Winning Balance

by Nancy French

  I returned home with less than two weeks remaining before Trials. One day as I was getting ready to leave for practice, it was raining heavily. I looked outside and noticed large puddles accumulating in my backyard. The rain was coming down hard, but I didn’t think much about it. I was thinking about—what else?—the Olympic Trials, which were now only one week away. I was trying to pump myself up for the important upcoming week of drills and practice.

  I drove to practice in the rain, and when I left the gym, it was still pouring. I got in the car, turned my windshield wipers on to the highest speed, and marveled at how much water was coming down. I let myself into our house, made myself dinner, and watched some TV. My parents weren’t home, and I was enjoying the solitude of the quiet, rainy night.

  After a while, I glanced at the time. Eleven o’clock? It wasn’t like my parents to stay out late and not call.

  I flipped the channel to the news and heard the reporter mention a flood warning. Some businesses had announced that they would not be open the following day. Concerned, I dialed my dad’s cell phone.

  “Where are you guys?” I asked when my dad picked up.

  “We’re at the gym,” he answered. “We’re with Johnny and his friends.”

  “What? Why are you at the gym? And why is Johnny there?”

  Though my parents liked Johnny a lot, they usually didn’t hang out together. It still hadn’t hit me that it might have something to do with the pouring rain.

  “Shawn,” he said, “we’re here sandbagging. The river is rising.”

  I couldn’t believe it. We had one week before Trials. And the gym was about to flood?

  “I’ll be right there,” I said, reaching for my keys.

  “No,” Dad said quickly. “That’s why we didn’t call you before. Chow doesn’t want you down here. The bags are fifty pounds each, and he doesn’t want you to hurt yourself right before Trials. He wanted me to tell you to get some sleep.”

  It was just like Chow to worry more about me and the Olympic Trials than about his own gymnasium. It was also just like Chow to think I’d listen to him. There was no way I was staying home while my home-away-from-home flooded.

  I got in my car and drove toward the gym, but the water was coming up so quickly that the police had decided to close the road and had set up a barricade to keep traffic off it.

  When I got to the barricade, I rolled down my window. A police officer shone a light into my car. “Sorry,” I said, “but I have to get to the gym.”

  The policeman recognized my face and realized what was at stake for me.

  “All right, but be careful.” They took down the barricade for me and wished me luck. The whole town was aware of the Olympics and how important the coming week of practice would be. When I got to the gym, the waters were still rising and getting close to the building. I couldn’t even park in the parking lot.

  I spotted Johnny and called out to him. He and his friends were lifting and placing sandbags like they weighed nothing. “Johnny,” I yelled, “what are you doing here?”

  “I’m not going to let a little thing like a flood keep you out of the Olympics.”

  I rolled up my sleeves and began helping too, though Chow wasn’t happy about that. We ended up staying until two o’clock in the morning.

  I went to sleep knowing that I probably shouldn’t have stayed up so late or handled those sandbags. But I wasn’t going to sit back and watch my gym be destroyed. I’ve never fallen asleep faster.

  The next morning, I woke up around ten. When I looked at my phone, I saw I had missed numerous texts.

  “Go to Chow’s!” one read.

  “Have you heard about the gym?” read another.

  I jumped into the car and drove across town. I got as close as I could to the gym. The Raccoon River, a tributary of the Des Moines River, had flooded. Water was absolutely everywhere, and I half expected Noah to float by with a bunch of animals sticking their necks out of an ark. Several of my friends and teammates had already arrived at the gym in some canoes. In spite of all our work, the gym was four feet underwater.

  Then it hit me: I have nowhere to train.

  The Trials were one week away, and I had to be in the best shape of my life to make the team. Right then I seriously believed my Olympic dreams had been washed away with the waters that had destroyed nearly all of the equipment in the gym. I thought perhaps I could call Martha and get permission to train in Texas. I wanted to stay and help rebuild the gym, but first I had to get through the Olympic Trials.

  Fortunately, I was invited to train at Iowa State University in Ames, which is about thirty minutes away from my home. Chow and Li went with me. Though it was far from the ideal situation, I was grateful to be closer to home. Then, just a couple of days later, my mom called.

  “You can come back!” Mom said. “The gym is open!”

  The entire community had banded together to rebuild it for us, realizing how much I stood to lose. When the water subsided enough to start rebuilding, that’s what they did. The flooring had been so saturated that it moved when someone walked across it. It had been ripped out and replaced, thanks to a generous gift from my sponsor Coca-Cola. Several feet of drywall around the entire gym also had to be replaced. Destroyed mats and equipment had to be removed.

  I will never forget the outpouring of generosity from my neighbors and community. They managed to put the gym back together before anything else in the neighborhood. (The house next door was still uninhabitable, but Chow’s was up and running!) It seemed like everyone I knew had come out to help clean up the mess. Their acts of kindness allowed me to spend the last few days before we left for the Trials training at Chow’s gym. The uneven bars and balance beam had been spared, and it was comforting to spend the day before the competition in familiar surroundings.

