Repetitive and Repetitive

ATLANTA, GA - JULY 22:  Turkish Olympic team Naim Suleymanoglu snatches 147.5 kg on his way to win his third Olympic weightlifting gold medal in the featherweight (64) division 22 July at the Georgia World Congress Center in Atlanta with a combined world record lift of 335 kilograms. AFP - Dimitri MESSINIS  (Photo credit should read DIMITRI MESSINIS/AFP/Getty Images)

ATLANTA, GA – JULY 22: Turkish Olympic team Naim Suleymanoglu snatches 147.5 kg on his way to win his third Olympic weightlifting gold medal in the featherweight (64) division 22 July at the Georgia World Congress Center in Atlanta with a combined world record lift of 335 kilograms. AFP – Dimitri MESSINIS (Photo credit should read DIMITRI MESSINIS/AFP/Getty Images)

Sometimes important points need repeating.

1) Telling someone who is learning to Snatch to “look like this” while doing it is stupid. I know, it’s happened to me. Why don’t you tell me HOW to snatch instead of trying to make myself  “look” like a 4’10” long bodied, short legged Turkish man. I spent an entire summer when I was a teenager trying to make myself look like the Tab soda girl in the red bikini. I failed there too. Coach or GTFO.

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Photo Credit Ironmind.

2) Telling someone who is learning to throw, especially as an adult, to “look like this” is equally stupid. Doing it at a Games is colossally idiotic. You don’t have a coaching/athlete relationship with these people and have no idea how your words will be interpreted.

3) A cue is a reminder of an action that you and your lifter/thrower/whateverer have devised to achieve success for the task at hand. When I say, “eyes up” for example, my lifter knows why. It may have something to do with the eyes or it may bring a better start position overall to the lift. But we know this because we’ve lifted together. If someone gives me a cue on the fly, I will always tell (and show) them how I interpret that to ensure that we’re on the same page. Always.

4) A concept is not a cue. It is a concept that needs figuring out and on the platform or in the trig is not the time to do it in competition. On the practice field is. If your sentence starts with “think about blah, blah, blah” you are explaining a concept. Not an actual action to do.

Fucking duh.

Shortest. Post. Ever.

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The Main Event

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I can honestly say that at this moment, the only thing I was thinking was “don’t hook it into the stream, don’t hook it into the stream!”

As fun and amazing as Iceland was, one of the reasons we came here was to throw and Games day started out pretty normal. A good breakfast at the flat and a quick stop for some local style Monster drinks and away we went. Our GPS always kept things interesting and instead of staying on the highway the whole time, it took us into residential streets where (at times) it seemed like we were driving into people’s driveways. Could’ve been worse though, the Swede’s GPS took them to a gravel road and the bottom of a huge hill. Srsly…

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This is where the Swede’s ended up on their way to Selfoss thanks to their GPS. I have a suspicion that the car rental agency people just load shit like this to mess with us;)

We all met for second breakfast at a nearby cafe and walked over together for the Games. Having met a few of the competitors at Petur’s house on Friday was nice and made things more comfortable from the get go. After talking to one Icelander with a southern accent (that was weird) it turns out his Dad works for the same company as one of our best friends here in town! (The world is kinda small, just like that annoying Disney song says. How does it go? IT’S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL, IT’S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT’S A SMALL, SMALL, WORLD. Have fun getting THAT out of your head. You’re welcome.) All of the competitors were so nice and ALL were great throwers. That was a change for us. I think each region in the US has their top throwers and when they’re all gathered at a main Games, it’s lots of fun to watch. But Iceland? I guess you could say that they’re region is all top throwers. No surprise.

I was a bit nervous, different than pre-game jitters that instantly go away once you start moving around the field. This was throwing for an Olympian; a coach, and someone whose opinion means something to me. Even though I was the only woman on the field, I had my numbers I wanted to hit that seemed within reach but mostly I didn’t want Petur to regret letting me share the stage with all of these young men.

