What I mean is that she was by nature a superlative leader:
she wanted to become better herself.
She was constantly undertaking new challenges.
She was a well-trained teacher of Health/Physical Education.
She stayed abreast of research and updated her curricula every year.
She was always creating new activities for her classroom.
She worked with the state to upgrade the state curriculum.
She worked constantly to become a better teacher.
She was an active doer and grower.
She was a superlative coach.
She built state-level contending Pompon squads.
Nancy was the consummate and tireless professional person.
At the heart of her purpose as a professional educator was her desire to promote leadership roles for the young women on her pompon squads. She lived that role. She was the consummate role model. She always wanted to be better, to do better. She always grew.
She was also driven in her personal life:
She exercised strenuously every day.
She was a sports enthusiast, too:
Tennis and biking were her special interests.
I was her most-frequent competitor. On the tennis court she gave no quarter.
She was long-limbed and gracefully agile. I loved playing tennis with her, not only because her game was at least equal to mine. I was stronger than she. She had developed a better repertory of shots. Early on, when I won most of our matches, it was because most of my shots were stronger and overwhelmed her. Most of all, I just loved watching her, looking at her.
My nature was different. She was competitive. She played against me. I just wanted to play with Nancy. I wanted to love her the best I could. Beating her at anything seemed contrary to that purpose. Besides which, it made me feel like a bully. I mean: how loving is that?
Truthfully, I preferred lazy back-court games. It pleasured me mightily just to keep the ball between us in lengthy rallies. Again, I enjoyed looking at her, watching her cat-like movements. She was a gorgeous animal: proud and competitive.
As she aged, she developed difficulties with her right knee -- which she had injured playing basketball in college. Two operations over time failed to improve the knee. And while that knee didn't hobble her, it did somewhat curtail her movements and limit her range on the court.
So I did a slightly dishonest thing: I instituted my secret TWO-Step Rule. If at any time I played a ball that fell outside her comfortable range of two steps, and she returned it successfully, I there-upon carefully placed the next ball out-of-court. Seemed fair.
Of course, early-on, she nearly caught me instituting this rule. First time she became suspicious, she approached the net with narrowed eyes and fierce-some glare: "Are you PATRONIZING me?!"
By the look of her you would have thought she had caught me cheating with another woman, instead of cheating myself to her benefit. There she stood for a long moment. Hip-bones pressed firmly into the net, eyes fixed upon me. An accusation in every limb, hands on hips, her racket veering off to the side at a ridiculous angle, feet planted solid, ready to fight.
I did what any good man would surely do. I suppressed a laugh and lied through my teeth. Acted all puzzled and innocent. Swung my racket gracefully testing. . .acting out: how had that simple shot gone wide? Finally: "Wanna play the shot over?"
Of course she didn't. Especially if the point put her in advantage. Nancy loved to win any game we played together. I would be lazing around the court. She would be smelling blood, bouncing around all patter-feet anxiously awaiting the next chance to drive the ball beyond my reach.
But in this first instance where she suspected I had patronized her, her worst competitive instincts saved me after an uncertain moment or two. At this point I acted out with delicate finesse: Nancy, how COULD you think I'd E V E R do such a thing? I'm so hurt. . . . I nearly broke a sweat. Her vehement response had caught me off guard. I couldn't remember when she had glared at me like that before. A bit unnerving. But she took the point, and we played on.
I resolved to become sneakier. Fierce women have always brought out the very best in me.
I never got much better as a tennis player. But she did. The irony of the whole thing was that on days when I was playing my best -- and was able to place my shots with greater accuracy -- the inevitable result was that she ran me ragged and won the sets. And when I was playing lousy, but safely within the lines, I inevitably won the sets.
If Nancy ever wised up to my two-step rule, she never let on. Could be she had wised up, but thought it more suitable to punish me by working me to near-death on the court rather than openly raising the issue: Take THAT, you patronizing dog!
More than once she rushed the net and pelted me with vicious volleys. Was there a streak of meanness hidden in her competitive nature. Could be?! A man enjoys a spirited woman -- if he's lucky and loving enough to win one.
Our long bike-hikes were comparatively peaceful. Every once in awhile she would stealthily gear down -- or up, as the situation might require -- and bolt ahead suddenly on some straight stretch. But again I was stronger than she. I would quietly bear down, all cool, acting as though I were under no apparent strain. She'd work like a crazy person, but failed to advance an inch.
Clearly, this was not a case where she could accuse me of patronizing her. Sometimes she would express exasperation: "Oh! You are such a [pause as if searching for some suitably egregious epithet]. . .MAN!" She chewed that blasphemous term to pieces on the way out.
My god! She had beautiful teeth!
Nor was that all she had that was beautiful. On busy roads with narrow bike-paths, I loved to ride behind her and just LOOK at her. Her legs were long and gorgeous as a hosiery ad. Her shoulders were broad and square, her back was tapered, her hips and backside perfect . . . . She was a woman made for a man to admire. The only rule I instituted when we were biking was Pay Attention!
