The Chosen Ones

by Lisa Luciano

  Brody nodded, amused by Wasser’s melodramatic warning.

  It’s a skatin’ competition for Christ’s sake. Not the secret for a nuclear weapon, he thought.

  “Now, Glenn. He got a bad ankle. Cold compresses after practice. Maybe more if it gets worse. I tell you when.”

  “What about the others?”

  “We wait and see. Keep your eyes open.”

  Wasser ripped the seal off a cardboard box and began placing bottles of Maalox in the cabinet above his head.

  “You be going in here a whole bunch.”

  Robby sat on a cracked bench retying his laces for the third time. A boy of no more than sixteen sped past, just making it to a stall before vomiting. The retching sounds faded as Freeman entered. They hadn’t spoken in nearly four years; the last time they were both amateurs vying for the Olympic title. Robby’s life had completely changed. He knew he was no longer the same person. He wondered if Freeman was.

  Exchanging a hearty handshake, Robby was struck by how pale he was in comparison to the young man standing over him. He still hadn’t found the time to get a tan. Maybe things hadn’t changed as much as he wanted to believe.

  “Where’ve you been?” Robby asked.

  Freeman took a seat beside him.

  “Starting forward for the Bulls. Saved their asses after Jordan retired. But my agent couldn’t negotiate a decent raise, so I told them to forget it.”

  “Come on. What happened?”

  “I got tired of sticking out. It’s kind of hard not to notice a very black man on very white ice. I thought if I played football or basketball, I’d blend in,” Freeman admitted, shaking his head.

  “That’s pretty lame.”

  “Tell me about it. Worst part is, it didn’t work. Man, you think competition is tough here? You should see them jockey for college scholarships.”

  “So you decided to take the easy way out and come back?” Robby joked.

  They shared a nervous laugh.

  “Just between you and me,” Freeman said, looking around and deeming it safe to speak. “I hope you wipe up the ice with Chandler. I can’t stand that arrogant little turd. Makes my skin crawl the way he plays the crowd.”

  “And the judges. You think either of us has a chance?”

  “Not me,” Freeman said, rubbing the nubs of his well-chewed fingernails across his scalp that was covered by a thin layer of hair that looked like the work of a sculptor rather than a barber. “And are my parents gonna be pissed. They’re bringing the whole damn family in from Atlanta.”

  “My mom wanted to come, but my dad would have to leave somebody else in charge of the store,” Robby explained. “There’s nobody he trusts and he couldn’t afford to shut it down for a week.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. M-o-n-e-y. Sometimes I wish my parents didn’t have so much. I’d have an excuse to quit.”

  They sat silently.

  “I’ll see you out there,” said Robby as he headed for the door.

  Freeman unzipped his duffel bag and withdrew his skates.

  “Yeah…,” his voice trailed off. “And so will everybody else.”

  The men’s first practice scheduled for nine a.m. was being held up for the taping of a public service announcement. Glenn and the camera crew had commandeered the ice for the shoot which now, to everyone’s annoyance, was running overtime.

  “We can’t have this!” declared a federation official clothed in an expensive, chocolate-colored suit who kept glancing at his watch as he spoke to several other equally rattled-looking men and women.

  “Everything’s planned.”

  “A delay could be disastrous.”

  “We have to go on the air live, precisely at four thirty.”

  “What will we tell the TV people?”

  “My God. Can they ask for their money back?”

  The other skaters grumbled, but Robby was glad. It gave him an opportunity to watch Glenn, since he never did during a competition.

  As with everything Glenn was a part of, a crowd gathered, filling the stands and then bubbling over into the waiting area surrounding the rink. Freeman rested his elbows against the barrier while Robby swung his arms like two frenetic windmills, trying to stay loose as they watched Glenn blow take after take. It was a seemingly simple task. Skate to center ice, spin furiously, stop, then deliver the pitch.

