The gym was alive with energy—cheers echoing off the high ceilings, the sharp thud of feet on mats, the faint smell of chalk and sweat. It was the USA Invitational meet hosted by USA Youth Fitness Center, and I was standing on the floor as an official coach for the first time. My youngest son, Willow, was competing in his very first judged event. He looked small but focused on the mushroom, ready to go.
I thought I was there just to support him—to make sure he had the best shot possible in a sport we both love. What I didn’t expect was how this day, and the months leading up to it, would quietly rebuild parts of me I hadn’t realized needed rebuilding.
How We Got Here: From Spotter to Coach
A few months back, when we moved to Prescott Valley, gymnastics changed for us. In the Phoenix area, Willow had tagged along while I trained with my alma mater, the Arizona State Men’s Gymnastics Team. He’d bounce on the giant in-ground trampolines at Aspire, and I’d provide a spot for him to do back flips into the foam pit—casual, low-stakes dad stuff.
But small-town life meant no college men’s program nearby. Willow needed classes to progress; I needed to step up. Eric Montejano, the owner at Storm Elite Gymnastics Academy (SEGA), welcomed us warmly. We trained when we could.
Everything shifted when my high school coach, Mike Naddour, demoed the NGA requirements for us. Mike explained there were no compulsory routines—unlike old systems where one missed skill could block a level. I thought of friends who’d quit, stuck on a single element. This freedom could keep kids engaged longer.
That night I asked Willow if he wanted to compete. His face lit up: “You mean in a competition like you do?” Of course he did. And if he was going to compete with a team, he needed to know them. So I offered Eric: I’d coach one night a week if he shifted it to after school, when Willow and I arrived.
The Rocky Road to Team and Competition
At first, it wasn’t smooth. Willow struggled with directions during warm-ups and stretches. He’d mutter, “I’m better than them—why do I have to do what they do?” And I felt the pressure: now a group of boys counted on me.
But Christmas break changed things. No school meant two practices a week, the gym often ours alone. We had fun—beach ball volleyball over a sideways mat, crab soccer, obstacle courses. Laughter filled the space. The boys bonded, and so did Willow.
A week or two before our first meet, I took him in on a Thursday after the others had left. He scanned the empty gym: “Where is everyone? Why aren’t we working out with them?” In that moment, I realized he felt part of the team. The resistance had transformed into belonging.
The Day Arrived
The meet itself was a whirlwind of nerves and excitement. As Willow waited for the judge on his first event, I glanced at the audience. Eight family members had come! That sent a wave of anxious energy through me—as if I were competing myself.
Willow completed his three circles and we congratulated him with gusto. But as he walked back to the waiting area, the judge called me over and said: ‘For Level 3, they need three and a half circles, finishing legs in front.’ I brought Willow back for the extra half circle. He nailed it, but the moment added real pressure.
Vault warmup was chaos: three levels of mats and two springboards to swap among six boys. The judges joked that Eric and I looked like an F1 pit crew—Eric swapping mats while I switched springboards in seconds.
The rest of the meet went smoother as we found our rhythm. The kids got trophies and medals. It was a great experience for everyone.
The Realization That Came Later
A couple weeks after the meet, I was in a personal astrology review with a longtime family friend who does these readings for me each year. She asked: “How has coaching Willow and the boys over the past few months affected you?”
I paused.
Have you ever been caught off guard by the words tumbling out of your own mouth, revealing a truth you didn’t even know was there?
Mid-sentence, I heard myself say: “I went from thinking I was just a supportive dad—showing up, spotting, encouraging—to realizing my involvement at these beginning levels was giving me opportunities to fill in gaps in my own foundational training knowledge.“
It landed with surprising clarity. I’d been focused on teaching progressions for mushroom circles, vault run-ups, basic shapes. More than once, I’d recommend a drill, watch Willow or another boy struggle, then demo it myself and think, Wait—this isn’t as helpful or practical as I thought.
I’d adjust and learn something new about my body and technique. Eric’s partnership was invaluable—his years of coaching early levels meant gentle corrections and fresh ideas as we figured it out together.
The biggest surprise? Teaching basics forced me to rebuild my own strength, mobility, and technique from the ground up. Demonstrating clean shapes and breaking down movements revealed details I’d glossed over as an older athlete.
Coming Back Stronger—For All of Us
That meet wasn’t just Willow’s first. It sparked something bigger for me as a lifetime gymnast. Filling those foundational gaps excites me because it means I can train smarter—preventing injuries, refining skills for longevity, and competing stronger. Now, I incorporate these basics into my practices, like slower and more thorough warm-ups for better mobility. I’m also a more patient coach for it.
Willow keeps growing, the boys show up excited, and I keep getting humbled. If you’re a parent coaching or an athlete rusty on fundamentals, sometimes helping others take first steps is the best way to learn (or re-learn) for yourself.
What about you? Have you found unexpected growth in teaching your sport? I’d love to hear in the comments.