10:28 p.m. | 2005-08-16 Training Camp. There are pictures of EldestSister proudly navigating her way up very steep stairs on her hands. On the far right side, you can catch a glimpse of MyDad holding up her feet. At two years old, she was quite adept; she�d had a year of experience already. Stair and door-jam climbing were prerequisites by the time I was four. Those exercises prepared me for further training. By the time I was ten, I had to do the whole circuit. I remember it so well. By then, MyDad had access to a gym. Not an exercise gym, a real gymnasium. I breezed through the daily warm-up� running laps, fifty chair push-ups and at least 20 chin-ups, both arms in and arms out. Then came the daily workout. Climbing a rope from the floor to the ceiling � gymnasium ceiling. Hands only. Followed by the pegboard. Again, hands only. That upper body workout was followed by a leg workout. Finally, the cool down. Several laps to �shake it out�. I did well. Compared to my sisters. But, not good enough. What I always wondered about, but never voiced, was the goal of all this training. I think I knew to keep my mouth shut. See, MyDad always wanted to have sons whom he could train to be football players. He had all daughters whom would never be allowed to play on any football team. But he trained us nonetheless. The exercise was good for me, generally speaking, but I�d have rather spent that time reading. Ironically, if I�d been a boy, my parents - MyDad's turn to name - would�ve named me Hans Christian. If I�d been a boy? Yeah, not a football player. Not with that name anyway. your thoughts? seed flower