At breakfast, I was able to reconnect with Svavar Sigursteinsson. I first met Svavar down in Texas nearly five years ago when I did my first Highlander Event. He was incredibly friendly but I didn’t really get a chance to talk to him much. In Iceland, he came up and gave me a big hug and I tell ya what, there are just some hugs that have perfect timing. We were getting lined up to walk over and I was looking at these throwers and thinking, “what in the world am I doing here?” Svavar is very easy to talk to and, as it turns out, a huge help to me throughout the day. I understood instantly why all of the people he trained with here in the states misses him so much. He’s a great coach with a very direct but easy delivery.

We started with the heavy hammer. So, hammers, ya. Still hate ’em.

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I had a particularly bad hammer day and starting out bad on an event I’m bad at was a rough start. I was off my goal by nearly 2 meters. At the end of it though I was done and I did get some interesting hammer advice from the young Swede who was in Scotland earlier this spring getting help with his hammers. I’m excited to get out and practice them. But mostly this was not what I wanted my first impression to be.

Stones were up next. Stones. In front of an Olympic shot putter. Yowzer. It wasn’t great but the help I got from Svavar, Belgian giant Tommy De Bruijn and Petur has me very excited about this event and already after one practice, things are moving better in the middle and the finish is MUCH better. I’m stoked. I can take my indoor shot and work the moves against the School across the street which I can do easily as a drills warm up to either throwing later or even lifting. A weeks forecast of rain is fine too because I’m right next door and I can run over during a rain delay. I’m so excited and SO thankful to the three of them for their help.

Moving on to Light Weight for Distance. Okay! Something I’m on solid ground with. Goodie. The trig had a layout that was a bit different than what I’m used to. Instead of long and narrow, it was wider and probably the same length but it just seemed a bit shorter with the width. You had to start in the box which is different for me so on my first toss, I started in and a bit too forward. I ran out of room and though I think that throw was probably my best, I went head over arse across the toe board. Nuts.

My second throw was better and a competition PR of 19.70 meters. Sooooo, I hit a PR in Iceland. That alone is probably one of the coolest things I’ve ever done in my athletic life. I’ll take it man, I hit a PR in Iceland. Sweet. My third throw got a bit crazy and was off my second by a meter but that’s fine. I’ve already practiced keeping my right foot turning here at home and it gives so much speed out of the back that I’ve landed on my ass a couple times. Shweet. Harness that and we’ll see what can happen. I’d really like a 70′ toss this year. I honestly don’t know if it’s in me but I hope so. I’ll work hard enough to try anyway. On to the WOB.

Tommy's wob

When we were out at the WOB, Tommy walked up without practice and smoothly launched it over at around 16′. I learned a good lesson. Relax. Do your thing.

We screwed up here. The whole meter to foot thing messed with me. I came in at 11′ and nearly bombed out. I was nervous. Way too nervous on an event that I do well in if I settle the F down. Petur’s son, Palmi:  (not Vilhelm, he’s the younger one. I learned that after asking for him when it was Palmi who was kind enough to put his beautiful pictures on a flash drive for us and got funny looks asking for young Vilhelm. Heh.) Anyways, at Petur’s house Sunday evening for dinner after throwing, while we were looking at the pictures, Petur turned around and looked at both Matt and I and said, “You came in way too early.” Yup. Way too early. Palmi, who was standing next to me, said I should be coming in a foot or two under my PR. I quickly piped in, ‘no way, I get way too nervous doing that.’  He then said something very true, and very good to me, “Fear has no place in competition. Fear is fear.” He’s right. I have no business being so scared of an event that I’m actually (in spite of my height challenges) very good at. Mybad. Not again. I was the last to go out before the three finalists went out on the next height so I’ll take it. I think in between 11′ and 14’7″ or something like that we took about five or six throws. Too many. I was pooped. OH! I also broke Petur’s WOB implement.

So in the span of the first three months of the 2015 season I’ve broken a hammer handle; two measuring tapes; my lighter Heavy Weight for Distance, and an Icelanders AD’s women’s WOB. That’s a PR for sure.

