synonyms: join (forces), collaborate, get together, work together.
Sweaty hugs; cheering until my throat is raw;the pre-race jitters; hard-earned Gatorade; singing to “Africa” on the bus rides; pushing through almost unbearable pain; the cheers from my coaches and team mates; the feeling of success, when all the hard training and effort pays off; the happiness of coaches bringing food, after you just pushed yourself to your physical max; the endless support we have for each other; the amount of effort we put in; the dynamic and connection between us athletes; the fact that real teammates don’t only care about how you perform, they care about how hard you try. All these things contribute to the the feeling of being part of an authentic team, which is one of the best feelings that exists.
au·then·tic
ôˈTHen(t)ik/
adjective
adjective: authentic.
of undisputed origin; genuine.
“the letter is now accepted as an authentic document”
synonyms: genuine, real, bona fide, true, veritable
In my words, the way it should be: caring and real.
I’ve been on many teams before. On some, we’ve won championships and received numerous trophies. On some, we placed last and got our asses handed to us. Winning is great, it’s what I strive to do, but I’ve realized that more than just winning that counts. I’ve realized that to have a good team, winning can’t be the only focus.
On a previous team, every day I would give my all. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, even the slightest mess-up resulted in dirty glares and angry shrugs. It made it so I was nervous to go to practice; I was afraid of my teammates; I pushed myself to the limits, because I was scared the punishment if I didn’t; and I was absolutely mortified before every game. This approach worked. I got stronger, I got better, I became a better athlete, but I forgot the fact that I love the sport.
After two years on that team, another opportunity came up, so I switched to a team with a VERY different dynamic. We pushed each other to do our best, to be our best. When slip-ups or bad days came, we encouraged each other to get better, not to feel like shit. I became so close to my teammates, I had good relationships with my coaches, I was so excited to go to practice everyday, and I pushed myself to the limits, because I wanted to get better for myself and my team. Our team performed just as well as the other one I mentioned and my love for the sport was rekindled.
Recently, I joined another team. I love both of the teams I’m on right now so much, but it’s been a long time since I have felt the feeling of happiness, appreciation, friendship, and passion as I did yesterday at my first ever cross country meet.
I know I love swimming far more than I love running, so it confuses me that yesterday, in this sport that I just joined months ago, has brought me almost as much joy as the sport I have been doing for years. I think it’s just because swimming is more of an individual sport without a large aspect of team. I think its because the swim team I’m on has people who qualify for the Olympics or on the Junior National Team and I’m so slow compared to them, it makes me feel like I’m slow, period. Maybe its because a cross country the team is only as strong as its weakest link, so everyone is needed. Maybe because in the small league we run in, I too place high and feel like a good runner.
I think all of these things are a factor, but what I know for sure is that the feeling of being part of an authentic team is one of the best feelings that exists.
In cross county, my coaches always remind us that the sport has as much to do with mental strength as it does physical strength.
With that in mind, I’d like to invite you to come running with me – for the mental part, at least.
Here’s what a few miles look like inside of my head.
Mile 1: Don’t start too fast, just get warmed up. It’s hot today, but not as bad as it usually is. The gravel crunches beneath my shoes. We reach a little bit of downhill.
I hear my coach’s voice: “Let gravity do the work.” Get your breathing back. Drop your arms. Shake it out. The road in front of us curves up a long hill. It’s steep. Slow it down. What hurts worse, lungs or legs? Legs. I can breathe still. My calves tighten the farther up we climb. I count my steps between each exhale. We’re running in 4/4 time. I inhale on the 1st beat, exhale through 2, 3, 4.
Mile 2:
Sweat drips down my forehead. I wipe it off with my shirt. Take it easy now. My breathing is steady – that’s good. My left calf hurts more than my right. The opposite of yesterday. This hill is a bitch. Settle in, we’ll be here for a while. It hurts.
Mile 3: Keep your arms down. Breathe. The road settles and is flat for a while. You’re not tired, it just hurts.
Mile 4: What hurts worse, lungs or legs? Both. You’re not tired, you just can’t breathe. There’s a difference. The next two miles are steady uphill. Use your arms! The harder you work the faster you’ll be done.
