Finding Our Balance

by Lauren Hopkins

  “There goes your America’s sweetheart image,” Emerson chimes in. “Good job.”

  “Nah, it’s not like they’ll publish anything about her being a bitch,” Ruby reasons. “Then it gives Amalia license to bring up what a dick the reporter was being. They’ll probably say something like ‘the strong-willed Amalia Blanchard’ or some nonsense.”

  “Yeah, it could’ve been worse,” Natasha agrees. “This is nothing. Just apologize during the post-meet interviews tomorrow night. It’ll blow over.”

  Ruby gives me a high five and I definitely feel a little proud still, even though I feel slightly bad about freaking out.

  “All right, I hate to break up this little party but it’s after 10,” Natasha says, stretching and climbing off of Ruby’s bed. “I want lights out by 11, and up by 7. Gotta keep the routine. We’ll meet for breakfast at 8, lunch will be at 1, and then you need to start getting in hair, makeup, and practice leos at 4. We want to be at the gym by 5:30. The rest of the time is yours, but your ‘freedom’ is limited. Stay in the hotel. Rest. Think about the meet.”

  She, Polina, and Emerson head back to their rooms, leaving me and Ruby to get ready for bed.

  “I know you probably don’t wanna hear it anymore, but how’s it going? Feeling good about tomorrow?”

  “Yep, and for what it’s worth, it sounds better coming from you than from some jerk journalist. At least you actually care.”

  “Yeah, journalists usually hate covering gymnastics because it’s all teenage girls and we’re boring, apparently,” she shrugs. “You know, the standard ‘I just wanna go out there and hit four-for-four’ nonsense that everyone says. So they try to force more out of us by being rude.”

  “I never give lame answers. Like, I was giving her some actual insightful crap.”

  “Whatever, she’s a bitch. Just forget about it. She’ll be up your ass again tomorrow night after you compete.”

  I yawn and get out of bed, change into pajamas, brush my teeth, and crawl under the covers.

  “I’m doing great, by the way,” I offer once settled. “Like, I’ve been all over the place between anxious and confident this week, but after being here and getting in a routine, I feel great.”

  “Good,” Ruby responds, scrolling through her iPad. I think she’s reading. After a minute, she looks up. “The article’s online, by the way.”

  Oh, crap. I get up, hating to leave the snuggly down comforter I’ve nested myself in, and jump over to her bed.

  Seattle locals set for Olympic-sized test

  by Anna Young, Seattle Times

  This weekend marks the first major test for the top elite gymnasts in the United States on their way to securing spots on the 2016 Olympic team.

  After surviving a massive cut at the American Open in San Diego, Calif., this May, 22 gymnasts remain in contention for the chance to compete in Rio. Following Saturday night’s results, this number will be whittled down to 12 who will compete at Olympic Trials, from which the selection committee will select the five who best represent the U.S. team’s needs.

  Three of these prospects traveled to Boston this weekend from the greater Seattle area, including Lynnwood native Amalia Blanchard, a first-year elite who captured the silver medal at the Open, Ruby Spencer, who relocated to Seattle from Iowa when she was 13 to train at the esteemed Malkina Gold Medal Academy but missed out on the 2012 Olympic squad due to injury, and Emerson Bedford, the two-time national and world champion who recently left her gym in Chicago due to contract disputes.

  “The move was the best thing for my career,” Bedford, 18, told the press after a training session on Wednesday night. “My coach [Sergei Vanyushkin, a 2008 Olympic gold medalist for the U.S. men’s team] thought it would help if I kept my distance from the drama in Chicago, and it has. The facilities at MGMA are incredible and my teammates push me to be the best.”

  Though she and Vanyushkin maintain their own training plan, Vanyushkin and gym owner Natasha Malkina, the record-holding seven-time Olympic gold medalist and daughter of U.S. national team director Vera Malkina (who won some Olympic gold of her own for the Soviet Union in the 1960s), work together to ensure the best possible outcome for their elites.

  “It’s been great having Natasha in the gym. Two heads are definitely better than one, so when I’m struggling with a skill and get frustrated with Sergei, sometimes Natasha’s perspective can be a better fit,” Bedford explains.

  Spencer, whose 20th birthday next month makes her one of the oldest gymnasts competing, says she’s enjoyed the break in routine with a new teammate joining the mix.

  “Everything’s gone on as usual, nothing has been a distraction, but there’s definitely more of a competitive spirit,” she notes. “Having Emerson around has kicked me into high gear. I see her training, I see her routines, and it makes me want to work harder so I can stay ahead.”

  Both are ready and eager to compete this weekend, and if all goes according to plan, they’re the favorites for the gold and silver medals in the all-around.

  “It’ll all depend on who has the better week,” Spencer shrugs when asked who she thinks will win. “We’re on equal ground. One day it could be me, another day it could be her.”

