Early Specialization: My take on youth sports

The two questions I get asked most often about younger athletes are how soon can they start lifting weights and at what age should they specialize in one sport.

The answer to the first question is that they should begin strength training about the same age that they begin reaching puberty but I generally recommend that you consult their pediatrician before making a final decision. 

The answer to the second one may be more complex.  There simply is not just one path to athletic success.   A common thread among most more accomplished athletes is that they played a lot of different sports at an early age.

Take tennis great Roger Federer.   He played football until he focused on tennis beginning at age 12.  Andre Aggasi, on the other hand was dedicated to tennis by age 6.  Both were hugely talented but you could argue that Federer has had the more storied professional career.

I've talked about the athletic progression of my own children before.  Like lots of kids, my kids took gymnastics first.  Daughter Whitney's first team sport was softball and then she added basketball a couple of years later.   Her sophomore year of high school, she played softball, basketball, and volleyball.   Despite a late start to volleyball, her physical skills seemed particularly well matched to that sport.   A stellar college career confirmed that.

I've said before that my son Nick first loved the balance beam (a girl's event).  Like lots of boys, his first team sport was baseball.  Next came soccer, where the intensity he would later be known for came out.  As soon as I would let him, it was on to football, although because of his size, he was in the 8th grade before he got to play with kids his own age.

I always figured him for a football player, especially because of a gene pool that included a football legacy, but he loved all those other things, especially basketball.  As it turned out, football was his ticket and a football career at Clemson University followed.

Really, you can break sports development down into two parts:  basic movement education and the development of fine motor skills.   You might call this latter stage skills acquisition.  It's where you learn to hit a moving ball, throw or shoot a ball with accuracy, develop eye-hand and eye-foot coordination. 

Yet, it's that basic movement education that gets ignored with early specialization.   Every young athlete needs to learn how to move first.   That means they need to be able to run, thrown, kick, change directions, basically how to control their body as it moves through space.

If you focus too much on skills before you get the basics down, you definitely have the cart before the horse.

And that's where early specialization might be a mistake.   Travel teams, position coaches, and playing a single sport year round are simply a mistake for the youngest of our athletes because it doesn't provide them with the opportunity to learn how to move.

This doesn't mean that if you think your child seems to have a talent for a particular sport at an early age that you shouldn't support that.   I have a cycling buddy whose 9 year old son really does seem to have a talent for the bicycle.  The fact that he will spend 2 hours on the back of a bike and enjoy it means that he will at least be an endurance athlete.

But make sure that they play other things as well so that they get the all-around athletic development that different sports provide. 

What's love got to do with it?

I watched recently as a young girl of perhaps 12 snuggled up close to her grandmother, whose health is rapidly declining.  The girl might not understand truly what dying is but she knows that something big is changing about her grandmother and she doesn't like it--she wants to hang on to things the way they've always been.

Grandparents are a constant.  They (we) aren't seen daily so the good days and bad days aren't so obvious.  They (we) are always good and generous and happy.

My grandson fell recently and had to have stitches on his chin.   His doctor dad did the stitching (and did a fine job, by the way) while doctor mom and I held him down.  It wasn't fun. 

The biggest heartbreak was when Ephraim wouldn't hug his dad when it was all over.   The good news is that he was over it by the next day.

But later that same night I was laying in bed feeling guilty.   An odd emotion under the circumstances.  I wasn't there when it happened and it was unpreventable anyway.   He had spent the afternoon rock hopping on Middle Prong above Tremont and then slipped in the tub during his nightly bath.  If an accident was going to happen, you would have thought it would be in the mountains.

I found myself, easily the least important person in this whole equation, wondering what I could have done for this to not have happened.  What could I do to take away the pain? 

I've written before about my mom's statement to me when I was young:  "You never know what love is until you have one of your own."   Mostly true, it sure hit home with this case.

I've tackled topics here far and wide.  Despite advice against it, I've covered religion and politics and what it takes to be a good parent.  But never love.

So, what is love?

I can tell you that love isn't a feeling, yet you might not know it has hit you until it hits you.  

We say we love bacon or ice cream or red velvet cake but is that the same as the love we feel for our spouse, children, or significant other? 

True love isn't a feeling or a desire.   Love isn't sex (uh-oh...there's another taboo subject).

Love is honest.  Love is happy.  Love is unconditional. 

Love is doing things that you might not really like to do.   I don't really like to shop.  Well, maybe that's not quite true.  I like to "buy" but not "shop." But I do it.

I hate vacuuming the floors but if my wife asks, I do it.  I hate Brussel Sprouts.  I used to hate broccoli but not anymore.  I don't think I will ever not hate Brussel Sprouts. 

