I grew up in South Jersey about thirty minutes outside of Philadelphia. That is to say I grew up a Philly sports fan in the mid-90s and early 2000s, which really is my way of saying that every time I hear the word practice, I immediately and incredulously respond, ‘PRACTICE? For real, we talking about PRACTICE…PRACTICE…?' These are the iconic words of 76ers legend Allen Iverson from a 2002 media interview after a disappointing finish to the season. If you’ve never seen the video, watch it.
All that is to say, yes, we are in fact talking about practice. Specifically, we are talking about deliberate practice, and the role it plays in high performance. High performers come from all walks of life, perform in all spheres of life, and possess totally different personalities and abilities. Regardless of where they come from, their personality, or their domain of excellence, common threads are woven into the fabric of high performers. What makes a person a high performer? Is it the environment, the culture, the mindset, the habits? Through the lens of my own experience, I want to deepen my understanding of high performance habits and traits, specifically the ones I possessed at a young age that led me toward the high performance path.
So, let me take you back to my proudest sporting moment. It’s not the undefeated college national championship nor qualifying for and competing at the Olympic Games, or the first ever Pan American Gold for the USA in field hockey. It’s not the undefeated high school career. My proudest sporting moment didn’t happen on a hockey field. It happened on a square slab of concrete in the backyard of my childhood home. It happened in my sacred space. No one saw or witnessed my proudest sporting moment. Although, my mom surely heard about it after the feat was accomplished. It was me, a ball, a hoop, and a relentless desire to do a left handed layup. Conquering the left handed layup is my proudest sporting moment.
My first love was basketball. It is a love that gnawed at me and inspired me in early childhood. It still gnaws at me. I often wonder what would have happened if I chose basketball instead of field hockey. When I tried out for the middle school basketball team in the 5th grade, we played on blue and gold carpet floors. I came home from tryouts with rug burns on my knees and the smug satisfaction that I was one of only two fifth graders who made the team. I had unnaturally good size for my age, decent athleticism, good vision, could run the floor, make passes, and had an instinct for getting in the way, also known as defending.
I was money underneath the basket on the right-side, however for the life of me, I could not do a left handed lay-up. When we did lay-up drills in practice, I’d always cheat and do a right-handed layup on the left-side of the basket. Before my turn, I'd stand in line hyping myself up to attempt a left-handed lay-up, but every-time I neared the hoop my body rebelled and did its own thing.
I hated not being able to do the skill, but I hated missing lay-ups and looking bad in front of others more. I watched with jealousy as my teammates completed the skill. The older girls made it look effortless. I hid my deficiency. I pretended to do the skill. I bluffed expertise, until one practice the coach made us do Mikan lay-ups. There was no hiding my deficiencies in this exercise. Every time my body moved to the left side of the basket, my right knee and arm took control. The coach saw and he said, “Rachel, left hand, left knee.” I tried awkwardly while he watched, but as soon as he walked away, I reverted to my old way. I didn't want to look bad, and I didn't want to miss the hoop. There wasn’t enough time during team practice to re-train my brain and body to perform the skill. If I ever wanted to learn it, I knew I had to do it on my own time. I had to humble myself, and stop pretending that I could do it.
So that is what I did. I humbled myself, admitted I couldn't do it, and everyday after school that winter, I went in the backyard to the square slab of concrete, my sacred place, and battled myself. I say battled myself because I am pretty sure anyone who watched me could see me wrestling with my weakness. I talked to myself, coached myself, hyped myself up, and cussed myself out. I threw the ball into the neighbors yard in frustration. I cried in frustration. I screamed in frustration. I laid down, crossed my arms, and quit in frustration. When anyone came outside to help me, I chased them away with rage. I hated not being able to do it. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t do it.
Luckily, the quitting never lasted long. I’d freak out, then take a pause, uncross my arms, and strategize a new way of teaching myself. I was a stubborn pupil. I kept trying to swallow the skill whole. I’d imagine the older girls doing the skill in the flow of a game and I attempted to do it just like them. This got me no where. The problem was that my body already had a pattern ingrained in it, and resisted the change. It constantly went back to the default. I had to figure out where specifically that resistance was. I had to take the movement apart, and figure out what felt most uncomfortable. The uncomfortable-ness, the resistance, would be an inkling into what part of the skill I needed to retrain most.