  The third gymnast in the mix, 15-year-old Blanchard, is a spirited late-bloomer. She’s not as naturally gifted as her older teammates, and missed out on nationals a year ago, placing just 26th at the qualifier. But she’s a hard worker with an especially strong beam routine, and has a shot at making the podium this weekend.

  “My goal is top five,” she said shyly, slightly underestimating her ability. “I think I can make the top three if I go after every detail.”

  Like everyone else, she doesn’t believe any other U.S. gymnast has what it takes to defeat Spencer or Bedford, but thinks third place is anyone’s game.

  “The race for bronze is going to be super close, though it’s my first senior elite nationals. I’d be happy with anything. As long as I make it to Olympic Trials.”

  All three of Seattle’s hopefuls will have no problem qualifying to trials, which begin in Atlanta next month. The site holds a special significance, as it’s where the U.S. women won their first Olympic team gold medal 20 years ago.

  “Competing in the same arena as legends like Dominique Dawes and Shannon Miller? It’s like a fantasy,” Bedford gushed. “I’ve always admired and respected the 1996 team. They’ve inspired greatness for generations, and it’s an honor knowing part of my own Olympic journey will include a nod to their history-making achievement.”

  “Well, she didn’t quote me exactly, but it’s a billion times better than I could have imagined,” I say after a pause.

  “15-year-old Blanchard, a bitch with a capital B, told the press that no one has a chance against her,” Ruby mocks. “‘Everyone else should quit now,’ the star said, downing shots. ‘Imma whip their asses.’”

  I burst out laughing. “That’s almost word-for-word what I said, actually. But I added ‘so suck it, nerds’ at the end.”

  “Oh, of course, my bad. I love Emerson kissing the 1996 team’s asses. You know in her head she was like, what does this have to do with me, I’m better than anyone who has ever competed, shut your mouth and never speak of such peasants again.”

  “Accurate,” I giggle. Then yawn. I’m exhausted.

  “Okay, bed, sleepyhead,” Ruby yawns back. “Sweet dreams of kicking everyone’s ass tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, you too.”

  I burrow back under the covers, thinking of one line in the article that especially stood out to me – that I “underestimated” my ability. It’s true, I was being modest, but the fact that this reporter with whom I have a love-hate relationship thinks I was selling myself short is nice to hear. It means she thinks I have a shot. I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

  Thursday, June 2, 2016

  64 days left

  This whole day has been spent trying to stay calm and focused for the meet tonight. No one’s talking a
bout pressure, or who we think will qualify to nationals, or any of that nonsense. It’s all light and airy and fun.

  Between breakfast and lunch, Emerson joins us in our room for movies. We watch Stepbrothers and Superbad, both of which I’ve never been allowed to see before but which I found hilarious.

  We don’t really talk, aside from the occasional reaction to what’s on TV. After lunch we nap, I take a hot bath with my favorite Lush bath bomb while reading a Sarah Dessen novel, we paint our nails, and I play games on my phone, which I have on airplane mode so I’m not tempted to text anyone or google myself.

  The meet is in the back of my head the whole time, of course. I’ll randomly think about it, but just as quickly as it pops into my mind, I shove it back out. I’m trying to make myself believe I’m nonchalant, and it’s actually working. The power of suggestion. Or distraction.

  That’s really what I’m doing. Everything today is a distraction. The more I distract my mind during the day, the better I’ll be able to focus tonight. It’s preferable to sitting around worrying all day. I don’t need to go over my routines in my head. I know them. I won’t forget them. It’s impossible. If I make it a big deal, by the time I get to the arena my brain will explode.

  No, better to go in with a clear mind. Nothing can be done in my head, anyway. So the distractions are welcome.

  Around four, Ruby and I commence our meet prep. Gymnastics-ready hair is a sport on its own, especially when Vera requires us to look polished and presentable, preferably with ballerina buns. This requires a gallon of hairspray, roughly 800 bobby pins, and endless patience. The last thing you want to think about in the middle of a meet is your hair spilling down around your face as you tumble. More than being annoying as balls, the strands whipping into your eyes as you spin or flip or swing hurt like hell.

  Luckily I have it down to a science, and it doesn’t take more than 15 minutes to achieve perfection, so I have time to help Ruby, who always gets frustrated with her own attempt. We put on makeup, nothing fancy, but enough to make sure we don’t look washed out on television. Then we tug on our practice gear, sleeveless cerulean Adidas leos with the white stripes down our sides. Yoga pants and team jackets are next, then sneakers, and we’re off.

  After a last-minute bag check – tape, pre-wrap, grips, lip gloss, iPods, earbuds, water, granola bars, energy chews, bananas, competition leos, the essentials – we head downstairs.

  “I hope you had a perfect day,” Natasha greets us. “Feeling good?”

  “Great, actually,” I respond.