If you truly love someone, when they hurt, you hurt.  When little Ephraim split his chin open, I hurt.  When my daughter had to hold him down, I hurt for her.  And when Ephraim wouldn't hug his dad, my heart ached.

Maybe that's what it's all about.

Smoky Mountain Rowing Club

Carbon dating has indicated that I've been writing this column for 28 years.   At first, it was somewhat irregular but a long time ago, it became a weekly venture.

Ideas come from everywhere.   Last week, it was an idea posed by Dr. Ted Flickinger.  Lots of times it is from personal experiences and stories.  Many times, it is inspiration from my pastor, Jerry Mantooth.  Lots of ideas have come home scribbled in the margins of our church bulletin.  

And you, the readers, have come up with a lot of them.  That's the case this week.   I got a really nice letter from Maryvillian Liz Hubbard about the local rowing scene.  Her husband Roger started the first rowing club in Blount County in 2004.  

Known as Smoky Mountain Rowing Club, it was first intended for adults, mainly Roger's employees at Molecular Pathology Laboratory, but in 2007 a program for local high school students was added.

At first, I was sure that I had written not long ago about the sport of rowing in our community.  I looked and looked and then finally found evidence of a column once started but never finished.   It consisted of only one line, which most writers will tell you is the hardest part (actually, I find the last sentence to often be the hardest--something about never knowing when to shut up).

But rowing has grown here by leaps and bounds, it is a great sport, and it is certainly worthy of space here. 

 According to Liz, "while the juniors club was sponsored by Maryville High School, students from several Knoxville high schools and Maryville Christian also participated.  With limited resources, the first year was for girls only, since women are the prime beneficiaries of NCAA scholarships due to Title IX, but with increased interest, the club was open to boys as well the next year."

Again from Liz:  "The neat thing about rowing is that you don't have to have been doing it since you were 5 or 6 to excel-in fact, you really can't even start until about the eighth grade or so in order to fit in the boats.  So it's another path to fitness for those kids who haven't found something yet to get involved in. Like a lot of team sports, rowing builds character, leadership, teamwork and not least, extreme physical fitness!  Rowers pick up a lot of physics by learning what makes boats go fast in the water.  Adults can benefit tremendously as well, with a low-impact cardio sport that can be enjoyed on our beautiful East Tennessee lakes and rivers.  This area boasts several rowing clubs from Oak Ridge to Chattanooga, allowing for some friendly competition as well."

Currently there are about 20 adults and 30-35 juniors in the program.  An alumnus of SMRC, Liza Rader, is now on scholarship as a member of the UT Lady Vols team.  Several others are rowing collegiately.

The club's facilities are on Ft. Loudon Lake, off Rankin Ferry Loop in Louisville.  They offer recreational and competitive programs, trying to offer something for everyone.   The club recently attained nonprofit status as it devotes a considerable amount of time to teaching the sport of rowing to interested adults, as well as day camps in the summer for kids to discover rowing. 

My thanks for the prompt to Liz, a former collegiate rower at the University of Virginia, oh, a year or two ago.

Superseniors!

Individually, I've written about them here before.  Some of them more than once. 

Dr. Ted Flickinger calls them Superseniors.  I like that term; Senior citizens that are doing super things.   They are mostly folks that aren't letting the calendar dictate their activity level.  

Like George "Rat" Long.   Rat posted such good times winning his age division in Tennessee Senior Olympics bicycling that he would have done well in the youngest age category.   By conservative estimates, he biked over 8000 miles in 2011 and plans on doing more in 2012.

He regularly rides with folks decades younger than he is--and drops many of them off on the side of the road.   Rat will be 72 this year.

Or Caroline Haynes.  I wrote about her recently but she never ceases to amaze.   Playing through an injury, she and her doubles partner recently battled back from an early loss to win the consolation bracket championship at a tournament in Fort Lauderdale.

I think she gets tired of me printing this but she plays like she's 30 and looks like she's 50.  Oh, and she's 74. 

Or Bill Proffitt.  Another frequent competitor at the Senior Olympics, Bill has stayed fit for many years by staying committed to being physically active.   He exercises regularly and rides his bike every day (weather permitting).    He's 87.

Or Dr. Charlie Raper, who is still running marathons at 74.   Having driven up Pikes Peak, I'm still in awe of the days when Dr. Raper ran marathons up that mountain.  He plans to run his umpteenth Boston Marathon this year.

Many of you will remember Margaret Steverson, hiker extraordinaire, who made such a routine of hiking Mount LeConte that they were usually looking for her arrival.  

