The D3 Experience: A Holistic Approach
“We’ve got a recruiting profile here for a 35-foot triple jumper who runs about 70 seconds in the 400m hurdles,” a fellow assistant coach informed the head of the program I worked for the year after I graduated from college. We were sitting in the track and field office after practice going through our lists of high school athletes to call later that evening. “What do you think?”
The head coach considered this briefly. “I’d maybe recruit her for the triple jump,” he said. A mark of 35 feet was around our recruiting standard for women.
“Well, you might have just missed out on recruiting an NCAA champion in the 400m hurdles,” my coworker joked.
The recruiting profile that my then-coworker referenced was mine. I showed up to my college campus with a passion for running and a training background that defied reason. I spent most of my high school athletic career flitting between workouts geared for the three different events I would compete in at any given meet: the two-mile race, the 400m hurdles, and the triple jump.
Each of these events had its own distinctly terrible quality that made it unpopular with my teammates. The two-mile was eight boring laps that slowly chipped away at your resolve. The 400m hurdles was a brutal sprint with obstacles in the way. The triple jump was technical and complicated enough that few long jumpers ever converted. But my team still needed the points up for grabs in those events, so I did my best to compete in them.
Aside from the different muscle groups and workouts needed to prepare for these events, the timing of them was also not in my favor. At invitationals and state championships, the 400m hurdles was the first event of the day, followed by the two-mile. The check-in officials handing out lane stickers were horrified when I would step off the track, strip off my 400m hurdle lane number, and breathlessly ask for a new one to get on the line for the two-mile less than 20 minutes later.
I can only laugh looking back at the nonsensicality of my high school track and field career. It’s no wonder that the head coach wasn’t jumping up to recruit me. My athletic profile made me a jack of all trades, but master of none.
Still, my triple jump distance had caught the attention of the school I eventually committed to, Oberlin College. Our need for runners in the relay races allowed me to continue to train for the sprints. My days of distance running faded into the background as I began to train my fast-twitch muscles and spend more time in the weight room.
By the end of my freshman year, my new 400m hurdle PR (62.82) was faster than my 400m flat PR (~64 from relay splits) in high school. I gave up triple jumping to save my aching shins and focus more on running and hurdling. Three years later, this commitment paid off: I was an All-American in the indoor 400m dash and a three-time All-American in the 400m hurdles, winning the national title my senior year.
It wasn’t until I started interviewing for coaching jobs after college that I realized how unusual my story was, even for D3. In one interview, I was asked how I would identify athletes for their program. I gave the answer I knew was expected: I’d search for athletes who fit the athletic and academic recruiting standards set by the program. For the elite liberal art schools I applied to, the recruiting standards cultivated impressive freshman classes who boasted PRs that allowed them to have an immediate impact at conference and national meets.
I understood the logic in recruiting these athletes, but I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who do we overlook when we only seek out the top high school performers who are interested in running D3?”
I no longer coach D3, but this innocuous question about who to recruit and why continues to pique my interest in my current role researching the role of sport in society. I believe it raises a much larger question about the identity of Division 3 athletics.
At its best, D3 represents one of few athletic spaces left where winning isn’t everything. This is significant as the culture of sporting practices in the United States continues to hyper-specialize. The Aspen Institute, a think tank that researches sport and society, cites an alarming and growing trend in the youth sports industry: children are being funneled at earlier and earlier ages to join elite clubs and one-sport programs aimed at guaranteeing that the child will grow up to earn a roster spot on a D1 or professional athletic team.
There are glaring equity concerns with this trend. Athletic clubs and training camps are not only expensive, but often far away. Participants need to have access to a safe public transit system, strong community networks that carpool, or parents who have the time to drive them to practices and competitions. I worry about how D3 could contribute to these trends when we only prioritize recruiting athletes who hit top marks early in their careers.
Beyond equity, I worry about enjoyment. D3’s signature line is, “For the love of the game.” I often wonder how differently my athletic career would have gone if I had been armed with more knowledge or ambition earlier. In many ways, I think my haphazard training and happy-go-lucky attitude in high school ultimately benefited me: I arrived on campus without the weight of expectations that many heavily recruited athletes bear.
Even if I had competed at a slightly more “intense” D3 program, I think there would be a different ending to my story. I had time to grow steadily as a competitor over the course of four years. Barring a few exceptional moments, my coaches supported and trusted me when I requested to deviate from the usual training playbook. I was able to study abroad, spend winter terms off-campus, and dabble in different events.
I had my eyes on the prize (a national title), but I was also permitted to let my gaze drift. It was only then, when I looked beyond the trophies, the finish line, and the clock, and wondered, “What could I do today if I trust my body?” that I ran my best.
The holistic nature that is the promise of a Division 3 athletic career is contingent upon the intentions set by coaches, administrators, and students. Its fulfillment is decided every day by the way practice is conducted, by the kind of culture that is promoted, and by the boundaries set to protect academic and other desired college experiences. Practice and competition can be an extension of classroom learning, places where students are encouraged to build healthy relationships with their bodies and learn not only how to win but how to lose.
When practice and competition are framed poorly, the opposite can occur. We have all heard the stories of this flip side of sport: when it encroaches on the college experience, promotes unsustainable food or exercise habits, or celebrates outdated gender roles. This is why I believe there are few jobs as intimate and impactful as coaching.
There are many roads to a national championship. There are also many roads worthy of exploring even when they do not lead to a national championship. I hope, even as D3 continues to attract more competitive athletes, programs will continue to emphasize development and balance as key features of the D3 experience.
Sports have an incredible influence on individuals and society. We can influence them in return by asking critical questions about the role of our division in the greater constellation of sport, by considering who has access to a D3 collegiate experience (and how we can expand that pool), and by setting priorities for our programs and athletes that go beyond winning.
So, D3 coaches: think twice before you ignore the spunky 70-second 400m hurdler who wants to run for you. And D3 athletes: don’t sell yourselves short. A lot can happen in four years, particularly when that time is centered on refining a process and not focusing on the product. Be open to what the sport can teach you, not only about running but about yourself and the world. For me, that’s what the D3 experience is all about.