Welcome to My World

by Johnny Weir

  From the moment we arrived she didn’t speak anything other than Russian to me because she didn’t want the officials and other skaters to understand what we were talking about.

  “Put on your Amerikanski smile,” she said, the big grin with full teeth that she called the “American smile,” part of her campaign to get me to be pleasant and nice around people. Then, in Russian, she asked me to tell her who everyone was and everything about them while they sat directly in front of us. I pointed out the various officials and men and women practicing on the ice.

  “That girl looks like a cow. A beautiful American cow,” she said.

  Galina was so ornery and wonderful. With Priscilla, I could never talk like that because she would get offended. Finally I had found a partner in crime. While everyone watched us, we traded barbs in Russian, treating the whole practice like a performance. The other team members felt uncomfortable with our foreign language and bursts of laughter. “Why are you speaking Russian?” one of the other team members asked. “It’s easier for Galina,” I lied in my new effort to be a politician.

  We had such a great time on that trip, Galina called it our “honeymoon.” She immediately snapped onto the fact that I didn’t like eating or hanging out with everyone else and loved me for it. “Johnny, I hate going to team parties and eating with the kids,” she said. “Let’s go have some foie gras.” We dined alone on the top floor of the hotel for every meal, feasting on filet mignon and skating gossip.

  At the competition, everyone was waiting to see what Galina had been able to do with me over the summer, and I didn’t let her down. The program wasn’t perfect—it was still extremely early in the season—but my score was way higher than the other American men. USA won the team competition because of my score.

  Afterward a few of the top officials approached Galina with their big Amerikanski smiles. Pleased with the work she had done, they began complimenting her.

  “Congratulations,” one official said in an unusually loud voice. “He looks like a completely new person.”

  “A . . . new . . . skater,” another said, equally loudly but also very slowly, moving his lips a lot like he was talking to a deaf five-year-old.

  Even though Galina had lived in the States for eleven years, they didn’t think she spoke English. But they were pleased—we had won because of my placement, after all. They commented that I was prepared (which hadn’t always been the case) and skating “much more masculine.” I thought it was silly how they assigned a gender category to the orderly way Galina had taught me to jump.

  The only thing the federation officials wanted to see were some changes in the footwork sequence to make the program more difficult.

  “That’s a great idea,” she said while smiling and nodding.

  Once the federation officials had moved on, she turned to me and said, “Johnnychik, we’re not changing anything. They won’t know the difference.” Galina was not only forming me as an athlete, but also helping with my PR—something I desperately needed. She told them whatever they wanted to hear (something I’m incapable of). Galina, a master at twisting situations to make it seem like she’d do anything to please, turned out to be right. We never altered the footwork sequence that season, but the officials clearly had no idea since they remarked that the program was “so much better.”

  Sitting in business class on the way home from Japan, we were riding high; it was the Galina and Johnny show. We both had our sunglasses on, and Galina looked particularly fancy in a gorgeous St. John suit (“I only travel in St. John. It’s so comfortable,” she said). She sipped champagne while I had orange juice since Galina had a strict no-alcohol policy during the competitive season.

  The fourteen-hour flight home gave us ample time to talk about our plans for the season. In a month I’d be competing in the Cup of China, as my first Grand Prix event, and then, right after, the Cup of Russia—my red tour. It would be mega competing in Russia because all of Galina’s Russian friends, coaches, and skaters would be watching to see what she’d done with this American.

  But at that moment there was no pressure, just big hopes and dreams. I felt so good to be part of this great, great love story between the two of us. Galina had brought out the inner gentleman in me. Unfortunately no honeymoon lasts forever.

  Going into the Grand Prix season, it was war. First up: China, where I would compete against Evan, who had just defeated me at the U.S. National Championships, and Stéphane Lambiel, a two-time world champion; then directly to Russia, where I faced Stéphane again. Big names right out of the gate was big pressure on both me and Galina. But we held it together as it turned cold in New Jersey. The furs came out and so did our fighting spirit. By the time we boarded the plane to China, we were both prepared—me with hard training, Galina with glowing skin from a facial and all her best things packed.

  In China, after skating a clean long program, something I hadn’t done in years, I significantly beat my personal best scores. Galina beamed with pride, and I saw my mother up in the stands, waving and crying. Evan skated after me, and it was close. But I won. I’d beat Evan, who placed second, and Stéphane came in third.

  Landing in Moscow at the start of November when it gets snowy, cold, and very Russian, I was so excited to be back—proud of what I had just accomplished in China and content to be with a coach whom I adored. Galina, waiting at the airport, had planned a week of fun before we resumed our hard-core training for the competition. We were totally on the same wavelength, amazing for any new relationship.

  The fantasy continued when I arrived at my hotel, the Metropol. Located right next to Red Square, it’s one of the oldest hotels in Moscow and just a fantastic place to be. Galina hadn’t believed me when I told her that I had gotten a great deal on the Internet until she saw my room: a large one boasting antique furniture, a huge chandelier, and a view of the Bolshoi Theatre. Very five-star, but old five-star, so my style.