It was my pleasure to hike with her on one occasion.  At the time, I was probably 50 years her junior yet she sprinted up Alum Cave Bluff Trail as I plodded along.  Along the way, she hiked every trail in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.  Her 718th and last trip on LeConte was at age 83.  

So what do these folks have that most others don't have?  I think a big part of it is that they just refuse to accept that at a certain age you have to slow down.  They don't allow birthdays determine how they pursue the activities that they love.   

Each has found a formula to add quality to their senior years.  Fitness, good health, and proper nutrition seem important to them as well.   You've heard it here before:  you can't put garbage in a high performance engine. 

They  have all obviously found an activity that they just happen to be good at but which also brings them great happiness.    I can tell you that Rat rides a bicycle with a smile on his face.

And maybe that's the most important ingredient:  The pursuit of happiness.   For what greater reward can we have on this earth than to remain happy for as long as our body lets us? 

Superseniors?  Yeah, I like that term a lot.

Share the Road

OK.  This is for all you bicycle riders out there.

We need to Share the Road!  Yeah, I know that a lot of you have got the bumper sticker that says just that but too many of you ignore it.   You take up half the road, run red lights, and don't stop when you should.   You  act like you own the road.   You seem to forget that we are calling for everyone to SHARE the road.   That means us too.

The laws of the state of Tennessee protect us, but they also tell us how to behave when we take our two-wheeled vehicles on the roads.   Like staying to the right side of the road.  And pulling over at the first safe place if 5 or more vehicles are backed up behind us.   Letting cars and trucks know our intentions by using hand signals.

One of the things I do a lot is tell stories.    One of my favorite stories happened almost 38 years ago.  I promise you I'm not embellishing this story--it's good enough to stand on its own.

I was home from college and my summer job had been interrupted by a union strike at the factory where I worked.   I had turned to farming and yard work.

On this particular day, I had been raking hay for Linda Gail Smith on her farm near Philadelphia, Tennessee.  Toward the end of the day, she wanted me to take the tractor into town for repairs.   Back then, Highway 11 through Loudon was a primary route south for much of Kentucky, Ohio, Indiana, and Michigan.

There was one fairly long stretch along Highway 11 where I didn't have room to move my slow-moving tractor off the road and allow cars to pass.   A long line of cars had formed behind me.

At the first opportunity, I pulled off to the side.

Let me paint the picture here.   It was 1974.  A football player who was a weight room regular, my preferred farm clothing was overalls, a sleeveless shirt, a battered cowboy hat, and (yes, admittedly) a cheek full of Red Man. And always several days growth of beard.

On this particular day, I was dirty, sweaty, and tired.  As soon as I pulled off, two "hippies" (long hair, beads, what later became known as John Lennon glasses) pulled over sharply in front of me, jumped out of their lead sled (if old enough, you will remember the type--oversized, big wings on the back), and came back to...oh, I don't know...maybe just to chat.

They weren't real big but they obviously thought that the two of them had the odds on me.

I had spent a lot of time on that tractor and knew it well.   I also knew without looking that just at my left hand was a tool box with a ball peen hammer n it.  Grabbing the hammer, I killed the engine on the tractor but just before it idled down, I popped the clutch. 

Just as that tractor lurched at those boys, I jumped off the tractor with the hammer in my hand.   It must have been their worst nightmare--a big ol' country boy, looking rough and, yes, a bit tough, telling them (in so many words) that they best get back in their vehicle and move on down the road.

Rather quickly, they hopped back in their car, spun their tires, and never looked back.  

My point?   We are on these roads together.   Just like I will insist on my right to ride my bicycles on roads, expecting (and hoping) that cars respect my rights, those of us on bicycles need to respect the rights of those traveling our roads in motorized vehicles.

To fail to do so is pretty dumb, wouldn't you say?

Being Southern

I had the good fortune to recently spend some time with my good friend Turner (better known as Tab) and his girlfriend Jane. Tab has lived all over, has literally travelled the world, and was more recently misplaced (in more ways than one) by Hurricane Katrina.  He ended up in western Georgia, where he found Jane.

Turner looks like Tom Brokaw but has the self-deprecating manner known well in the south.  He also happens to be one of the world's most widely known and respected physical therapists. 

But let me tell you about Jane.   This lovely lady is southern to the core.   She draws out her vowels like every true southerner and turns monosyllable words into something wonderful and melodious. 

During that same trip, my buddy Danny and I were in a restaurant where he was trying to explain "duck on a June Bug" to a Chicago realtor.  That might have taken all night if they hadn't come to tell us that our table was ready.

