Barrett Dorko
18-02-2007, 12:32 AM
It's been a quiet week in Cuyahoga Falls...
Ten years ago I was writing regularly for a magazine no one ever read. About 200 times I poured out my thoughts about practice and watched their influence end pretty much in my own head - not that that’s a bad place or anything, but I was hoping to accomplish more. I wrote something then connected to an event last week, and thought I’d repeat some of it here. I know someone will read this.
A man’s life is nothing more than a slow trek back toward those images I whose presence his heart first opened.
Albert Camus
He was a fullback in high school and always quick on his feet despite his size. It was that size that transformed him into a lineman in college, and, when he got to the pros, his speed was what allowed him to become part of an image that remains clearly visible in my brain to this day, more than 40 years later.
First he would pull back, and the defensive lineman across from him would rush forward, finding nothing to hit. If they didn’t swivel their head with sufficient speed it wasn’t obvious where he went. It must have been rather disconcerting to see such a large target disappear like that. His signature move began with no impact at all. There was no threat, no aggression toward another, just a carefully choreographed movement away from the point of attack, and it was his speed that made it work.
I have the sense that those of us who feel driven to follow a certain path, even if we can’t possibly see around the next bend, have little choice in the matter. Whatever sort of life this path might offer us we’re convinced that any other would be worse, and, eventually, we are resigned to absorbing the obstacles every life contains. We can either charge forward with as much speed as we possess or we can give in, fall down, and simply stop. For us there is no in between, and it isn’t the obstacle that drops us really; it’s our fear of it.
The lineman would then use his speed to race ahead of the running back, and this was a pretty good one. In fact, the best who ever played the game. Don’t bother arguing with me about this.
Science does not progress without conflict, and this conflict has strict and specific rules. Scientists are obligated to carefully consider and then appropriately attack the ideas of others, not the others themselves, and those whose ideas are attacked should be grateful for the opportunity to refine their thinking through their defense. I’m amazed at how many therapists don’t know this.
The lineman would suddenly appear where he should not be, and, often directed by a gentle pressure at his hindquarters from the running back, would choose a target, dive headfirst and explode into the opposition’s chest, taking the heart from their attack. This tended to make the running back’s job a lot easier, but for the lineman, the play was over.
This is part of what I wrote ten years ago: In my youth the image of my team sweeping downfield was dominated by # 32, Jim Brown (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Brown), the running back. But in my maturity I am convinced that it was #66, Gene Hickerson, with whom I truly identify.
After all, it was Hickerson’s willingness to do what he did countless times, often with the remarkable success and occasional failure that characterizes my work on the web and out in the country. He wasn’t a heroic figure and neither am I. Like the pulling guard my signature move, Simple Contact, begins with a sort of disappearance and ends with another moving ahead without me. The patient runs the ball, not me.
Last week, Hickerson (http://www.genehickersonhalloffame.zeroxfactor.com/) was finally given his due (http://www.profootballhof.com/hof/member.jsp?player_id=263), and I feel something has ended though I’m not sure what.
Maybe writing this will help me figure that out.
The essay Pullin’ Guard is available on request.
Ten years ago I was writing regularly for a magazine no one ever read. About 200 times I poured out my thoughts about practice and watched their influence end pretty much in my own head - not that that’s a bad place or anything, but I was hoping to accomplish more. I wrote something then connected to an event last week, and thought I’d repeat some of it here. I know someone will read this.
A man’s life is nothing more than a slow trek back toward those images I whose presence his heart first opened.
Albert Camus
He was a fullback in high school and always quick on his feet despite his size. It was that size that transformed him into a lineman in college, and, when he got to the pros, his speed was what allowed him to become part of an image that remains clearly visible in my brain to this day, more than 40 years later.
First he would pull back, and the defensive lineman across from him would rush forward, finding nothing to hit. If they didn’t swivel their head with sufficient speed it wasn’t obvious where he went. It must have been rather disconcerting to see such a large target disappear like that. His signature move began with no impact at all. There was no threat, no aggression toward another, just a carefully choreographed movement away from the point of attack, and it was his speed that made it work.
I have the sense that those of us who feel driven to follow a certain path, even if we can’t possibly see around the next bend, have little choice in the matter. Whatever sort of life this path might offer us we’re convinced that any other would be worse, and, eventually, we are resigned to absorbing the obstacles every life contains. We can either charge forward with as much speed as we possess or we can give in, fall down, and simply stop. For us there is no in between, and it isn’t the obstacle that drops us really; it’s our fear of it.
The lineman would then use his speed to race ahead of the running back, and this was a pretty good one. In fact, the best who ever played the game. Don’t bother arguing with me about this.
Science does not progress without conflict, and this conflict has strict and specific rules. Scientists are obligated to carefully consider and then appropriately attack the ideas of others, not the others themselves, and those whose ideas are attacked should be grateful for the opportunity to refine their thinking through their defense. I’m amazed at how many therapists don’t know this.
The lineman would suddenly appear where he should not be, and, often directed by a gentle pressure at his hindquarters from the running back, would choose a target, dive headfirst and explode into the opposition’s chest, taking the heart from their attack. This tended to make the running back’s job a lot easier, but for the lineman, the play was over.
This is part of what I wrote ten years ago: In my youth the image of my team sweeping downfield was dominated by # 32, Jim Brown (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Brown), the running back. But in my maturity I am convinced that it was #66, Gene Hickerson, with whom I truly identify.
After all, it was Hickerson’s willingness to do what he did countless times, often with the remarkable success and occasional failure that characterizes my work on the web and out in the country. He wasn’t a heroic figure and neither am I. Like the pulling guard my signature move, Simple Contact, begins with a sort of disappearance and ends with another moving ahead without me. The patient runs the ball, not me.
Last week, Hickerson (http://www.genehickersonhalloffame.zeroxfactor.com/) was finally given his due (http://www.profootballhof.com/hof/member.jsp?player_id=263), and I feel something has ended though I’m not sure what.
Maybe writing this will help me figure that out.
The essay Pullin’ Guard is available on request.