Way of the Peaceful Warrior (22 page)

A few weeks later, I was back running, skipping, and leaping around the track with Socrates, who was back in action. My legs felt filled with power and spring.
 

“Socrates,” I said, sprinting ahead and falling behind, playing tag with him, “You've been pretty close-mouthed about your daily habits. I've no idea what you're like when we're not together. Well?”
 

Grinning at me, he leaped forward about ten feet, then sprinted off around the track. I took off after him, until I was within talking range.
 

“Are you going to answer me?”
 

“Nope,” he said. The subject was closed.
 

When we finally finished our stretching and meditation exercises for the morning, Socrates came up to me, put his arm around my shoulders, and said, “Dan, you've been a willing and apt pupil. From now on, you're to arrange your own schedule; do the exercises as you feel they're needed. I'm going to give you something extra, because you've earned it. I'm going to coach you in gymnastics.”
 

I had to laugh. I couldn't help it. “You're going to coach me--in gymnastics? I think you're overreaching yourself this time, Soc.” I ran quickly down the turf, and snapped into a roundoff, back handspring, and a high layout somersault with a double twist.
 

Socrates walked over to me, and said, “You know, I can't do that.”
 

“Hot dog!” I yelled. “I've finally found something I can do that you can't.”
 

“I did notice, though,” he added, “that your arms need to stretch more when you set for the twist--oh, and your head is too far back on take-off.”
 

“Soc, you old bluffer… you're right,” I said, realizing that I had set my head back too far, and my arms did need to stretch more.
 

“Once we straighten out your technique a bit, we can work on your attitude,” he added, with a final twist of his own. “I'll be seeing you in the gym.”
 

“But Socrates, I already have a coach and I don't know if Hal or the other gymnasts will take to your wandering around the gymnastics room.”
 

“Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something to tell them.” I certainly would.
 

That afternoon, during the team meeting prior to workout, I told  the coach and team that my eccentric grandfather from Chicago, who used to be a member of the Turners Gymnastics Club, was visiting for a couple of weeks and wanted to come watch me. “He's a nice old guy, really spry; he fancies himself quite a coach. If you all wouldn't
mind and would be willing to humor him a little---he's not quite playing with a full deck, if you know what I mean--I'm sure he won't disrupt workout too much.”
 

The consensus was favorable. “Oh, by the way,” I added. “He likes to be called Marilyn.” I could hardly keep a straight face. “Marilyn?” everyone echoed.
 

“Yeah. I know it's kind of bizarre, but you'll understand when you meet him. “
 

“Maybe seeing 'Marilyn' in action will help us understand you, Millman. They say it's hereditary.” They laughed and started warm-up. Socrates was entering my domain this time, and I'd show him. I wondered if he'd like his new nickname.
 

Today, I had a little surprise planned for the whole team. I'd  been holding back in the gym, and they had no idea that I'd recovered  so fully. I arrived at the gym early, and walked into the coach's office. He was shuffling through papers scattered on the desk when I spoke.
 

“Hal,” I said, “I want to be in the intersquad competition.” Peering above his glasses he said sympathetically, “You know you're not fully healed yet. I've talked to the team doctor, and he said your leg will need at least three more months.”
 

“Hal,” I pulled him aside and whispered, “I can do it today, now! I've been doing some extra work outside the gym. Give me a chance!”
 

He hesitated. “Well, okay, one event at a time, and we'll see how it goes.”
 

We all warmed up together, from event to event, around the small gymnastics room, swinging, tumbling, vaulting, pressing to bandstands. I started out performing moves I hadn't done in over a year. I was saving the real surprises for later.
 

Then the first event came---floor exercise. Everyone waited, staring at me as I stood ready to begin my routine, as if wondering whether my leg would stand the strain.
 

Everything clicked; the double back, a smooth press to hand stand, keeping a light rhythm going on the dance elements and turns I'd created, another sky-high tumbling pass, then a final aerial sequence. I landed lightly, under perfect control. I became aware of the whistling and applauding. Sid and Josh looked at one another in amazement. “Where'd the new guy come from?” “Hey, we'll have to sign him up for the team.”
 

Next event. Josh went first on rings, then Sid, Chuck, and Gary. Finally, it was my turn. I adjusted my handguards, made sure the tape on my wrists was secure, and jumped up to the rings. Josh stilled my swing, then stepped back. My muscles twitched with anticipation. Inhaling, I pulled up to an inverted hang, then slowly pulled and pressed my body up to an iron cross.
 

I heard muffled tones of excitement as I swung smoothly down, then up again to a front uprise. I pressed slowly to a handstand with straight arms and straight body. “Well I'll be damned,” Hal said, using the strongest language I'd ever heard him use. Bailing out of the handstand, I did a fast, light giant swing and locked it without a tremor. After a high double somersault dismount, I landed with only a small step. Not a bad job.
 

And so it went. After completing my final routine, again greeted by hoots and shouts of surprise I noticed Socrates, sitting quietly in the corner, smiling. He must have seen it all. I waved to him to come on over.
 

“Guys, I'd like to introduce my grandfather.” I said, “This is Sid, Tom, Herb, Gary, Joel, Josh. Guys, this is...”
 

“We're pleased to meet you, Marilyn,” they said in chores. Socrates looked puzzled for the merest moment, then said, “Hello, I'm glad to meet you, too. I wanted to see what kind of crowd Dan runs around with.” They grinned, probably deciding they liked him.
 

“I hope you don't think it's too strange, my being called Marilyn,” he said casually. “My real name is Merrill, but I got stuck with the nickname. Did Dan ever tell you what he was called at home?” he chuckled.
 

“No,” they said eagerly. “What?”
 

