by Nancy French
My parents respected Chow and Li, and they supported them as well as me. Once, when I was at level 8, I was scheduled to compete in Kansas City. A bad blizzard had hit the area, and my parents were concerned—not just about me getting to the meet in bad weather, but about Chow having to make that long drive on his own.
Dad called my coach and told him, “I think we need to go together.” A half hour later we met up with Chow, who followed us on I-35. The road conditions continued to get worse. Finally, we were detoured off the highway and onto a smaller road. It seemed everywhere we looked there were cars and semis in the ditches, and we could only inch along.
By the time we arrived for the competition, we were late. Fortunately, we weren’t the only ones who’d been delayed by bad weather, so the start time was postponed for a half hour or so. I saw my parents and coaches pulling together like that time and time again, and because of that I was able to remain focused on training.
My mom and dad never missed a competition. Neither did Tori, my cousin—at least until I began competing internationally. She was the one who always did my hair for meets. Since about the only touch of individuality we’re allowed in our appearance is our hair ribbon, she and I would spend extra time deciding which one I should wear during each competition. My Chow teammates never knew whether I’d show up in braids, cornrows, or a pigtail, but thanks to Tori, I always looked great. Eventually, the other parents began paying Tori to do their daughters’ hair too.
When I was twelve, I had reached the highest junior level—10. I had to qualify at the state level, then at regionals, and then at nationals. This required hard work and a great deal of practice, but I made it to nationals.
The Women’s Junior Olympic National Championships were held in Kissimmee, Florida, in April 2004. Though I placed in several events—second on floor; fourth in the all-around and on vault—the highlight was my win on the balance beam. I’ve always loved this event. For me, a daredevil, nothing gets the adrenaline pumping more than doing flips on a four-inch-wide beam. I ended up nailing my routine on the beam and winning the gold. In fact, one judge gave me a 9.9. At that time, I couldn’t have scored higher than a 10.
I was thrilled, largely because I had wanted to do well for Li, who couldn’t be there. After receiving my gold medal, I told Chow, “This medal is for her.”
Because I came in fourth overall at the Florida meet, I received an invitation to attend the National Junior Camp at the US Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs later that summer. Once there, I dared to wonder for the first time if I might someday have a chance to go after the biggest prize of all: Olympic gold.
Lesson I’ve Learned
So many people try to force success. In my sport, I’ve seen parents uproot and move their entire family, trying to find the perfect coach—someone who can take their son or daughter to the top. I’m grateful that my parents allowed things to progress on their own, rather than trying to make something happen. Find something you love, work hard at it, and keep your family a priority. Things just have a way of working out from there.
Chapter 4
Inspiration
Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.
—Martin Luther King Jr.
“GET DOWN FROM THERE,” the guard yelled at my friend and me. We were climbing down a metal statue, but we froze as still as the sculpted figure when we saw the guard quickly approaching.
Though most of our time at the National Junior Camp had been spent practicing, Chow and I had joined another coach and gymnast and were taking advantage of some downtime to enjoy our impressive surroundings. The Olympic Training Center, the headquarters for the US Olympic Committee administration and the Olympic Training Center programs, was once an air force base. Now it’s a state-of-the-art sports complex that makes you appreciate how much effort it takes to become an Olympic athlete.
That day, we were walking around the campus to see the Olympic flame and visit the gift shop. On our way, we saw the statue of a girl on a beam doing an arabesque.
“Look,” I said, pointing up at her.
“Do you think we could get a photo?” my friend asked. “She’s beautiful!”
Chow and the other coach were busy talking, so they stopped while we got out our cameras and climbed onto the statue and posed next to the girl. That’s when we saw the guard running toward us across the parking lot. We clambered down the statue and were standing on the ground by the time he reached us. He tapped the sign, which read—very clearly—“Do Not Climb on Statue.” This, of course, caused me and my training partner to break into a fit of giggles as we ran away, leaving the two coaches behind to politely apologize for our behavior.
This was my first time away from home without my parents, and I was a little homesick. The girls were great, and one of the older ones named Tiffany adopted me for the week and took care of everything I needed. I followed her around so much they called her “Tallz” and me “Smallz.”
My coaches good-naturedly teased me since, at twelve, I was the youngest gymnast there. The dance teacher, Antonia, liked to single me out by calling me “baby” while instructing us in the dance steps. The other coaches called me Bamm-Bamm—after the Rubbles’ tiny but tremendously strong offspring on The Flintstones.
We stayed in the Training Center’s dorms, which I thought were amazing in spite of the fact that the bathroom and the showers were upstairs.
“Here,” Tiffany said early in the week. She handed me a key to the room as I headed out. “You’ll need this to get back into the room. You might want to just keep it for the week, or you’ll be in big trouble if you need to go to the bathroom.”
