I’ve heard it said that really knowing yourself is only possible when you strip away every label, activity, job, title and any other identifier that lies outside of your bare, raw soul.
My strength, flexibility and freedom of movement has always been such an integral part of my understanding of who I am. My ability to move in whatever way I want has been one of the few constants that I have been able to rely on through all of my turbulent years. Gymnastics was rough, and as I learned to see only recently- abusive. Why did I stay? How did I endure the long hours, the put-downs, the ripped hands and sore body? The movement fed my soul.
At two years old, I had already discovered the joy of gymnastics. My mother phrases it differently, describing more like an ill-behaved cat than as a human child. She signed me up for classes at our YMCA. I spent my early years at that gym. Practices were fun. They loosely mixed learning skills with playing. The floor was soft, the springboards were bouncy, the coaches were nice. It was a wholesome recreational program.
Soon, I showed an interest for competition. I spent practices ignoring my coach in favor of watching the older girls and mimicking their routines. I skipped out on pullovers to go try shoot overs. I got my ariel on my first try, as a five year old. At the third meet in to my level four season, I refused to compete unless my coach signed me up as a level five. He was surprised when I told him I had learned all the routines on my own. He warned me that I might not do well, to which I responded with my firmly delivered ultimatum. He gave the ok and I walked out of the arena with a handful of ribbons.
It was clear I needed more of a challenge.
My parents looked to out of town gyms that boasted more rigor.
It turns out, assessing “rigor” takes some knowledge that we didn’t have as we selected our first gym. Which is how I ended up at Which Way is Up. Perhaps the tip off should have been the cheeky name.
Here, I did have a coach who moved me up quickly, but with a certain lack of technique. Sim and Nancy looked more like they should run a bowling alley than a gymnastics facility. And if you didn’t know they were the coaches, you might think they were lost travelers who stopped in to ask directions to the casino. Nonetheless, he did up the ante with designated conditioning days and a hired dance instructor.
I learned new skills like a back tuck on beam, proper tsuk blocking and how to make a strong pot of coffee. At our “team meetings,” Sim would ask the two oldest girls to run next door and grab him fried dough while we discussed our individual goals.
Sometimes practices were tough, and some days we moved the beams over to the bleachers where he could lie down and smoke but still keep an eye on us. His corrections held a certain trucker’s mystique as they came to us laced with whisps of gray smoke.
“Do it again but really point those toes.”
One arm served as a jack that levered up his shoulders, while the other arm extended down the leg of his jean shorts and supported a hand that gently tapped ashes into a glass tray.
“Ok, now everyone will do as many routines as they can before the next song ends. Just hope you don’t get American Pie!” Laugh. Cough. Wheeze. I lucked out and got Henry the 8th.
When Sim retired he became a handyman. A true renaissance man, always mastering a new skillset. I was on to my next gym.
Next, it was on to GC2. This name sounded more intense and it again delivered a higher level of intensity- an international coaching staff.
I had to have a trial practice with Gina, the head coach. I was very intimidated, but it seemed to go well. She decided it was best to slow me down to relearn technique that had been suffocated by the second-hand smoke from my last gym.
This gym was a big change for me. We were now commuting 45 minutes five times a week. Practices were longer and very structured. There were women’s, men’s and rhythmic teams. While I was ready to be more competitive, pretty early on I was labeled as having a bad attitude. This had never happened before. I was always such a goody goody, eager to please and eager to work hard. My frustration at being held back was misinterpreted.
Even though my gymnastics technique was coming into question, my dance was strong. I had taken dance for years outside of the gym, and it showed. Lena, the Russian who was our rhythmic and dance coach wanted me to join her team after seeing my stretches, jumps and leaps. I often wonder what would have happened if I did. She ended up coaching the US team and choreographed their gold-medal winning routine. She now judges at the Olympics.
While I stuck to traditional gymnastics, Lena did seem to end up being my stretching partner while all the other girls hurried to pair up with each other. There’s no hiding and no easing up when the coach is your partner.
We spent probably the most time working our oversplits. We would start out putting one leg up on the tumble track, which was just shy of two feet off the ground. Our back leg would reach behind us, and we had to work to roll both hips to the ground- touching the floor. The first minute, we could have our hands on the floor. The second minute, we put both hands on either side of our front foot. Last, we ended with both arms up in the air, square to our hips. Sometimes we would also arch back and try to get our heads to touch our back legs.
Another split stretch was up against a wall. We put one foot on the ground about a foot away from the wall, then swung our back legs up onto the wall. Our partner would start out squaring us up then pressing our hips to the wall. Then, they would grab our arms and lift us up.
Toe point stretches were some of the most agonizing. We pulled out panel mats that sat about 10 inches off the floor and knelt all around them. Our knees leaned on the edge of the mats and we sat on our pointed, and over extended ankles for what seems like hours. We would have to pulse our knees upward after some time. Nothing quite bonds you like staring into your teammates’ faces wondering whose feet might burst first, asking yourself if it would feel better to quit and hobble away or to act like you love the way it feels and pretend that you thrive on the sensation.
Gina was perhaps the most strict and regimented with our technique over any other part of our training. Everything had to be perfectly placed, down to our fingertips. Literally. We spent time practicing holding our pinky, ring and index finger together with index extended and thumb following the wrist if our arms were in front or overhead for a turn or a hold. For a jump or a finish, the three middle fingers were glued, pinky slightly flared and thumb extended.
