Finding Our Balance Read online

  “She said I have no idea how talented you are, that putting you in the public eye now will give you fans and support once Olympic Trials roll around, and saying no to this opportunity would be like saying no to Harvard after they throw a full-ride scholarship at you,” he says, pausing to give me a look. “You’re kind of a big deal, huh?”

  I blush. “Dad, I’m a nobody. But the U.S. team is pretty rough on beam and Natasha thinks mine is so good, they won’t be able to turn me down. She said I’m the missing piece of the puzzle and that I can probably even win a medal on beam in event finals.”

  “She said her mom hasn’t seen a combination of raw talent and hard work like yours in years. She wants Natasha to do everything in her power to get you to the top.”

  “Wait, Vera said that?!” My heartbeat quickens.

  “Yeah? I guess?” My dad looks delirious. “I’m sleeping on my feet, kiddo. I wasn’t joking about the Ambien. Goodnight…mom and I will try to stop by the gym tomorrow before you leave for the airport, okay?”

  I nod and give him a quick hug before turning off the light and jumping under the covers. For the hundredth time this month I’m having a Vera-induced freak-out. I try to breathe slowly and deeply to quiet my brain, which is on overdrive, not letting me finish one thought before starting another.

  Before I can even talk myself into the idea of Vera’s attention being good for me, I’m already thinking about how much it could add to the enormous pressure I’m already under. Training and competing with Vera keeping tabs on my every move would be like a serial killer going after his prey in the FBI’s backyard – there’s nowhere to hide.

  I bite my nails, moving methodically from finger to finger as my brain flies. Eventually, my body begins to chill out once the extreme fatigue finally catches up to me. My eyes flutter as I drift into a light sleep, but my brain continues to battle itself well into the night.

  ***

  I breathe in sharply as the plane takes off, biting my bottom lip and gripping the arm rest. I used to love flying. The first time I went on a plane was for a competition when I was nine, and my eyes were glued to the window for the entire trip. I loved the feeling of leaving the ground, and I felt safer thirty thousand feet in the air than I did anywhere on earth.

  Now I turn into a jittery mess when I walk into an airport. It’s not really the flying that scares me – it’s the anticipation that something could go wrong on the way up or down. Two years ago I saw some Discovery Channel show about how most plane crashes occur within the first three minutes of taking off, and now I can’t think of anything else.

  There’s zero logical thought going into this, but the second the plane leaves the earth I slowly count to 180 – the amount of seconds in three minutes – while tapping along with my finger against the armrest, eyes closed and breathing slowly. Like with any of my competition rituals, once I finish, I feel totally fine. I know it has absolutely zero effect on my fate, but the repetitive motion soothes me.

  Normally I sit with Ruby on gym-related flights, with Natasha and Polina together in the row behind us. Ruby is used to my crazy brain and doesn’t even notice my bizarre habits anymore, but today I’m sandwiched between Ruby at the window and Emerson on the aisle. I can feel Emerson’s eyes burning holes into me as I tap quietly away.

  “What are you doing?” Emerson finally asks, wrinkling her nose out of both curiosity and amusement.

  “Shut up,” Ruby replies without removing her sleep mask. “Leave her alone.” She wants to take advantage of every second of sleep on our overnight flight.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Emerson huffs. She crosses her legs, takes a sip of her chamomile tea, and opens her copy of Glamour, scanning the table of contents before turning back to me. “Really, what are you doing? It’s weird as hell.”

  I reach 180 a few moments later, exhale slowly, and open my eyes. “You’re gonna think I sound nuts, but if I don’t count up to three minutes, the plane will crash and we’ll all die a fiery death in Puget Sound.”

  Emerson narrows her eyes but then relaxes her voice. “No, I get it,” she finally responds. “It’s like when we compete. If you don’t smack your hands together exactly twice after you chalk up or if you don’t tap your toes on the carpet three times before running on vault…it’s like, it doesn’t actually do anything, but it puts your mind at ease.”

  “Yes,” I breathe, shocked that Emerson also needs to play games with her head. Ruby isn’t like that at all. She can empty her mind and just compete without needing to trick herself into thinking that everything would be fine if she followed a silly ritual. “It feels ridiculous but like, I’ve never fallen on vault or died in a plane crash, so why stop now?”

  “Totally. I mean, I’ve never done it for anything outside of gymnastics, but it’s the same thing.”

  I nod, not knowing what else to say. I still feel awkward speaking to the girl who only a few weeks ago was no more than someone I idolized in magazines and on TV.

  “I’d better go to sleep,” Emerson yawns, putting her magazine in the seat pocket. She pushes her seat to recline, and groans when it stops after just an inch. “Not being in first class sucks.”

  “Goodnight.” I push my own seat back and shut my eyes.