Mile 5: This hill is a BITCH. My ragged breathing is louder than my shoes on the pavement. Sweat covers my whole body. My arms ache from pumping and the muscles in my legs feel like they’re made of both cement and water at the same time. My mouth is so dry that when I touch my tongue to the roof of my mouth it sticks. Eyes up, on the road. So close. I feel awful. I can’t breathe. The smell of wood chips in the orchard makes me want to puke. Push. Everything hurts.
The Finish:
I jog past the green gate the marking the end of the road, the end of the run. My left foot leaves the pavement and lands on grass and the right follows. Don’t sit down. Breathe. As I walk back and forth beneath the oak trees, my lungs start to settle down. The tension in my legs slowly fades, first easing up in my quads and then from my calves.
My breathing returns to normal. I’m not hurting anymore. I just ran five miles. I feel good.
Over the weekend, I went with my school to a Pony Club mega rally for the first show of 2018. I was so excited. I’ve been riding my horse, Time, for weeks in preparation, and every single time I jumped he had been a saint.
This weekend was different. It shattered any self confidence I had in my riding skills when Time threw me off over a simple cross rail in the warm up arena and bruised my back so much that it currently hurts to breathe as I’m sitting here trying to do my homework after waking up at four am every morning this weekend to get to the show grounds.
I had fallen off just the day before when my horse stopped right in front of a jump. Now, I have to admit that it was my fault that I was in two-point way too early, but that’s besides the point. Not a single scratch was on me, and I shook off the dirt from my helmet, got back on, and finished the course I was set out to do.
Photo Credit: Jerry Mohme Photography
However, that was not the case on Saturday. When I hit the ground, I was certain that if I moved even just an inch my body would shatter into pieces and I’d be sent to the hospital in an ambulance. I couldn’t get up for minutes, until I was rolled onto my back, then I stood up, and I slowly walked foot by foot back to my stall without even getting to do that course.
I almost thought I wouldn’t be able to ride the next day either, and that weeks of training would’ve gone to waste. But the next day I ended up getting back on my horse and started jumping, and though my entire body was shaking every time I thought my horse would refuse a jump, we ended up clearing both courses.
But I guess there’s both pain and pleasure in horseback riding. There’s the sense of accomplishment when you jump a new height or when your horse comes to say hi to you and nuzzles his nose into the palm of your hand when he thinks you have treats. But there’s also the hours of pain whenever you fall off or when a horse steps on your foot. There’s the moments of self-degradation whenever you see a person with better position or better clothes, and the constant thoughts that plague your mind thinking that you’ll never be as good as them.
I’m not going to lie and say that my confidence in my jumping is back, because it’s not, and I don’t think it will be anytime soon (or, at least, until all the bruises go away), but it was a learning experience to some extent.
I’m going to fall off, and probably more times than I wish, and I’ll get back up, and fall and get back up, and that’ll keep happening, but I’ll still continue riding until I no longer can.
If I hear just one more person saying that “horseback riding isn’t an actual sport,” I will literally rip out their eyeballs and stuff them in their ignorant mouths. Maybe not literally, okay, but seriously, figuratively.
via i.pinimg.com
I don’t think I can handle another baseball or golf squirt trying to explain to me that “the horse does all the work,” because all I do is “sit on it.” Well okay, Richard, I don’t really see you doing much exercise when you walk along next to your caddie. Have you ever tried even holding a horse, a living being that weighs like a thousand pounds and usually really isn’t in the mood for cooperation? I bet your baseball bat doesn’t step on your feet ten times a day.
via i.pinimg.com
And how about the fact that riding horses literally consists of trying to control a usually gigantic flight animal that could probably kill you if it really wanted to, and to do so you literally have to use every single muscle you posses in your tired, half dead body? Then try doing that for like an hour a day, without getting 100% frustrated, or, you know, dying.
When you were little did any of you ever dream of becoming a movie star or professional athlete, but later figured out you can’t amount to either of these things unless you have millions of dollars? And, speaking from experience, the percentage of little girls who dream to own and show a horse in the Olympics is very large, I’d say about 99.9% of them do.