Nancy wanted something better. She was always growing. I loved her. All I had to do was live-up to her -- to grow best I could myself. That required that I pay attention.
If I were a man who felt the impulse to instruct a younger man in appropriate strategies designed to win and hold an extraordinary woman, I think that's all I'd say:
She was long-limbed and gracefully agile. I loved playing tennis with her, not only because her game was at least equal to mine. I was stronger than she. She had developed a better repertory of shots. Early on, when I won most of our matches, it was because most of my shots were stronger and overwhelmed her. Most of all, I just loved watching her, looking at her.
My nature was different. She was competitive. She played against me. I just wanted to play with Nancy. I wanted to love her the best I could. Beating her at anything seemed contrary to that purpose. Besides which, it made me feel like a bully. I mean: how loving is that?
Truthfully, I preferred lazy back-court games. It pleasured me mightily just to keep the ball between us in lengthy rallies. Again, I enjoyed looking at her, watching her cat-like movements. She was a gorgeous animal: proud and competitive.
As she aged, she developed difficulties with her right knee -- which she had injured playing basketball in college. Two operations over time failed to improve the knee. And while that knee didn't hobble her, it did somewhat curtail her movements and limit her range on the court.
So I did a slightly dishonest thing: I instituted my secret TWO-Step Rule. If at any time I played a ball that fell outside her comfortable range of two steps, and she returned it successfully, I there-upon carefully placed the next ball out-of-court. Seemed fair.
Of course, early-on, she nearly caught me instituting this rule. First time she became suspicious, she approached the net with narrowed eyes and fierce-some glare: "Are you PATRONIZING me?!"
By the look of her you would have thought she had caught me cheating with another woman, instead of cheating myself to her benefit. There she stood for a long moment. Hip-bones pressed firmly into the net, eyes fixed upon me. An accusation in every limb, hands on hips, her racket veering off to the side at a ridiculous angle, feet planted solid, ready to fight.
I did what any good man would surely do. I suppressed a laugh and lied through my teeth. Acted all puzzled and innocent. Swung my racket gracefully testing. . .acting out: how had that simple shot gone wide? Finally: "Wanna play the shot over?"
Of course she didn't. Especially if the point put her in advantage. Nancy loved to win any game we played together. I would be lazing around the court. She would be smelling blood, bouncing around all patter-feet anxiously awaiting the next chance to drive the ball beyond my reach.
But in this first instance where she suspected I had patronized her, her worst competitive instincts saved me after an uncertain moment or two. At this point I acted out with delicate finesse: Nancy, how COULD you think I'd E V E R do such a thing? I'm so hurt. . . . I nearly broke a sweat. Her vehement response had caught me off guard. I couldn't remember when she had glared at me like that before. A bit unnerving. But she took the point, and we played on.
I resolved to become sneakier. Fierce women have always brought out the very best in me.
I never got much better as a tennis player. But she did. The irony of the whole thing was that on days when I was playing my best -- and was able to place my shots with greater accuracy -- the inevitable result was that she ran me ragged and won the sets. And when I was playing lousy, but safely within the lines, I inevitably won the sets.
If Nancy ever wised up to my two-step rule, she never let on. Could be she had wised up, but thought it more suitable to punish me by working me to near-death on the court rather than openly raising the issue: Take THAT, you patronizing dog!
More than once she rushed the net and pelted me with vicious volleys. Was there a streak of meanness hidden in her competitive nature. Could be?! A man enjoys a spirited woman -- if he's lucky and loving enough to win one.
Our long bike-hikes were comparatively peaceful. Every once in awhile she would stealthily gear down -- or up, as the situation might require -- and bolt ahead suddenly on some straight stretch. But again I was stronger than she. I would quietly bear down, all cool, acting as though I were under no apparent strain. She'd work like a crazy person, but failed to advance an inch.
Clearly, this was not a case where she could accuse me of patronizing her. Sometimes she would express exasperation: "Oh! You are such a [pause as if searching for some suitably egregious epithet]. . .MAN!" She chewed that blasphemous term to pieces on the way out.
My god! She had beautiful teeth!
Nor was that all she had that was beautiful. On busy roads with narrow bike-paths, I loved to ride behind her and just LOOK at her. Her legs were long and gorgeous as a hosiery ad. Her shoulders were broad and square, her back was tapered, her hips and backside perfect . . . . She was a woman made for a man to admire. The only rule I instituted when we were biking was Pay Attention!
Nancy wanted something better. She was always growing. I loved her. All I had to do was live-up to her -- to grow best I could myself. That required that I pay attention.
If I were a man who felt the impulse to instruct a younger man in appropriate strategies designed to win and hold an extraordinary woman, I think that's all I'd say:
Pay Attention!
That's all I did.
But:
I did it very carefully
and very caringly!
That's all I did.
But:
I did it very carefully
and very caringly!
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