by Johnny Weir
The alarming experience of entering the fortified gate exacerbated my prior reservations about staying in the Olympic Village. When competing, I’m one to be very alone, and in the Olympics it’s typical to have four roommates per bedroom. My biggest fear was being housed in a room with four other skaters that I’d be competing against. We would bump into each other on the way to the single shower and pass the flu around, another common occurrence at the games.
But as soon as we made it past the guards, the heaviness lifted. I saw the flags with the Olympic rings flutter against Torino’s mellow rolling landscape. Fresh-faced athletes from around the world walked along little pathways to the various buildings, and instinctively I felt the sheer joy and excitement of being part of this elite group.
My happiness only increased upon learning of my housing assignment: a single room in the same condo as the curling team’s doctors and coaches. My federation had granted me my wish by putting me far away from the other skaters. Priscilla and I split up (she was staying with the female skating team), and I entered the curling house, hauling my heavy, heavy luggage up three flights to my own private floor.
I opened the door onto the sad little scene. Despite the European obsession with thread count and hand tailoring, I always find their accommodations pretty mean. There was a twin-sized wooden bed frame, with a thin mattress covered by a blue fleece blanket on it. Next to it, a little brown stool functioned as a side table. The only closet was a small wardrobe that wouldn’t even house the furs I had brought along. A tile floor with no rugs added the final chilling detail.
Because I spend so much of my time on the road, there’s nothing I hate more than checking into a hotel room and having it feel very foreign. I need my home base to have a security-blanket feel in order to withstand the harsh realities of training and competing. This monastic chamber as it stood would not do as my lodging for the next three weeks.
I walked over to Priscilla’s room to check out her living space, but when I arrived she was nowhere to be found. The building was empty since the women’s skating team didn’t arrive for another week and a half. So I started poking around and a lightbulb went off in my head. I grabbed a bunch of fleece blankets, two lamps, a bedside table, and a few extra towels for good measure. Laden down with all my loot, I shimmied across the Olympic Village and into the curling quarters.
Back in my room, I set to work decorating my space. I lifted the bed up, which only took about two fingers because it was so light, and I spread out two of the blue fleece blankets as a rug that almost covered the entire floor space. I unpacked, staging my luggage for a touch of glamour. I hung my fur coats on the door handles for coziness and my official accreditation on the wall for inspiration. I arranged framed photos of me, my family, Alex, and my dog and lastly lit a few candles. By the time I got into bed, I felt at home.
“Johnny, the smalls were running out but we put some aside because we knew you were coming,” an Olympic official said before handing me three enormous bags of Team USA paraphernalia. In the team processing area, where I received my information and uniforms for the Olympics, I wondered how I was going to fit all this stuff into my already cramped room.
Me being me, I knew I wasn’t really going to wear any of the uniforms the smiling woman handed me. I don’t believe in them and for years had gotten in trouble for it. That whole tracksuit look; it’s just not me. Simply put, they’re tacky. I’m very proud to be American but I don’t feel the need to rub it in everyone’s face with an ugly jacket. I wear what I want, which is usually black and fun. Isn’t freedom as American as apple pie and football?
Although I didn’t like to wear team uniforms, the processing was a proud moment. As soon as the woman handed me my bags that she had held especially for me, I felt like a real part of the U.S. team. And that was something I hadn’t felt before, either, because of my federation’s slights or because I had excluded myself. I threw myself into the Olympic spirit and into the entire uniform to the delight of the photographers who snapped my picture. I had worked long and hard for this goal; it was time to enjoy it.
That first photo op and subsequent press conference was a continuation of the love affair between me and the press. During the media event with the rest of the men’s team, Evan Lysacek, Matthew Savoie, and myself, nearly every single question was directed at me.
“Johnny, how are you preparing for the Olympics?”
“Ambien and espresso.”
Laughs.
“How are you enjoying the Olympic Village?”
“It’s dirty. I had to do a lot of cleaning.”
More laughs.
I was more than pleased to be the ringleader of this American team of young, talented, first-time Olympians. However, the microscope I was under didn’t lose its focus after the press conference. Lots of media showed up for every official practice held for the male single skaters. In addition to the judges and other skaters watching, it made for a tough training situation. I didn’t want people to see me sweat or breathe heavily. And I certainly didn’t want to fall on my ass and have it appear in every newspaper the next day with the headline: “Weir Not Olympic Ready!” So for a week and a half, I didn’t push myself in an effort to appear perfect, and my condition started to go down.
To blow off steam in this pressure-cooker environment, I engaged in massive retail therapy in downtown Torino. I let the conversion rate unnecessarily confuse me into thinking everything was cheaper than it was and made very good friends with the people at Louis Vuitton. I went to their boutique practically every day even if I just got a wallet or a little bracelet. Personally imitating a housewife working out her emotions with her credit card at the mall, I spent way too much money that Olympics.
