Winning Balance

by Nancy French

  “Come on, girls,” one of the coordinators said after the taping. And so I hugged Mom and Dad one more time and swallowed hard. I hadn’t seen them in weeks, and the ten minutes we had together seemed to make me feel worse, as if I were a thirsty person who’d been given a thimbleful of water.

  Lesson I’ve Learned

  Team members must never lose heart for one another. If you’re part of a team, don’t blame others or yourself for mistakes. Remember that when an individual stumbles, it is the team’s mistake. Learn not to point fingers. God never abandons you and me, so why would we ever abandon our teammates?

  Chapter 14

  The Day I Grew Up

  Those who trust in the LORD will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.

  —Isaiah 40:31

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK?” I asked Alicia, holding up the gold ribbon I was thinking of putting in my hair. I was preparing for the individual all-around, the most prestigious and hard-fought Olympic gymnastics competition.

  “Well, it’s the perfect color,” she said.

  I laughed as I tied it in my hair and tried to calm my nerves. For months, the media had been speculating about my chances of bringing home four gold medals. I was determined to do my best in all my events, but I felt a pressure I’d never felt before as I got ready for this one.

  By the time I walked into the arena, though, I felt exhilarated. I heard the crowd milling about, with the occasional eruption of cheers. Many people do worse under intense scrutiny, but I love the roaring crowds and the cameras. They invigorate me, and I seem to get an extra boost from the energy in the room.

  Before performing, we’re allowed to go through our routines in a warm-up gym, away from the area where the competition is going on. This allows gymnasts to really focus while going through their routines a couple of times. But that day, I couldn’t tune out the crowd.

  “Go, Shawn! Go, Shawn!”

  I tried to think only about my vault, but the screaming got even more intense the more I ignored it. Mental alertness is very important on this apparatus since a gymnast literally hurls herself at a stationary object with all her might, then flips, sometimes without sight of the landing pad.

  “Way to go, Shawn!” they yelled. “Go, Shawn!”

  No matter how hard I tried, I could not tune out those voices. Though I didn’t want to look into the crowds and get distracted, I finally decided it was too much to ignore. I scanned the crowd and saw a group of people waving like they were drowning and trying to get the attention of a lifeguard.

  The entire Lopez family (who were at the Olympics to watch their son, Steve, compete in Tae Kwon Do), Coach Li, and my agent, Sheryl, were on their feet, cheering for me. It made my day and pumped me up. It was just what I needed to prepare for the individual all-around. I’d have to compete in four categories: vault, uneven bars, beam, and floor. The combined total of scores would determine the winner.

  “All right, Shawn, you’re about up,” said Chow.

  I knew it would be close between Nastia and me. The media couldn’t get enough of her backstory, which played incessantly over the airwaves. Her father and coach, Valeri, was on the Soviet team that won gold in 1988; he also won a silver on the parallel bars, and another silver in the all-around. Her mom, Anna, was the 1987 world champion in clubs in rhythmic gymnastics. Nastia’s story was one of a gymnastics legacy, and everyone wondered if she would be able to do what her father barely missed—win the gold in the Olympic all-around.

  I had a similar story. Though I wasn’t raised by gymnasts, I wanted to win this medal for my coach. He had been on the Chinese national team for twelve years, won more than thirty international medals, and was a national champion . . . in every event but the all-around. I thought it would be fitting if his protégé won that medal right there in his hometown.

  But I wasn’t thinking about any of that as I stood at the end of the runway waiting for the go-ahead for vault. When I saw my signal to go, I raised my arm to the judges and then ran down the runway. I did a round-off onto the springboard with my back to the vault. From the springboard, which was about four feet away, I leaped with my back arched and touched the horse for just a fraction of a second. Then, I pushed off enough to do a couple of twists before landing on my feet.

  Chow helped me off the floor, and I went to go sit down while I waited for my score. I was smiling. One event down, three to go.

  Bars were next, and I was ready for them. I saluted the judges, jumped up on the bars, and began my routine. As I performed, I caught the bar a little close, which scared me a bit. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that the handstands and the elegant-looking bar routine can literally break your neck. However, when it came time for my big dismount, I absolutely nailed it.

  “Yes!” Chow yelled as I raised my arms with a combination of pride and relief. I bounced up and down and heard the applause of the crowd.

  I then moved on to the beam, my favorite event. I did a full twist, which I pulled off with a slight waver. The routine ended up being a great one, with a small step on my landing. Afterward, I hugged Chow as I climbed off the podium and went back to the sidelines to wait for the scores. That’s when I felt compelled to look at the scoreboard—and nearly lost my breath once I realized I was out of the top three and a little over .6 of a point behind Nastia.

  I turned to my coach and asked, “Chow, do I still have a chance to come out on top?”