But, later the harsh reality of life kicks in, and the kids, as well as their parents, learn that the cost of showing, owning, and maintaining a horse of that stature is much more than the average American earns a year. Even the cost to purchase this caliber of horse can range from $100,000-millions of dollars. The thing is, the rich-and-famous stereotype is completely true. The cost of showing a horse on the international circuit can exceed $200,000 a year. Riders often will have more than one horse to compete in each of three different classes, which include jumpers, hunters, and equitation.
It’s the epitome of a luxury good.
Alongside that, the classes in which you compete are judged on how nice of a horse you own, even in the walk trot divisions with four-year-old girls and their ponies. The collegiate level, along with the other levels, in horseback riding are judged unfairly because of the imbalance of wealth.
The wealth indifference lights up in the average person’s face saying, “Only the rich make it.”
“No wonder the elite equestriennes gracing this month’s Town & Country are all billionaire princesses.”
The connection between horses and wealth began a millennia ago.
In fact, the first people who were known to commend hierarchies of power and believe variations of wealth were vital to their society were also the first people to own and ride horses.
Picture a movie based in the renaissance period. You can imagine the king riding into the shot on his noble steed, while the peasants walk in on foot; this is because of the imbalance of wealth between the king and his subjects. Now, take the millionaires and billionaires in the world and insert them into the king’s spot, and the rest of the world into the peasant’s spot. The rich have the privilege to trot around on their fancy horses while the rest of us travel in our subpar cars to work and school.
Do you think this is fair?
Horseback riding is a dubious sport when an animal of great value is involved; the person competing in the sport vanishes, showcasing your wealth through the one thing being judged, your horse.
Photo Credit: globalchampionstour.com
In a division known as hunters, the judge is only allowed to judge the horse, and not acknowledge the rider upon its back. Because of this, the wealth difference between riders is highlighted and becomes very clear about who will take the win home.
Amongst the 5,000 horses and 2,800 riders at the equestrian festival near Palm Beach, Florida lies many of the world’s elite. Let’s say you are competing at this festival, and while you’re scrolling through the list of people you are competing against, you come across the last name that rings a bell in many people’s minds: Gates.
Jennifer Gates, also known as Bill Gates’, “the richest man in America,” daughter, is competing in your division. By seeing this name, you automatically know you stand no chance of beating her. Her dad is willing to spend millions of dollars on horses, which many families are not able to do, despite how much they want to.
“The billionaires are funding their daughters through the circuits and through life.”
Jennifer Gates, Charlotte Casiragni, Georgina Bloomberg, and Reed Kessler rise to the top of their divisions, as they prance around on their dreamworthy horses. At 18 years old, Reed Kessler became the youngest rider in show jumping history to ever compete at the Olympic Games. Her parents, being the multimillionaires (possibly billionaires) they are, could afford to buy and pay Reed top of the line horses and trainers.
Imagine a world full of horse shows that don’t judge the horse’s length of stride or merely on the way they look. A world where it is equal; as Thomas Jefferson once said, “All men are created equal.” If this is the rule we are truly supposed to live by, why doesn’t it apply?
We are not judged fairly, we are not given equal opportunities to prove ourselves to the judges, and we are most certainly not all of the same wealth. A new and upcoming way of competing has blossomed from the roots of riding.
It’s called the Interscholastic Equestrian Association or IEA for short. It is a show where all the competitors are taken to a barn and given horses of the same caliber to ride. With all of them being equal, and it not being the rider’s personal horse, the judge is finally only allowed to judge the rider and not the horse. If this becomes as popular as regular horse shows, it would finally give the people of average wealth in the US a chance to enjoy the sport they love.
Photo Credit: Chornofhorse.com
Well, I guess to wrap up my rant about the unfairness of the various judging techniques, people eventually get adjusted to it and just accept that it will be hard as heck to rise to the top because the wealthy are favored. The wealthy people all around the world maintain control over the scoring; they mostly win and we mostly lose. Sports are supposed to be judged on how much time you dedicate and how much effort you are willing to put in; but instead this, it is based on how much money you’re willing to spend. But in the end, the elite equestrians “may be young, rich, and beautiful, but it takes more than fresh looks and a bank account to ride at the Olympic level.”
