As most of you know, I spent last winter living in Utah training for the sport of skeleton. It was an incredible experience and one that I will always remember fondly (I’ve written more about training here). A lot of people have asked what my plans are for the coming skeleton season, so I wanted to provide you with an update.
I was actually recently offered another opportunity of a lifetime in the sport (side note: I don’t know how many one-in-a-lifetime opportunities a person is supposed to get, but I’m sure I’m way over the limit): to compete on the World Cup circuit—skeleton’s highest level of competition. The catch? I would be representing the Dominican Republic. I won’t go into the backstory of how I got connected with the federation, but the chance to compete against the very best athletes in the world is so appealing. However, upon reflection, it is with a tinge of sadness—but no regret—that I have decided to decline the World Cup spot and further not return to skeleton training this fall. Allow me to elaborate.
There is a huge part of me that really wants to pursue this chance, and that stems from my belief that everyone is born for greatness and has the potential to do extraordinary things. For several years now, I’ve acutely felt that calling in my own life in the athletic arena, and diving into skeleton represented a further exploration of that nudge beyond my primary sports of ultimate frisbee and volleyball. Although I would certainly expect to come in at the bottom of any World Cup race, being thrown into the pool with the sport’s best athletes would force me to improve more quickly and motivate me to be a more dedicated student of the sport. It would also fulfill a promise I made to myself when deciding to change jobs last summer: to get involved in things that are a little uncomfortable. A former colleague of mine summed up the mantra perfectly in his goodbye email to me: “Keep exploring the world and doing challenging and exciting new endeavors. Life is way too short to not push the envelope.” Skeleton at the World Cup level (or any level, really), would be challenging and offer opportunities for personal growth.
Part of the appeal of skeleton is also a desire to overcome my childhood demons. Growing up, I was a year young for my grade; when you combine that with the fact I was a late bloomer, it’s safe to say I was definitely on the small side when compared with my peers. I don’t ever recall being bothered by my size early in grade school, but anxiety developed and grew as organized sports—rather than idle play—became more a part of the expected experience.
The discomfort reached its apex in my eighth grade year. Although I played tennis at home and thought I was fairly decent, tennis wasn’t an organized sport at my school. Instead, I played soccer and basketball and ran track, none of which I did very well. In fact, I was one of the two smallest and worst basketball players on my school’s C team. Yes, C teams do exist. Although my parents were never anything less than supportive, my internal monologue was not so positive. My self-doubt was also heightened anew every time we’d visit my grandparents’ house, my dad’s myriad medals and trophies serving as a tangible taunt of some genetic gift I must have received but somehow failed to activate.
In the past two or three years, I’ve become laser-focused on improving my fitness and competing at higher levels of volleyball and ultimate. I realize now that, although those are worthwhile goals, I have allowed my identity to get completely wrapped up being an “athlete” and its associated successes/failures. In reality, I think that is a result of me trying to move past seeing myself as a skinny, unathletic, 12 year old C-teamer. Consequently, a significant part of the appeal of starting (and returning to) skeleton stems from the continued desire to adjust that self-view. Although it is certainly great motivation to work hard, I’m fairly confident that even if I won an Olympic gold medal there would still be days when I’d see 12 year old me in the mirror.
One of my newer endeavors has helped me to build on my identity beyond my personal athletic goals and was a big factor in this decision. You see, I started coaching the men’s club ultimate team at the University of Nebraska last August, just before deciding to pursue skeleton in Park City. Initially, I accepted the coach position not out of desire but more out of a sense of obligation. As the season progressed, however, I found that I actually enjoyed coaching more than I ever thought I could. I seriously underestimated the satisfaction of watching “my boys”, as I affectionately call them, develop as both players and people throughout the year.
The tough part in all this is that I missed the meat of the season last year by spending the winter in Utah. That absence, while very fulfilling for me personally, ultimately did a disservice to the team. In order to truly succeed as a coach, it has become apparent to me that I need to be physically present for the entire season. Of course I want to help the team max out its potential, but I also want to encourage the players to develop into good ultimate players and better men. Part of that is giving them the confidence and tools they need to discover the greatness each of them was born for, even if that’s not on the ultimate field. Unfortunately, I can’t accomplish any of those objectives without an all-in commitment. My boys deserve that.
This post is an oversimplification of my decision not to continue to pursue skeleton, and I don’t have enough space here to talk about the ancillary factors that came into play such as cost, logistics, and the like. Honestly, I think I would be happy no matter what I chose. Ultimately, though, I tried to look at not what might be a more fun experience or more valuable for me personally, but rather at where I would be most likely to make a real difference in the lives of others. For now, my head and my heart say that’s staying in Lincoln.
Although I’ve certainly done some very cool things along the way, maybe my skeleton journey hasn’t actually been about becoming a world-class athlete at all. Maybe these experiences and lessons have just been teaching me that my most valuable contribution to the world won’t be a trophy or title or medal but my impact on others. Don’t get me wrong, I am still going to compete and try to be the best athlete I can; however, I don’t know that the best place to do that is on the skeleton track.
I know that I’ll get jealous of those people whose greatness manifests itself in championship skeleton performances come this winter or the Olympics, but I’m starting to get comfortable with the idea that although being an athlete is part of my identity, it’s certainly not the only part. If I can simply love those around me well and encourage them to find their own greatness--whatever it is--well, I think that’s pretty great in and of itself.
