"It's very dangerous
to construct a life in which being 17 is the best thing in it,'' remarked
Robert Hass, the poet laureate of the United States, as he discussed a poem
about youthful pursuits in America.
I thought of Hass's words as I watched the televised 1996 Olympics.
It seemed I saw more tears and anguish than I'd seen in previous competitions,
but perhaps it was the focus of the cameras and their persistent quest for
drama (a/k/a ``the agony of defeat'').
NBC-TV reportedly made a point of targeting its audience of women. Thus,
the coverage seemed heavily focused on women's gymnastics and swimming,
and several interviews, especially those conducted by correspondent Hannah
Storm, emphasized ``what this does for women in sports.''
Having coached women's volleyball and softball, I could empathize with Storm's
query, but many she spoke with among the female gymnasts and swimmers were
so young they hardly qualify for labeling as women.
My concern isn't gender, however; it's youth.
I'm aware that a writer who begins noticing and meditating on the youthfulness
of the young is close to expressing his own frustration at aging. Age makes
most of us believers of the oft-quoted maxim that ``youth is wasted on the
young.''
Something more is going on here, however.
In addition to being struck
by the youthfulness of the competitors, I took note that an inordinate number
of elderly adults appeared preoccupied with the youngsters' performances.
Of course, they are mentors and coaches and chaperones and parents, but
why now do they lavish such attention and concern on their children's performances?
What other aspects of these young people's lives so enthrall their elders?
Are these adults apparent when youngsters devote their time and attention
to MTV?
I didn't know whether to cheer these children competitors or feel sorry
for them.
How does the message get to them that there is more to life than what is
accomplished by the time one is 15, or 19, or 25; that there is life beyond
gold medals, dream teams and endorsements?
I watched barely adolescent females struggle in gymnastic competition and
heard Hass's words echoing: ``It's very dangerous to construct a life in
which being 17 is the best thing in it.''
Working one summer as a camp lifeguard, I was pressed into teaching children
to dive from a spring board.
I'm not a diver, but the head lifeguard, a close friend at the time and
a championship high school diver in Maryland, gave me basic lessons and
set me loose to transfer my newly gained knowledge to 8-, 9-, and 10-year-olds.
I'll never forget his instruction: ``You can teach,'' he told me, ``even
though you're too old to learn.''
According to him, any youngster who hasn't learned to dive by the time he
or she is 13 years old is never going to be any good at it.
``After they turn 13, they develop a fear of the dive,'' he said. ``Their
fear keeps them from ever developing the acrobatic skills necessary to become
a champion diver.''
Similarly, the best gymnasts
seem to develop in that range between 13 and 17 -- and the best swimmers.
Indeed, it seems that when athletic skill is not dependent on muscle strength
(as it might be in weight-lifting or any form of racing) or is not dependent
on size (as it certainly is in basketball and volleyball), youthfulness
defines the competitive edge.
I recall Mobil Oil running a promotional gasoline economy drive across America
in which cars were operated exclusively by teenage drivers. We were told
then that teenagers make the best drivers because their reaction times are
the fastest.
Naysayers questioned the teenagers' judgment skills in harrowing situations.
Regardless, the emphasis was on youth.
I'm not opposed to teenagers in the limelight and striving to be the best
at what they do. Such a stance would be absurd.
I recall reading the psychologist Abraham Maslow argue that children don't
have to be kicked in the behind and reminded to grow; it's what they do.
Competition, endurance, speed, strength, the compulsion to go beyond --
these seem the natural province of the young.
What concerns me is the pressure applied that might falsely suggest failure
at 13 or 17 or 21 means failure for life.
This problem isn't exclusively
American, of course, but it seems we Americans have put extra pressure on
our talented youngsters. NBC inadvertently confirmed this by focussing some
feature stories on former Olympians who suffered disappointment when their
gold medals didn't lead to lucrative contracts in the business or entertainment
worlds.
Going for the gold too often engenders greedy going for the green.
Traveling with students through Europe several years ago, our group spent
a night in a youth hostel somewhere in Belgium.
Hostels in Europe are gathering places for international diversity. We met
Dutchmen, Germans, Canadians, Greeks and Swedes that night (most of whom,
incidentally, spoke English as well as we).
``I love Americans,'' a Swedish student told me that night, after an evening
of friendly exchanges. ``We love your music and we love your cars; we especially
love your girls.
``The problem Americans have,'' he continued, ``is with being number one.
``Swedes don't mind being number two, or even number three,'' he explained,
``But you Americans can't stand being anything but number one.''
His tone and intentions
were not complimentary, though he was gentle and polite in his criticism.
I recall several American students sitting in our klatsch responding defensively:
``But that's good. We want to be number one; we want to stay number one.''
The memory of that evening leaves me sad. I'm saddened by a foreigner's
biting insight and by my student friends' naive ignorance of how his vision
extended beyond the first-place finish.
The same feeling crept over me as I watched youthful Olympians reduced to
tears when they faltered, and Robert Hass's poetic alert reverberated in
my brain: ``It's very dangerous to construct a life in which being 17 is
the best thing in it.''
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