Last year Liu Yifei was cast as Mulan, Kelly Marie Tran became the first Asian American lead in a Star Wars movie, Bangtan Sonyeondan – better known as BTS – became the very first K-artist, besides PSY, to ever win a Billboard Music Award and the first K-group to ever perform at the American Music Awards and Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. BTS also continue to break their own records in the Billboard standings and seem to only be growing in popularity.
Photo Credit: billboard.com
Only a month into 2018 Asian representation is looking up and just a couple of days ago BTS again made history as the first K-group and second K-artist ever to earn a RIAA Gold CertificationRIAA Gold Certification for their remix of their son “Mic Drop” with Japanese American DJ Steve Aoki and rapper Desiigner; and just today (February 4) Chinese Canadian singer Kris Wu became the first Chinese Artist to ever preform at the Superbowl Half-Time Show.
Photo Credit: nerdist.com
These examples are just a couple of the milestones that have been met in just a short amount of time. Hopefully these two events this year, and several from late last year, are indicative of how the rest of this year, and the future, will go on the Asian/ East Asian Representation front.
I am overwhelmed with excitement for the ski season approaching; the visions of snowflakes float around in my mind, reminding me of the snow-filled times of last year.
While at Mammoth Mountain over the holidays last year, my dad challenged my cousin, brother, and me to ski the face of the mountain in a complete snow storm. My heart pumped with exhilaration as the word “yes” left my lips.
This run was called Cornice Bowl and is one of the longest runs on the mountain. My body was shaking with every step as I walked closer to the building housing the gondolas. My vibrant white ski boots squeezed my feet, and my blue Patagonia jacket clung to my body as if it was giving me a hug for support. Carrying my skis in my right hand and my poles in the left, I trekked up to the big cinderblock building, awaiting my next challenge to overcome in life. Slowly but surely, I walked up the metal steps and entered a big room with doors leading to numerous rooms on the left, and the rotating gondolas on the right.
We walked up to the ticket scanners and, just like clockwork, the season passes we held so dearly in our pockets dinged, leaving a slight buzzing in the air. We then walked on big black mats that covered the concrete floor up to the thin yellow and black line that kept us from crossing. Finally, the tall man dressed in the iconic bright green and black Mammoth snowsuit waved us forward. With swift pace, we walked up to the gondola entering the crowded room.
My heartbeat accelerated quickly. I could hear it in my ears, it felt like an elephant in the room. Suddenly, the man wearing the distinctive green suit directed us to enter the moving gondola.
I hurried as fast as I could, slid my skis into one of the plastic slots on the outside of the gondola, and hopped in. I slid across the fake leather seats all the way to the far right. The doors slowly started to magnetically close as the gondola slipped away from the crowded room.
The blur of white snowflakes overtook all sides of the gondola. I thought I would never know this feeling, but for once in my life, I was blind. The winter wind left ice kisses on the side of the gondola, crystallizing the windows.
The dismal weather warped us into a white wonderland, with swirling snowflakes and drafts of wind occasionally blowing by our capsule, leaving a sudden crisp chill inside. McCoy Station was seen like the light at the end of the tunnel. Our tiny world entered the big picture again as we entered McCoy Station. As we crossed the threshold into the dim cinder block building three more men boarded our gondola and then we continued on the path to the summit.
The snow became thicker; each individual snowflake doubled in size, making for utter whiteout once again. The temperature grew colder as the summit approached us. The snow had fogged up the windows, leaving us surrounded by a kingdom of white.
The gondola seemed to slow as we traveled up, finally reaching 11,053 feet. Our carrier entered the small building at the top of the mountain. The kind men helped me release my skis from the moving gondola as I waited for the rest of my family. We hustled into the closed doors that held warmth inside, just to step foot outside again into the treacherous weather.
My ski boots hit each stair with a loud clunk. The temperature was extraordinarily low, resulting in frostbitten faces or ones which were almost completely covered in masks. After posing by the nearly frozen trail sign for a few pictures, I stepped into the bindings of my skis. My dad reassured my cousin and me that this would be no harder than what we were doing previously. The only downfall would be the steepness factor and weather. Then, my dad had a short but sweet conversation with my brother that this was not the proper hill to bomb down at mock-ten speed, but to go slowly and practice his turns.