There weren’t enough monogrammed LVs in the world, however, to soothe my nerves the day I finally had to compete in the short program. My anxiety scared me (I hadn’t felt crazy like that since I was a junior skater) even though my expectations were tempered going into the competition. With Evgeni Pluskenko and Stéphane Lambiel skating, I wasn’t sure I would even place. But this was the Olympics. Billions of people would be watching and that alone sent me spinning.
I pushed through my day, practicing and then heading into the city for a simple plate of salad that I ate by myself. Then I returned to my room where I watched Will & Grace (God, I love that Karen) on my portable DVD player before taking a nap. Not wanting to be rushed, I began putting on my makeup and doing my hair two hours before it was time to catch the bus to the arena.
Right before I left my room, I said a little prayer asking whoever is up there to help me: give me power, put air in my lungs, and just help me push. I blew my candles out and went downstairs to meet Priscilla.
Backstage at the rink, it was dark and crammed with people. I frantically searched for a place to hide and collect my thoughts, but every nook seemed occupied with skaters, coaches, press, and volunteers. Although newly built for the Olympics, the place stunk of sweat, leather, ammonia, and fear. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Then time ran out. I walked out of the tunnel and into light so bright it was blinding. There were so many people, so many TV cameras, so many photographers. Dark circular lenses almost ringed the entire rink.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, the announcer said my name and I thought the roof would blow off the building with the American, Russian, and Japanese fans all cheering for me.
I knew it was this Olympic moment for which I had created the The Swan, and a lot of things were going to happen in the next ten minutes.
Although my feet were on the ice, my mind floated up to the fans in the seats and returned backstage. Then it settled on the issue of my less-than-perfect condition. In my attempt to maintain a perfect image during practices for the past couple of weeks, I hadn’t done full run-throughs of either my short or long program. For as good a shape I was in going into the Olympics, I hadn’t kept it up in the period right up to the event.
I had to snap myse
lf back into the moment, right here, right now, on the ice. So I moved toward the boards and punched the wall so hard my knuckles went red and hurt like hell. That did the trick. As I moved onto the ice, the arena went completely quiet. Nobody was screaming; nobody was talking. All I could hear were the shutters on all the cameras around the rink going off. I stood, in the middle of the sporting world, alone on a giant sheet of white ice.
My music started and I completely zoned out the camera shutters, bright lights, flags, and people. Concentrating on the chords of the harp that began the piece, I just started to skate the way that I knew I could. I let the music carry me through my first jump, a triple axel—flawless. Then my second, triple lutz-triple toe—also flawless. I followed it with a perfect sit spin, and people began to cheer. For a spin! I nailed the footwork sequence and began skating full speed toward my last jump.
I was making eye contact with the judges—trying to pick out the ones I knew so I could give them an extra-soulful dying-swan look before going into the jump—when suddenly I realized that—Oh, my God!—I was doing the wrong footwork. At that time, I trained with Priscilla each morning by doing different entrances into jumps and had mixed myself up.
With the wall rapidly approaching, I had to do something, so I just jumped. The Swan provided, and I landed the triple flip perfectly, did one more beautiful spin into a balletic step sequence and my final combination spin. The crowd roared while I tucked into my last I’m-a-dead-swan pose.
I shrugged as I got off the ice. It had been a clean performance, but the botched footwork left me wanting something more from myself. It certainly wasn’t as good as the National Championships. What an inane mistake at the end! I waited for disappointment.
Then the marks came up. Up until that point, my highest international score had been around 75, a pretty average sum. For my Olympic performance of The Swan, I earned a total of 80 points, putting me in second place behind Plushenko and ahead of Lambiel and the Canadian skater Jeffrey Buttle. I literally couldn’t believe it.
If the hard numbers didn’t do it, the excitement from everyone backstage drove home the reality that I was the only American in a position to win a medal. Evan had placed tenth by the end of the night and the next American was a few behind him. My whole team patted me on the back, congratulating me for carrying our country. Every reporter, even ones that I’d had some friction with in the past, were there, too, smiling and proud. They lobbed me softball questions, which were basically all different forms of “How does it feel to be so awesome?”
It felt great, and it only got better when I returned to my room. Emails from fans in the United States and around the world filled my account. They had come in almost as soon as I finished the competition. “Johnny, you are America’s bright star.” “We love you, Johnny!” “I want you to marry my daughter—you two even look alike!” Okay, some of them were a little off, but the incredible outpouring of love and support covered me like a warm blanket as I drifted off to a contented sleep.
The night before the long program, I couldn’t sleep at all. I couldn’t come down from the idea that by the end of tomorrow, less than ten years into my skating career, I might have my first Olympic medal. Tossing and turning on the paper-thin mattress, I was having heart palpitations. So many people were waiting for me to win it. What if I let them down? I couldn’t; I was too close. But of course I could—I had choked for much less before. As the first light of morning filtered in through the window, the ceiling and walls seemed to close in on me.
It was going to be a very long and lonely day. After my morning practice, attended by every person with press credentials and a pulse, I had a hideous amount of time to kill before the competition, which wasn’t until late at night so that it could be televised live in the States.
