The Hustle

One thing that was driven into us as kids was “Hustle” and the longer I live, the more I appreciate this concept.

The image that comes to mind when I think about “hustle” is this: a tennis player awaiting the serve. The player stands, his stance wide, his weight shifted from his heels onto his toes where he bounces side to side in anticipation, using the slightest momentum so he is ready to pounce on his prey at any moment. His core is tight, his arms are a gun, locked and loaded. He is acutely aware of his environment, what is out of place, what is exactly where it’s supposed to be. His brain actively reinforces what is most important: go hard, swing big, lock it in, focus, you can do it. Every part of his body and mind are active and on high alert.

What the player does not do, is stand on his heels with his arms slack to the side thinking about cheeseburgers. Laziness and stagnation are not an option if he has any chance at returning this ball. Because life, and that ball, come quick.

I am a gymnastics coach by trade, but I am also a lover of many sports so here is another sports analogy for you. If you attend any little league baseball game, you will hear the coach call out the same thing as his team takes to the field. “Hustle!Hustle out there,” he will yell.

And then go ahead and watch. The best players, the most engaged, and motivated players will sprint to their positions. The players that are only there because dad is making them, will walk out on their heels, taking their good-old, sweet-time. So,what does this really tell us? What can we learn from this simple behavior of outfielders and why does the coach put so much emphasis on it?

Well, it tells us maybe the most important thing of all—who cares. That was not a question, it was an answer. It shows us who the game matters to, who this inning matters to, and that if the opportunity to make a play comes their way, who will be ready.

Our gymnasts and our coaches are no different. There are the gymnasts who are always on time, ready to go. And if, by chance, they’re late, the come hustling in, anxious to make up what they have missed. They do not need to tell me they care—they are showing me. The athlete’s minds are on always on high alert. As they survey their surroundings, if something is in their way, they move it. If someone is moving something, they run over to offer help. There is an awareness that is both internal and external that is hard to explain but easy to recognize.

And then, there are those who are always late to the game. The last ones on the field. They need told to help, because honestly, they didn’t even notice that anyone needed it. They need told to move the mat, because honestly they didn’t even see it over there. They are passive in sports and in life. Without constant direction—some force or voice jolting them into action, they might just stand or sit where they are forever.

I know nothing about physics and my left brain might just be as barren as the surface of the moon, but I do understand one concept: objects in motion will stay in motion and objects at rest will stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. Applying this logic tells us that a person who is active and moving will keep moving, be more productive, more helpful, emit more energy. Once something stops, it can be hard to summon up that energy to get moving again.

I respect the hustlers more than I can say. I know the hustle they learned in their sport will show up, every day in life, in the same way it shows up for me.

When I look back on my childhood, I can see me and my siblings standing in a circle, bumping a volleyball that always feels just a little bit too hard. The ball goes over my head, but I had already predicted it was going to go long by the way it contacted my brother’s forearms. I am already moving backward. “Hustle,” my brother yells, even though I already am, even though I already know letting it go over my head with no effort at all is a cardinal sin in this family. It’s a lesson thatwasn’t easy to learn but I have grown to understand: don’t be the last to show up. Don’t wait to be told what to do. Be ready.

I leap off my feet and lay myself out like a skydiver. My arm lurches forward and makes just enough contact to keep the ball in the air. There is something so satisfying in the slight pain I feel in my ribs, the pounding of my heart in my chest. I kept the ball in play. I laid it all on the line and gave it my best effort. From the ground I watch my sister bump it back up, a perfect set, and my brother spikes it into the sand. Then he comes over, offers a hand to help me up. We laugh and I brush the sand from my shoulders. “Nice hustle,” he says. “Nice hustle.”