War & Gymnastics

When I was 10/11 I had a gymnastics coach named Henry. He coached the local park district team with one other coach who was barely 20 years old. They had their hands full. A team of 50+ girls ranging in age from 7 to 17 and spanning all levels of skill. Somehow they got us moving through 4 events every week and even learning some gymnastics. This coaching job was Henry’s side gig, he was a professional clown. He could juggle, flip, balance on tilted chairs, and walk on his hands for what seemed like hours. You never know what he might be up to when you arrived to practice - more than once he'd been riding a 10 foot tall unicycle. He brought levity to that dim park district gym where we rolled out giant stinky wrestling mats at the beginning and end of every practice. Strict and fun, he played different music and let us do crazy stuff sometimes. He’d grab the springboard and we'd throw huge double fronts onto a big stack of mats. He was a strong spotter and a much-needed male presence in the gym. At that time, Henry was the only grown man who had a conversation with me like I was an equal human. Looking back, I’m sure he was a socialist.

He was so kind to me.

He recognized the terror on my face when I returned to the gym after a long time away. I had had kidney surgery and spent months at home recovering and doing puzzles with my grandma. I missed much of 4th grade. After so much time in bed, I was excited to get back to gymnastics. That first day back I walked into the gym and felt a sudden sick panic. What if my side ripped open because my scar wasn‘t strong enough? What if some stitches got left inside? What if it just hurt so bad again?

Henry must have seen my face. He welcomed me back and set up a mat off to the side. He worked with me one-on-one, slowly doing backbends and then back walkovers. I felt safe with him helping me and so encouraged. If he thought I would be ok, I figured, then maybe I would be. In a week I was doing back handsprings again and we were both smiling ear to ear. That feeling of flipping that brought us both so much joy. The freedom. It was sweeter than ever.

I’m sure I did not know how to express it at the time, but I was so grateful to him. I still am. He showed me how to recover.

One day I walked into the gym and Henry was laying on the floor with his knees up and his hand over his eyes. Talk radio echoed in a joyless gym. I was so alarmed, 

“What’s going on?”

He turned and looked me in the eye, “They’ve started a war.”

The first Persian Gulf War had started for the USA. His response to it had me confused in a way. Most adults didn’t think it was such a big deal…just another day pretty much. But the news had changed him. There was no jokes or juggling. In him, I saw fear and deep sadness, but also rage and indignation. If Henry thought this war was horrible, I figured, then maybe it was.

And you know, he was right. War is horrible, and it should 100% ruin your day.

He wasn’t our coach for much longer after that. I have no idea where life took him after the park district gig. But I think of him today and I’m grateful for the impact he had on my life and also for this team photo with both of us in it. I’m sure you can spot him. I’m in the middle row, second from the right with my mouth open, acting a fool.




Written on February 24th inresponse to the start of Russia's invasion of Ukraine.