The Art of Judging

It's a long ride to Memphis, Tennessee. It's 394 miles to be exact, from my front door to the Memphis Convention Center. There are no shortcuts. It's up I-75 to Nashville where you need to hang a left toward Memphis. The trip takes six hours and thirty-three minutes, not counting rest stop breaks, gas station fill-ups, and such.

You might be wondering how I am in possession of this bit of travel trivia. The short answer is a couple of weeks ago I went to Memphis. Now, I don't just hop up every morning and decide to go to Memphis. No, sir. Not me. I have to have a legitimate, clear-cut, purposeful reason to travel five miles from my recliner, much less many hundreds of miles. On this particular weekend I did. In fact, nothing could have kept me away from Memphis that weekend.

You see, I'm a sports fan. Yes, I am. And unlike many who live in my neighborhood, my sporting experience is not limited to Georgia, Alabama, Georgia Tech, or Auburn football. Yes, I am a more sophisticated follower of athletic endeavor. I actually watch volleyball, men's and women's basketball, soccer, and to round out my purveyor of athletic experience, I also am a big fan of gymnastics. It was for this latter sport I pointed my hybrid toward Memphis.

Arriving at the facility early on Saturday morning, I secured a seat which would afford the best view of all the events, the beam, the floor exercise, the vault, the uneven bars. Sitting down in my seat next to the small fence separating the fans from the athletes, I studied the program, marking the sequence of the performances, trying to calculate the abilities of the various teams participating.

The uneven bars sought my attention first. I watched in studied concentration as the athletes began their practice and warm up. I took my camera out, zoomed in on the individual contestants, and concentrated on the event.

“Ah!! Come on,” I exclaimed at the end of the event. “How could the judge score that low?”

“You think it was low?” asked the man in the seat beside me.

“Yes,” I replied, “I'd think it was at least three-tenths of a point too low.

My attention now turned to the balance beam. Once again, as the contestants began their practice and warm ups, I studied my program in anticipation of the competition. The event then began. I watched closely. The zoom lens was not needed. The athletes were competing close enough that I could hear the sound of the friction between their feet and the beam.

After one particular athlete had completed her balance beam competition, I must have let out an audible sigh. “The score was too low?” asked the man beside me.

“I think so,” I informed him. “I'm not sure how much experience that judge in the center has. She's being a little too restrictive.”

The man nodded in approval.

The vault now demanded my attention. Same story. And then came the floor exercise. Same story. There's a reason these judges, I thought, are not going to the Olympics.

“Scores were too low?” asked the man after each.

I nodded.

“Tell me,” he said. “How do you know the scores were too low?”

“Easy,” I said. “They are always too low when my granddaughter is the one being judged.”