  I woke the next morning feeling like royalty. After training and a massage in the morning, I had lunch with one of my best friends, Russian skater Alexander Uspenski. Then that evening I was set to accompany Galina and her best friend Elena Tchaikovskaya, someone with a lot of history and influence in Russia, to see Swan Lake at the Bolshoi. (Elena Tchaikovskaya, Tatiana Tarasova, and Galina Yakovlevna were long considered a troika of the Russian skating world. The grand dames were the best of friends, but Galina and Elena had a particularly close bond and took vacations every May together in the resort city, Sochi.)

  At lunch near my hotel, Sasha (as Alexander was known) and I toasted my success in China with a couple of glasses of wine. I knew Galina would have a fit if she found out, but it was only a couple of glasses. Unfortunately that was enough to get me tipsy and make me lose track of time. Our marathon lunch seemed to pass by in minutes.

  I raced back to my hotel to shower and change, but Galina, standing outside the Bolshoi in the freezing cold waiting for me, was already calling every two minutes. Just as I was about to exit my hotel and make a beeline for the Bolshoi, I ran into one of my most ardent fan girls. She was hard to miss, with her meticulously applied false eyelashes and giant bust packed into a satin dress. “I want you to escort me to the ballet,” she said.

  She had somehow found out where I was staying and that I was going to the theater. I wasn’t too surprised. In Russia, you can find out anything you want.

  “Oh, you’re going to the theater, too?” I asked in my wine haze. “Okay, I’ll walk you.”

  I don’t know what I was thinking, showing up to meet Galina late, tipsy, and with a girl who looked like a prostitute. Clearly the alcohol had affected me more than I realized because it was the stupidest move ever.

  “Get away from him!” Galina shouted at my fan, who instantly scattered in fear. Galina could get really scary.

  Then she got up very close to me, peered in my eyes, and sniffed my breath.

  “Johnny, you’re drunk!”

  I wasn’t drunk, just a cheap date. Galin
a let loose with a stream of insults, screaming at the top of her lungs about how disrespectful and shameful I was.

  “How Russian can you get?” she said before pushing me inside. “Showing up at the ballet drunk, with a whore.”

  Luckily all was soon forgiven (even though I slept through half of the performance) and the three of us enjoyed a lavish mini vacation mostly organized by Elena. That week we went to see a stage version of Yunona I Avos, which I wasn’t drunk for, and watched international skating competitions from the comfort of Elena’s grand apartment.

  The highlight was dining at a restaurant in Moscow where only famous people are allowed (Tchaikovsky and Pushkin both worked in the dark, quiet place while in town) called Klub Pisateliy. Elena ordered a full Russian feast of chebureki, chicken Kiev, piroshki, blini, and, my absolute favorite, black caviar. Although there was a ten-year ban on farming black caviar because of depleted supplies, in Russia certain people can get whatever they want.

  When Elena asked for the illegal caviar, the waiter politely said, “Madam, you know we can’t give you black caviar.”

  “I know better,” she replied.

  The waiter nodded and returned with a huge platter heaped high with black caviar that must have cost a small fortune. I slathered the black gold on one after another lacy blini. God, I love Russia.

  That was just the start of the celebration. At the Grand Prix a week later, I skated better than I had in China and won the competition by many points. I made Galina proud . . . for a short while.

  After the exhibition skate, I returned to my room to get ready for the skaters’ closing banquet, where I was asked to give a thank-you speech on behalf of the athletes in English and Russian. Once I had finished dolling myself up, I went down the hall to Galina’s room to pick her up. When she opened the door, I was astonished to find her in a kimono and face mask.

  “Aren’t you coming?” I asked.

  “No. I wasn’t invited.”

  And then she slammed the door in my face.

  I was late, of course, and didn’t have time to deal with whatever hot flash had caused her to go insane. When I got to the banquet, I asked one of our team leaders why Galina didn’t have a ticket. “You didn’t pay for one,” he said. Uh-oh. I had messed up bad. Because Priscilla had never attended the banquets, I had no idea I was supposed to buy my coach a ticket. I had just assumed the event would provide her with one. I quickly got a ticket and ran back up to Galina’s room.

  She was still in her kimono when I begged her to come to the banquet: “I’m so sorry for the mix-up. Please throw some clothes on and come with me.”

  “No, no, no. I’m fine,” she said with raised eyebrows, an expression that I would get to know all too well, and closed the door.

  I turned back and headed for my celebration, dejected after experiencing my first real taste of Galina’s coldness. After three weeks on the road, we were starting to grate on each other. That amount of togetherness would strain any new romance.

  I awoke to a searing pain in my neck. My head, neck, and shoulders felt like a single block that didn’t belong to the rest of my body. I tried to move my head but couldn’t, an alarming discovery less than a week before the National Championships. As I got out of bed, my entire back spasmed, sending wince-inducing shocks through my hips and down to my toes. If this mysterious injury didn’t kill me, Galina was certain to.

  Although I had a great beginning to the season with my wins in China and Russia, I had failed at the Grand Prix Final in Torino: Evan had beaten me. That made winning at the Nationals my only shot at regaining my supremacy over him. Since returning from defeat in Italy, Galina had been way more taskmaster than grandmother. She was intolerant of any mistake and not too impressed with any success.