  After a few moments, Emerson is lightly snoring. I’ve always been too jumpy to sleep on planes, but know I have to force myself to somehow get a couple of hours in. I pull my arms inside my sweatshirt and hug my body tightly before counting down slowly from a hundred. Eventually, somewhere over Montana, the hum of the engine lulls me into a deep and dreamless slumber.

  Wednesday, April 27, 2016

  100 Days Left

  “Where are the gymnasts?”

  A production assistant on her fourth cup of coffee buzzes around the Road to Rio staging tent with the day’s itinerary on her iPad.

  I’ve never been this overwhelmed in my life. After landing at JFK, we were whisked away in a black SUV that flew into Manhattan, careening through the busy narrow streets. Our driver dropped us off just before 7 a.m. at a hotel in Times Square, where two makeup artists and a hair stylist were awaiting our arrival. Less than an hour later, Ruby, Emerson, and I were out the door in our Team USA gear, ready to go.

  An intern walked us the two blocks from the hotel to the staging area, a large white tent like the one my cousin James had at his high school graduation party. Except this one takes up about ten billion times as much space.

  The actual stage is smack in the middle of Times Square on 43rd and Broadway, a slightly elevated square platform carpeted a bright blue. American flags and patriotic balloons decorate the street, where dozens of U.S. Olympic Team tents are spread out over Broadway, boasting Team USA swag and athlete signings for the fans.

  “You’re going on The Today Show at 8:41 a.m.,” the assistant reads off of her device. “They’ll interview you in a group but will ask questions directly to each of you, one at a time, so you don’t jump over each other.”

  “Don’t speak until we’re spoken to?” Ruby grins.

  “Exactly. The opening ceremony and speeches will start at 10, followed by a tribute honoring some gold medalists who competed at the 1956 Olympic Games, and finally, athlete demos go on 11. I have you ladies going on at 11:20. Sound good?”

  We nod. As if they’d change anything if we responded in the contrary.

  The production assistant turns to Natasha. “You’ll be signing autographs in the 47th Street tent at noon with…Emerson Bedford, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “And we have a set of uneven bars and a balance beam in the tent. Whoever is doing tumbling will go up first on the floor, and then we’ll bring the equipment out. Who’s doing what?”

  “Ruby is doing floor, then Emerson on bars, and we’ll end with Amalia on beam.”

  “Perfect.” She runs over to another group in a huff.

  “Hurry up and wait,” Emerson sighs, examining her newly-manicured nails. “Welcome to live television
.”

  “You nervous, Mal?” Ruby asks. The demo would be no sweat – we were showing nowhere near our actual routine difficulty – but Ruby knows I have a tendency to lose it during interviews. When GymnaSTICK, a social media site for gymnasts and fans, interviewed me after my level 10 title win, I didn’t know to look at the interviewer and instead stared straight into the camera, my eyes wide and my face bright red. My answers made me sound like a baby uttering her first word. Seriously, when the interviewer congratulated me on a strong performance, I responded, “you too.”

  “A little nervous. Natasha coached me a bit this year. I have answers ready to go on autopilot even if my brain stops working.”

  “Interviews are nothing,” Emerson shrugs. “You have more talent in one skin cell than any reporter has in her entire body. They should be afraid of you, not the other way around. Act like you’re untouchable, a legend, and you’ll be fine.”

  I grin as a thank you for her advice, but don’t see how it’s so easy for her. I go to bite a nail, stopping only when I realize I’m about to destroy the American flag manicure I got between school and practice a day earlier.

  “Just remember, everything you do from now on is work,” Natasha instructs. “You need to be professional in your interview, you need to hit your skills in the demo, you need to make people love you so people tune in for nationals and Olympic Trials because they want to see you make this team.”

  Natasha runs through a half hour of last-minute interview advice, most of which Emerson ignores, and then finally another production assistant enters the staging tent looking for us.

  “We’re putting you guys in places now. There will be a live shot before a commercial break where you wave to the cameras and smile, and then we’ll go in with the live interview after the commercial break. Ready?”

  “Yes,” Natasha replies for us. “Have fun!” She leans in for a quick group hug.

  The assistant leads us out of the tent and to a small shaded area in front of a countdown clock next to the demo stage. I look out at Times Square and the hundreds of people crowding around the roped-in area, cheering in their “Go USA” t-shirts. I gulp, and then notice a girl no older than six in a knockoff mini version of a Team USA workout leo holding a sign that reads “Amazing Amalia.”

  “How does that girl even know who I am?”

  “How does who know what?” Ruby asks.

  “There’s a girl with a sign. It has my name on it.”

  “They handed them out to everyone.” Emerson points out the rest of the crowd, where I spy more “Amazing Amalia” placards in addition to some “Rooting for Ruby” and “Extraordinary Emerson,” all red or blue with white lettering. Cheesy, but my nerves immediately flip over to excitement.

