wobbling slightly, but then regaining my balance. Whispers of my coach’s voice kept repeating in my head, “You know you’re not going to make it to the next level. You’re not good enough. You can’t do it.” I tried to shut out the thoughts in my head, but then I kept thinking Don’t fall! Don’t fall! My head was pounding with the thoughts that were going through my head at ninety miles per hour. My mind was clouded as my thoughts collided. Head check here! You can’t do this! Wait, Yes you can! You’re not talented enough. Just like practice. Point your toes! I tried to motivate myself with the fact that my team needed me to stay on the beam; I could at least help them win in the team finals. I stretched my body as tall as I could, tensing every muscle I knew as I cartwheeled over the beam. When I thought my foot was completely planted, I pulled up to finish the skill but before I knew it, I lost balance and collapsed onto the firm blue mat. I felt the whole audience’s eyes stabbing into me, even with my head down.
All the numerous hours of training day in and day out, repeating these routines and getting up after the countless falls for this perfect moment vanished. Along with the hundreds of times I had performed this routine with ease. I couldn’t fail my expectations for myself any more than in this moment. I felt so much anger I didn’t know how to release it physically or mentally. I was going to explode with how dissatisfied I was with myself. But then I heard the reaction from the parents, all gasping, bringing me back to the moment. I moved too quickly getting back on the beam, taking no time to orient myself. Similar to that feeling you get when you walk into another room and forget what you needed to remember. That’s when my body got really spastic and my heartbeat got out of control. I continued onto the next series hurriedly. I jumped and split my legs in the air anticipating the landing. But when my toes hit the beam my ankle couldn’t steady itself, and my body shifted to the right and I stumbled onto the ground again.
I almost lost the confidence to get back up there and finish. I was already scared to compete and have the judges tell me how imperfect I was, especially recovering from an ankle injury; but then I also had the pressure from my team and coach. I couldn’t believe I was mentally weak letting my coach get to me. At that point my eyes were blurred from stifling my tears and I remounted the beam again. I stood there paralyzed for a few seconds, staring blankly at the length of the beam. When I started moving again, I wobbled on the last few dance elements before my dismount. And just when I thought I couldn’t fall again, I lost my stability and watched as my foot slipped off the beam. All I recall is feeling the impact come up through my body. This third fall for some reason seemed to happen in slow motion, unlike the others. I was completely humiliated.
I knew my teammates and coaches were watching, their families were watching, and other teams’ coaches as well. And worst of all, the other competitors who saw all my mistakes and felt sorry for me, but deep down were glad that it hadn’t been them who fell three times. The thought of proving to myself and my coach that I could do it was gone. I willed myself onto the beam for the last time and completed my dismounted. I raised my hands to salute the judge, looking towards them but at nothing in particular. Immediately after I put my arms down, I felt a weight alleviate from my shoulders because the routine was finally over. I ran into my teammates arms with my eyes casted down, hugging her and hoping to disappear from everything. I listened to the empathetic slow clap that came from the audience. I glanced reluctantly at the scoreboard, and discovered I had received a 6.95 out of 10. I tried to shake it off and thought to myself, “If I don’t look to intently at the scoreboard I won’t remember how awful the score is.”
I knew as an athlete I had to move past this and forget the history of my mistakes. But I also knew that this moment would say a lot about my character, if I showed I was able to come back mentally stronger and control my emotions in competition. And that’s exactly what I did. Two seasons later I was at a higher level scoring 9.7’s, and receiving first in my division at each meet. Including ranking seventh in the nation. Little did I know this would be teaching me a lesson that would last a lifetime.