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Of course I didn’t tell Petur I broke things, I just didn’t think it would happen with his equipment!

We finished with Caber. OH! By this part of the day, it was getting cooler. Now, I thought the day was gorgeous and even warm at some points but we were moving around and the people watching were just standing in the wind. I can understand how it was cold for them but I still chuckled when, during the final WOB throws, I turned around and saw this:

drive up games

The crowd had moved to their cars and the cars had moved to the field. It was lol.

My first caber was very nice, long but lighter. I turned it at 11:55 I think which isn’t bad. I went on to the caber that the men used for their qualifier and it was a doozie. I didn’t turn it. Damn. My first pick was actually kind of nice and got some good speed going but let my hands get away from me at the end. I do that. I’ll fix it. By the third, it just felt heavy and though I picked it again, I remember it getting away from me and just yelling “shit, shit, shit” all the way until it was done. Heh. There ya go Iceland, you were grand.

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I honestly don’t have the words to describe what throwing here, with this group, for these helpers, with my husband and especially for this AD means to me. I just don’t know how I ended up so damn lucky. Luck I guess. Heh.

When we were getting ready to go on Sunday evening back to the flat to relax, have a couple drinks (we took to heart advice not to drink and drive in Iceland) and head to bed and saying our goodbyes, we got a few more minutes with Petur to talk throwing. I tried to explain to him that with my stones throws, I’m losing the push in the middle and ending so flat but that Svavar sent me home with some drills. He says, ‘next year you come throw and get coaching from me.’ WHAT?! I didn’t even know THAT was an option!!! Heh. He then stood up and showed me the correct finish position I want to be in to launch the stones. And that just about sums up the trip as a whole. I’m in Petur Gudmundsson’s house getting throws advice in his living room. It’s too surreal to take in. Srsly.

There are less than a handful of days in my life that I’d like a chance to do again. A few are because of the mistakes I’ve made as a mom and a chance to erase them. But this day? This is a day I’d like to relive. It was magical. It was Island, that probably doesn’t make sense but to a Hawaiian, they’ll know.

I cannot thank enough Petur, his wife Elizabeth (we share a name) and his family; Tommy De Bruijn and his lovely wife Sigrid; Svavar; all of the competitors for their encouragement and positive energy all day. Our Swedish flatmate and his father, Andreas (who WON!) and Anders for great advice and shagging for us all day. My adorable husband, to share this with him is tops. Absolute fucking tops. And to the Aina of Ice for sharing it’s spirit with us. It has power every where you turn and is by far the best place I’ve ever visited. Mahalo all. A hui hou kakou.

shaka iceland

Shaka Iceland

The thing that keeps you grounded is doing the thing you love.

Tom Hiddleston 

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Monday Bacon: I Blame T-Ball For All That Is Wrong In America

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Growing up, I had never heard of t-ball. Later, as a mother of twins, people were asking if I was going to put them in t-ball and if I did, would they be on the same team. Uhhhh, T-ball whut? What’s that? The mom from work asking me about it looked at me like I had two heads when I asked what t-ball was (cuz twins probably.) Look, when I was growing up we had little league. Balls flying at your face. Keeping score. Hit the ball or hit the walk of shame back to the dugout. Ya know, youth sports.

I was baffled, what’s the point of t-ball? Well, I was told, to teach them baseball skills without the threat of injury (I guess no Tommy John surgery in t-ball so there’s that) and without the uber competition that comes in youth sports. Ummmmm, no competition? What’s the point? (Shocking, I know.)

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Ya know what ISN’T in my boxes of childhood? A participation trophy or medal. Not one. I have many ribbons from swimming (I liked the red, 2nd place ribbon better than the blue one’s so I’d trade with my friends. My mom would run around the meets and have to retrieve my first place ribbons. Sorry mom.) But I have no medals. Ya know why? Cuz only at the AAU finals were medals given and ONLY to the top three spots and I didn’t get that far.