  He quietly led me to a corner of the arena and looked me in the eye. “Shawn, this isn’t about fighting for the color of your medal. This is about demonstrating to the audience and the judges that you’re the number one gymnast in the world. You need to pull yourself together.” I let his words sink in as I walked up onto the podium to wait for the start of my floor routine. The way it works is simple. The gymnast watches a screen, which flashes the score of the previous competitor. Once her own name appears, she salutes the judges and begins.

  As I stood waiting for Nastia’s score to come up, I did the mathematical calculations in my head. I knew her difficulty level, I knew what score she normally received, and I knew what score I normally received. If she got no higher than a 15.2—which was a very normal score for her—then I still had a chance.

  All I’d have to do was hit my routine, and I’d be on top. I’d been told a thousand times since we’d landed in China that “this was my moment.” It’s the biggest Olympic cliché, the most frequently repeated phrase an athlete hears once the Games begin. All of the endless training, missed vacations, and daily sacrifices were focused toward this one moment that I was just seconds from. My entire life’s work had prepared me for this minute-and-a-half routine. I was ready.

  Then, Nastia’s score flashed up—a full seven-tenths of a point higher than the highest score I’d even conjured. My head began to spin with disbelief, because in that instant my dream died. I knew a gold all-around wasn’t possible. There was no way for me to get a high enough score to win.

  I look back at those seconds standing on the floor as the moment I grew up. So many emotions, so many life lessons, so many sudden realizations were packed into a few, brief seconds. I stood there feeling more hurt than I’d ever felt in my life. I couldn’t understand my low scores. I couldn’t understand how I could have worked my entire life for something only to see it come down to this.

  That was a tough spot to be in—one I hadn’t counted on. I couldn’t help but wonder, Okay, do I just give up now? What’s the point in going out there? Then, for a split second, I looked over at my coach. He didn’t look distressed; in fact, he stood with the same composure and calm facial expression I’d come to expect from him during these Games. When he gave me a small, reassuring nod, I could hear his voice in my mind: If the gold medal is out of reach, go out and prove to yourself and the world that you deserved it.

  As I stood as one of the best in the world on a global stage in my coach’s home country, it
was his voice that echoed in my mind. “Finish what you start,” he had told me a million times over the course of my life in his gym. His voice drowned out all of the other voices vying for attention in my sixteen-year-old head.

  I was still determined to give this performance my entire heart and soul, but my motivation had changed. In some strange way, once I knew the gold was out of reach, I was free to go out there and just be me, the natural competitor who nonetheless had stuck with gymnastics since age three for the pure joy of the sport. I would show the world what I could do while having fun doing it.

  I looked out into the stands, which were full of cheering spectators, and I thought of the millions of people all over the globe—in cities, in small towns, in rural villages—who were watching my floor routine on TV. I realized Chow was right. I would take to the floor knowing that, while I couldn’t control how my rotations were scored, I could still win over the crowd and perform in a way that made me and my country proud. My nerves calmed as I realized that this was my moment to push through and to establish once and for all that I was the best female gymnast in the world.

  “You’re at the Olympics,” I told myself, trying to get my head back into the game. “Enjoy this routine.”

  When I heard my music, I drew in a deep breath and took the floor. As I ran, the “there’s nothing I can do” realization turned itself on its head. Instead of being oppressive, it was liberating! The weight of thirteen years of struggle, pent-up pressure, and work suddenly lifted.

  As the music began, I felt complete joy. I did my first pass, and it was huge. I stuck that landing perfectly, as well as the landings on all the moves that followed. I did my leaps without even the slightest steps. I flawlessly performed a complicated move I’d added just that morning.

  Adrenaline pumped through my veins as well as joy. But it was more than just the high of being able to pull off skills. It was the pride of picking myself up off the figurative mat and somehow being able to enjoy my moment. Everyone watching the routine knew I was no longer contending for the gold. Yet I could hear them clapping and cheering for me, which invigorated me even more. Even though I was doing a rather complicated, difficult routine, I never got tired. With every step, I felt energy surge through my body. I continued on with a nice double full, a great last pass, and then—remarkably—I had a perfect landing!

  It was the greatest routine I’d ever done in my entire life. I stuck everything. As I finished my last pose, I was already bawling. I’d always wondered why so many people cried at the Olympics, but now I understood. So much emotion flooded through me. The crowd stood and applauded, and I was so grateful for their support.

  I won, I told myself. It was a hard moment. While I may not have been awarded the gold medal, I’d won the hearts of the people watching. Once I’d decided I was no longer competing for a medal, I received the greatest reward ever.

  I ran off the mat into Chow’s arms, completely overwhelmed with emotion. I hugged Nastia’s dad and some members of the Chinese team, and then I waited for the score.

  15.525.

  Nastia had won by more than six tenths of a point.

  I was confused, happy, and upset as I searched the audience to find my parents. When I found them, sitting with the Omans, Sheryl, and Mary Lou, I noticed everyone was on their feet cheering for me.

  “Way to go, Nastia,” I said, giving her a big hug.