  “Amazing,” Ruby grins. “I could get used to this. Relaxing all day and then gym for a few hours at night.”

  Emerson joins us a few moments later. Her hair is a bit snazzier than ours, with a braid wrapping back into her blonde bun, but otherwise we – even Natasha and Polina, minus the leos underneath – look identical in our uniforms.

  Finally, Sergei – in a dude version of our warm-ups – emerges from the elevator bank and we’re off. The walk to the TD Garden is as light as the rest of the day. We chat about how pretty Boston is in the spring, how we can’t wait to try clam chowdah, and how hilarious these accents are.

  When we get to the arena, we flash our credentials at the athlete entrance, walk the long hallway to the elevator, and Natasha surprises us by pushing the button for the top floor. Emerson raises an eyebrow. “Just trust me,” Natasha smiles.

  She leads us to the last row of seats in the steep upper balcony. It’s almost completely empty, aside from a handful of USGA staff and a few photographers bustling around on the floor, claiming their spots. It looks so pristine and holy like this, before the screaming kids and the smell of nachos and hot dogs sully it.

  The TD Garden is like a church in its silent stillness and in our reverie. We take it all in. I imagine the seats full, the crowd cheering as I hit my landings, standing atop the podium with a medal around my neck. A chill runs down my spine and I can’t keep a smile from spreading across my face.

  Without a word, Natasha leads us back onto the elevator. The doors close and we begin our descent back down into reality.

  “I know you all know how important this meet is,” she says once we’ve found our spots on the floor. “I’m not going to remind you. And I didn’t bring you up there to make a silly metaphor about this big arena representing your big dreams or whatever.”

  Ruby laughs. Emerson’s eyes are closed, still taking it all in. I curl my knees up to my chest and hug them tight.

  “I brought you up there to center you. To give you some perspective. You’ve all done big things in this sport, but this is different. It feels different. I’ve been there. It doesn’t matter if you’ve won national or world titles. No one outside the gymnastics world cares about either. But the Olympics, they’re life-changing. You all have this in mind whether you like it or not. It can make you lose perspective. You can lose focus. It’s enough to make even the calmest competitors fall apart. But think about what you felt from way up top. Remember that. Whatever went through your mind up there in the calm before the storm, that’s where you need to be when you compete this weekend.”

  We’re quiet for a minute, breathing in her words like they’re gospel. But eventually, as always, Ruby has something to say.

  “I just hope no one was thinking about their debilitating fear of heights.”

  ***

  Warm-ups go smoothly for all of us. I hit all of my landings, and just as I thought, yesterday’s issues with the double front bars dismount were nothing more than a fluke. Even warming up the full routine, I have no problems. Everything’s as it should be.

  There’s less than a half hour between the end of training and the start of the meet. Ruby, Emerson, and I lug our bags back to the bathrooms and change into our competition leos, also a shade of intense blue but prettier, with matching mesh shoulders and sleeves, a silver and white pattern swirling around our bodies, and a sprinkle of gemstones meant to look like the stars.

  I grab an energy chew right before we head to the tunnel to line up. My group will be called out third, so we hang near the back, leaving room in front of us for the girls who will start on vault and bars.

  “I’m gonna pee my paaaaaants!” Leah is squealing in front of me. Ruby, earbuds in, doesn’t turn around so Leah swings back to face me. “Are you freaking out yet?! Did you see the crowd?”

  I try to play it cool, even if my feelings are closer to matching hers than I’d like to admit. “It’s not so different from the Open,” I lie. It’s like, the opposite of the Open.

  “Well, I’m freaking out. I’m officially losing my mind.”

  “Can you please freak out in your head like a normal person?” Emerson hisses behind me. “Or I’m going to freak out. In a different way.”

  Leah turns ashen. “Sorry,” she whispers, like a kid getting a warning from the teacher. She looks at me, but I stare straight ahead. I feel bad for the little weirdo but I have my own internal freak-out to keep under control.

  Confidence, I think. Have fun. I close my eyes, picturing the view from the top of the arena and it really does work to center me. I meditate on this for a moment, recalling how I imagined the meet from the top, me finishing on the podium.

  Of course, no medals will be determined tonight. It’s just the first of two nights of competition. We’ll get scores tonight, and then a second set of scores after Saturday’s meet. The final ranking is determined by the two scores added together, so consistency is the name of the game. It’s not enough to have one really superb night and then show up looking rough for night two. A gymnast with a 60 one day but a 57 the next night will come out with a decent two-day score of 117, but which single day score do you trust? Was the low 57 a fluke after a bad day? Or was the high 60 a one-time thing?

  Vera’s more likely to consider a girl with back-to-back 58.5s than a single 60, Natasha has explained over and over again, stressing the importance of making our routines look close to identical on both nights. “That�
��s who she’ll want at the Olympics,” she hammered into us. “Someone she can trust to hit the same exact routine every single time.”