  “Winning an Olympic title is hard work, but it’s nothing compared to what these kids go through every and each day fighting the disease known as—”

  “Cut.”

  Glenn stopped with a look of confusion.

  “Every and each day?” questioned the director.

  He smiled, embarrassed by his flub.

  “Take it from the top.”

  Tugging at the sleeves of his red Spandex jumpsuit, he quickly skated back into starting position. This time he stopped himself in the middle of a scorching scratch spin that made his body look like a screw being driven into the ice by a power tool set on high.

  “What’s wrong?” the director asked.

  “That was sloppy. I can do it better.”

  “Okay. Set up once more.”

  Glenn returned to his original spot, a bit slower this time.

  I should be on a beach in the south of France. Why did I have to get tendinitis now? My ankle’s gonna go, I know it. I should’ve made a statement. At least I’d have an excuse. Let them call me a coward. I’ve been called worse. But then they’d know I’m not at my best. Just the edge they need. Who am I kidding? I don’t know how to say no to anybody. Come on, asshole. Just grit your teeth. This is nothing compared to the fracture five years ago. It nearly put you out of the sport. But you gutted it out. You wanted it then, and you want it now. Push it out of your mind. You can do it. You can do anything.

  The boom man mumbled to the camera operator.

  “I don’t know. Last one looked good to me.”

  “Yeah, man. I wanna get the hell out of here. I’m freakin’ freezing.”

  The third time, Glenn was out of breath and could not speak clearly. His eyes scanned the seats for Kylie. An adoring look as she waited eagerly for the object of her complete and unwavering desire would have helped. He couldn’t find her.

  The atmosphere was getting tense. He knew the feel of a crowd. He had learned to detect a mood. He circled quickly, talking to himself as he always did before a performance, shaking his fists trying to pump himself up.

  He began again. All seemed to be going well, but in the middle of the spin his body suddenly went limp and he collapsed onto his back. No one moved until he sat up with his head cocked to one side. A crooked grin accentuated his hollow cheeks. The U.S., World, and Olympic champion had vanished. In his place was a battered rag doll that appeared to have been loved too long and well by its owner.

  The crew laughed and applauded. Freeman stared silently. Robby looked away, his stomach turning from a distasteful mix of jealousy and pity. Glenn’s tired eyes locked onto his coach, Alex Forsythe. The bearded, middle-aged man hesitated, then forced himself to grin. Only then did Glenn break into an ear-to-ear smile. The next take was flawless.

  Alex Forsythe had a gift. He produced champions with the precision of a Japanese assembly line. As head of the most highly respected stable in skating, the waiting list for entry into his training center was a who’s who of young hopefuls and burned out veterans looking for rejuvenation. He knew the sport and he knew how to win. Parents were forbidden to attend practices and weakness from his kids was not tolerated. Dictatorial? Yes. Demanding? Absolutely. But the results could not be disputed. Glenn was living proof as proclaimed in flyers and countless ads in skating magazines that urged mothers and fathers to send their children to the Forsythe Ice Academy.

  Though Glenn was exhausted and Forsythe knew it, there was still another task. Glenn shifted into a higher gear at the arrival of a local news team. One crew dodged the other as they exchanged places. The reporter took her position. The camera man found a good angle. The
light snapped on. It was show time.

  Glenn pulled out his flashiest moves, streaking across the length of the rink in a sparkling footwork sequence as if someone had stretched a rubber band to its limit and then released it. The other skaters tried to appear uninterested.

  “I wonder what it feels like to be a trained monkey?” sneered one young man.

  Robby felt no contempt, at least not about that. It was part of the game. He never doubted that the fleeting seconds Glenn had spent on the victory stand made everything else tolerable. It just wasn’t a game Robby was sure he wanted to play again.

  At the prompting of the reporter, Glenn posed with some young fans. He was careful to lead the camera away from the skaters who had taken the ice and were tossing off their best jumps right behind him.

