On Certification I: Ballet and the Boot

The horrified look on that grandmother’s face confirmed my fears.  

That moment just about marked the end of my daughter’s ballet career.  It began innocently enough: we had just transferred to Hawaii, the kid was six and happy to sign up at a local little storefront studio, where she began an introductory movement class with other little ones.  They wore little leotards and dance slippers - and maybe frilly tutus once in a while.  Through the weeks, months, and ultimately three years we were there she had progressed quite a bit and had a great time.  

Her instructor was great - a tall beauty with extensive experience dancing with the Pittsburgh Ballet and in Department of Education funded events around the United States before returning to her native Hawaii to marry and have her own baby.  She was a strict traditionalist, the right blend of sweetness and no-nonsense that had the kids in her thrall and at the barre practicing every step and point and turn with precision.  Lessons would work toward THE NUTCRACKER at Christmas or another big show at the end of the school year, so the girls of all ages would experience the achievement of performance.  

The instructor’s resume on her studio’s website is very impressive, both in her past achievements and  her continued development as an artist, as she blends the traditions of ballet and Hawaiian music.  

Nowhere is it mentioned that she’s been certified - by anybody presuming to sit in judgment.  

I bring up the subject of certifications because that’s a major impediment to my ever getting to coach strength training around here.  The CSCS, the Certified Strength and Conditioning Specialist qualification from the National Strength and Conditioning Association is considered the ‘gold standard’ of certification in the business and seems to be required for all kinds of jobs, from the elite collegiate level to babysitting flabby grown-ups one on one as a personal trainer. 

I strongly suspect that the CSCS is a racket perpetrated by an outfit that is slowly gaining monopolistic control of a lucrative industry.  I also suspect that their quality of content is weak; AGAIN, a young high schooler, this time the rugby playing boyfriend of that same daughter, dropped into my gym for a workout and revealed a number of ways that he’s been coached to lift that are just plain wrong.  The last time this happened was when I met a young neighbor trying to play football back in Ohio four years ago.  They were both taught by certified coaches.

I will gladly admit that I have much to learn about strength and conditioning, and I would certainly apprentice under a more knowledgeable supervisor.  I’d have to be convinced of his or her merits, however, which would be an easier sell than the prospect of an elaborate effort of studying for a corrupt and unnecessary certification exam.

On the night we flew out over the Pacific, leaving Hawaii, it dawned on my daughter that this was a one way trip and she’d never see her dance instructor again.  That’s when the tears started.  We were all starting over, I said, and I assured her we’d find a new ballet studio.  

Despite the size of the military town where we settled, there was only one dance studio, a huge operation in an aluminum warehouse building.  Inside, studios were behind giant glass windows to one side or the other, and parents watched from benches in the wide hallway.  

The ballet class was taught by an elderly woman who had to sit for the entire session.  Assisting would be one or two older girls, who demonstrated the work at the barre, which didn’t last very long each time around.  My wife, who had been a ballerina in her youth, caught one of the classes and noticed a number of flaws, among them ‘sickled feet,’ which is a weakness, a collapse of form, and a tell-tale indicator of poor standards.  The older dancers were invariably overweight.  

At the end of the summer, the school had a little show, and my daughter was the star for her age group.  She was the best dancer by far, though interestingly she was nowhere near the top of her class back in Hawaii.  

Week by week I’d catch a glimpse when I wasn’t reading my book, and though I didn’t know enough to spot things like sickled feet, I knew that the precision I saw in Hawaii was utterly lacking.  

One afternoon, an older woman sat beside me on one of the benches.  I could divine her story immediately.  She was in nice earrings and a coat, steps above the schlock parents wear when they’re shuttling kids around in the minivan, so she was obviously a grandmother who had come to visit.  Her family had similarly just rotated into town.  

I looked up from my book when I heard a sharp intake of breath.  Grandma knew her ballet.  She straightened in her seat.  Her eyes went to the door, searching for her own daughter, the Mom who was running an errand or parking the car.  She turned slowly to me.

Our eyes met.  I nodded and said quietly, ‘Yeah.  This is how it is.’  

Tragedy ensued.  Her granddaughter was either plucked out of the class in short order, or she stayed in, either of which would have negative consequences.  My kid ended up getting hurt not long after this, dislocating one of the bones in her foot.  She had to stump around in a plastic boot for three weeks, and we never went back.  

She wasn’t as sad as we expected.  I think she knew the score.  Plan B was horseback riding, which she’s stuck with ever since.  

I haven’t the slightest idea whether this second operation was certified by some ballet council or another.  (They probably were.)  In any competitive sport, this level of incompetence would have Darwinian consequences to the team’s standing and the coaches’ employment prospects.  By the same token, the excellence in Hawaii would establish a long winning tradition, fully independent of whether or not it was sanctioned by some set of self appointed parasites.

I grasp that the certification of coaches is to ensure quality or safety.  A quick round of Googling indicates that for soccer coaches a basic diploma from their federation to coach on the high school level requires about 10 hours of work.  Swim coaches have a series of courses to take, totaling about 50 hours, though people are allowed to begin work before they finish the process.  Wrestling awards lifelong certifications that take only a few hours.  

Other sports, such as hockey, football, or basketball are hit and miss on their requirements, mainly because state regulations vary.  Many states are happy to fall back on regular teaching certifications for their public schools.  Common sense requirements apply, like CPR and First Aid qualifications, background checks  - and drug tests in some cases.  Most importantly, successful coaching in any of these sports requires a solid base of expertise both in the sport itself and conveying skills to young people.  

Only strength and conditioning has a stringent test demanding a months-long period of preparation.  One of two conspiracies is afoot: the National Strength and Conditioning Association is protecting its paying membership by creating a barrier to those looking to join a lucrative field - OR, they are fooling the membership, along with insurance companies and lawyers, as they take control of the industry.