  “We did it!” she said, and we cried over our first- and second-place finishes. It was the first time America had won gold and silver in the highly prized women’s all-around. Actually, it was only the fourth time any nation had ever done so. We’d made history, and we were proud.

  A little later, as I stepped up to the winners’ podium to accept my silver medal, I realized that I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

  I’d won the all-around in the way that meant the most to me.

  Lesson I’ve Learned

  Learn to find pride in your own success, even if your accomplishment isn’t recognized by others. Your worth isn’t determined by the color of the ribbon around your neck or anything else someone might give you. God created you in his image; that is where your worth comes from.

  Chapter 15

  Do Not Make Bob Costas Angry

  When a defining moment comes along, you define the moment, or the moment defines you.

  —Kevin Costner

  “SO, SHAWN, HOW DOES IT feel to lose?” the reporter asked, shoving a microphone in my face. If that was not her exact wording, it’s certainly what I took away from her question.

  As soon as we walked off the floor, the media swarmed us. America had made history by winning the gold and silver in the women’s all-around, and reporters were clamoring for some quotes.

  “I didn’t lose,” I said in disbelief. “I won the silver medal.”

  After being selected from thousands of gymnasts to represent our country, I’d come in second among the world’s best gymnasts. Disappointed as I was, I knew I hadn’t lost.

  That moment was a rude awakening for me. I realized that, to some people, the color of my medal really did determine my value. Given the high expectations that had been placed on my shoulders, perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised me. But I knew the truth: I’d managed to steel my nerves and dampen my disappointment before going out on the floor and giving the performance of my life.

  In time, I came to understand that this silver medal was the most meaningful thing I took away from the Games. I had arrived in Beijing as a naive, innocent girl with stars in my eyes. Before long I realized how much was out of my control. My response to disappointments and setbacks, however, was completely up to me. If I’d gone into that floor routine knowing I had a lock on the gold, I’m not sure I would have performed it with as much freedom and joy.

  Soon after the all-around, my mind was still surging with relief, disappointment, and pride—all at once.

  “What was the worst moment of the Games for you?” another reporter asked me.

  “I didn’t have a worst moment—it’s the Olympics, after all!”

  I gave those interviews pretty mindlessly, my main goal being to escape the reporters’ questions without bursting into tears. I largely managed it but became increasingly upset. “I gave my heart and soul out there,” I said.

  The reporter could tell I was about to cry, which—of course—made her simply press harder.

  “Why are you so emotional?” she asked.

  “I’m just happy to have been able to be here in the Olympics,” I managed to say. Sensing an upcoming breakdown, my coaches mercifully yanked me from the reporters. They wanted to give me some time to process what had happened.

  The Olympic Committee needed to be absolutely sure that we had not used drugs prior to the competition, so after our media interviews we went into a room for what we called “doping.” We were closely watched as we provided a urine sample. I was so overcome with different emotions, though, that this indignity didn’t even register.

  As we left the drug testing room and prepared for more media interviews, I saw the other gymnasts being united with their families, and a surge of relief swept over me. It had been thirty-one days since I’d really seen my parents. The tears welled up inside me, ready to spill out once I could dive into their arms. But as I scanned the crowds, looking at all of the emotional reunions going on around me, my parents were nowhere to be seen.

  “Have you seen my parents?” I asked one of the people who’d been ushering us from one place to another. I figured he would be able to help me find them.

  “Oh, sure,” the man said. “I know they’re on their way.”

  I waited about half an hour.

  “I think they should be here by now,” I said.

  “They’re meeting us at the studio,” he said. “I think.”

  Since Nastia’s father coaches her, he had been able to join her immediately. Now I watched as other teammates enjoyed hugs and congratulations from their families. I tried not to wonder about
my parents, but it soon became the only thing I could think about.

  “Has anyone touched base with my mom or dad?” I asked. I couldn’t reach them at any of the media stops and was getting frustrated that no one around me seemed to notice my plight. There was a lot of activity surrounding us. Shuttling so many people across this huge city in time for all of our appearances had to be a logistical nightmare. But the swirling chaos didn’t lessen the pain of being alone. It just made it worse.

  So I went from one place to another, smiling with my team and telling the world what a wonderful time I was having at the Olympics.

  Our last interview was with Bob Costas at Beijing NBC. Mr. Costas had done a remarkable job of bringing the Olympic Games to American households, a very challenging task since there were so many sports to cover. It had gotten increasingly difficult for me to keep my emotions together as the hours passed without a word from my parents. But I tried to concentrate on the interview at hand.

  “How did your parents react when you first saw them after winning the medal?” he asked after noticing the other gymnasts with their parents.

  “I actually haven’t had a chance to see them,” I replied, hiding the pain under my cheerful-sounding answer. I thought I saw a flash of anger in his eyes even though we were on camera. Here I was, this young girl going through the most spiritually taxing moment of my life, and the organizers hadn’t even bothered to help me find my mom and dad.