Gymnastics

Being agile is something I am not. Never have been and never will be. Throughout my life for whatever reason I have never quite conquered the fear of letting my body move in a way that results in the back flip or cartwheel. In fact the only thing I have ever grasped is a roly-poly, and even then I only manage to really roll over on my shoulder as opposed to my head. I would try to do it properly but putting all my weight on my head hurts, and that to me is illogical. Why would I want to make my head hurt? That’s silly.

When I started Year One at Willowfield and it was time to abandon playing with the sandpit, plasticine and being given a nap half way through the day, it was time to learn properly with subjects such as Maths, English, Handwriting and joining after school clubs. There was a reasonable amount of clubs I could choose, from chess, to pottery to painting. I chose gymnastics. I have just told you that I am not agile if I could explain to you why I chose this after school club I would but I can’t. I was odd and my decisions as a child were often nonsensical. My Mum couldn’t quite understand why I chose to do this either, as I didn’t even like climbing on walls or up trees but she accepted and paid the three pounds weekly fee for me to go. She even bought me a leotard that my short plump body would squeeze into.

Gymnastics took place after school every Tuesday from 5pm until 7pm. The school hall was set up with large apparatus that normally lay flat on the wall. There were climbing ropes, springboards, colourful gym mats, some squishier than others; one of them was like a large mattress. They had a vaulting horse, trampolines and monkey bars. Our teacher Mrs Mudford would line us up at each piece of equipment and in front of the whole class we would each have to climb the rope or onto the horse or do a back flip. I of course could do none of those things. I would walk up to the rope, hold it in my hands and attempt to pull myself up. After three or four minutes of struggling and friction burns on my plump bright red thighs becoming more apparent, Mrs Mudford would tell someone else to have a go and I would watch as my classmates effortlessly pulled themselves up the thick rope. 

The activity I despised the most was the ‘spring board jump’. The idea was you ran up the blue mat and leapt onto the springboard, which gave you enough oomph for you to be flung into the air and land on the horse. Then you stood up straight with head and arms in the air, then jump off and onto the squishy mat. Every Tuesday after school for four years I did the following: Run up the blue mat, walk onto the springboard jump on it so it bounced, stop, then try and haul my round body onto the horse, I would wobble slightly as I could never get my balance as all the effort of climbing up the horse always gave me a head rush. I would forget to stand up straight with head and arms in the air, so would just sort of flop onto the squishy mat. I just could not understand how this worked. For me to go from springboard to horse meant not touching the floor. Not touching the floor but being in the air means you can fly. I cannot fly. Therefore resulting in me never ever completing the ‘spring board jump’. 

My gymnastics class gave out certificates at the end of every school year. It was called a ‘KiteKat’ award, this is because KiteKat the cat food sponsored it, presumably because cats are linked to being agile and are good at climbing therefore fitting to sponsor a children’s gym class.  The awards were graded one to four. One being the best and four was your basic beginner. In my last year at Willowfield; Year Four, we had an assembly, which parents were invited to, along with the whole school and including teachers to celebrate the achievements made in gymnastics. Everyone from my class was called up and given their red ‘KiteKat’ award along with a nice medal. The certificates number also corresponded with a colour. Red was the best, and then yellow, then green and blue was the beginner. My name was called up, Mrs Lawson the head teacher handed me my certificate. It was blue and written in black marker pen it read “Alexandra Perry (tried very hard) to pass the test for the 4^th class award of the British Amateur Gymnastics Association”. I didn’t even fucking pass. Four years of pissing around on that springboard and getting friction burns from the horrible thick ropes and I didn’t even pass. Surely Mrs Mudford could have missed out the patronising “tried very hard” bit. I sat back down on the floor with twenty others each of us gripping our certificates, they were happy and smiling I was quite sad about the whole thing. My mum told me I had done well and that she was proud of me. No Mum I didn’t do well, I did very very badly indeed. Needless to say from that point onwards any form of being active at school became quite redundant.