Page 32 of Where We Belong
Cheers and applause ring from the seats, pumping me with energy to go through my final motions and twists, and then the music ends with me on my knees, head thrown back, my weight on my hands.
My lips curve in a wide grin. I did it.
Was it perfect? Not at all, but I fucking did it.
I get up and salute the judges once again, then wave at the people clapping before stepping off the mat. I head toward the spot where Andy usually waited for me, but realize halfway there that I’m alone. Brushing it off, I walk to where I left my water bottle, gulping half of it down as I catch my breath. I definitely need to add more cardio to my daily routine if I want to finish this season in one piece.
Two minutes later, I realize I’m still smiling and tone it down. This was just one event. I still have three to go. Still, it was an encouraging start.
Maybe my dream isn’t that out of reach after all.
I have twenty minutes to get down from the adrenaline of my floor routine before it’s time to get ready for the balance beam.
Once again, I wait in front of the beam for the gymnast before me to finish, all the while running through my movements one last time in my head.
The balance beam is not my best, but not my worst apparatus either. I’m a power and strength gymnast first, so the floor and the vault fit me better, but I can always do somewhat okay on the beam.
I’m still reeling from my first routine when my name is called.
I walk with my chin held high and shoulders tucked back, more confident than I was an hour earlier. I salute the judges, then stand in front of the springboard and force myself to breathe, something I often forget to do. Then, I drown out the music. There’s just me and this beam.
When I feel fully focused, I jump on the board and use a front salto to mount, then begin my routine. Under my foot, chalk sticks to the leather of the beam, anchoring me as I go through the motions I’ve been practicing for more than two years. I then move into a split jump followed by a side aerial. My breaths are in rhythm with my movements when I enter the acrobatics section, where I chain a back handspring with a back layout. A few claps come my way as I transition into a series of jumps, which go perfectly. I exhale. This is going okay too. I’m almost done.
I crouch on the beam so I can do a double turn on one foot. This is a movement I’ve always aced, so I move into the spin easily.
Maybe too easily.
Something in my balance isn’t right. I can’t pinpoint it, but as I turn, I feel like I won’t make the second rotation completely. I end up slowing too fast, and can only complete the first half of the second turn. Regaining my balance, I stand back up, shoulders straight. No one noticed, I’m sure. They don’t know what I was supposed to do in the first place.
ExceptIknow, and I can’t brush it off. I think of the points I lost by modifying the movement and only doing a one-and-a-half turn. It might bring me down a position. Maybe even off the podium.
The music from the floor suddenly feels louder, like it’s invading my ear canals and deafening me. I go through a jump while breathing loudly, my landing wobbly.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I need to refocus. It doesn’t matter how many points I’ve lost. I’ll lose even more if I don’t get it together.
But as much as I try, thoughts are racing through my head. I replay the spin. I hear the loud shouts from someone in the audience. The smell of too many bodies in one place fills my nose. I taste bile.
I get into position for my front aerial. After that, I’ll barely have anything left. I get through the arm movements that were choreographed into the routine, all the while subtly cracking my neck. I can do this.
Once my feet leave the beam and I feel my body lift off, I try to focus on every muscle I need to tighten to get through the aerial, but the only thing that fills my head is the memory of how it felt to see the ground coming at me when I fell last year. The fear. The nausea. The cracking noise.
That’s when everything truly goes wrong.
What hits the beam first isn’t my feet, but my ass, followed by my back, and then there’s sharp pain everywhere. Still, I don’t realize what just happened until I look around and see I’m on the ground.
Oh god.
I fell.
I haven’t fallen from the beam during a competition in years. Wobbled, sure, but never fallen like this.
I blink fast once again, this time chasing away tears of shock. No matter how much I want to run away and disappear from this moment altogether, I can’tnotfinish. That’s not what sportsmanship is. So I get back up and climb on the beam, a few awkward claps resonating around me.
Everything hurts as I finish my routine, and while, technically, I do fine, there’s no life in it. It’s useless to pretend this matters anyway. I know I fucked up, the judges know I fucked up, and everyone watching does too. Somehow, the humiliation hurts worse than my physical pain.