  I peer back over at the little girl with my sign, waiting for her to look at me. When I catch her glance it’s pretty clear she has no idea who I am. I smile and wave, and she turns to her mom, probably alerting her to potential stranger danger because I definitely look like a creep.

  But then she turns back to me, holding a silver sharpie. I’m sure this goes against the “official plan,” but I take three seconds to run over, sign the poster, give her a high five, and run back to my group. Interview, schminterview. Let’s do this.

  ***

  “With me now at the Road to Rio Celebration in Times Square are three of the best gymnasts in the entire country,” a young field reporter named Danielle Cruz announces cheerfully into the camera while Ruby, Emerson, and I smile brightly at her side.

  “They come from all over the United States, but their families made big sacrifices so these talented young ladies can train with the best coaches on earth, Sergei Vanyushkin and Natasha Malkina. Sergei won the Olympic gold all-around medal for the United States in 2008 when he was just 18, and Natasha was the first American gymnast to win an individual gold medal at a fully-attended Olympic Games. With their help, Emerson Bedford, Ruby Spencer, and Amalia Blanchard also have a shot at gold medal glory.”

  Danielle turns to Emerson, standing immediately to her right.

  “Emerson is already a golden girl,” she continues. “She’s never lost a competition, and that includes back-to-back world championship all-around gold medals. Emerson, how did it feel bringing those medals home for your country?”

  Emerson pastes on a smile to answer this question for the millionth time. “It was truly an honor to represent the United States,” she says, managing to sound humble. “I trained my whole life for the opportunity to compete at worlds, and it didn’t hit me right away when I actually won. Even when you train hard, anything can happen on the competition floor. I thought I did my best in the moment, so I was thrilled to see my hard work really paid off.”

  “Just a few weeks ago, you stopped training at Windy City Gymnastics and moved with your coach to Natasha Malkina’s gym. What was behind that decision?”

  “Windy City is a great gym with a lot of great athletes, but I felt like I needed a change. I’ve worked with Natasha a few times at the Olympic Training Center, and we really connected. Her gym has better elite facilities, which is what I need going into the Olympic Games, so my coach and I thought it was for the best.”

  “You already have two all-around gold medals. When you were considering a gym change, did you wonder if changing that part of the recipe could mean messing with success?”

  “I won each medal with a different coach and gym,” Emerson replies sweetly, before adding in the kick she knows would be the gymnastics news of the week. “Gyms, coaches, they’re the variables. I’m the constant. You can change any variable you want, but at the end of the day, success comes down to me.”

  Ruby is fighting hard to keep from rolling her eyes, which I totally notice. Now I have to try not to laugh.

  Danielle looks almost taken aback, but smiles. “Well! There we have it. I’m afraid to ask how you think you’ll do this summer? I think I already know the response…”

  Emerson laughs coyly, expertly twirling a stray piece of blonde hair around her fingers. “How do I think I’ll do? I think I need to start shopping for a third display case. Preferably one that doesn’t clash with gold.”

  The crowd cheers and Danielle fake laughs as she turns to Ruby. She already knows the first question by heart. It’s the same question every reporter has asked for four years.

  “Ruby, when you were fifteen, you were so close to making the 2012 Olympic team, and then you got injured. How did it feel knowing you’d gotten that far and then had to watch it slip through your fingers?”

  “You know, it still feels surreal,” she answers, managing to sound genuine but wanting to scream. “When I fell in practice, when I went to the hospital, when my doctor told me I wouldn’t go to London…none of it felt real. It finally hit me when the team was announced and I didn’t see my name on it. I was devastated and thought I was done with the sport forever. It was like I worked my entire life for nothing.”

  “When you came back to gymnastics last summer, you had a pretty rough outing. The press was brutal, calling you ‘washed up’ and ‘tragic.’ Did that make you want to give up?”

  Another question she’d answered in every interview for almost a year. “When I read what the press wrote, for a split second I believed them and almost retired a second time. But I got over that real fast.” She flashes a smile. “I love proving people wrong, so I used what they said to get me going harder and stronger. You know those cheesy motivational posters? I blew up a quote from one of those articles and that became my poster.”

  “Now you’re back on top and your teammate is your biggest competition. What’s it like having Emerson in the gym?”

  “She’s a pain in the ass,” Ruby answers. I laugh out loud while Emerson continues to force a smile. “I mean, you heard her talk about herself. I’ve known her for a really long time. She’s a perfectionist, she’s obnoxiously competitive over every last detail, and she always has to be the best. Sometimes I want to slap her, but mostly, I jus
t try to one-up her. That’s how you get better…and nothing pisses her off more.”