Sixth Grade Teachers

I address the ball. I look up at the flag and back down at my ball. I check to see that I’m lined up properly. I visualize the swing in my mind and remind myself to pull my club back straight. That’s when the tension in my hands steals my attention. Over the loud thud of my heartbeat in my chest, I hear my inner voice calmly say, “Relax.” Taking a deep breath, I loosen my hands and let my muscles take over. I swing, and my golf ball is launched in the air.

Throughout my tenure as a golfer, three talented instructors have helped me to develop my skills. From creating the perfect grip to chipping from a dreaded sand trap, they’ve taught me rituals, routines, and rhythms (their voices combine to make a “choir of caddies” each time I address the ball). But one thing they could never teach me, I learned through experience. All of the routines in the world were useless until I learned to relax.

What is it about the simple act of taking a deep breath that changes our state of mind? How powerful to recognize that our current state is one of anxiousness and fear and decide to make a change. When I quiet the voices echoing advice and pause the negative dialogue in my mind, I inevitably swing more smoothly and make better contact with the ball. A simple idea, yes, but one that I overlook more often than I’d like to admit.

Relax. It’s a message I send to myself when my list seems too long, the day seems too short, the deadline seems too close, or when the flag seems too far to reach. It’s a choice I make to combat the anxiety and the fear. The immediate effects—dryer palms, consistent heartbeat, relaxed shoulders—pale in comparison to the long term effects. When I am relaxed, I think more clearly, react more patiently, and behave more confidently. In other words, I am more likely to meet with success, on the golf course…and in life.

While I continue to be grateful to those fantastic instructors, I’ve learned that only I have the power to control my state of mind. Though golf continues to be a love-hate relationship in my life, I am appreciative of the life lessons it’s taught me. Slow down, trust your abilities, take deep breaths, and relax.

“An expert in anything was once a beginner.”

A poster hangs in the corner of my classroom at Trinity. It’s small and unobtrusive. Most likely, it has gone unnoticed by the countless students, teachers, and parents who enter my room on a daily basis. The photograph that accompanies the quote is of a young boy looking out onto an empty baseball field. In his left hand, he holds his glove, his bat is propped on his right shoulder, and his jersey, perfectly tucked into his pants, is white, clean, and crisp. Although I can’t see this young boy’s face, I am certain that I know what lies ahead for him. It’s what any beginning brings.

When I was in junior high, I decided to try out for the volleyball team. I had never played volleyball before, I didn’t know the rules, and I definitely didn’t have any of the equipment (shoes, kneepads, etc) necessary to “look the part.” After a valiant, three-day effort, I learned that I missed the cut and did not make the team.

The next fall, when I was a ninth grader, I decided to try again. I had a better idea of what to expect, I pleaded with my mother to buy special volleyball shoes and kneepads, and I spent the week before tryouts practicing in my back yard with anyone who offered to help. I stayed up late, woke up early, and did my best to master the game of volleyball in seven days. Although I hadn’t put forth much effort over the course of year, I had improved and was determined to make the team.

After three days of try-outs, again, I missed the cut.

There was something about the sport of volleyball that was contagious. Although I had failed to make the team two years in a row, I was determined to try out one more time. Over my ninth grade year, I spent countless hours in my backyard practicing passing, setting, and hitting. I went to junior varsity and varsity volleyball games. I made an appointment with the varsity coach and talked to her about summer camps. I registered for two volleyball camps and gave 100% effort at both. As I tenth grader, I walked into try-outs with only one thing on my mind. I was going to make the team.

And, I did.

As I look at the poster on my wall, I realize that we often see images of successful professional athletes “making it look easy.” My favorite one portrays Michael Jordan gracefully dunking from the free throw line. These types of posters, although inspiring, don’t tell the whole story. They leave out the years of practice. They leave out the hard work and disappointment. They leave out the total failures. They leave out the discipline, perseverance, and risk-taking required to be successful and to become an expert.

Even today, I am certain that I am not an expert at volleyball. It’s probably in the top five things “that I am great at,” but I am far from an expert. However, I am also certain that because of discipline, perseverance, and risk-taking, I am not a beginner either.

This I know for sure: Becoming an expert is a process, and every process begins with a first step. First steps can be embarrassing. Practice can be hard. Experiences as a beginner can be difficult- especially when we are compared to the experts.

I like this poster because it captures a young boy’s first step. It reminds me of the many “first steps” that I have taken to get me where I am today. It inspires me to look for places to begin finding new passions, new friendships, new experiences.

What first steps will you take today?

The pouring rain began just as my left blinker stopped clicking and I slid to a stop at the entrance of the mall parking lot. The pounding water blurred what I knew lay before me: No parking spaces and a horde of shopping inhumanity. I didn’t need to flick on my windshield wipers to see the colored shapes and headlight halos from the holiday shoppers. It would only add clarity to what I already knew: I should not have procrastinated to do my Christmas shopping.

In one swift, angry motion, I cranked the dial and the wipers began their monotonous reminder in swishing, repetitive tones.

You…Should…
Not…Wait…
To…Shop…

You…Should…
Not…Wait…
To…Shop…

I whipped the car towards the few remaining parking spots at the back of the lot, resigned to my situation and resentful that my wipers sounded too much like my nagging mother. The dinner bell appeal of a 19×9 oasis in a sea of shopping fanatics did not go unnoticed by the car behind me or the car speeding up the next aisle, flinging sheets of water on helpless families scurrying inside. I mashed the accelerator, ignored sensible driving rules, and made a beeline for what was quickly becoming my one and only goal: Find a spot.

I careened into a parking space amidst blaring horns and wild, obscene gestures from new enemies. I didn’t care.

A deep breath later and a couple of glances over my shoulder brought a slew of new problems. Where’s my umbrella? Why did I quickly walk out of the house without my raincoat? How far is it to the mall, my safe haven against the frigid, wet rain?

The rain drummed a new song. A screaming song.

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

I unbuckled my seat belt and fell forward, resting my forehead on the steering wheel. Seconds seemed like minutes as frustration and anger sped through my body. My mother’s nagging voice. The holiday shopping insanity. The rain.

It was oddly prophetic to hear the rain lessen at the same time that I asked myself, “When did Christmas and shopping become such an unpleasant experience?” I remembered years past when going to the mall meant an afternoon with my busy father, a time when we would smile picking out the perfect gift for my mother and top the day off with a movie and some popcorn. I recalled the warm feeling of unbridled joy when I discovered that I needed to buy a baby gift for my unborn nephew. “Why should this year be any different?” I thought.

I opened my car door and let the rain drizzle on me as I casually felt for my keys. The wet drops were cleansing. The previous five minutes washed down my cheeks, over my jeans, and into the rain gutter. I slipped the key into the lock, turned, and made my way across the parking lot.

I sidestepped a few puddles and noticed, inside the reflective pools of water, quite a few open parking spaces that were much closer to the mall’s doors.

—-

I was inspired to write this post after reading Delivering Newspapers and Smiling in the Rain.

Photo: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/228/453625659_a10ff5588c.jpg?v=0