leapt from the car and rushed into the gym to greet my teammates and competitors on the blue sprung floor. That always felt awkward, because during competition we were no longer teammates or friends, and we all felt that division between us. Our playful camaraderie dissolved when we entered those battlefields, preparing to tear each other apart. We said hello to one another but had to fight the compassionate part of us that is human, holding on to our shields of armor like Titans. Quietly we stretched, warming up for the six events in men’s gymnastics. Structurally, the equipment we knew from daily practice remained the same, but the atmosphere was altered at the level of competition. We had come to know each apparatus as well as our own bodies, but on competition days the merciless equipment became unapproachable and unyielding.
The judges, coaches, and parents who watched from the backbreaking bleachers never saw the underlying levels of stress and rivalry. To them it looked like we were “playing” gymnastics, but to us athletes, our humanity came down to those fine moments, forcing us to ask ourselves, “What are we made of?” The gymnastics apparatus appeared to have its own agenda and demanded respect by throwing us off, causing injuries, and displaying how man was inferior to those solid structures. However, we came prepared with years of practice, numb from the self-made beatings, and we hung on, combating with all of our love and hate.
After our warm-up, we got dressed in our gymnastics uniforms, marched out to a familiar Olympic melody, and stood tall for the national anthem. The national anthem always startled me because it started the competition, like the gun fired for runners. During the anthem, I prayed for the ability to do my best and to remain injury-free. I prayed for perfection. Once the song ended, it was time to be judged and scrutinized for what I loved to do. “O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.” BANG! Would we ever be the same after that song?
Competition was serious, and we had six rotations in Olympic order: floor exercise, pommel horse, still rings, vault, parallel bars, and high bar. While the athlete before me performed, I engaged in yet another ritual of preparation—I spat on the white palms of my hands to allow the chalk to be absorbed and then kicked the floor, pushing my socks between my big toes, like Japanese “tabi.” I dreaded the moment when the athlete ahead of me came close to finishing. My mouth got dry, the warm color in my face receded, and the gym’s atmosphere became a dizzying carnival of madness and illusion. Fear paralyzed my system even though I appeared to be prepared, as a most unusual condition occurred: the dead bells. I heard this deafening buzzing in my ears until I could hear nothing else. If that was my body’s way of coping with fear, then it was useless. It actually felt like I was having a silent seizure. This phantom sound resembled the noise one hears the day after a loud rock concert. I would think to myself, I can’t go out there and compete; I can barely stand up straight right now; get me out of here. My stomach knotted and my breath collapsed in my throat. Somehow, within seconds, I would have to salute the judges and begin my routine.
The first skill that broke the stillness was the most difficult. I chalked my hands as I obsessed about the details, and raised my arms for the moment that should magically transform trepidation into self-assurance, suggesting to the judges, “I’m ready to do this. Watch me!”
We trained daily to condition ourselves to unconsciously perform the first skill under pressure. Once I engaged with the movements, my surroundings faded away. I had rehearsed my routine in practice hundreds of times, but during competition the sensation of the skills became Herculean. Floating in the sky, I was an imperfect cloud judged by God, filled to capacity but unable to rain. I couldn’t hear anything, not my heartbeat or my breath, just a deafening silence.
In a trance, my body automatically executed my routine. I had no idea if I was performing the way I had trained or if I was making mistakes. A tangible emptiness replaced my energy while the tension mounted, but I continued to battle through each movement, knowing it would be over at some point. Then, within a breath, it was finished. The landing of my feet on the mat made a luscious sound of satisfaction, crashing like a giant ocean wave battering the shore, replacing the stillness. I stood tall and proud, saluted the judges, and then walked off, my heart hammering against my rib cage.
As I walked away, the moment hit me like a thunderbolt. That special and sacred feeling could only be summoned during competition. I couldn’t produce that emotion at practice or at home no matter what skill I acquired. It was like a unique drug. I would get a rush and my stomach would turn to fire. It was the ultimate high. In a competition, that feeling of being a windblown acorn in a hurricane would repeat itself six times during each event. It was a feeling of complete dread followed by a feeling of elation—I am nothing; I am everything. I am nothing; I am everything.
I left for Colorado Springs on a morning flight with some other members of the regional team. The colossal mountains surrounding the Olympic Training Center created a barrier of protection—encircling that sacred temple hidden deep in the valley. Pikes Peak was the mountain towering over the center, and the snow-capped rocks reflected the sun’s fractured light. From where we stood, the peak sparkled and glistened like a white magical blanket covering the Earth. This was Mount Olympus, where the gods came down to watch the mortals compete for their fleeting lives.
As we walked closer to the residence, I could see the five-colored Olympic rings in a huge, grassy field, symbolizing greatness and triumph. Being at that place was beyond my wildest dreams. I knew I belonged there, and the Olympic rings standing outside challenged my future. Would it end here? Would this be the final accomplishment, or would I go beyond this level? We went to our rooms, which we shared with four other gymnasts, unpacked, and met where the Olympic gymnastics team trained. It was an honor to practice on the same equipment that was used by the Olympic team.
As we assembled on the huge blue mat, I realized how many astonishing athletes there were from other states and regions. I studied them and thought, What if that guy over there is better than me? I looked to the next one as panic ran through my core and shook my skeleton. I immediately began to sweat while we lined up like ants on a hill.
We went through two grueling hours of testing, which meant that after we executed a skill, we were then grouped according to ability. Gymnastics is ruthless because one is constantly being judged, watched, pulled apart, criticized, and studied so that one can achieve perfection. The judges and coaches acted like political leaders deciding our country’s future. Would we be worthy to progress to the next stage?
My coach, Dan, instilled an athletic mentality in us to never act conceited or snotty toward other athletes, regardless of whether they were better or worse than us. I absorbed those words and lived by them. It bestowed an honor to the sport much like in martial arts, and I tried to be grateful for my gift of movement. Instead of inspiring me, the diversity of skills I saw performed was deflating. I was consumed with envy and petrified I wouldn’t be able to achieve the same skills.
At the camp I was grouped with six other little daredevils like me. The other athletes were just as dedicated as I was, and for some reason that fact really bothered me. I got to feel that I wasn’t athletically special and not the only person imbued with supernatural powers. That understanding was profoundly humbling, and I knew I was going to have to train harder and longer than any other athlete in the world. I was positive other gymnasts didn’t have my plan. I knew they didn’t want to be an Olympian as badly as I did. But of course, I was wrong. They were as hungry and devoted as I was. We were all starving for a piece of glory, and we would tear each other apart to get it. To the human eye, we were little kids doing gymnastics; but in reality we were bloodthirsty, razor-sharp-clawed demons, ready to win. The blood loss from others would be our victory. We all shared the same desire, obsession, and lust.
I decided to make friends with them and to learn everything I could and bring it back with me to Massachusetts. I learned many new skills at the training center, but I was homesick and I missed my sister Jenn, even though we didn’t get along. She was three years older than me. I admired her wildly creative presence and deep-blue eyes, which seemed to be made of starlight, water, and diamonds. I left a piece of my soul under those mountains in Colorado. When I returned to World Gymnastics I continued to practice, but knew there were others who were training like me, tiny warriors sharpening their swords, carving their weapons, fighting with themselves to become the best, strongest, and fastest. There was