  I arrived at the rink hoping that my back would miraculously loosen up or that I could fake it through practice. But in order to jump you have to turn your head to see where you’re going. From the minute I hobbled on the ice, it was clear to me, and Galina, that I couldn’t possibly skate. I had to fess up about my pain.

  She started kicking the walls, spitting and screaming.

  “What did you do? Are you partying? Are you . . . ? What’s going on . . . ?”

  “I don’t know why. Maybe I did it lifting groceries, or vacuuming.”

  “Go home,” Galina said.

  No matter what my chiropractor or masseur tried, neither could work out the spasms or my stiff neck. I took anti-inflammatories and used an electric stimulation machine but my back remained in pain even as I boarded the plane to Saint Paul, Minnesota, where the competition was held.

  Nobody knew about my back injury let alone how severe it was. Galina used the electric stimulator on my back right before I went out on the ice, where I fought against the pain and skated perfectly clean. In first place, I beat Evan, who had made a mistake. But our scores were very close, so I knew if the judges could have found any excuse to put him in first they would have.

  In the long program, I faced the judges’ bias, back pain, and the first quad toe I had attempted since last year’s Nationals. Because of my bad back, I hadn’t skated a full long program for almost two weeks, which left me worried that I wouldn’t make it from beginning to end. To add to the pressure, I was the very last skater in the championships—not only of all the men, but also of the pairs and women. I had to be a showstopper.

  I moved past the pain and landed my quad toe. Other than one small mistake on the last one, I landed all my jumps: the triple axel, a triple toe, and another triple axel. Every element fell into place. The crowd jumped to its feet, and I started crying. Galina, who knew how hard I had fought to keep it together, teared up while I bowed to her and Viktor. Comparing the crowd’s reaction to Evan to what they were giving me, I sat in the kiss and cry expecting national title number four. Galina gave my hand a little excited squeeze.

  My score popped up in the little TV set at our feet—244.77. The number put me in an exact tie with Evan.

  It was ludicrous, with the new and intricate judging system, to have two people with the exact same score. Getting hit by a meteor in the middle of the rink seemed more likely.

  Our scores were tied, but Evan officially won the title because he had beaten me in the long program by a tenth of a point. Even though I was better, and the audience wanted me to win, I still lost.

  Afterward there was a shit storm in the media and people protested the results, accusing the judges of fixing it. Gay websites cried gay bashing. USA Today did a huge analysis comparing my performance to Evan’s and the score breakdown. Johnny’s Angels started a petition and flooded the federation with letters. Whatever the conspiracy, people were behind me because I had proven I was serious again and deserved everything I achieved. The fans wanted a fairy-tale ending, but they would never get one. In the days after the Nationals, the federation did nothing. They never made even one comment on the matter.

  I was more tired than angry. Immediately after the competition, I had to stick around the rink for the medal ceremony and exhibition skate, so I lay down on a couch backstage and fell dead asleep. I was exhausted from what had been a long year. It wasn’t just the typical rigors of training and competing that had worn me down but also my new relationship with Galina. She wasn’t exactly low maintenance. I found it hard to always be up and play the quiet, sweet, lovely skater, although that’s what I wanted for her—a student upon whom she could rely.

  Viktor woke me up, and Galina slapped some makeup on me before ushering me onto the podium where I stood, very unhappily, accepting the silver medal.

  While I waited to do my exhibition skate, Viktor, Galina, and I sat around drinking: beers for them, a Coke for me. Not usually an optimist, Galina found the bright side of the situation.

  “Johnny, you know, this sucks. But it’s good PR. People are saying that you were clearly better. They think you were wronged,” she said. “You’re the angel in this situation. And people love an angel.”

 
For the exhibition, I skated to Josh Groban singing “Ave Maria”—it doesn’t get more angelic than that. But when I got off the ice, I learned of the latest drama in my battle with Evan to wear the halo. It turned out he had coincidentally planned to skate to “Ave Maria” as well. When he heard my music come over the loudspeaker, he ran directly out of the rink and back to the hotel to get a different costume and piece of music. I guess he was worried he wouldn’t measure up.

  Oh, this would not do. It wouldn’t do at all. My hotel room in Gothenburg, Sweden, home to the 2008 World Championships, was impossibly tiny, and even worse, right next to Galina’s.

  While I had long ago accepted her controlling everything from my eating to massages, I didn’t need her sleeping in the room next to mine, listening to me take showers and watch movies through the wall. When I’m competing, I need some space from everyone, including my coach.

  The front desk found me a bigger room, away from both Galina and, as a bonus, the rest of the U.S. skating team on that floor. I was in the process of pulling all my luggage together to move when Galina stormed into my room and demanded to know what I was up to.

  “My luggage can’t even fit in this room. So I’m moving.”

  “Johnny, this is a perfect situation. I need you here. I don’t need you running around with all of your friends and partying before the competition and losing your energy.”

  Partying? What friends? Did she even know me?

  “You need to be here. You’re moving just because I’m next to you.”

  She wasn’t completely wrong, but I didn’t feel like getting into it with her.

  “I’m moving to a different floor.”