Watching Ryann

Issue 101, July/August 2000
By Lorna Milne

It was my daughter's physique that first clued me in. People say Ryann is built like me. But through a mother's eye it is clear that she takes after her Aunt Leslie, my husband's sister, who raced in college. Like Leslie, Ryann's feet toe in, and her legs are long, thin, and muscular. Mine, on the other hand, are merely long and thin--hiker's legs, not fast, steady.

Yet it was more than her build that informed me. It was her grace. For five years I have watched her play soccer, sprinting down the field in fast bursts. Even though Ryann often stops short of the ball--not quite having overcome her fear of it--she can outrun most of the other players. Yet when no players threaten her, she dribbles with confidence, skillfully crossing the ball to her teammates. Now it is sixth grade and Ryann's first track season. I am perched alone on the bleachers; my husband Mike has wandered off to shout encouragement at the starting line.

Just last week Ryann announced that she had signed up for the 400-meter run, a decision that surprised me. Although I have often told her she is fast, she usually brushes me off, having grown immune to my compliments. The next day she reported that she qualified for the 400-meter relay team. I wanted to tell her that I'd seen this potential in her for a long time, but I bit my tongue.

At the tender age of 12, Ryann has already put limits on herself. Whereas I did not start playing softball until I was 13, she has already crossed softball off her list because she lacks the experience of the other players, and is afraid they will notice. Even more disappointing is the fact that, unless she signs on to train year-round, she may not play competitively enough to make the high school soccer squad. Despite the fact that she began playing basketball at ten and is learning quickly, she's apparently already "too old": while the more experienced players were on the court for an entire game, Ryann's coach only played her the mandatory one quarter last winter. At age 11--a full year before I even held a basketball--Ryann believed she was not good enough to play this sport beyond sixth grade. Given how hard our generation fought to give girls access to sports, it is enough to make a mother weep.

If It Weren't for Running
Running, it seems to me, is an extension of play, something Ryann and her younger sister have always insisted on finding time to do. Loose, unscheduled, old-fashioned play: tag, pretend, discovery. This continuum from play to running is what has led my daughter to track and field--a logical extension if one considers that 400-meter runs, javelin throws, and long jumps are direct descendants of the survival skills of the first athletes. Maybe that's why I feel excited, yet apprehensive, as the girls line up for the staggered start. As I witness my daughter's skill, I wonder what implications for Ryann's survival lie in her physical ability.

She lines up last, on the innermost track. I'm only vaguely aware that a handful of other runners are also in place. The gun goes off.

She begins cautiously--I imagine she's calculating the pace she should keep. For the first time in months, her posture is erect, her head balanced squarely over her shoulders. As she runs to the far side of the track, I revel in her dexterity. Her legs extend with ease, their rhythm flawless. I can't take my eyes off her body in motion, the beauty of it. When she approaches the stands, I add my voice to the others. "Gooooo," perhaps the oldest of cheers. Go where? Why go?

My husband brings Ryann home while I retrieve our youngest daughter from a playdate. As we pull into our garage, we find my oldest daughter crying into the fur of our springer spaniel, who patiently absorbs her grief. Mike stands nearby.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"She's unhappy about the race," Mike says, shaking his head.

"The race?" I ask, unbelieving. "You did so well."