So I broke it down, part by part. I stood under the basket on the left side with two feet on the ground. I put the ball in my left hand and my right arm behind my back. I felt weak in this position, but not entirely awkward. I shot the ball. Over and over until I felt more comfortable with the movement. Next, I added the knee lift. This was uncomfortable. There was resistance. So, over and over, I shot until it felt comfortable with my left knee lifted. Then I added a step. Over and over until it felt comfortable. Then my Mom called me in for dinner.
The next day I went outside very proud of the progress I’d made, and excited about the gains I was about to make. I stepped under the basket, and immediately everything felt off. My body rebelled. I got pissed. My temper exploded. I screamed at the ball, at the basket, at my knee. I had to humble myself again. I had to go back to the basics. I threw the ball into the grass, and did the skill without a ball. Then I picked up the ball, and started the progression. Ball in the left hand, both feet on the ground. Over and over again until it felt natural. Then I added the left knee lift. Then I added one step. Then I added a second step. Then I added a dribble. Over and over, until it felt natural. When it didn’t feel natural, I simplified the skill. I took away the ball. I did this everyday, always battling the unnaturalness of those first few repetitions. I battled the frustration, the stubbornness, my ego.
I humbled myself everyday at that hoop. Over and over. I practiced until the movement felt natural and fluid in my body. I practiced until I didn’t need to think about putting the ball in my left hand, or lifting my left knee. Eventually, I felt confidant enough in the skill that I ran to the backdoor and asked my mom to come watch me. She walked out to the square slab of concrete, and I proudly showed off my left-handed layup. Over and over. She gave me hug. She knew what this moment meant to me. I was so proud of myself.
That moment, that conquering, meant everything to me, and it still does. But why? What was in this seemingly unremarkable feat that makes it so special to me? Here’s the thread I see:
There’s recognition and admission of a limitation. There’s initial resistance, and looking for a quick fix, or way to pretend, or hide the limitation. Eventually, there’s the realization that there’s no quick way to learn the skill. It will require work.
Though I hated not being able to do it, I hated missing lay-ups, and looking bad, more. I watched with jealousy as my teammates completed the skill. The older girls made it look effortless. I hid my deficiency. I pretended to do the skill.
There wasn’t enough time during team practice to re-train my brain and body to perform the skill. If I ever wanted to learn it, I knew I had to do it on my own time.
There’s a choice to start the work, and show up every day, despite not knowing the exact way forward.
...Everyday after school that winter, I went in the backyard to the square slab of concrete, my sacred place, and battled myself.
There’s stick-to-it-ness, the ability to wrestle with frustration, and stay with the task.
I am pretty sure anyone who watched me could see me wrestling with my weakness. I talked to myself, coached myself, hyped myself up, and cussed myself out. I threw the ball into the neighbors yard in frustration. I cried in frustration. I screamed in frustration. I laid down, crossed my arms, and quit in frustration.
Luckily, the quitting never lasted long. I’d freak out, then take a pause, uncross my arms, and strategize a new way of teaching myself.
There’s the ability to tinker with the skill, to break it down, part by part in order to put it together in a new way.
I kept trying to swallow the skill whole. I’d imagine the older girls doing the skill in the flow of a game and I attempted to do it just like them. This got me no where. The problem was that my body already had a pattern ingrained in it, and my body resisted the change. It constantly went back to the default. I had to figure out where specifically that resistance was. I had to take the movement apart, and figure out what felt most uncomfortable in my body. The uncomfortable-ness, the thing I resisted most, was probably an inkling into what I needed to retrain.
There’s multiple attempts at learning, which means there’s multiple failures, and sustained effort and learning through the failures.
The next day I went outside very proud of the progress I’d made, and excited about the gains I was about to make. I stepped under the basket, and immediately everything felt off. My body rebelled. I got pissed.
There’s the ability to find the feedback in the failure. There’s humility to continuously simplify the skill.
There’s the definition of success as the effortlessness and repeatability of the skill, not simply the ability to do the skill.
I humbled myself everyday at that hoop. Over and over. I practiced until the movement felt natural and fluid in my body. I practiced until I didn’t need to think about putting the ball in my left hand, or lifting my left knee. Eventually, I felt confidant enough in the skill that I ran to the backdoor and asked my mom to come watch me
Till this day, I sometimes go outside and do Mikan lay-ups just to remind myself how powerful I am when I practice deliberately.
Comments
Post a Comment