  Assuming he wouldn’t be needed for a while, Brody settled into a seat a few rows from center ice.

  Dang, he thought, as a chilled breeze generated by the speed of each young man flying past swept over him. These guys don’t need coaches, they need air traffic controllers.

  A group of about a dozen women ranging in age from twenty to sixty sat in front of him, aiming binoculars and cameras with huge lenses at anything that vaguely resembled a male skater. Some took in the action on the ice, while others seemed more interested in the private discussions going on at the railings. As they chatted, photo albums and piles of Xeroxed newspaper articles circulated furiously from lap to lap.

  “I need copies of the pictures from the San Jose show,” one woman proclaimed as she yanked the front of her ‘I Love Glenn’ sweatshirt down over a protruding belly.

  “Everybody?” another asked, so thin she seemed lost inside her cable knit sweater with the skating penguin stitched on the front.

  “No. Just the ones of TJ. I’m on a budget. My husband’s been screaming because I maxed out my credit card on the trip to Skate America.”

  “Do you have the review from the Mercury Bee?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’ll send you that too.”

  A plastic bag containing homemade popcorn was passed around. One of the women gratefully took a handful. It would be her only meal before dinner which would consist of Ramen noodles she would prepare with the free hot water available in the hotel room she was sharing with three others. She only had enough money left to get home. She couldn’t spend any on food.

  “How’s the newsletter coming?”

  “Great. I talked to TJ’s mother. I think I can convince her to write a regular column.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Twelve phone calls. When she realized I wasn’t going to give up, she was really sweet.”

  “Sounds like they’re desperate for any attention they can get.”

  “He’s a superstar in Canada,” she insisted, sounding wounded.

  “But not here where the big money is. And with Chandler and Donovan coming back—”

  “TJ’ll blow them away at the Olympics.”

  TJ. Another name to check, Brody thought as he turned his attention back to the practice which wasn’t so much a physical workout as it was a psychological battle.

  Part mating ritual, part high school reunion, the skaters preened for the crowd between brief conversations with their coaches and each other. The veterans commiserated the loss of those who had left the circuit, secretly wondering when their turn would come to be the topic of such a discussion, while the younger boys were still trusting enough to form new friendships. All surveyed their opponents while trying to guard their own particular strategy.

  Robby watched and waited as the first group of senior men, including Glenn, finished their session. Brody noticed him occasionally glancing at a cluster of nine conservatively dressed, middle-aged men and women who vaguely resembled a school board, jotting notes on pads from the sidelines. Even when the skaters weren’t moving, they wrote. One young man took a bad fall. Another popped a jump. Heads shook as hands flew across the paper.

  Holy crap, Brody thought. They judge practices? When the hell do they get to make mistakes?

  Glenn was first off the ice, his weary but satisfied expression indicating there was nothing more to be accomplished. Still, he took a quick look at his coach, waited for him to nod, then slid on his skate guards. As he passed by, Robby instinctively stepped back. Glenn glanced at him.

  “Your turn, pal.”

  Was it? Finally? The words echoed in Robby’s head as he watched the diminutive young man with nerves of steel to match his sinewy body, who had been all business a moment ago, flash a weak smile and depart.

  Freeman followed Robby through the gate. He was only twenty, yet he carried himself with a studied elegance beyond his age. His back appeared to be supported by a steel rod. The natural spring in his long, powerful legs propelled him across the ice with great assurance.

  Building up as much speed as possible in the limited space available to each of the five skaters in the group, he took off forward, lifted his body into the air, but came up just short of completing three-and-one-half clean revolutions. One blade bit the ice, while his free leg swung wide and nearly clipped Robby who moved quickly to avoid a collision.

  “Sorry, man,” Freeman said.

  “Hey, if I’m going to get taken out, it might as well be by a triple axel,” Robby responded, offering a smile.

