Every day I woke up at 6:00 a.m., moments after the sun rose, and prepared for war. We marched into the school building like bloodthirsty zombies out to get tortured—not by our teachers, but by each other—as we tore one another apart, flesh from bone. As the blood and goodness bled out, nothing remained but anguish and despair. The teenage mind and social system is an atom bomb wrapped in denim and designer clothes, drenched in perfume and cologne, and steered by an intellect that thinks it knows everything.
I decided not to tell the new students about my gymnastics. I was already filled with self-hatred that simmered daily to a boil, and I couldn’t stand to add to that. I couldn’t allow the teasing to grow, and I had to strategically reinvent myself. I strived to conceal the passion and love for the art that gave purpose to my life. I tried other sports to fit in, but they just didn’t feel right. I was good at soccer, but my deep romance with movement wouldn’t let me go. Like two star-crossed lovers, gymnastics and I were going to die together.
The new kids in school from Norton were more socially advanced than us in every way. We were the good kids suddenly introduced to a pool of new people who smoked weed, drank beer, and had sex. It seemed like heaven and hell were colliding. Sure, we were teenagers, but I think we were more like angels and demons creating a social nightmare while having to learn irrelevant and untenable things for a future that was permanently held above our heads. As much as we tried to study and become good students, curses and evil intentions won over our minds, and the difference between right and wrong became impossible to tell. In our teenage years we were completely powerless over all of that, but I was determined not to fall victim to peer pressure. I had firsthand experiences at home of the destructive and insidious nature of drinking and smoking, and I knew those temptations would pull me away from my Olympic dreams.
High school is an exaggerated microcosm of the world in which we live, and despite my attempts at disguising myself, I could not hide who I was. Everyone knew I was a gymnast. The sides between towns crossed, and the pasts we secretly swore to keep were told. The ridicule I heard made it excruciating to love what I did. The teasing got worse than it had been in middle and junior high school, and everyone at my new school seemed to believe gymnastics was not a real sport. I didn’t bother fighting that perception, and instead drew closer to the invisible world I had created for myself, a thin line between fantasy and reality.
Tara defended me like a Valkyrie against the tormenting monsters, but when teenagers believe something, they cling to it as if all of creation depends upon it. Faith and ignorance are the complete workings of a teenage mind. In addition to that, kids whispered “fag” as I walked past them in the hallways. Hearing that word set me on fire, and all the rage in the world burned through my body. It was the one word that immediately shattered all that I was into tiny, meaningless fragments. It was the one word that took my masculinity and vaporized it. I couldn’t understand their attacks, since I was physically stronger than most kids in my class. How could they call me that? To me, the word fag represented femininity, weakness, frailty, and I had none of those things. Yes, I was short, with a squeaky voice, but this was my first year of high school and most of the other guys my age hadn’t completely matured physically either.
How could they call me “fag” when I felt attracted to girls? I heard the voices in exactly the same pitch and volume in which they were spoken. I got nauseated every time “fag” wormed its way into my ear, and the person I thought I was began to evaporate. The thought of ending my life popped up again. I wanted to rid myself of the torment and teasing. That thought flickered, sharp and smooth, impossible to imagine for real, but still I found it wildly entertaining. Something stubborn inside me carried that idea away, something pure and sacred. If life got bad enough, death would still be an option, but movement owned me and it wouldn’t let me go until it had used my body as its vessel.
I began missing school, skipping Mondays or Fridays, because I needed an extra-long weekend. I increasingly felt sick, and my breathing began to worsen. I was often exhausted to the bone and had a constant runny nose. I was a freshman with three more years of torture ahead, unable to sleep at night because I was manic and desperate. My imagination kept me awake, believing there was something great out there, something magnificent that would change my life forever. I prayed to the moon for answers and waited for the howling winds to take my pain away. But they never did.
MUSCLE IS A BAND OF FIBROUS TISSUE THAT HAS THE ABILITY TO CONTRACT AND MOVE AN ORGANISM’S BODY. THERE ARE THREE TYPES OF MUSCLE TISSUE: SKELETAL, SMOOTH, AND CARDIAC. MUCH OF THE BODY’S ENERGY CONSUMPTION IS THROUGH MUSCULAR ACTIVITY. A DISPLAY OF STRENGTH IS A RESULT OF THREE OVERLAPPING FACTORS: PHYSIOLOGICAL, NEUROLOGICAL, AND MECHANICAL.
Gymnastics is dangerous and can easily lead to serious injury and even death if not carried out properly. We visualize the challenging and hazardous skills before performing them. As athletes, we need to internalize the movement, programming its code into our every muscle fiber. The complex challenge comes after the visualization when we let go of fear and trust our bodies to mimic exactly what we envisioned in our minds, relying on the deities of artistry to meet us halfway and to ensure that our bodies are placed in the correct positions. In order to succumb entirely to this physical confidence, we have to shut down the thinking part of our minds and allow the body to take control. Occasionally the mind awakens, instantly warning the muscles, “This is dangerous! Stop!” When that happens, the body seizes in midair, disengages from all movement, and crashes down to the ground. That was part of our training, and most gymnasts frequently fall. Our reliance on the unknown is critical, but there is a fine line to our physical limitations, and the importance is in knowing the boundaries. Too much faith can make gymnasts believe they can fly like Icarus. And when gymnasts do not heed the warnings of their coach, they plummet, like Icarus, to their demise.
There is a transition from confidence into what I call knowing. To know something is a total absorption of faith into the mind and its vehicle, the body. Once something is understood and conquered in this way, it creates a force we use to perform. This knowing is a perfect harmony between the mind and the body: We know we can’t fly, so we don’t attempt it. Those who attempted flight had disharmony between their body and mind. That power takes years of practice to summon, and isn’t always accessible. Sometimes I would call on the force and nothing would happen. Then there were times when I performed a baffling skill without harmony, but I landed perfectly on my feet and had no idea how it happened. I would launch myself into the air with intention and become entirely lost to centrifugal force and gravity, not knowing which direction was up or down, but somehow I would safely land on the mat.
Getting to the Olympics was all I could think about and all I wanted. I never saw anything beyond that goal. To say I was obsessed is an understatement. I continued to excel in the sport while tightly holding onto my Olympic dream as if my life depended on it—and to me it did. Everyone around me knew this—the neighbors, the kids at school, my teachers, and even my doctors. I knew that if I didn’t fulfill that dream I would be a failure, every day, for the rest of my life.
The old wallpaper in my bedroom had been torn down, and the walls were redecorated with my competition ribbons and medals. I had more first-place medals than any other ones, and they were strung all over the walls, telling the story of a determined boy who had endured the pain and agony of a sport he loved so much. My room was also covered in pictures of my heroes from gymnastics magazines, alongside a few posters of Freddy Krueger.
I returned to the Olympic Training Center for another training camp, and this trip was different from the first one. The young troops of warriors were more fervent and tenacious than before. Their skills were sharper, cutting with precision, and that worried me. It appeared they handled the stress of gymnastics better than I did. Again, I was amazed at how many other outstanding athletes there were throughout our country, other soldiers like myself who would undertake anything for an opportunity to live out their passion and obsession.
My coach, Dan, was my hero and began to take on the role of a