A Lazy, Sky-High Fly Ball

Grayson, parkhand, ex-Minor League ball player, never learned to read. After he finds a young runaway, the two become friends, and Maniac Magee assumes the task of teaching him. Grayson finds that he must practice reading just as he used to practice baseball. And it can be frustrating:

Vowels were something else. He didn't like them, and they didn't like him. There were only five of them, but they seemed to be everywhere. . . . To the old pitcher, they were like his own best knuckleball come back to haunt him. In, out, up, down––not even the pitcher, much much less the batter, knew which way it would break. He kept swinging and missing (Maniac Magee 101). 

I swung and missed yesterday morning, just like Grayson in Jerry Spinelli's Maniac Magee, only instead of learning how to read I was learning how to tie knots. I attempted two knots necessary for rock climbing: a figure eight with follow through and a clove hitch, both of which I have learned before. Even though I read instructions in my rock-climbing book, examined the pictures, and Eric walked me through the process, I still struck out.

Eric didn't let me give up. He coached me repeatedly after each failure, just like Magee coached Grayson:

But the kid was a good manager, and tough. He would never let him slink back to the showers, but kept sending him back up to the plate. The kid used different words, but in his ears the old Minor Leaguer heard: 'Keep your eye on it . . . Hold your swing. . . Watch it all the way in . . . Don't be anxious . . . Just make contact' (Maniac Magee 102).

Magee felt confident that if they kept at it, Grayson would learn to read. Eric believes I can learn to tie knots, even though I lack spatial visualization ability and have fumbling fingers. "Anyone can train himself; it is only a question of using the right kind of effort" (Nurtured by Love 37), wrote Suzuki. What, then, is the right kind of effort? The Suzuki Method has taught me that it consists in part of these things:

1. Small steps
2. Consistent effort
3. Repetition

When working with my children, I have found small steps to be an invaluable tool. A piece of music can be broken up into ever smaller portions: lines, measures, single notes, and if any larger portion is too difficult, a smaller one can be found that is achievable. In addition, the Suzuki books also haved graded repertoire, beginning with simple pieces that build necessary skills now for more challenging pieces later. The same process can be applied to every educational situation. Although strugglings and frustration usually play a role in learning anything, I have always found that breaking a task into smaller steps makes the impossible possible.

Even though I felt like it wasn't possible, Eric kept me at it. He guided me through each small step until I succeeded in tying a clove hitch. The knot worked!

However, small steps will not make a difference without consistent effort. Learning only takes place if lessons are spaced closely enough that any ability gained is retained. Otherwise, frustration can resurface as the skill has to be relearned, something that has happened to me with tying knots, so three hours later, Eric brought me rope and I tied it again. This time, it will stick.

But only if I use repetition to cement it in the mind and the body. "If some skill is easy for you, that is evidence that it has been developed through training to such an extent that it has become a part of you,  . . that your purpose has been achieved by work and repetition until the skill has firmly taken hold in your consciousness" (Nurtured by Love 43). I need tying knots to become as automatic as other things I take for granted, like knowing how to read.

Though practice is frequently grueling, the reward of watching something difficult become
 easy is immeasurable. With weeks of work, Greyson began reading, "nailing those vowels on the button, riding them from consonant to consonant, syllable to syllable, word to word" (Maniac Magee 102). I love Spinelli's description of Greyson's feelings that night:

The old man gave himself up willingly to his exhaustion and drifted off like a lazy, sky-high fly ball. Something deep in his heart, unmeasured by his own consciousness, soared unburdened for the first time in thirty-seven years, since the time he had so disgraced himself before the Mud Hen's scout and named himself thereafter a failure" (Maniac Magee 105). 

Learning frees us to drift off "like a lazy, sky-high fly ball." What we now know takes hold in our consciousness, changing forever both who we are and how we view ourselves.