the VAULTING BOX

Consider elite female gymnasts and one fact becomes abundantly clear: gymnastics is not a sport for tall women. At the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing, the average height of the triumphant Chinese team was 4’ 9”. Aly Raisman, one of the tallest female gymnasts on Team U.S.A., is a whopping 5’2”.

Short stature provides unquestionable advantages in gymnastics, whether due to natural selection or gruelling training regimes. Take balance for example. If you’re short, your centre of gravity is lower; it’s closer to the base of your body’s support, which means better balance. Short people can also flip faster, and require less muscle to move their bodies.

“The bigger you are the more muscle you need, and since gymnasts work by moving their bodyweight, it is an advantage to be lighter,” Dr. Michael Hiley, a professor in sports biomechanics and motor control at Loughborough University, told iNews.

At 5’ 11”, memories of the gymnastics unit in PE class still make me cringe. It seems unnecessarily cruel to require participation in the sport, especially during junior high school. At full height and peak self-consciousness, these are recollections I carry for all the wrong reasons.

To t his day, I have never achieved a somersault, cartwheel or flip. I despised the wedges, the rings, the springboards – but above all else I hated the vaulting box. My PE- related humiliation reached its zenith when required to choreograph a routine on the wooden apparatus.

I came up with excuse after excuse, including a debilitating case of self- diagnosed patellofemoral pain syndrome. The teacher was indifferent to my plight; as payback, I’ve forgotten her name and any distinguishing features.

Eventually, I was forced to perform my routine. For some completely unfair, arbitrary reason, the young men in my class were exempt from gymnastics. Instead, they wrestled. They finished early that day and spilled into the gym bleachers, making the situation even more excruciating.

Rest assured there was no “teachable moment.” Nor did the laugher from the bleachers trigger my inner gymnastics prowess. I don’t recall ever practicing my routine or even contemplating the details before I climbed atop the box. I’m sure it showed as I lumbered across the platform, throwing in a feeble donkey kick for good measure.

Confronted with the end of the box, it was time to dismount. This was my last chance to leave an impression. Would it involve a pirouette or handstand? Could I manage a tuck or pike jump? I couldn’t have cared less. I left the vaulting box with all the elegance and enthusiasm of a sloth.

And for my efforts, my public humiliation and a corresponding lifetime of disdain for gymnastics, I was awarded a D.