The gym block was killing him: the running was bad enough, but then he had to try and launch himself over the wall, which was six feet tall.
The first time he geared up and went for it, he said he was like a mosquito hitting a windshield. Ditto for the next few times. Therefore he was branded: a bright red terry-cloth wristband was given, and he would have to wear it until he got himself over the wall.
"Well, that sounds pretty demoralizing," I ruminated over this tactic. "Can you imagine me giving clients a bad hat until they could do a perfect lunge?!" I was a little outraged and I felt bad for him...it seemed to me a kindergarten tactic.
"I feel like I'm in The Scarlet Letter." He looked at the wristband with disgust.
"Well, don't worry, you'll get over the wall." The constant cheerleader.
"How?" His discouragement was far more glaring than the bright red piece of cloth.
"I don't know. Let me think about it." I started to think about the way you needed to engage your core in order to lift your body over something. I tried giving him tips. I tried telling him it didn't matter. I knew it did; and I was getting worried myself that his dreams would come to a sudden halt, kind of like that poor little mosquito.