When you have an audience standing and screaming the entire way through the short program and cheering every element you do, whether it's footwork, or spin, or a jump, to have that kind of emotion coming at you from every direction in the building, it's the most amazing sensation you can get as a sportsman.
Strangely, although they may seem worlds apart, boxing and tennis have a certain kinship. Two individuals head-to-head, probing for weakness and attacking it. Footwork, timing and stamina are essential. Just you and your opponent until one of you is beaten. There's no brain damage in tennis - although sometimes I wonder.
My new long anhyzer disc and controlled fairway driver. It gets the same beautiful flippy hyzer S shot as my Surge, I just don't have to throw it as hard. This makes it the most valuable to me on uncertain terrain where my footwork is compromised. A stand-still driver shot is now no longer a problem.
It [boxing] helps my hand-eye coordination, my stamina, my footwork, and it gives me that competitive edge and drive. And in the ring it's mano-a-mano. So it helps you build that arrogance, that cockiness, that confidence in yourself that the man that stands in front of you isn't going to beat you, and that translates to the court.
Too often we sit back and speak platitudes of the nitty-gritty bits of writing; the editing, the story structure, the verbal sparring vs. banter, the character development, the world-building become more important to us than the tune rhythm of the tale. And when you lose the music of the story, all the footwork in the world is not going to make up for the loss of continuity and heart. We need to take a step back in our souls and conjure the image of what this story is: the notes and beats and things woven into it's fullness. See, that's what is so easy to lose sight of as we write. We forget that, in a way, this story is a full story in itself. We tend to try to build the story piece by piece, line upon line, precept upon precept, but that-as any true writer knows-is not entirely practical. A story does have its own identity. To some extent, the story exists in your mind as a whole. Its own being. To chance sounding sappy: Your story is a full piece of music waiting for you to dance it into existence. Don't make the mistake of leaving out all the music. It is tempting to want to have everything arranged to perfection so that little editing will be done. But if you are keeping in mind the way your story needs to run-feeling it and dwelling in the beauty of its passion and color and vibe-the footwork will take care of itself. Certainly it will require practice and your technicalities will need a little work-everyone's does. But you will have captured the essence and blood of the tale, and really that's the prettiest part of a dance.
I can teach many sports, but obviously, tennis is the one. When you do other sports, you see things from different perspectives: different footwork drills, body positions, angles and geometry. All that stuff is helpful, and so when I do other sports, I can see things, because once you know one sport, then the other sport becomes more clear.
I work out a lot, but it changes day to day. I always start out with some cardio - either a jog, a bike ride, or footwork drills designed specifically for tennis movement. Then I do weights, but I switch the days: one day it's upper body, the next day it's lower body. Then I do stomach and back pretty much every day.
I have never heard a dancer asking for advice about how to stay focused on her footwork, or a painter complaining about the dull day-to-day task of painting. What task worth doing isn't worth daily effort? Do you think Michelangelo was having fun the whole time he was on his back painting the Sistine Chapel's ceiling.
Ursula K. Le Guin
Odysseus draped the towel over his shoulders and stretched his back. "You remember practicing with wooden swords? All the moves, the blocks, the counters, getting your footwork right, learning how to be in balance always?" "Of course you were a hard master." "And you recall the first time you went into a real fight, with blood being shed and the fear of death in the air?" "I do" "The moves are the same, but the difference is wider than the Great Green. Love is like that, Helikaon. You can spend time with a whore and laugh and know great pleasure. But when love strikes- ah, the difference is awesome. You will find more joy in the touch of a hand or the sight of a smile than you could ever experience in a hundred nights of passion with anyone else. The sky will be more blue, the sun more bright. Ah, I am missing my Penelope tonight
I've spent a life-time attacking religious beliefs and have not wavered from a view of the universe that many would regard as bleak. Namely, that it is a meaningless place devoid of deity. However I'm unwilling simply to repeat the old arguments of the past when, in fact, God is a moving target and is taking all sorts of new shapes and forms. The arguments used against the long bow are not particularly useful when debating nuclear weapons, and the simple arguments against the old model gods are not sufficient when dealing with the likes of Davies et al. For example, the notion that God didn't exist, doesn't exist but may come into existence through the spread of consciousness throughout the universe is too clever to be pooh-poohed along Bertrand Russell lines. And if I had the time I could give you half a dozen other scientific theologies that will need snappier footwork from the atheist of the future.
I found that while transition into practicing law was difficult, it was eased by following a few simple guidelines. Among them were these: First, I tried to emphasize quality over quantity. My firm, as with any firm, wanted to be sure that the legal advice it provided to clients was of the highest quality. As a result, firms seek associates who can analyze issues correctly and independently, and fully explore all relevant avenues. However, the temptation as a new associate is to rush through the first few assignments, in an attempts to seem efficient. I remember a summer associate who kept racing through assignments, hoping to impress the lawyers he was working for. His first two assignments were intended to last a week or more, yet he completed each of them in a single day! His third project was even larger, and should have taken 3 weeks to complete - yet he submitted his analysis after 3 days. At that point, one of my colleagues had to explain to him that the quality of his work mattered much more than how much he completed. Needless to say, I wasn't surprised when he wasn't invited back for a permanent position. Second, I always tried to avoid asking questions when I could figure out the answers with a little research or independent footwork. Like other junior associates, I had to walk a fine line between clarifying assignments and relevant facts on the one hand, and seeming lazy or obtuse on the other. Once, shortly after I joined the firm, a senior partner asked me to research an issue for a meeting later that afternoon. Minutes after leaving his office, I realized that I didn't have a firm grasp of the issue he wanted researched. As I hastily began walking back to the partner's office, I mentioned to a mid-level associate working on the same case that I was going to ask the partner to clarify my assignment. The mid-level associate looked at me and said, 'Are you sure you want to do that?' I knew immediately the answer was no; the partner was extremely busy with his own work and would only lose confidence in me if he had to explain the issue twice. I decided to review the materials I had again and, as I did many times thereafter, eventually figured out the issue on my own. Third, I always tried to be as thorough as possible. It's just crucial to look at an assignment from every angle - to make sure that every research resource and case is current, to analyze alternative theories or approaches, and to provide a full answer to the legal issue being examined. Trust me - being thorough is a good preventative for sleepless nights. This point was brought home to me while researching some new accounting standards for a senior partner at the firm. After finding certain accounting guidelines that seemed to apply to the facts at hand, I brought them into the partner's office and told him that I thought they were the right ones. He looked at them quickly and said that there were other standards that were more directly on point. He sent me back to the library with instructions to bring him a specific book containing the standards he had in mind. I went to the library, found the book, and returned to his office, where he was waiting to review it. He flipped through the table of contents, then the index, and then through a few pages. Finally, he found the page he was seeking, and said, 'Ah, here it is. You know, there's a reason why we pay you young guys $90, 000 a year. It's because we expect you to dig a little deeper.' As it turned out, the provision he found was identical to the one I'd dug up; it just didn't seem that way to him because it was published in a very different format. But the experience revealed not only the firm's high expectations of my ability to research issues thoroughly, but also its belief that it was entitled to such thoroughness because it was paying top dollar for associates.
WIlliam R. Keates