To get away from my panicky thoughts, I watched a Will & Grace marathon, letting the narcotic of TV lull me into a much-needed nap in which I slept harder than I had in months. When I awoke, I started in slowly on the routine that had proved successful for the short program, spending an inordinate amount of time on my hair and makeup, saying my prayer, blowing out my candles, and walking downstairs to meet Priscilla and the bus that would take us to the competition.
Priscilla and I, both bundles of nerves wrapped in heavy furs, didn’t speak as we stood waiting at the bus stop. The only other sign of life in the dark, quiet, cold and completely dead Olympic Village was the president of the Japan Skating Federation, who waited next to us for the bus. The three of us watched our breath make little silent clouds against the sky for a while. Then Priscilla pulled her hand out of her coat to check her watch. The Japanese president and I gave her a sideways glance but stayed silent. A few seconds later Priscilla checked her watch again.
“Do you know where the bus is?” Priscilla asked the president.
“No. It’s supposed to be now,” she answered.
After checking her watch once more, Priscilla startled the small Japanese woman with her loud, nervous laugh. The bus, scheduled to be here at half past the hour, was now ten minutes late and we officially started to freak out. How were we going to get to the rink? It wasn’t like there were cabs or subways in the Olympic Village.
“Oh, well. I guess nobody wants me to skate,” I joked nervously.
Nobody laughed. Priscilla walked out into the middle of the deserted street while the president wrung her hands. All of a sudden Priscilla began flapping her arms like a crazy duck. A pair of headlights appeared in the distance.
A volunteer, on call for emergencies, pulled up in a tiny Smart car. While the emergencies were supposed to be things like slipping on the ice or suicide bombers, we begged her to take us to the rink. We piled into the minuscule automobile, skating equipment, furs, limbs, and all, and drove like bats out of hell to get there on time.
When we arrived, every TV camera was waiting for me because I was supposed to be on the bus that had emptied out twenty minutes earlier (apparently we were the only ones who hadn’t received the memo that the bus schedule had changed that day). They all quickly cut to my awkward extrication from this clown car, but I could have cared less. I ran into the building so I could get my spot in the dressing room and start getting ready.
There is nothing I hate more than being rushed—but I really hated it at the Olympics. Everything was go-go-go from that moment on. I got into my costume, laced up my skates, and prepared to walk out of the chute and into the warm-up. If I found the crowd during the short program loud, it was nothing compared to the deafening noise that night. In the final group, there were six men skating from six different countries: Russia, America, Switzerland, Japan, Canada, and France. The result was an international cacophony that defied comprehension. The Swiss had cowbells, the French had horns, and everyone had guttural or high-pitched screams in their native languages.
As a performer, you love to hear the audience cheering. But this was aggressive to the point of overwhelming. It was so loud Priscilla had to yell things to me while we stood face-to-face. In this most important moment of my life, I couldn’t hear my coach; I couldn’t even hear myself.
I didn’t hear them call my name, but when the third skater finished I knew it was my time to compete. The lighting was dimmer than it had been for the short program, almost like relaxing mood lighting. But I was so tight that I couldn’t feel the ice. It’s important to me that my feet are one with the ice, but in that moment I was keenly aware of being on top of it.
I moved on full autopilot to the piano in “Otoñal.” After completing three jumping passes and a spin perfectly, I started getting into the groove and enjoying the audience’s amplification with each element.
There was a bit of a breather in my program before skating into my second triple axel, and in that momentary void of activity, I lost focus. I looked around and remembered my stiffness, bringing that quality to the next jump. I didn’t finish the rotation and landed on two feet. My incomplete triple axel set me off for a shaky footwork sequence. Befor
e the next element, a combination jump of a triple lutz and a triple toe loop, I tried to snap myself back into my performance. But because I was so nervous I wouldn’t make it, I just did the triple lutz and left more points on the table.
The next couple of jumps were fine, and running through my head was the thought: Okay, Johnny, you’ve definitely fucked up enough. Get it together. I skated toward the judges for the last jump, but as I was setting up I tripped and had to skate right through. I was so shocked by the whole situation that I couldn’t remember what mistakes I had made already in the four-and-a-half-minute program. Like a goldfish swimming around in a circle, I forgot what I’d done and where I’d been. I knew, however, I couldn’t leave all those points from a second missed jump, so in that second I changed my program. I turned around, heading in completely the wrong direction, and tried to jump again. And I did it, although it was really ugly, and I barely landed it.
I moved to the kiss and cry area in a daze. Devastated that I hadn’t fought for the program and instead let myself and everyone down, all I wanted to do was cry. But with three billion people watching me around the world, I had to keep the tears bottled up. A few did escape when the number five popped up next to my name on the monitor in front of me. That was it. No suspense. No second chance. I flat out didn’t have a medal.
In the mix zone, where the media interviews the athletes, the press eagerly awaited my arrival. But for a different reason than I was used to.
“How do you feel now that you’ve lost America’s medal?” a reporter shouted.
I had lost an Olympic medal, the only thing that I really wanted and the reason I started skating in the first place. I felt awful. Talking right now was going to be difficult, but I didn’t realize just how difficult.