The Meet

So there was a 'Non-competitive' gymnastics meet at Linnea's club. It was meant to be a 'gentle' introduction to the world of competitive gymnastics.

I know, I know.

L doesn't have a strong competitive streak. She hates things like this - performances of any kind trigger a big case of stage fright. That's OK, we're working on it, yadda yadda. Thus when signs went up about this 'meet', even with the 'gentle' disclaimers and promise of trophies for everyone, I figured that she wouldn't be interested. I was wrong, of course. She wanted to do it.

"Are you sure?", I said. I didn't want to discourage her, but I can recall Señor Stage Fright winning more than one head-to-head matchup.

"Yes!", she said.

Cue the 80's training montage as the weeks as Linnea practices and Dad coughs up $XX to the nice lady behind the counter.

Finally the big day arrived. As we drove to the meet, I tried to distract her with talk of random stuff and letting her play YouTube videos on my iPhone. We got there, signed in, got a number written on her hand ("E5"), and she was ushered to the mat to her group. I took my place amongst the gym moms, a mixed breed of hyper competitive housewives ("I woke Brittney up at five to do handstands and eat her single serving of wheat thins and water.") and barely-there crackberry working moms. ("Look, tell James that the proofs needed to be there at two o'clock!... Yeah, I'm at my kid's gymnastics meet and... oops, missed her performance. Janet, I've got to... yeah... no, tell him that yadda yadda...") Then, to the recorded strains of an acapella national anthem, it started. I wasn't sure what to expect from a non-competitive gymnastics meet (or even a competitive one), but I can assure you that scored events and ranked-ribbon rewards are not quite what I was thinking of.

Look, I'm not one of those wishy-washy "Everybody has to bat and we can't keep score until they're 17" type of people. I'm obviously also not one of those "I'm not putting my kid into school - it'll cut into his practice time" type of parents either. I pride myself on being... well, normal. As a kid, I played informal sandlot baseball games and plenty of regular Little League games. I lost - a lot. A lot a lot. My seventh-grade football team scored three times all year and went 0-7. On the other hand, my sixth-grade hockey team beat Sauk Centre 24-0. (Hockey team, mind you.) I've whipped and been whipped and I fully expect the same for my kids. But when you promise a gentle introduction to a gymnastics meet, handing out ribbons that might as well say "Dead Last" is not coooooool, maaaaan.

Linnea didn't get any of those, though. Out of seven girls, she finished fourth, fourth, sixth. By the last event (sixth), I had cottoned to the fact that it was "Game On", despite the feeble promises otherwise. The moms around me were keeping score and much to my aggravation the mother of one of the better gymnasts brought her hard-of-hearing parents along for the ride. "Dad", she'd say. "Dad. DAD! Betty got first! First, she got FIRST! I know! Mom. Hey, mom. Mom! MOM! She got first! FIRST! I said SHE GOT FIRST! I know! I ALREADY TOLD HIM! YEAH!"

If she did this on purpose, it was brilliant. I still remember her kid's scores. SHE GOT FIRST! I KNOW!

Where was I? Ah, yes, the last event. All the parents around me were tracking scores and...

Here's where the story runs out. I spent a few days sitting here, staring at a blinking cursor, trying to think of a way to continue the story. I couldn't do it, so I'll toss in the towel. It's better to get the story published than have it sit on my desktop forever. :) I'm proud of her.

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