So all this got me to thinkin' about what it means to be Southern.  You have probably heard these somewhere before but I bet I'll get an "ain't that right" or two out of you on some of them.

True southerners know that the plural for "ya'll" is "all ya'll."  Where we like our tea sweet and don't take offense when somebody calls us darlin' or honey. Where people still say "please" and "thank you" and "yes ma'am" and "no sir" and where we always ask how your folks are doin'.

In the south, if a woman puts her hand on one hip and says "oh heck no," then you better go hide somewhere.  Where we might not have 'em much anymore but we know what front porches and clotheslines are. 

Living in the south means there's probably a pickup truck in your driveway.  Where some of us can hardly wait for a good snow so we can get out in our four-wheel drive vehicle and either try and get stuck or help somebody who just got stuck, although there are some of us who won't venture out on the road at all for fear of the dreaded "black ice."  That latter group will also buy everything in the grocery store at the mere threat of snow.

Southerners know that hushpuppies and catfish (always fried) naturally go together.  Where what folks elsewhere call soda or pop, we call coke.  Around here we love Richy Kreme but in the rest of the south, Krispy Kreme is one of the five basic food groups. 

Where we can taste the difference between home-grown and store-bought tomatoes.  We buy "sweet milk" and "light bread" (and if you don't know those, ask a Southerner) and know the units of measure known as "just a dab" and "a mess."

In the south we know where both grits and hominy come from and that you never fry red tomatoes but that green tomatoes were made for frying.

Where we might say you live "out in the country" or "on down the road a bit" and know what it means when the directions include "a right far piece."

Where we know that "fixin" can be a verb, noun, or adverb and that if somebody tells you that they're fixin to pitch a "hissie fit", you know to leave the room.

Southerners might speak slow and seem to "cogitate" on things too long but if you take our intelligence, our drive, or our ambition for granted, you're gonna end up on the bottom of the heap.

Bless your heart, Jane.  I'm glad to make your acquaintance.  Happy birthday, Turner.  You found a keeper!

Global Warming?

I'm currently in Chicago.  Got here Tuesday and going home Saturday.  Although winters in the Windy City are legendary--legendarily cold, that is--it really hasn't been that bad.  22 this morning but some snow expected in the next couple of days.

Usually this time of year it is twenty below and forty below with the wind chill factor blowing off Lake Michigan.   I brought enough cold weather gear to spend a month in an igloo but so far haven't needed much of it.  

Back home in Tennessee, we haven' had much winter weather at all and spring seems to be peeking around the corner. 

I was sitting with my granddaughter Kaitlyn last week after having just shared some of my world-famous Mickey Mouse pancakes when my wife made some comment about it being winter.

Kaitlyn, somewhat precocious and certainly smarter than her maternal grandfather, corrected her.  "No, Bebe, it's spring."

Being the responsible grandparents that we are, we used this as a teaching moment.  We talked about the seasons and the tilt of the earth away from the sun in the northern hemisphere and that this is what makes it colder this time of year. 

Despite her advanced intelligence (really), she didn't understand all that.  What she knew was that it was warm outside and the grass was still mostly green.  And the Camellia bush had blooms on it and no we really can't even think about jumping in the swimming pool.

But...if you think about it...she really may have a point.   I mean, it was in the 50's, overcast but still a quite nice day.  A day when short sleeve shirts were not completely out of the question.

It hadn't been really cold in a while and a snowflake wouldn't have a chance.  So maybe it is spring.   Out of the mouths of babes and all that.

But the calendar still said January.   So what's going on?

I know it's arguable and I really want to be wrong about this but I'm convinced that part of the culprit is global warming.  

Yes, I know about seasonal cycles and all that and maybe we had a similar period of warming 20,000 years ago but I've seen enough evidence to know that there may be some truth to it.

There are some things that we know.  Take the ozone layer:  It has never been narrower.  And the ozone layer protects the earth from the sun, essentially keeping it cooler.

We know that carbon emissions, mostly from the cars we drive, are at an all-time high.  And we know that carbon emissions deplete the ozone layer.  So increased carbon emissions = ozone depletion, wouldn't you think?

Glaciers that have been around for thousands of years have simply disappeared.   The polar ice caps are shrinking.  I think those things are beyond argument.

I will acknowledge that this is disputable but what if it isn't?   What if we are destined have a climate that is more akin to that expected in LA (lower Alabama)?  What if we don't have much winter in Tennessee anymore?  What could all this do to our agriculture infrastructure?

I, for one, would see it as a tragedy. And something that could change our lives dramatically.