by Simone Biles
Long pause.
“Oh, Simone,” she finally said. “I knew the minute I saw your name on my phone what you were going to say.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, feeling miserable.
“Oh, no, no, don’t be sorry,” Coach Val said. “I always knew there was a chance I might lose you. But I’m really happy for you. I want you to know that I support you no matter what. Besides, you’ll always be my Bruin, because technically, you committed to coming here before you turned pro.”
Then Coach Val told me that I was still welcome to come to UCLA when my professional gymnastics career was over. I was relieved to think that even if I couldn’t compete, I could still one day be a Bruin. I thanked Coach Val for all her encouragement, and we ended the call. After a few minutes, I tapped the Twitter icon on the phone and tweeted out to the public that I was officially turning pro.
Right away, Coach Val tweeted back a reply: “Enjoy the journey and best wishes for a bright future, Simone.” That’s when I cried.
A few days later—after I’d moved past my tears—I actually began feeling excited to find the right agent, someone I’d feel comfortable with, who could share in my dream. I consulted with my mom and dad. We threw a couple names around, discussed pros and cons, and our personal opinions started to emerge. After some more research, we all finally agreed on one person, and I made that call.
The process of choosing an agent was a strange new experience for me. I’d spent so many years intensely focused on gymnastics that it felt odd to talk to people about their perspectives on my life outside of the gym. As those conversations took place, the one thing that stood out for my parents and me was the personal connection I felt with the agent I ultimately chose, Janey Miller from Octagon. Rather than encouraging me to brand myself to appeal to sponsors, her goal was to select prospective sponsorships that would be personally meaningful to me. To get an idea of the brands that might be a good fit, Janey asked me to make a list of everything I liked to eat and drink, what particular leos and outfits made me feel pretty, and what products I liked to use in my everyday life. We all appreciated her approach, and I felt good signing with her. My life as a professional athlete had officially begun.
My mom and I had just finished up a morning meeting with my financial adviser. Mom had gone to walk the woman to her car while I went to the WCC kitchen to heat up a slice of pizza for lunch. I was leaning against the counter, waiting for the microwave to beep, when my brother Adam, the gym’s general manager, walked in.
“Did she leave?” I asked him.
“She just drove away,” he said. “How did it go?”
“Good,” I told him, “but so weird.”
“Why weird?” Adam asked, frowning.
“Who has a financial adviser at my age!” I exclaimed. “It’s just weird!”
Guided by my parents and my new agent, Janey, I’d recently signed endorsement deals with several companies that sold products I loved and could relate to. Now, my parents wanted to make sure I had help managing what was coming to me. I appreciated their business savvy and the way they always looked out for me, but the last thing I wanted to think about on the eve of my nineteenth birthday was financial planning.
“Well, what did she say?” Adam asked me now.
“She wanted me to tell her something that I’ve always wanted,” I said. “She told me to think of something really big.”
“What did you say?” Adam prompted.
“I didn’t have a clue!” I said, exasperated. “I barely know anything about the world outside of gymnastics!”
“There has to be something you want to do,” my brother insisted. “Some part of the world you’ve always wanted to see, maybe?”
“I told her I want to take a five-day vacation in Bora-Bora with a couple of my friends,” I admitted. “I’ve seen pictures, and it’s so beautiful there. It’s like this magical place you don’t think you’d ever be able to go to except it exists right here on earth with us. But I bet it’s expensive. What do you think? Could I even afford that?”
Adam laughed so hard when I said that, tears were streaming down his face. “Oh, Simone,” he said. “That’s it? That’s the big thing you came up with? I kind of think you’ll be able to manage a vacation to Bora-Bora anytime you want. I’m pretty sure you’ve already made enough to do that.”
“Well, alright then!” I said, pumping my fists in the air as the microwave beeped. “Bora-Bora, here I come!”
