Personal Narrative-Home To The Athletic Center

After walking down the hill to the athletic center and trotting down about a hundred steps to the basement, the Voyageur office comes into view. The giant window along the wall to the right of the doorway allows me to see whether or not John and Margaret are inside. The carpet that lines the room, essentially the size of a walk-in closet, has a salt-and-pepper speckled pattern, with tufts of blue and green weaved into it too. The coaches’ desks are set up close to the middle, cutting the rectangular room down into thinner, longer sections. Entering the room, a bookshelf to the left is decorated with plenteous pieces of old expedition gear. The bookshelf is a miniature museum of Voyageur gear, never failing to interest people with vintage gadgets

The whiteboard along the back wall is littered with lists and notes: Varsity and JV climbing teams, spring break trip information, the breakdown of the day’s practice, etc.. The electrical lighting of the room clashes with the the darkness of being fifty feet underground, bleeding together to radiate a soothing aura. The cool temperature in the office is also thanks to its subterranean location. Most of the time I’m there, I’m on the floor. Starfished and stretched out or scrunched and balled-up by myself. The weight of gravity when I’m there is relaxing, comforting. I am grounded, steady,

Like the best families, we judge each other and laugh at each other and get angry at one another and know when someone is upset and support each other and enjoy spending time with each other. I tend to bottle up any anxiety or issues I have so that I can get through the hours between 8:00am and 2:45pm. The office is where I unload it all. When I arrive, John and Margaret’s collective energy naturally unlatches the lock I had placed on any emotions I had that day. Either of my coaches can look at me while I sit slouched in one of the chairs or leeched onto the floor and tell what kind of day I’ve had. I have cried in that room more than anywhere else on the close. More than in my mom’s classroom, more than in the counselor’s office, more than anywhere in St. Albans. I believe that since I’ve been in that office almost every afternoon of the school year since the seventh grade, it is the place I feel the most myself in. There is no facade or front that I need to put up when I am there. Even if I tried, it would be stripped away by John’s all-knowing gaze. It is quiet, cozy, comforting, all the while it is also funky, different, alternative. I identify most of who I am with moments I have had in the small room at the bottom of a hundred stairs in the basement of the athletic center. Moments and conversations with a relaxed, bearded man and a team that I wouldn’t leave for the