  Throughout the ordeal, reporters kept calling, asking if I’d still be able to compete. It was like asking a fish if he was going to swim. Gymnastics was my life, and my hometown had given me a second chance to follow my dream to the Olympics.

  A local company arranged to fly me on their private jet to the Olympic Trials, which would be held at the Wachovia Center in Philadelphia. It definitely took away some of the stress after the disaster we’d been through at home.

  When I arrived at our hotel, I was basically on my own. My parents would fly up a few days later, but in the meantime, I walked into Center City alone to get my meals. Because my roommate had come down with a cold, I got my own room with a king-size bed. I loved the independence and freedom, and when I was with the other gymnasts, we chatted incessantly about the Olympics and about our fears and dreams.

  After my practices, I read some books to help me focus on the task at hand: Body Mind Mastery by Dan Millman and The Mental Edge by Kenneth Baum. Reading helped keep me in the zone, which is exactly where I needed to be for the most important competition in my life up to that point.

  Almost fourteen thousand people showed up to see the competition, which made it one of the largest audiences I’d ever competed in front of. Again, I didn’t wilt under the pressure, though this was the most pressure I’d ever been under in my life.

  I met the challenge and came in first in the all-around. Because of Nastia’s and my first- and second-place finishes in Boston and Philadelphia, the media reported that both of us automatically qualified for the US Olympic Team. I was absolutely thrilled. The other girls who qualified to move on from the Trials would go to the selection camp at the Karolyi ranch, where Martha would evaluate all the aspiring Olympians using the scores from Boston and Philadelphia as a starting point. For three days, all of the girls would perform their best routines while Martha decided who would see their dreams dashed and who would go on to possible Olympic glory. Nastia and I would attend the camp as well, but we had already earned our places on the team.

  I’d never spoken of the Olympics in concrete terms until that moment. I had hedged my bets and spoken in hopeful—not definite—terms. But finally, a
fter all of the training I had done and my performance in Philadelphia, I could finally say, “I am an Olympic athlete.” It was like a gigantic, oppressive weight had been sitting on my shoulders for years. And for the first time, it had lifted. I could breathe. I was going to China.

  But first, the rest of the Olympic team would be determined in Texas, so I packed my leotards and headed to the ranch. However, as soon as I arrived there, I was surprised to learn that Nastia and I had been taken off the Olympic roster.

  Nothing is ever certain. Not in our sport.

  Lesson I’ve Learned

  Surround yourself with people who care for and support you. Even when I lost hope, the loving people I’d surrounded myself with pushed me on to fulfill my dreams.

  Chapter 11

  Nothing Is Certain

  Waiting is not just something we have to do until we get what we want. Waiting is part of the process of becoming what God wants us to be.

  —John Ortberg

  “NOT SO FAST.” That’s what Martha seemed to be saying when she announced that we would all be competing for the six slots on the Olympic team. “That includes Nastia and Shawn,” she emphasized. Who’s on top in gymnastics can change with one slip off the beam, or one fever, or one miscalculation when trying to grab the bar. That’s why the Olympic team isn’t selected until the last possible moment.

  Twelve girls arrived at the ranch with high hopes to make the Olympic women’s gymnastics team. But this time, we weren’t the only ones at the secluded ranch. It seemed like every publication, every media source, every sponsor, every parent, every family member had come to watch. Our team doctors were on edge because our bodies had been pushed to their limits; they were also afraid some of the girls’ minds might be too overwhelmed by the pressure. Plus, they were worried about the moment when some of us would be told our dreams had come to an end. It felt like there was no oxygen in the entire place. Nobody was breathing. Nobody was talking. Nobody was interacting. Gymnasts were housed in the dorms, but everybody else was staying in hotels thirty minutes away.

  On the first day, we performed our routines over and over in front of the coaches, the selection committee, about twelve members of the media, and some of Bela’s friends, who had been invited to give their input.

  On the second day, Mary Lou Retton showed up in the stands, but we didn’t really get to interact with her at all. She was there both as an unofficial adviser to the staff and as a palpable reminder of what our futures might one day look like.

  In the end, they led all twelve of us into the cafeteria. We were sitting down when Martha and the selection committee came in. They didn’t want our parents or coaches in the room because that would have made the announcement even more emotional and heartbreaking.

  “You’re going, you’re going, you’re going, you’re going, you’re going, and you’re going.”

  That was it. Our team now had six members. And one of them was me.

  Next, Martha named the three team alternates.

  After the announcement, Martha was crying, and I remember thinking she must have agonized over the final decision. When the team was announced, we hugged and cried. There weren’t many words in that moment.

  After all that drama, the rest of the team consisted of the following people, whose names and bios would soon be broadcast across the country. There was Nastia Liukin, who was nineteen years old. She was born in Russia, the daughter of Olympic gold medalist Valeri Liukin and Anna Kotchneva, a world champion in rhythmic gymnastics. With nine medals, Nastia had tied with Shannon Miller for having the most World Championship medals in the history of American gymnastics. At the time, she had one of the hardest bar routines in the world. The press talked a great deal about our rivalry because she frequently came in a close second to me in the competitions.