As you can probably tell, I’d spent so many years inside my protected gymnastics bubble, I was only just beginning to understand the benefits of turning pro. But there was also a price to pay. That’s because once I turned pro, gymnastics became my job. I’d officially started my career. Suddenly television crews might follow me around in the gym, and reporters would want to interview me for stories, and I’d need to express my personality and be gracious and hopefully sound intelligent. And maybe an endorsement contract might require me to show up at a certain number of sponsored events or to tape a certain number of TV commercials to air during the Olympics and afterward.
These responsibilities were nothing new for me. Even before I turned pro, the media frequently interviewed me and so I was used to performing in front of cameras. The difference was that I now had an agent who could help me manage my schedule. That was a good thing, because the extra responsibilities could sometimes take away from practice time. I knew I had to continue to train hard and do well at meets, because I’d been chosen to be the face of major brands, and I wanted to make them proud. At the same time, I had to keep everything in perspective, because in a few years my gymnastics life would be over and the rest of my life would begin. I wanted to be able to look back and say I had a good run and made some great memories along the way.
As I sat eating my pizza, I tried to remember that I always performed better if I was just plain having fun. That mindset seemed to work best for me. In three consecutive trips to Worlds, I’d earned fourteen medals, ten of them gold, which made me the most decorated American female gymnast ever. I’d also earned more Worlds medals than any other woman in the history of the sport, which put me in the record books—and made me a favorite to make the USA Olympics team. Now, in the months leading up to Rio, I remained determined to enjoy every minute. That meant not thinking too far beyond my next meet, yet preparing every minute for the big event.
At the Pacific Rim Championships in April 2016, I debuted a brand-new, upgraded floor routine set to fast, upbeat samba music that I thought would go over well with the crowd in Rio. I also rolled out a ridiculously difficult second vault, called the Cheng, to go with my Amanar. I managed to nail the execution of both and got the coveted thumbs-up from Martha. Pac Rim had been my first outing of the season, because Martha was picking and choosing all of our assignments carefully. She wanted to minimize the risk of injury before Rio and also make sure her Olympic hopefuls wouldn’t burn out before the Games. Her theory was that our performances needed to be at ninety percent by the P&G National Championships in St. Louis in June, and at full throttle two weeks later at the Olympic trials in San Jose, California. The goal was for us to then stay at one hundred percent through the Olympics.
It’s a good thing Martha had us aim for ninety percent at Nationals, because we seniors definitely weren’t operating at one hundred percent. In the final rounds, some of us went crooked on bars or wobbled on beam or took little hops on our dismounts. There were even a couple of heart-stopping falls. It was late on Sunday night by then, and we’d been continuously training for days. I actually didn’t mind that our missteps were so visible. People needed to know that even the best, most accomplished gymnasts get tired.
Though some reporters had referred to me as “the robot” because of my consistency in competition, I was as human as the next girl. Let me tell you, I have as many bad practices and hard days as every other person on the team. The bottom line: There’s no such thing as perfection in gymnastics. You do your best, but anythi
ng can happen—which is why you have to learn to forgive yourself and quickly move on.
The final night, even with my own bobble on beam and a not-quite-vertical handstand on bars, I came away with my fourth-straight National Championship win. Olympic veteran Aly Raisman turned in a beautiful performance to win silver, while Laurie Hernandez, a bubbly newcomer to the senior roster, rocked the show and took bronze. I’d won the all-around by almost four points, yet I knew it hadn’t been my greatest performance. For me, victory is more than just earning the highest score; it’s also about doing my very best—and I wanted to do better. The question was: With the Summer Games right around the corner, would our Team USA hopefuls be able to peak at the exact right time?
Curiously, my Olympic dream had never been about winning—it was about going. It was about doing well enough at the Olympic trials to have my name called as a member of the team. It was about traveling to Rio with all the other American athletes and experiencing the excitement of the Olympic Village. It was about proudly wearing my country’s colors on my chest and being excellent in the moments when it counted. It was about precision, confidence, and teamwork. And it was about hope.