I actually also don’t have any softball trophies or medals even though I played on some kick ass traveling teams. Cuz only first place got those, second place got a team plaque. Probably sitting in some landfill somewhere ever since our coach’s wife made him throw it out. I won some kind of State contest for band playing an Oboe solo, even though I hated being in band, I was kind of proud of that. No trophy though, just my name on a list. My parents were proud though, that was nice.

I was a teenager when I was an assistant coach for a girls Little League team, the White Sox (our colors were yellow and white just like the Bad News Bears which remains one of my all time favorite sports movies. It’s on Netflix now, check it.) The head coach was gruff and knew how to coach little girls, it was a great experience for me. He never said, “Good job” if it wasn’t. He never said, “Good try” if a ball was missed. He’d tell the player what they needed to do different next time to be successful and then many times, the player would do it and be happy with the success. Coach never took credit, he just taught them how to play ball. Girls never whined (not on our team anyway, something I quickly adopted. I don’t coach whiners and I don’t like competing with whiners, especially women. Grow up and STFU or get off the field or platform. Sorry I’m not sorry.)

I remember when Oz dabbled in wrestling for a season. He really wanted a trophy. But those went to the kids who won and even in spite of his being at least one and a half times bigger than any kid he ever faced, he didn’t have the eye of the tiger and couldn’t care or less about winning. Can he still have a Snickers bar after? That’s the shit he worried about (yes, he still got a Snickers bar after.)

But for the past 20-30 years, t-ball has taken place of little league (yes, I know it’s still around. I’ve watched the LLWS. Some coaches cheat to get their teams into the playoffs, it’s opposite of t-ball. I know.)  Participation trophies. Not keeping score. Everybody wins. You will be empowered for just showing up. Dancing trophies as big as your kid, all you have to do is pay about a grand a year in costumes and entry fee’s and your little ballerina can too have a life sized trophy for twerking on stage. Congrats.

For 20-30 years we’ve been drilling into our children (well, not mine) that all they have to do to succeed is show up. Just show up. Well, guess what mommies, your babies are now 30 years old and still living at home because the maximum they give is to just “show up” and real world bosses fire them for not putting in effort worthy of, oh I dunno, A FUCKING PAYCHECK! As my adorable hubby was growing up, he was constantly reminded of how much bigger he is than the rest of the children so he has to be more gentle so he doesn’t hurt anyone. SRSLY. We’ve been telling Oz since day one (srsly, from day one he’s had the back of a lineman) to use his size to his advantage. ALWAYS. I’d rather stand on the shoreline and fight the tide than hold back a big, strong child. Ya know who THEY grow up to be? Big, strong adults who want things in life and push hard in hopes to achieve them.

Teaching children not to keep score turns them into adults who think score isn’t kept. Sorry, it is. As it should be. Teaching kids that they don’t have to work for success turns them into adults who find it offensive that they have to work. Srsly. I find THAT offensive. You know what the participation trophy in life is as an adult? Mom making you a Hot Pocket while you play video games. True story. Ya know what a first place trophy looks like as an adult? A roof over your head; maybe an automobile to drive around; a steady (and even increasing if you’re good) paycheck every couple of weeks, food on your table. A table to put food on.

America has become the land of the offended pussies. Mommy said mean words are mean and didn’t teach me how to live in the real world and take risks and not to be scared when life’s strikes come flying at my face. My t-ball coach said I was awesome instead of my little league coach yelling at me to stop backing away from a left field fly or he sits my ass on the bench for the rest of the game. So now when my boss talks to me in a stern voice I get scared and don’t wanna work anymore.

I once went an entire softball season without one “atta girl” and didn’t think twice about it. I knew when I did good. I knew when I fucked up. The coach knew I knew and didn’t feel the need to blow sunshine or lava towards my way. We won when we played together and made adjustments that he said to make. We lost when we lost. No whining, get better for next time. He did buy us ice cream once though. Like, real ice cream not that DQ soft serve shit. Two ginormous hard scoops of mint chocolate chip (my favorite.)