We headed down Upper Roadrunner, an easy blue run, which was short ways to the Cornice Bowl, our first Black Diamond of the season. Once we reached the edge of the drop-off, I could see dismal looks plastered on everyone’s faces. My dad told us only people with great amounts of courage would ski this run in a complete whiteout. Then, he went first to show us where to turn. My brother followed with the same energy he normally had, but at a somewhat slower pace. I followed him, or at least I tried as I couldn’t see anything but white and the hints of blue coming from my K2 skis.
I started my first turn; slowly, I placed my pole, and my skis swiveled. Soon enough I started to find a rhythm of turning. My dad stopped every once in a while to check and see how we were faring. One by one, we would emerge out of the white bliss, regroup and continue down. In my head, I listened to the rhythm of the pole turn and repeated this motion as we made our way down the precipitous slope. Then, I could make out the end of our run.
My cousin and I made it to the flat, where my dad and brother had been patiently waiting. We decided to take a sharp turn to the right and head down a piece of uneven terrain on the side of a somewhat small cliff and start powering our way down the mountain to McCoy Station. At McCoy’s, we headed back to the main lodge, where the main gondola station is located. As we slid into the crowded area of people, we all announced at once that we wanted to go again.
The competition was fierce with girls finishing at 15:49 (Claudia Lane). I am so overwhelmed by how amazing every single runner there was and I only hope that our small but mighty team will continue to qualify for this competition for the rest of my years in high school.
The course was a flat, dusty dirt course, with hundreds of spectators cheering you on on the side and helping you push yourself that extra mile in order to achieve your goal.
A gun was shot into the air symbolizing the start of the race, and everyone on the starting line sprung into action and begun sprinting their way to the front of the pack, including myself. We resembled salmon in a hatchery, all swimming against the current, piled against each other, pushing ourselves to the limit.
After everyone settled down, paces were found and the true part of the race began. Normally being in the top ten in the races, it was strange for Ojai Valley School to settle into the middle of the pack with fifty, sixty, or seventy people in front and behind you. It was nerve-racking for everyone, but comforting knowing every runner felt the same pain in your lungs as you.
Adrenaline kicked into the runners as we made our way onto the third mile of the race. Strides lengthened, breathing became harder, and you began to pass people you never thought you would pass. Suddenly, you saw the finish line, the symbol of relief. The last quarter mile- a straight-away to the finish line- flew by as the runner zoomed down the dirt path, and the tracker-chips woven into their shoes crossed the finish line.
Tears were shed, and hugs were given knowing that we gave it our all. The overwhelming excitement hit us all at once knowing that we had completed our first CIF Championship meet. And even though we did not qualify, all the underclassmen are determined to return to the course next year and try, try, try again.
I can not begin to thank the coaches enough for an amazing season and helping me push myself to times I believed were unachievable. Having never run before and to come out of the gates increasing my PR (personal record) by over three minutes was groundbreaking for me, and I could not have done it without Mr. Alvarez and Ms. Stevens.
Growing up, I was never good at sports, or at least that’s what I thought. It’s not that I had a pronounced lack of capability, just that I never thought I should be able to take sports seriously.
In my family, one of the most prevalent themes is our insane dedication to sports. Having an uncle in the MLB, a dad who can play or coach practically anything, cousins who dedicate their entire young lives to a single sport, and brothers who have athletic superpowers, it’s a given that everyone puts tremendous pride on everything sport-related.
From soccer to basketball, football to baseball and everything in between, anything my brothers played seemed to come so naturally and effortlessly. They were practically carbon copies of my dad when he was their age. Being the youngest of three, I’ve had the thrilling experience of going to endless games, practices, and races – all displaying my siblings’ somewhat unfair skills.
So of course, as a toddler my parents enrolled me in AYSO and Little League, probably expecting to have produced yet another super-human athlete. Year after year, I humored my parents and played on whatever teams I was signed up for. But year after year, I was never interested. Maybe I might have been a little less coordinated than the average kid, but I’m pretty sure I just never wanted or tried to be good.