We may have practiced our falling, landing and prepwork more than our actual skills. Great coaches and great athletes know that this is the stuff that really sets you apart. We did crash falls, sprint drills, holds for landings, tap swings and endless drills for solid body shaping. We learned that the effort to squeeze ourselves into the correct shape was less tiring than the energy wasted being loose. Cartwheels, round offs and full tumbling passes starting from a kneeling position were meant to force us to develop explosive power so that when we could run, it felt easy. 10 spotted freehips to handstand in a row taught us precision. Vault timers to mats stacked above the height of the table demanded us to understand how to drive our shoulders upward for height. Holding balances with our eyes closed on the beam allowed us to trust that our body knew how to find its center.
Our Summers were for new skills and strength work. There was no ignoring that the gym was an uninsulated warehouse while running for 60 minutes straight around the blue carpeted 50 X 50 foot floor in 90 degree heat. Usually we would zone out and just run, feeling the pulse of the springs in the floor and the pull of the center as we leaned in and ran. Some days we were able to run outside around the building, and we rejoiced if a snap rainstorm dowsed us. Once, a dead bird shot out of the gutter and we all leapt up and over it, shrieking and pointing our toes, both out of reflex.
We would hold weights with arms straight out to our sides and walk on releve around the floor. We jumped rope 100 times forward and 100 times backwards on beam. V-ups and tuck jumps on the resi mat. Pull ups, skin the cats and arch hollow pop swings on bars. Partner piggy back squats and shoulder extending stretches on beam. Rope climbs. Very high rope climbs. We did a lot. Some of it was good for us, and some of it wasn’t. It’s all part of our story.
My level 8 team had one magic year. We trained hard and when states came we were ready to compete. While we were a good team, there was another that was great, and greatly feared: Penev’s. The gym known by its coaches and owners, a Bulgarian husband and wife duo. Their technique was perfect and their presence was terrifying. We competed hard and we knew it was a close competition between us. When the team award ceremony came, we sat in a circle and held hands. They called out 5th place, 4th, 3rd. We were squeezing each other so hard, our hands were sweating and white-tipped.
“And in second place…”
We shut our eyes and clenched our teeth.
“Penev’s.”
We screamed. We did it.
Not long after this, Gina retired. New coaches came in. I had a frenzied few months when I suddenly started throwing huge skills and major connections. I also started having mental blocks. As fast as the new coaches came, they left. I was at a turning point, and we made the decision to really go for the next level. My parents and I decided to try Penev’s.
Penev’s was in Rochester, an hour drive if we pushed the speed limit on the thruway. Again, I had to try out before joining. On the phone, one of the assistant coaches told us not to get our hopes up. They don’t take girls after age 6, “there’s no point.”
The ceilings in the gym were low. The floor butted up to a wall. The pit looked like it was a revamped loading ramp. The day I came, Marion and Youlia had gotten tied up in a meeting about the new building they were hoping to buy. One of the assistants had me warm up, while he worked hard at politely keeping my expectations low. Switching gyms at this level, at my age even though I wasn’t at the Olympic level, was very uncommon. I don’t think I realized the politics behind it all, all I knew was that this was probably the best team in our region and I was as scared as I was excited.
I did a few dance passes. I tumbled a bit. The coach got on the phone and tried to get Marion and Youlia to come back. They couldn’t make it, but I was asked to come back. At the next visit, I was fully evaluated. They were impressed with the skills and technique I showed, but I had a few black holes in the line up- the new fears that sprouted up had taken root and I had stopped doing giants and beam tumbling. It still stands as one of the most embarrassing times of my life.
I was allowed to come onto the team. Marion took the time to work with me on bars and vault, which helped me get my skills back rather quickly. Youlia reluctantly coached me through my beam fears, as they were inconvenient to her. I would do my routine up to my tumbling, then freeze.
“Do you want me to stay?”
I would nod.
“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes and stood next to the beam and put out her hand. I felt the fear in my muscles. They were shortened as I clenched my body, pulling it closer to me like a security blanket. It was perhaps a precursor for how I would soon use my body as a form of protection and rebellion. I was able to do my skills but they didn’t feel good. I wasn’t moving freely like I used to. But I did them well enough to progress.
Marion coached bars, vault and most tumbling. He did most of the spotting as well. Youlia coached beam and dance. In that small, old gym, we worked hard and we had a reverential fear for our coaches, but I think we all would think of it as straightforward, hard work. But soon we moved into the new gym. It was huge. It was new. The era of simple hard work was over. Something changed.
The new gym brought a new intensity. 50 unbroken leg lifts on stall bars. 5 minute hollow holds and rocks with a wooden dowel in front of our arms and behind our heads with a square of foam between our feet. 10 minute handstand holds against the wall. 50 vaults a day. 10 beam routines a day. No spotting. No water. They yelled at us. A wobble, a flexed foot or a missed landing wasn’t mechanics, it was a bad attitude. They yelled at each other. They got angrier and angrier at each other. They got angry with us.
As the eating disorders, the body shaming, the psychological and sexual abuse started, we became those stereotypes.
And this is when I hate the story. I want to be proud of my accomplishments. I want to talk about the sport I spent so much time doing. But talking with outsiders is so frustrating, and oftentimes, insulting. All you hear about are the stereotypes, especially now with Larry Nassar and the collapse of USAG. Everyone sees these experiences as inevitable, and I almost feel like people expect that I should have seen this coming. As a 12 year old? They don’t want to hear the details or the positives. They want that confirmation that they already know what I went through based on the headlines.
I wish I was better connected with my old teammates. But we all went running. Did I really belong to any of these teams long enough to earn my spot in our collective memories? I don’t know. At this juncture, I feel more like a wandering troubadour who stopped in at each gym long enough to observe, but too short to make those unbreakable lifelong bonds.
But for now, I am happy to be the storyteller. I think we all need one.
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