  He and Freeman had always felt a kinship. Both were pegged by the press early on. Robby was the quintessential technician. A phenomenal jumper who could shut off his emotions and get the job done. More than that, he was the man who nearly beat Glenn Chandler. Should have. Could have. Would have. Robby was determined to never see those words in print again after this week.

  Freeman was the prodigy, naturally gifted, at moments spectacular, but unpredictable. He was also the only black skater there. And so fate had bound them together by a tenuous thread. They were outcasts. Each was a threat to the status quo. The system didn’t like surprises or challenges to its authority. The two sensed it as the other skaters and coaches shot undisguised looks of disdain at them. They wanted to lean on each other and pool their strength, but they knew that in their world getting too close was dangerous.

  “You know what these guys remind me of?” Freeman said as he bent at the waist to retie a lace that didn’t need adjusting. “The cancer ward in a hospital. Nobody wants to make friends because you know it’s only a matter of time till they’re gone.”

  “I’ll miss you,” Robby said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Freeman added, returning his friendly jibe. “But what I want to know is… which one of us is going?”

  Brody noted that most of the men went all out, trying to intimidate the others with their arsenal of jumps, while Robby merely traced the outline of his program, inserting an occasional jump, but mostly walking through what would later be more complex moves.

  A head game? he wondered. Or is he hidin’ somethin?

  He felt a pair of eyes trained on him. He turned to see Willie Wasser.

  “Damn. I wish he’d stop sneakin’ up on me like that,” Brody mumbled.

  “Browdy. Come. You work on Glenn.”

  As Brody stood to leave, every head turned back in unison.

  “Do you know Glenn?” a woman asked.

  “No. But I think were about to get acquainted.”

  “Oh my God,” she cooed. “You’re going to have your hands all over him? Give his buns a squeeze for me.”

  Wasser scanned the women.

  “Hey, girls,” he said with a grin and a wave of his liver-spotted hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Wasser,” they responded in unison.

  “Why you not home with your husbands?”

  “Because they don’t look this good in tight pants,” one answered, high-fiving a friend.

  The group cackled. Brody left with their raucous laughter ringing in his ears, not sure if he should be amused or horrified.

  The practice continued with little more than the sounds of blades scraping the su
rface and the occasional spatter of applause at a particularly well-executed jump.

  “Forget it! I can’t do it!” screamed a young man, hammering the tip of his skate into the wooden boards.”

  Carol cast a knowing smile at the scene. Robby’s days of adolescent tantrums were long over, though one precious remnant of the boy she had devoted herself to for the last seventeen years remained. The finely tuned body of the world class athlete before her was what everyone else was concerned with. Only she noticed the shy grin that after all they had been through still escaped after a look or positive word from her. As fleeting as it was, it was worth more than any medal he could win.

  Robby inhaled deeply, happy something, anything, had ripped away the smoky curtain that had temporarily enveloped him. With his hands peacefully holstered at his hips, he floated in random circles, masking the fact that he was concentrating. What made that jump better than the last fifty?, he wondered, as he scanned an icy road map of grooves and gashes for an answer.

  Carol snuck a quick look at the judges scribbling on their pads, then brushed aside a neatly trimmed layer of wheat-colored hair and squeezed the back of her neck, waiting for Robby’s return from the dark corners his thoughts escaped to during those silent moments. She was divorced, nearly fifty, standing in a cold, damp ice rink as she had every day for as long as she could remember, and couldn’t imagine any other place she’d rather be. All she wanted at that moment was to know what Robby was thinking, what the judges were writing, and to slip into a warm, vanilla-scented tub as soon as practice was over.

  He was her creation. From the moment they met when he wobbled onto the ice at the age of ten and refused to leave until he had learned his first jump, they could see into each other’s souls. Now when it counted most, there was a wall between them. She had never asked him the real reason he had returned to amateur competition. It didn’t matter. If he wanted to dig ditches, she’d hold the shovel for him. She just wanted to be a part of his life, wherever it took him.