When I was old enough to be able to decide for myself, I avoided sports all together. Instead, I opted for a more intellectual path. In elementary school it started to become clear that I was sort of smart and sort of good at music, so that’s where everybody focused their attention.
For so long I’d heard the lighthearted remarks of “she’s just so book smart. Her street smarts, though, they’re a little lacking” or once when I unsuccessfully tried to serve a volleyball a friend joked that I “bring shame to my family’s legacy.” Whenever I attempted to learn something everyone laughed. So, eventually, I laughed about it too. I guess in a way that’s a good thing, because I learned the importance of being able to laugh at myself.
I never took sports seriously because no one ever took me seriously when I tried them. I’m not resentful of all of these years, I’m just disappointed that I’ve been labeled as “un-athletic” for my entire life when, for the majority of it, I’d never had the chance to figure out that I wasn’t.
For awhile I felt bad for my dad. I worried that I had somehow let him down not having a profound interest or ability in sports. In middle school I tried out for the soccer team. It was mostly because my friends were doing it, but part of me wanted to give myself a second chance.
Although the start was pretty rocky, eventually I realized that it was sort of fun. I wasn’t ever the best player on the team, but I also was definitely not the worst. I remember my dad telling me once after a winning game, “You’re getting to be a good soccer player, I’m impressed.” I remember being proud of my performance in that game, but also I was also proud that for the first time ever I had been recognized for my ability in a sport.
When I got into high school, I actually looked forward to the end of the day when I could leave everything behind for a few hours and just kick a ball around with my teammates. But it wasn’t until recently that I realized I have the potential to be really good at a sport. During the fall of my freshman year, I decided to join cross country. I really liked the experience, and I liked how I’d gotten in shape, but I was never exceedingly fast or impressive that season.
But this year, I worked a lot harder. I’d started running so much better than I had last season. At each progressive meet, I would cut a considerable amount off my time and at the league final, that work payed off. It was by far my best race ever, and everyone on our team beat their personal records.
This Saturday, we went to CIF preliminaries. I never thought I’d be able to say that.
Cross country has helped me realize that I’m stronger than I knew I could be, physically and mentally. I still have a long way to go, but now I have goals that I can look forward to. And I know with time and dedication I can reach them.
It maybe took me fifteen years to realize it, but after all this time I know that I’m not really all that uncoordinated or un-athletic. I just wish I wouldn’t have put myself in that box so early on. I wish wouldn’t have gone my whole life believing that I was only “book smart” and putting up with all of the “maybe you should just stick to singing” comments.
I’m not necessarily a person who trusts easily. It takes me a long time to open up to someone, to let them know what goes through my mind or what makes me tick, what makes me happy or sad. But somehow, I manage to put all my trust into a creature who could kill me if they truly wanted to.
I don’t consider myself a daredevil. In fact, I have irrational fears of even the smallest spiders in my room. People question how I manage to be brave enough to get on a 1500 pound horse and ride around an arena galloping over jumps with no anxiety, and honestly I don’t know. The sport is dangerous. Just last year, my roommate had broken her back falling off a horse, and I’ve been close to falling onto a boulder when my horse bucked me out of the dressage arena.
Even then, this didn’t phase me at all. I brushed off the dust, laughed it off, and got back on with no problems. My trust with my horse was still secure even though my luck could’ve been way worse.
Photo Credit: Pinterest
For the past year, since my back surgery, I was constantly warned that one wrong fall would potentially break my back and leave me hospitalized for weeks with the chance I wouldn’t be allowed to ride for a long time.
But I still took the risk, and it’s because my love for the sport was stronger than my fear of pain and injury. Every day I still ride, and every day the fact that horseback riding is considered one of the most dangerous sports in the world barely passes through my mind as I work with my horse.
But that’s the thing about anything everyone loves. Everything is deadly to us in some way and form, and that same exact thing gives some of us life. So horseback riding may be dangerous, but I feel like others can agree with me when I say a rider’s love for their horse is worth devoting their time and trust into these animals despite the threat that floats through the air every day someone steps into an arena.
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