I took the key and clutched it tightly. I’d never had my own key before. Every time I’d gone out of town, my parents had traveled with me. They had always handled the details of getting in and out of our hotel room. This key was a big responsibility, and I was intoxicated by the freedom. It was great being on campus. I particularly loved the cafeteria, where they fed over six hundred resident athletes and coaches who were hungry after practice and competition. The gigantic serving space had little booths where you could get all kinds of food—salads, pastas, grilled foods, deli items, and desserts. Really, it had anything you could imagine, so I loved going to the dining hall and trying a variety of foods.
Because the Olympic Games were going on in Athens while we were there, our training felt particularly significant. Every night in the dining hall, the athletes gathered around a big-screen TV while we ate our grilled chicken and salads. It was as if we were being allowed to see a glimpse of our future, if only we worked hard enough.
The star Olympian of those Games was a gymnast: Carly Patterson.
I watched in awe as she competed valiantly in the women’s all-around, the most prestigious gymnastics event. In the Olympics, there’s no higher honor than winning a gold in this competition, and only one American had done it before: Mary Lou Retton in 1984.
When Carly performed, she cast a spell. She captured the minds and hearts of Americans who were watching all over the nation. She also captured the imagination and heart of one particular athlete watching from that dining hall that night. I held my breath as she confidently performed on the bars and the beam.
As the national anthem played in her honor after she won the gold medal in the all-around, I thought, One day, I want to be right there. On the podium, representing America and wearing a gold medal.
Of course, that was improbable. I wasn’t even “elite” yet. But I did have big dreams. That moment at the Training Center pushed me to work even harder once I was back in West Des Moines. I wanted to be the best in the world, but first I had to qualify as an elite athlete.
Only elite gymnasts get to compete on a national level. To become one, I had to go to an elite qualifier in Wisconsin. Chow began instructing me in the required floor routine, which had been created by a team of judges. Making all of us perform the same routine allowed the judges
to more fairly evaluate the gymnasts’ skill level and talent. Chow made me practice it until I had perfected every step.
When Chow and I got to Wisconsin, we were a little lost. But we had one thing going for us: I knew that routine forward and backward. When it was my turn to compete, I confidently strode out to the mat and began to perform. I hit every mark. When it was all over, I knew I’d nailed it. I threw my hands up into the air and caught Chow’s eye. He beamed with pride.
Oddly, I didn’t get a score immediately. In fact, one of the judges got up from her table and walked over to Chow. I had no idea what was going on, but she talked to him for a while. A little sheepishly, he came over to me and apologized.
“I’m sorry, Shawn,” he began. “Apparently your routine wasn’t right.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, incredulous. “I nailed it!”
“Yes, you did,” he said softly. “But it was the wrong routine. It was old.”
“How old?”
“It was the one they used twelve years ago.”
“Did they give you the wrong one?” I asked, a little concerned that I’d traveled to Wisconsin to be evaluated and suddenly wasn’t even going to have a chance to qualify as an elite.
Chow put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I found that routine on the Internet. It was apparently the wrong one.”
The judge was kind enough to teach me the routine on the floor right there in front of everyone. “If you can perform this now,” she said, “you won’t be penalized.”
And so, with a very apologetic coach watching from the sidelines, I performed a brand-new routine. That wasn’t the only difficulty I encountered at that qualifier. I just wasn’t hitting any of my routines at the level I wanted and needed to. Going into my last event, I knew exactly what score I had to earn and figured I probably wouldn’t qualify as an elite this time. When my final score was read, I was elated: with that number, I realized I’d qualified by .0025 points.
As soon as the judge said, “Congratulations, you made it,” I turned and saw Tori. I ran right to her and gave her a big hug. I knew that she, as much as anyone, understood how much this achievement meant to me. I was now eligible to compete at the elite level—with the goal of earning a spot on the national team.
Lesson I’ve Learned
Looking up to someone who can inspire and motivate you is great, but you were made to be unique. Don’t grow up wanting to be like somebody else. Instead, dare to be different and become your own person—the unique person God made you to be.
Chapter 5
The Secret Video
Teachers open the door, but you must enter by yourself.
—Chinese proverb
IF GYMNASTICS HAD ROYALTY, Bela Karolyi would be king.
He is, of course, the mustachioed Romanian who first introduced the world to Nadia Comaneci, the gymnast who scored the first-ever perfect ten during the 1976 Olympics. Eight years later he coached Mary Lou Retton, the first American woman to win a gold medal in Olympic gymnastics (and more medals than any other athlete at the ’84 Games).
Though quieter and lesser known to the general public, his wife, Martha, is an outstanding coach in her own right. The Karolyis married in Romania and began coaching there. In 1981, they brought the Romanian national team to the United States for a tour. Instead of flying back to Romania with the rest of their team when the exposition ended, the Karolyis requested and received political asylum.
A few years later, Bela bought forty acres in Texas as a hunting retreat. Soon he had added a gym and some camps, and the Karolyis began holding camps for elite gymnasts. Though Bela retired from active coaching after the 1996 Olympics, he and Martha continued expanding their compound, which today includes over two thousand acres. Every month, the best gymnasts in the country go there to receive training from these famous coaches.
