The power of a thumbs up

I may have been the only Division 1 athlete to have been escorted to a college competition by her grandpa. Minivan arrival. Peanut butter sandwiches in a cooler from the seventies. If there had been a button with my face on it, he surely would’ve worn it. We rolled up to my competition in Missouri like I was ten and it was some park ‘n rec Hershey’s track meet, rather than the Sam Walton Combined Event Carnival hosted by University of Missouri that it actually was.

The reason my grandpa took me is understandable to anyone who lives in the midwest and does an outdoor sport in the spring. Weather. My dad and the rest of my college coaches and team were at a different meet the weekend before. Because of rainstorms, windstorms, some type of weather, their travel home was delayed. Meaning they wouldn’t get back in time to take me to my meet. As the only heptathlete on my team, I was the only athlete who needed to be in Missouri on a Wednesday. The rest of my team would show up on Friday.

So, thankfully, being a coach’s kid has it’s perks. Rather than canceling me from competing, my dad arranged for my grandpa to take me to the meet. This meant that not only would my grandpa be my “coach” at the meet, he would also drive me the 200+ miles to Columbia.

Here’s the thing I didn’t tell you about my grandpa, he drove fast. Really fast. He owned a trucking company at one point in his career so he was pretty darned comfortable behind that wheel. Oh, did I forget to mention he turned off his hearing aides when he drove? It was “too much noise.” There I was, in the passenger seat, pretty much talking to myself because he couldn’t hear me, gripping to the side of the leather seats as he accelerated to eighty on the onramp, and said silent prayers as the semis he passed laid on their horns. It was a miracle in and of itself I made it to my meet at all.

The thing about being an heptathlete is that you get pretty good at self-coaching. Managing seven different events in both practices and competitions, you not only learn the cues and routines that work for you, you become pretty independent. You have to be as you spend two days out on the infield with just me-myself-and I. Warming up, cooling down, competing, managing the highs and low, motivating yourself to keep going over and over again. Plus, you make friends pretty quickly with the other athletes. Dad always said it was the friendliest event, and he was right.

I wasn’t worried about being lonely without a coach, or without a team. I had enough practice and reps to make my own corrections. But it still was a new experience having Grandpa there on the sidelines.

A grandpa, mind you, that knew absolutely nothing about track and field.

The second event of the competition is the high jump. I was getting my warm-ups in and instinctively looked to the fence where the coaches stand. There was Grandpa. Taking his new job seriously. My first attempt, I bombed. Ran right into it. I looked over at my grandpa.

Thumbs up.

I just smiled and shook my head. Clearly, Grandpa, that was not a good jump!

Next attempt, I make. I look over at Grandpa.

Thumbs up.

He became somewhat of a celebrity that day. As I’d competed against the other girls many times over my career, they had all become aware that my usual coaches weren’t present. “My grandpa’s coaching me today.” Of course, they all thought it was adorable. And after each attempt, whether make or miss, Grandpa’s only response,

Thumbs up.

“No, Grandpa,” I thought to myself, “that was a horrible jump.” But it just made me laugh. All the other girls noticed his thumbs up too, and as I walked back to my mark shaking my head they were all laughing. Like that cute laughing. Because they knew what I’d just done was not actually a thumbs up performance, but Grandpa gave it anyways.

It was a long two days of competition. It was Missouri, so of course it rained and of course it was cold. I don’t remember much about my performances that week. It wasn’t my best. Probably wasn’t my worst.

I do remember Grandpa.

I remember his thumbs up.

I remember how every time I saw it, I relaxed a little. I got out of my own head and the mounting pressure.

His thumbs up, as all the girls and I would chuckle, reminded all of us that this was something we do because it is fun.

Most importantly though, each time I looked out, I saw him. Even though it was just him in that whole stadium there for me. There was someone there for me. Supporting me. No matter how good or poorly I performed, to him, it was always thumbs up worthy.

That Missouri meet where I almost lost my life on the highway in his gold minivan (okay, not really, but it was the most stressful part of my week) was almost twenty years ago now. When I think about my grandpa, or honestly the state of Missouri, I think about him. In his faded blue jeans, red Iowa State sweatshirt, aviator sunglasses and a ball cap that was most likely older than me, behind the fence, confidently stoic, giving a thumbs up.

My grandpa would’ve been 100 this month. He was just that kind of guy. He showed up. Never made excuses. Never asked for favors. Never really even said a whole lot. But he was there. He was a helper. And he was proud of us.

I think about him a lot behind that fence. What it meant for him to be there. And the power of that thumbs up.

He never yelled. Never gave instruction. Never even had to say “way to go, you got this, you’re amazing, I know you can do it…” and all the other positive nervous nonsense that comes out of my mom mouth these days.

Just a thumbs up was enough.

Enough to know someone was there for me.

Enough to know someone believed in me.

Enough to know that rain or shine, win or lose, someone still loved to watch me play.

I’m grateful to have that memory. I am grateful for the lesson it still continues to teach me. And hopefully to teach us all, that we too can say enough with a simple thumbs up.

Any meaningful lessons you learned from a grandparent?

#playyou

Coach D

Thanks for reading and sharing. I hope it leaves you encouraged.