Then again, maybe turning my Olympic dream into a reality could be as simple as the advice my friend and teammate Aly Raisman gave me at Nationals Camp that spring. We’d been roommates that week, and one day after practice, we were in our cabin slathering on facial masks and chasing away stress with our own impromptu spa day. At one point, I tore open a bag of Jolly Ranchers I’d brought with me and popped a piece of green apple hard candy into my mouth.
Aly snatched the bag away from me. “Simone, that’s the last thing you need,” she scolded me. “You never sleep anyway, and now you’re going to get yourself all sugared up. I can just see you jumping up and down on the beds like a little kid who needs a nap but won’t stay still long enough to go to sleep.”
“Okay, Grandma Aly,” I teased, because that’s what we called Aly. At twenty-two, she was older than the other girls, and we all looked up to her. Before meets, she’d gather us around and remind us that we were in this together. Grandma Aly was also famous for passing out in her room after especially grueling practices. That girl loved a nap.
“Call me Grandma Aly all you want,” she said now, not at all offended. “It’s normal to want to sleep after a hard workout. What’s not normal is that you never nap, Simone. Who on earth has so much energy?”
I giggled when she said that, because ever since I was little, people had been telling me some version of exactly that. A decade and a half later, I was still that hyper, bouncing girl that my mom had enrolled in gymnastics classes so I’d have a place to burn off all that excess energy. These days, I thought of that energy as my own special superpower. It had allowed me to fall in love with flying. And it had taken me on an extraordinary journey that in a few short weeks might lead to me going to Rio.
As Aly and I spread thick cold cream on our faces, we talked about what the Olympic experience might be like this time around.
“You’ve won two Olympic gold medals,” I said, meeting Aly’s eyes in the mirror. “What’s your best tip for doing well in Rio?
“Go to bed early,” Aly shot back.
“What else?” I pressed.
“Remember to breathe,” she said.
“And what else?”
Aly must have heard something in my tone that told her I was being serious, that I really wanted to know what she thought. She stopped spreading cream on her face and turned to look at me directly.
“Here’s the thing you have to remember,” she said. “The Olympics are just another World Championship event, so go out there and do exactly what you always do in practice. Just do exactly what you’ve already done three times at Worlds. It’s really no different.”
She dipped her fingers into the jar of cream, turned back to the mirror, and then paused. “Oh, and one more thing,” she added. “Just don’t look up at the Olympic rings.”
CHAPTER 19
The Final Five
“The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses—behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights.”
—MUHAMMAD ALI, OLYMPIC AND PROFESSIONAL BOXER, ACTIVIST
I kept messing up on bars. I was over-rotating my handstands, my catch-and-release moves were shaky, and the timing was off on my whole routine. In two days, I’d join the other four members of the US women’s Olympic team at the Karolyi Ranch to prepare for Rio, but at that moment, I didn’t look anything like an Olympic hopeful.
Hard to believe that only one week before, I’d placed first at Trials in San Jose, California. That night, Martha Karolyi had named me to the team along with defending all-around Olympic champion Gabby Douglas; reigning Olympic floor champion Aly Raisman; the World champion on uneven bars Madison Kocian; and Laurie Hernandez, who’d edged into second place at Trials. I had been so proud of all of us in San Jose that night. As red, white, and blue confetti rained down on us and fog machines swirled clouds of vapor around us, we’d hugged each other, sobbing and laughing. I’d been on top of the world.
And now I was melting down.
Back in the WCC gym, my whole bar rotation was going wrong. I knew it was because I was working out on a different set of bars than I was used to, but I had to get accustomed to the new system because we’d be competing on it in Rio. The Gymnova bars were springier and swung me faster than the bar setup I’d trained on for most of my life—and that day, I just couldn’t seem to get the hang of them. From our team group text, I knew some of the other girls were having as much trouble with the new bars as I was, but that didn’t comfort me one bit. I wanted us all to succeed in Rio. Yet there I was, having visions of crashing to the mat in front of the entire world. What a disappointment I’d turn out to be.
Aimee saw me flinging myself around the bar and, just by looking at my movements, she could tell I was frustrated. She walked over to me. “Go home, Simone,” she said. “That’s enough for today. See you tomorrow.”