“Well, I'd better not say. I don't want to embarrass him. He can always tell you if he wants to.” Socrates, the fox, looked at me and solemnly said, “You don't have to be ashamed of it, Dan.”
 

As they walked off, they said to me, “Bye, Suzette,” “Bye, Josephine,” “See you later, Geraldine.”
 

“Oh, hell, look what you've started, Marilyn!” I stomped down to the showers.
 

For the rest of that week, Socrates never took his eyes off me. Occasionally, he'd turn to another gymnast and offer some superb advice, which always seemed to work. I was astonished at his knowledge. Tirelessly patient with everyone else, he was much less with me.
 

On and on it went. He watched every expression on my face, listened to every comment I made. He told me to constantly pay more attention to my mental and emotional form.
 

Some people heard that I was back in shape. Susie came by to watch, bringing with her Michelle and Linda, two new friends. Linda immediately caught my eye. She was a slim red-haired woman with a pretty face behind horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a simple dress that suggested pleasing curves. I hoped to see her again.
 

The next day, after a very disappointing workout when nothing seemed to go well, Socrates called me over to sit with him on a crash pad. “Dan,” he said, “You've achieved a high level of skill. You're an expert gymnast.”
 

“Why thank you, Socrates.”
 

“It wasn't necessarily a profound compliment.” He turned to face me more directly. “An expert trains the physical body with the purpose of winning competitions. Someday, you may become a master gymnast. The master dedicates his training to life; therefore, he constantly places emphasis on the mind and emotions.”
 

“I understand that, Soc. You've told me a number…”
 

“I know you understand it. What I am telling you is that you haven't yet realized it; you don't yet live it. You persist in gloating over a few new physical skills, then become depressed if the physical training doesn't go well one day. But when you really acknowledge and aim toward mental and emotional form--the warrior's practice then the physical ups and down won't matter. Look, what happens if you have a sore ankle one day.”
 

“I work something else, some other area.”
 

“It's the same with your three centers. If one area isn't going well, it's still an opportunity to train the others. On some of your weakest physical days, you can learn the most about your mind.” He added, “I won't be coming into the gym again. I've told you enough. I want you to feel that I'm inside you, watching and correcting every error, no matter how small.”
 

The next few weeks were intense. I'd rise at 6:00 A.M. stretch, then meditate before class. I went to class most of the time and completed homework quickly and easily. Then I'd sit and just do nothing for about half an hour before workout.
 

During this period I began seeing Susie's friend Linda. I was very attracted to her but had no time or energy to do more than talk to her for a few minutes before or after workout. Even then, I thought about her a lot--then about Joy--then about her, between my daily exercises.
 

The team's confidence and my abilities were building with each new victory. It was clear to everyone that I had more than recovered. Though gymnastics was no longer the center of my life, it was still an important part, so I did my very best.
 

Linda and I went out on a few dates and hit it off very well. She came to talk with me about a personal problem one evening and ended up staying the night, a night of intimacy, but within the conditions imposed by my training.  I was growing close to her so quickly that it scared me. She was not in my plans. Still, my attraction to her grew.
 

I felt “unfaithful” to Joy, but I never knew when that enigmatic young woman would appear again, if ever. Joy was the ideal who flitted in and out of my life. Linda was real, warm, loving and there.
 

The coach was getting more excited, more careful, and more nervous, as each passing week brought us closer to the National Collegiate Championships in Tucson, Arizona. If we won this year, it would be a first for the University, and Hal would realize a goal of twenty years' standing.
 

Soon enough, we were out on the floor for our three-day contest against Southern Illinois University. By the final night of the team championships, Cal and SILL were running neck-and-neck, in the fiercest race in gymnastics history. With three events still to go, Southern had a three point lead.
 

This was a critical point. If we were going to be realistic, we could resign ourselves to a respectable second place finish. Or we could go for the impossible.
 

I, for one, was going for the impossible; my spirit was on the line. I faced Hal and the team--my friends. “I'm telling you, we are going to win. Nothing is going to stop us this time. Let's do it!”
 

My words were ordinary, but whatever I was feeling--the electricity--call it absolute resolve, generated power in each man on the team.
 

Like a tidal wave, we began to pick up momentum, speeding faster and more powerfully with each performer. The crowd, almost lethargic before, started to stir with excitement, leaning forward in their seats. Something was going on; everyone could feel it.
 

Apparently, Southern was feeling our power too, because they started to tremble in handstands and bobble on landings. But by the last event of the meet, they still had a full point lead, and the high bar was always a strong event for them.
 

Finally there were two Cal gymnasts left--Sid and I. The crowd was hushed. Sid walked to the bar, leaped up, and did a routine which made us hold our breath. He ended with the highest double flyaway anyone in that gym had ever seen. The crowd went wild. I was the last man up on our team---the anchor position, the pressure spot.
 

Southern's last performer did a fine job. They were almost out of reach; but that “almost” was all I needed. I was going to have to do a routine just to tie, and I'd never scored even close to that.
 

Here it was, my final test. My mind was awash with memories: that night of pain when my thigh bone was splintered; my vow to recover; the doctor's admonition to forget about gymnastics; Socrates and my continual training; that endless run in the rain, far up
into the hills. And I felt a growing power, a wave of fury at all those who said I'd never perform again. My passion turned to icy calm. There, in that moment, my fate and future seemed in balance. My mind cleared. My emotions surged with power. Do or die.
 

With the spirit and determination I'd learned in that small gas station over the past months, I approached the high bar. There was not a sound in the gym. The moment of silence, the moment of truth.
 

I chalked up slowly, adjusting my handguards, checking my wrist straps. I stepped forward and saluted the judges. My eyes shone with a simple message as I faced the head judge: “Here comes the best damn routine you ever saw.”