Now that I had achieved elite status, I was in a transition stage. Getting to the point where I might have the opportunity to compete at the Olympic level was an elaborate, multistage progression. The next step was going to a camp so Bela and Martha could evaluate me to make sure I was worthy of competing. It was a big, intimidating process that I wasn’t necessarily interested in or even all that aware of. At that point, I was satisfied with having qualified as an elite.
Coach Chow, however, wanted to make sure I reached my full potential. After analyzing my competition, he decided I should be introduced to Martha Karolyi—even though neither of us had ever met her. One day, Chow started bringing in a camera and filming me doing different skills in each event. I figured he was doing this for recruitment videos or college videos. I never guessed he was up to something that would change the course of my life forever.
Chow did not edit the tapes he’d recorded of me; he wanted Martha to see exactly what I was capable of. A few weeks later he sent her the tape, along with a letter that said, “Martha, you should take a look at the kid on this film. I think she will be helping Team USA.”
I knew nothing about the tape, and my parents knew nothing about it. A few weeks later, I went to the gym and lined up on the mat like we did every day before practice began. But on that particular occasion, Chow had a big package in his hand.
“This is for you, Shawn,” he said, walking over to me and extending it in my direction. I took the box hesitantly. Why would he single me out with a gift? It wasn’t my birthday.
“I just wanted to take this chance to tell everyone this at the same time so we can all congratulate Shawn. She’s been accepted to the Karolyis’ camp.”
What? I was in shock because I had no idea that this was even a possibility (or that I’d even applied).
Martha Karolyi had invited me to a developmental camp. These camps mix national team members along with those gymnasts who show promise of making it to that level. After a full week of conditioning and training, I’d be able to take part in a mock meet, where Martha and other coaches would give me feedback. Of course, it was an amazing opportunity, but I would have been nervous had I known Coach Chow had written to her.
By now I was in middle school at Indian Hills, and my life was mostly like that of my friends. Sometimes after school my dad would pick me up from Chow’s and drive me straight to a school football game. He and my mom didn’t want me to miss school-related activities.
At home, Dad would take me out to the cul-de-sac, where he taught me how to ride a motorbike—a little Honda CT70, to be exact. He’d laugh as I sputtered along, but I actually got to be pretty good at it and learned to drive one with a clutch.
I was always under the watchful eye of my parents and enjoyed my quiet, peaceful life with them in Iowa, though my journal reflected a normal girl’s concerns:
My parents are both very protective of me and never want to see anything happen to me. I guess I don’t appreciate that as much as I should. I sometimes get mad at them for not letting me go to the mall alone or with a friend and for not letting me have a cell phone until I prove that I’m responsible enough. But I think about all they are doing, and it really makes sense. Everything they do is for a goal and has a reason. I don’t like making my bed, but I have to do it every day. It’s just a part of life. I try not to develop a competing plan against my parents, because their plan is just perfect for me right now.
My parents wanted my life to be in balance. As I went through childhood, Mom encouraged me to “fill up my plate” with the right amount of activities, hobbies, schoolwork, friends, and other relationships. But she made sure all of these were in the right proportion. Unlike the elite gymnasts whose forty-hour-a-week training schedules necessitate homeschooling or private tutors, at this point I was training twenty to twenty-five hours a week. Fortunately, Chow had the same idea about what mattered most in my life: “Education is number one,” he’d tell me. “Gymnastics is number two.”
Now Martha Karolyi was giving me the chance to take my gymnastics to the next level . . . the very highest. I’d dreamed of wearing a leotard with the lette
rs USA emblazoned on the front. Like most Americans, I was patriotic and loved the Fourth of July. We’d always spend that holiday on our boat with our friends. We would all tie our boats up and grill steaks and crab legs. In the evening, we’d set off fireworks over the water before the big ones were set off in the nearby city. I loved celebrating the day because I loved celebrating my country. The thought of representing the USA in competition was almost beyond my imagination.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” my mom and dad asked me in various ways at various times. Suddenly, their desire for me to have a balanced life, not given to extremes, was threatened. In fact, my parents are the most normal people you’ll ever meet and have always told me the decision to keep competing in gymnastics was completely mine. I knew they wanted me to be happy, not necessarily a happy gymnast. Now that I’d progressed to this status, I was doing more and more difficult moves . . . a development my mom in particular didn’t really enjoy. I later learned that Mom prayed a lot for me during competitions. But she wasn’t asking God to help me win—she was just asking him to keep me from getting hurt!
“You have to decide whether to go to the Karolyis’ camp based on what you want to do,” she told me. There are so many stereotypes about “stage moms”—mothers who push their children into certain sports or hobbies in order to vicariously live through them. My mom couldn’t have been further from that. She would have preferred that we stay home together and read books or watch TV, not go all over the world for competitions. But more than anything, she wanted me to live my dreams. So she allowed me to make the decision.