I didn’t argue. I just grabbed my grip bag, pulled on my black track pants, and strode out of the gym to my car. I sniffled the whole way home, fighting back feelings of failure. Once inside my room, I threw myself across the bed and really let myself bawl. My chest heaved, and I could barely catch my breath. I felt as if I was having a full-blown panic attack.
My dad came to see what all the commotion was about. The truth was, I’d been a little grumpy with my family ever since getting back from San Jose. The stress of having to follow up on my first-place finish at Trials was getting to me. Everywhere I looked, articles in magazines, newspapers, and online were declaring me America’s best hope to win five gold medals in Rio. I refused to read any of the stories. How could I think about winning gold and making history when I couldn’t even get my bar routine straight?
“Everything okay in here?” my dad asked from the doorway of my room. When I didn’t answer, he walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Remember, you sometimes get like this before a big meet, Simone,” he told me. “It will pass. It always does.”
I buried my face in my pillow, seriously doubting that the pressure I was feeling would ever go away. My breath came in short gasps as I tried to control the crying.
“Do you want me to call Mr. Andrews?” Dad asked.
I nodded without saying a word, grateful to my father for knowing just what I needed in that moment.
A few minutes later, Dad brought the house phone to me. My sports psychologist was on the other end of the line. I hadn’t talked to Mr. Andrews in several months because my schedule had been chock-full of workouts and competitions, sponsorship appearances and media interviews. Now, hearing Mr. Andrews’ steady voice coming through the phone, I broke down again.
“Go ahead and cry,” he said gently. “You probably need a good cry right now.” And then he just waited, listening to me sob. A little while later, when I had finally cried myself out, he asked,
“So what’s worrying you, Simone?”
My big fear came tumbling out. “I don’t think I’m going to be ready,” I told him. “Everybody has all these huge expectations of me, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to meet them.”
“Well, you can’t really worry about other people’s expectations,” he said. “You don’t usually do that, so don’t start worrying about that now. All you can truly control is committing yourself to practices and doing your best out there.”
We talked about that a bit more, and then I thanked him. “I know how hard I’ve worked for this,” I told him. “I think I’ll be fine now.” When I put down the phone, I really did believe that. Okay, Simone, just do what you know how to do. That’s what I kept telling myself, and the next day at the gym, the extra bounciness of the new bars didn’t seem like such a huge deal after all. In fact, I was starting to think that maybe I could use the springiness to help me fly even higher.
I sat on the floor of my bedroom, a suitcase open in front of me. I was trying to figure out how many leos I’d need for ten days of Olympic training camp. My teammates and I were all texting each other about what to pack. We finally decided that a dozen leos should be more than enough, and besides, the ranch had laundry facilities.
Once we solved the leotard dilemma, the conversation turned back to the topic that had dominated our group text ever since Martha came into the holding room backstage after Trials and told us who would be going to Rio: We had to pick a group name. We passed over names like GLAM Squad—using the first initials for Gabby, Laurie, Aly, Maddie, Simone—because we wanted a name that wasn’t just cute or clever, but also meaningful. Besides, GLAM Squad didn’t include the initials of our alternates—Ashton Locklear, MyKayla Skinner, and Ragan Smith—who would be attending training camp and traveling to Brazil with us; they were as much a part of the team as we were.
Still, only five of us would ultimately compete in Rio, and our team name needed to reflect that. We finally settled on the Final Five. One reason was that we’d be the last five-member USA gymnastics team to go to the Olympics; starting with the 2020 Games in Tokyo, each country would send only four artistic gymnasts. But the main reason we chose our name was to pay tribute to Martha Karolyi. She’d be retiring at the end of the season, which meant the five of us would be the last team she mentored in her legendary career. We all agreed that we wouldn’t reveal our name to Martha or anyone until after the team final. We aimed to take home gold, and we thought “the Final Five” would sound better if we had already won the biggest medal of our careers. It would be our way of thanking Martha for pushing each of us to be better than we ever believed we could be.