I was actually recently offered another opportunity of a lifetime in the sport (side note: I don’t know how many one-in-a-lifetime opportunities a person is supposed to get, but I’m sure I’m way over the limit): to compete on the World Cup circuit—skeleton’s highest level of competition. The catch? I would be representing the Dominican Republic. I won’t go into the backstory of how I got connected with the federation, but the chance to compete against the very best athletes in the world is so appealing. However, upon reflection, it is with a tinge of sadness—but no regret—that I have decided to decline the World Cup spot and further not return to skeleton training this fall. Allow me to elaborate.
There is a huge part of me that really wants to pursue this chance, and that stems from my belief that everyone is born for greatness and has the potential to do extraordinary things. For several years now, I’ve acutely felt that calling in my own life in the athletic arena, and diving into skeleton represented a further exploration of that nudge beyond my primary sports of ultimate frisbee and volleyball. Although I would certainly expect to come in at the bottom of any World Cup race, being thrown into the pool with the sport’s best athletes would force me to improve more quickly and motivate me to be a more dedicated student of the sport. It would also fulfill a promise I made to myself when deciding to change jobs last summer: to get involved in things that are a little uncomfortable. A former colleague of mine summed up the mantra perfectly in his goodbye email to me: “Keep exploring the world and doing challenging and exciting new endeavors. Life is way too short to not push the envelope.” Skeleton at the World Cup level (or any level, really), would be challenging and offer opportunities for personal growth.
Part of the appeal of skeleton is also a desire to overcome my childhood demons. Growing up, I was a year young for my grade; when you combine that with the fact I was a late bloomer, it’s safe to say I was definitely on the small side when compared with my peers. I don’t ever recall being bothered by my size early in grade school, but anxiety developed and grew as organized sports—rather than idle play—became more a part of the expected experience.
The discomfort reached its apex in my eighth grade year. Although I played tennis at home and thought I was fairly decent, tennis wasn’t an organized sport at my school. Instead, I played soccer and basketball and ran track, none of which I did very well. In fact, I was one of the two smallest and worst basketball players on my school’s C team. Yes, C teams do exist. Although my parents were never anything less than supportive, my internal monologue was not so positive. My self-doubt was also heightened anew every time we’d visit my grandparents’ house, my dad’s myriad medals and trophies serving as a tangible taunt of some genetic gift I must have received but somehow failed to activate.
In the past two or three years, I’ve become laser-focused on improving my fitness and competing at higher levels of volleyball and ultimate. I realize now that, although those are worthwhile goals, I have allowed my identity to get completely wrapped up being an “athlete” and its associated successes/failures. In reality, I think that is a result of me trying to move past seeing myself as a skinny, unathletic, 12 year old C-teamer. Consequently, a significant part of the appeal of starting (and returning to) skeleton stems from the continued desire to adjust that self-view. Although it is certainly great motivation to work hard, I’m fairly confident that even if I won an Olympic gold medal there would still be days when I’d see 12 year old me in the mirror.
One of my newer endeavors has helped me to build on my identity beyond my personal athletic goals and was a big factor in this decision. You see, I started coaching the men’s club ultimate team at the University of Nebraska last August, just before deciding to pursue skeleton in Park City. Initially, I accepted the coach position not out of desire but more out of a sense of obligation. As the season progressed, however, I found that I actually enjoyed coaching more than I ever thought I could. I seriously underestimated the satisfaction of watching “my boys”, as I affectionately call them, develop as both players and people throughout the year.
The tough part in all this is that I missed the meat of the season last year by spending the winter in Utah. That absence, while very fulfilling for me personally, ultimately did a disservice to the team. In order to truly succeed as a coach, it has become apparent to me that I need to be physically present for the entire season. Of course I want to help the team max out its potential, but I also want to encourage the players to develop into good ultimate players and better men. Part of that is giving them the confidence and tools they need to discover the greatness each of them was born for, even if that’s not on the ultimate field. Unfortunately, I can’t accomplish any of those objectives without an all-in commitment. My boys deserve that.
This post is an oversimplification of my decision not to continue to pursue skeleton, and I don’t have enough space here to talk about the ancillary factors that came into play such as cost, logistics, and the like. Honestly, I think I would be happy no matter what I chose. Ultimately, though, I tried to look at not what might be a more fun experience or more valuable for me personally, but rather at where I would be most likely to make a real difference in the lives of others. For now, my head and my heart say that’s staying in Lincoln.
Although I’ve certainly done some very cool things along the way, maybe my skeleton journey hasn’t actually been about becoming a world-class athlete at all. Maybe these experiences and lessons have just been teaching me that my most valuable contribution to the world won’t be a trophy or title or medal but my impact on others. Don’t get me wrong, I am still going to compete and try to be the best athlete I can; however, I don’t know that the best place to do that is on the skeleton track.
I know that I’ll get jealous of those people whose greatness manifests itself in championship skeleton performances come this winter or the Olympics, but I’m starting to get comfortable with the idea that although being an athlete is part of my identity, it’s certainly not the only part. If I can simply love those around me well and encourage them to find their own greatness--whatever it is--well, I think that’s pretty great in and of itself.