  Chellsie Memmel was twenty at the time of the Olympics. Born and raised near Milwaukee, she was the 2005 All-Around World Champion, had placed third all-around at the 2008 Olympic Trials and nationals, and had won six world medals. She even had two skills in gymnastics named after her: a double turn with leg fully extended in a “Y” on floor and a piked barani on beam.

  Alicia Sacramone was a Winchester, Massachusetts, native who attended Brown University. She was a seven-time medalist at the World Championships, as well as the 2005 World Champion for floor exercise. She was the oldest member of our team and fit naturally into a leadership role. Many times she offered advice and understanding when we got stressed out.

  Samantha Peszek was a sixteen-year-old from McCordsville, Indiana, where she attended Cathedral High School. She had come in third in the all-around at the American Cup.

  Bridget Sloan was sixteen. Born in Cincinnati, she was a strong competitor in all the events.

  Three alternates, Jana Bieger, Ivana Hong, and Corrie Lothrop, were selected in case of injury or in case the coaches wanted to make a last-minute substitution. I was thrilled to hear that Coach Chow had been named head coach.

  Though I’d officially made the team, I couldn’t celebrate yet. For about thirty minutes, we huddled in the cafeteria and tried our best to comfort the brokenhearted. Instead of sending out a list of team members to the parents, friends, and press, the officials had us line up and march back into the gym. We would be a walking announcement to the anxious crowd, telling them who had made it and who had not.

  The parents had been waiting for a long time in the stands, probably exchanging awkward chitchat, wondering if they’d see each other in Beijing. They were hoping, praying, and watching the door.

  When it opened and we began to emerge, they eagerly scanned the line for their daughters’ smiling faces. For several sets of parents, their daughters simply wouldn’t appear.

  “I’m proud to announce the 2008 United States Olympic Team,” Martha said. There was clapping; there were silent, distant stares; there were tears. All at once, from my vantage point in the line, I saw the following emotions spread across the once-eager faces: surprise, relief, anguish, joy, grief, bitterness, and finally—resignation.

  At the time, I was just ecstatic over being chosen. But as I look back, I’m a little haunted by the broken dreams. My friends had trained just as much as—and often more than—I had. They’d started when they were toddlers; they’d skipped vacations, public school, movies, football games, and family reunions. They’d made gymnastics their lives, and yet in one decisive moment, they’d learned they wouldn’t achieve their loftiest goal. The moms and dads probably experienced their own kind of disappointment.

  My parents, however, were crying in relief. Though my mom never really wanted me to be an Olympic athlete (she didn’t enjoy watching me perform such dangerous moves), she was happy I’d achieved my goal. Plus, it was a great validation of all of their efforts, accommodations, and sacrifices. Their daughter had made the US Olympic Gymnastics Team.

  As I hugged them, I realized I wouldn’t see Mom or Dad again for quite some time. Now that I’d been named to the Olympic team, I was officially dedicated to the task at hand. I’d be traveling with the group directly to Beijing and would only be able to text or call my parents from my cell phone.

  I had no idea what awaited me.

  Part 2

  Champion

  You fear the loss and pain of defeat,

  but still are able to stand on two feet.

  You crumble and cry as much as you want,

  but nothing can keep you away from the hunt.

  This is what you’ve been working for,

  the pride and honor as you take to the floor.

  You remember the struggles and pain you had,

  when all the good had turned to bad,

  when behind the scenes you crumbled and prayed

  for it all to simply just go away.

  The doubt and regrets of what you went through

  sometimes just made you want to give it to . . .

  the next girl in line that gave it her all

  but always seemed to carry a f
all.

  You remember the times when you thought to give up

  but could never find a reason to disrupt . . .

  anything and everything that you had given to the sport,

  the heart’s desire and all the support.

  But when the pressure builds and tears you apart,

  how are you able to not depart?

  How are you able to still carry a smile

  when everything inside is in a pile?

  You hold your head high and never look back

  because this is what keeps you all intact.

  It’s what runs in your veins, and it’s the key to your heart.

  And it’s only the beginning, only a start.

  It holds a future that could never be told,

  one that can shine with the brightest of gold.

  The sky is its limits, and with the moon as its guide,

  as no one could ever predict how high

  one could travel with the hard work put in . . .

  to truly become a champion!

  Chapter 12

  Handstands at 35,000 Feet

  The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not winning but taking part; the essential thing in life is not conquering but fighting well.

  —Pierre de Coubertin, founder of the modern Olympic Games

  AS WE PULLED OUT of the Karolyi ranch to head to the airport for our flight to Beijing, we saw the sign we’d seen many times before: “Y’all Come Back.” I realized with a pang of sadness that our team—just as it was then—probably wouldn’t be back. A gymnast’s career is very short, with just a few years of peak performance. Since the Olympics are held every four years, this would probably be the last time we’d all be together for national training. I swallowed back the tears and tried to think of those cockroaches to make it less painful.