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This is a picture of my two favorite medals from 2014 (I spilled Gorilla Glue on my bench and don’t want to rip it off and leave a hole. Mybad.) They are third place medals. Yes, I had contests where I took first or second and I’m pleased I did and thankful for the fun prizes and medals too. But these 3rd place medals represent me working as hard as I could and doing well in an open field. That means something to me. It’d mean more this year if I upped those places too. Heh.

3rd place may be seen as a failure by some. I would contend by those who never learned to fail. Another thing t-ball takes away from us, the ability to accept failure; learn from it, and move the fuck on. As funny as the “if you ain’t first you’re last” slogan is, it’s not true. Sometimes second or third or even lower is where you end up and to take away all of your hard work because you didn’t get first is pre-school.

Probably most importantly, the thing t-ball steals from children is the ability to remember words of wisdom from real coaches. The ones that, at the time, may have embarrassed you or made you feel bad but you quickly realize that they’re spot on and you suddenly get better when you heed them. The current t-ball generation believes that THEY are the one’s who deserve all of the credit. That THEY don’t need coaching or supervision or advice because, ya know, mommy told them that they’re something special and they can do anything THEY set their mind too. Uhhhhh ya, but you can’t. Not on your own and those who fail to credit others who help them along the way are selfish brats who I don’t want to know. There are people who are no longer in my life (and I’m thankful for that) who have had significant impacts to my growth and if the subject comes up, I’ll give credit where credit is due. No matter how I may feel about them today. Because I played little league and didn’t have sunshine blown up my ass on the t-ball field when I was little.

Thank goodness.

Listen Lupus, you didn’t come into this life just to sit around on a dugout bench, did ya? Now get your ass out there and do the best you can.

Coach Buttermaker

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Friday Jams: Eurovision

I don’t watch much television. Well, scratch that. I watch sports on tv. Right now I’m down to at least two hockey games left for the season and even though I’m forced to watch Chicago play I’ll take it. We caught about 90 seconds of a basketball game last night where one of the players bumped into a camera man and was “man down” for about 5 minutes. For bumping his head. 5 minutes. Tell me how people watch that sport.

Anyways.

There’s a few shows we watch. Suits, which is coming back soon I think. There’s only about six episodes per “season” so that’s convenient. I like reality cooking shows, Top Chef is my favorite. I think another season is out this fall. I hope. In general, television sucks. Our tv didn’t work in Iceland, so awesome. As much as I do like some background noise occasionally, it was nice not having it on. I do like Eurosport though, a sports channel that shows more than three sports…and poker. Innovative.

On Friday evening at Petur’s house (I don’t know how to get the little mark over the ‘e’ in his name to correctly spell his name. Apologies for that) I was talking with his young daughter and she started talking to me about Eurovision. I’m all, “huh??” and she’s all, “ya, it’s a huge singing contest television show.” While eating, Belgium giant Tommy De Bruijn piped in and told me that winning Eurovision is how ABBA got their start. WHAT?! I LOVE ABBA. How have I never heard of this thing. (‘Merika is so sheltered.)

So I did me some googling (verb, google that shit.) This thing has arguably the same amount of viewers as European football. Some had numbers in the 600 million internationally. 600 million…less one American. Had never heard of it. YouTube it on a rainy day and you can hear and see all of the contenders video’s, it’s awesome.

This years winner was a Swede. Cute boy, very All American-errrrr, All Swedish. Mans Zelmerlow, Hero. It’s pretty awesome. There are others I like, Estonia’s is very sultry and sexy but I have many more to see. Serbia’s is ncredible, very Mama Cass. In fact, I’m adding it here. It’s spot on.

So cheers to my teenage Icelandic friend and thank you for pulling at least one American out of my sheltered existence. And oh hey! It’s a rainy day…goodbye productivity, hello Eurovision!!

A dream doesn’t become reality through magic; it takes sweat, determination, and hard work.

Colin Powell

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