The Gymnast

In addition to being a soccer and ultimate junkie, my son is also learning a few things about gymnastics. Last night (7 pm, almost primetime!) was his big end-of-session performance. It was pretty cool to see.

Only now, as I am writing this a day later, am I realizing the extent to which gymnastics is a girls' club. The show opened with a floor performance by one of the older classes. They (all girls) were all budding gymnasts, and flipped through the air with ease. They looked ready for the Olympic trials. As I scanned the ranks of the other, younger gymnasts, I spotted Andres among a sea of purple and blue leotards. It turned out that he would be one of only a handful of boys who performed, as all of the other boys in his regular Friday class bagged on this performance.

Andres surveys the other gymnasts. Lots of leotards.

But this didn't seem to bother him. With no other boys alongside him, he did his floor, bar, and tumbling routines without a hint of self-consciousness. I was so proud of him. I was never like that.

(I asked him about this earlier today. "Kiddo, did you mind that you were the only boy there?" He made a face like I had no idea what I was talking about. "There were boys watching, daddy." Seems like it didn't even occur to him that this situation would have been embarrassing to some kids. This is good.)

His main routine, the one that he has been working on during lessons, was brief. He and a few kindergarten girls jumped, twirled imaginary lassos, and did a couple summersaults to the first 30 seconds of "Sweet Home Alabama." It was cute. The woman sitting next to me asked which of the gymnasts was mine, and when I pointed out Andres, she said, "Oh well isn't he the most precious thing!" He was. His t-shirt was a size too big, and he was shorter than most of the girls on the floor. But there he was, in front of us and about a hundred people he didn't know, working hard to dance a perfect routine.

Jumping to "Sweet Home Alabama"

A little help with the bar routine.

Getting ready for the balance beam.

This being the era of extreme non-competitiveness, everybody got a trophy when the show ended. I thought the show was reward enough. But, of course, the kids' eyes lit up when they saw the box of star-topped rewards coming their way, and the item, not the show, became the main topic of conversation on the way home.

"Daddy this is the biggest trophy I have. And daddy tomorrow I get another trophy at soccer!" (This is true--it's his final soccer game this season, so the trophy ritual will be repeated at the Y. It's ridiculous. These kids will be able to fill a trophy case merely by enrolling in sports programs. I should get a trophy for paying all of their entry fees. Or, at the very least, a voucher for a therapy session, redeemable in 2033, when these kids are dealing with the emotional baggage of having been awarded so many empty prizes in their formative years.)

Earned, not given. (Ok...largely given.)

But I am hard pressed to say that he didn't earn this one, at least a little. He did work hard on his routine. For the past few weeks at home, he has been showing us some of the moves that he has learned--the bridge, different stretches, handstands up against a wall. And not shying away from the performance last night was big too. I think he'll cherish this trophy for a while. Until, at least, he gets another one.