Just for Sport

I've never been that great at sports. I mean, I played lots of them, had some good coaches, had some bad coaches, and above all--had a good time. But just because one does something doesn't mean one does it well (case in point--the studying I did for the test I took this morning).

Some of my favorite sports-related memories involve my parents yelling at me...

Regardless of the bad connotations associated with the previous phrase ("my parents yelling at me"), my experience with parents yelling (at least in the sports arena) were all humorous.

#1: Third grade. I was the point guard dribbling alone down the court. (At that age level, the point guard gets a "free pass" to cross half court without molestation by the other team, because let's face it: otherwise it wouldn't really get down the court, would it?)

I was looking over toward Coach (Dad) for the play, and focusing all my third-grader attention on trying to NOT dribble the ball off my shoe. As some sort of sixth sense, I was aware that someone was trying to tell me something, but it wasn't until I reached the center circle that the loud voice in my ear was suddenly understood. The "someone trying to tell me something" was my mom. She had been yelling repeatedly, "Lauren, TIE YOUR SHOE!" for about thirty seconds solid by the time the referee stopped the game to allow me to take care of my little wardrobe malfunction.

As a wanna-be-basketball-tough-girl, I was mortified. As an adult, I can look back at it and say, "Ahh...so that's why I always double-knot my shoes!"

#2: Eighth grade. I am not fast, but I run track. This is a problem, because only people who are fast are good at track. My little spindly legs, the coach sees, will never be bulky enough for me to even competitively run a short distance race. Some sadistic coaching assistant suggests that I try the 800. I, not knowing what the 800 is, agree to run it. Little did I know, I would be sooooo sad about that decision, say, 30 seconds into the race. Unfortunately, everyone else on the track team already knew about the 800 (affectionately called "The Death Race"), so I got stuck running it for the entire year.

At one bitterly cold and rainy track meet, I was just getting over a case of bronchitis. When you have bronchitis, you can breathe alright when you stand still, but any variation on standing still causes extreme difficulty in breathing. And so, while I just wanted to stand still, my coaches wanted me to run. The 800. In the cold rain. Nice.

Knowing from my experience with every other track meet that I would not be a contender for any points, medals, or ribbons to be won in that race, I decided just to try and give myself a comfortable race. I left my sweatshirt on so that I wouldn't get cold, and opted to begin with a nice jog rather than the breakneck pace set by the true runners.

About halfway through the race, I heard my parents yelling from the fence line. They had arrived late to this out-of-town meet, no doubt because they had had a different sporting event for another child to go to that morning. (Heaven knows why they came to my track meets at all. Watching me run the 800 against "real" runners must have been like watching molasses try to beat honey in a downhill race.) At first I thought they were just cheering me on as usual, pretending that I had some chance of regaining the family honor just by not coming in last place, but as I got closer to the fence, I heard Mom saying, "Lauren, take that sweatshirt off!" And Dad saying loudly under his breath, "It probably weighs as much as her by now."

It was true. In the time it took for me to make two laps around that silly track, my big warm sweatshirt had soaked up about 40 pounds of icy, heavy rain. Dragging all that weight and battling my aching lungs, I barely beat the girl who came in dead last and received the "pity-clap" from the crowd.

Nothing reminds me more of my history with sports than these final upcoming weeks of my first semester of dental school. I have the same feelings now as I did when I ran cross country. Cross country is an interesting sport because it's very personal, individual, and dependent on your mental strength. I used to have conversations with myself while I ran my races.

Good me: Okay, I think I have about half a mile left. That's not too far.
Bad me: Not too far? Do you not remember running the 800 in 8th grade? It's the same distance that was. And you've already run a mile and a half!
Good me: Right, but I can do this. I just won't let this girl pass me. I'll stay in the middle of the pack.
Bad me: Or you could step on that jagged rock and try to break your ankle. Then you wouldn't even have to finish.
Good me: You don't want to get hurt.
Bad me: You don't care about getting hurt. You just don't want to finish last.
Good me: Well, that's true.

Now I'm having these same internal battles with myself as I try to push through these final tests that stand in the way of Christmas break. (Except I'm not going to try to break my ankle on purpose. Mostly because my teachers would still expect me to take the tests.) All the tiredness and frustration and impatience is weighing me down like that big hooded sweatshirt that I wore in the rain. I sometimes have to just take a break and do something else--something not related to dentistry or school. Something that makes me feel good like getting a fresh hair cut or painting my nails. It's sort of like when I had to stop the game to tie my shoe. I need to get myself in order before the real fight begins.

Regardless of trials, the finish line is approaching, and I have parents to yell at me. I received calls from both my mother and my father in the last 24 hours, both encouraging me to finish this race. A little tough love, a little coddling, and a little reminder of the reward at the end.

So I'll keep on running...