HAPPY NEW AGE

“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be.”
- J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye


Maybe nobody didn't either notice or care. But since this late summer a choice was made –or rather forced– it took me a while to find the gut to remove the word 'player' from my profile information below. Actually, it all felt unsettling from the very beginning. Ending my classes without even feeling tired or sweaty, with a few kicks given only for demonstration, having a shower only for the sake of it. "Am I ready for this?". I didn't know the answer.

Then on my first tournament as coach only, something did happen. And something didn't. The latter first. When they called my division, I couldn't give a shit. I had feared that moment. When they are calling your age, your belt, your grade. And you can't respond. I just shrugged. I felt nothing, really. Later, it would be time for something new. Gold. Gold everywhere. Cadets. Juniors. Seniors. "Hell, my students are strong. And I have a hand in it." Suddenly, I was no ex-average player full of regrets anymore. I was King Midas reborn. Only with less money and a bigger nose.

Things start to pop into my mind:
1. What I know– sorry, what I have come to know from a lifetime of obsessive self-study and yet awful performances, is correct.
2. It only couldn't work with someone who was broken inside out and the best coach he ever had was an empty chair and an unguarded bag.
3. Put what is correct into a body and mind that don't ache every second they live, and you got a serious gold contender.
4. By the end of the day, I had won everything I could keeping my feet clean in the process. Wow.
5. Medals are shiny. But my beautiful athletes' smiles are shinier. Accidentally, winners tend to smile a lot.
6. Medals are shiny. So are cups. But cups are bigger. And winning coaches go home with cups.

Yet again, I knew I should not believe a happy day at a local tournament could mean everything was ok with being 33 and spending a good half of that happy day telling everyone asking that no, today I'm not competing. Neither today, nor tomorrow.

So the Nationals came. The real deal. I've always had a love & hate relationship with this tournament. Like the Christmas day you count days to, but it's never giving that special present you die for. Not that I never squeezed a piece of metal out of the championship. But I never liked the colour of it.

My senior girls compete in the first day. They're awesome. But they both come from some pesky injury, so they're not 100%. By the end of round 1, they lead in 1st and 2nd place. I'm roaring inside. But another beast is waiting for them in the semifinal. They tame Keumgang and put their hats on 2 of the 4 seats available in the final train. They both do their best. I am so proud. There are smiles on their pretty faces and metal around their necks. When you win a medal at a National you could hardly train for, you only have to pat your own back and rejoice. But still, I don't like the colour.

Second day– My little soldier's turn. Should I tell the story that brought the two of us together here, it'd take me so long and bring back such misery I coudn't endure. Today, I only know two things. One, she's almost unstoppable. Two, she can only be stopped if she runs out of joy. In 2010 she was already a killer, but I was not good enough to protect her from the pressure robbing her of the joy of kicking. This time I'm not blowing it. I must make her laugh. They can phone me right now telling me both my parents are dead and I still will make her laugh. She knows the rest. She knows it all. I don't have to waste my time and words going over blocks and stances and stuff. I only have to smile and make her laugh. And God, this is the only sport I've always been a pro. I look around, and for the first time ever at the Nationals, I feel I'm the best at doing what I have to do.

I open my heavy fire of jokes. She responds with her rapid fire of laughters. She says stop it. I won't. When they're calling her turn, she asks me: "Why am I not afraid?". This time I know the answer. But I keep the secret. And by the very end, we fucking love the colour.

(Pre-editing photo courtesy of François Alonge)