Never fall on your knees, I tell them.
They sit in their snow pants on the ice, their gloves sliding over its brisk surface. Five helmets tilted down, marveling at the ice’s translucence. I’m sixteen, teaching a class of four- and five-year-olds their first lesson in ice skating: how to fall.
A few know by now how to march across the ice, their little skates carrying them along with more speed than their Velcro sneakers usually do. Two of them, siblings, dart from one side of the rink to the other with reckless power, launching themselves into the wall. It’s my job to show them something more powerful than speed: control.
I command their attention now with a brown plush horse who’s also learning how to get back up. I sit her down on the ice and move her velvet hooves beneath her body, demonstrating how to push their weight under them to stand over their “hooves” again.
The littlest one with a pink unicorn helmet, Mia, tries, but her rental skate slips out from under her and she’s back to Square 1. I kneel, gliding over to hold her hands and show her what it feels like to get up. Keep your nose over your knees, I say, and she leans forward to stand, triumphant.
She wobbles.
I resist catching her and she trembles, reaching her hands on top of an invisible table in front of her to steady herself.
The other four are getting the hang of it. One boy, older in a red coat, saw how I gently pulled Mia up with my hands and sloughs back down to the ice, pretending to struggle. I sigh and grab his mittens, urging him up too.
In the next few weeks, I will teach them how to glide — how to be still while moving forward — and we will play limbo, seeing who can pass under a stick without bumping their helmet. Both exercises to practice balancing over the thin metal blades on their feet.
Today, I am training them out of their fears or, I think, reminding them they should have a few. Even a professional skater can trip on an uneven patch of ice, I say, hearing my coach’s knowing tone come through in my voice.
Once the kids are all standing, they fall again and this time I descend with them. We are practicing being vulnerable yet in control. Bending our knees and reaching our hands down to the cold, hard ice. No fall will ever be this clean. I don’t tell them about gravity’s cruel ways. I tell them to fall on their side, onto one hip and bring one foot under them, then the other.
They won’t remember my hands urging them back up, just as I have long forgotten the instructor who first taught me this lesson in survival. Soon, though, their small bodies will know how to rescue themselves.
I had no idea you were a figure skater!! I still coach skating in the winters, it’s actually my main job during the winter season! This was so beautifully written! AND you gave me some different key words and activities then I use, so thank you!!