This past weekend, the New York Weightlifting Academy participated in the Nutmeg Open in New Haven, Connecticut. The contest was split over two days, with one women’s session on Saturday and two men’s sessions on Sunday.
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I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve begun a lift only to stop mid-way through; “Clarking,” as weightlifters refer to it.
“What happened?” My coach might ask.
“I started thinking.”
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When I was asked to write this piece, my reaction was “Why me? I’m Masters, but surely not an athlete.” To me, an athlete was someone who had spent their life training, focused, competing. I came of age as Title IX was being implemented, so girls’ teams were relatively new. In my family, girls simply did not play sports beyond the occasional softball game. More than that, though, I was always told I was just not athletic. Add to that the fact that I didn’t care if I could run fast or jump high, and you get it. Not an athlete. Don’t really care. Until I started to lift. Guess what? I am an athlete. Doesn’t matter that I haven’t been lifting or playing sports for 30 years, or that I did back in the day and am back to it. I train, I study, I learn, I listen, and I compete. As a weightlifter. The lessons I’ve learned can apply to any sport.
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