Grace, Gold, and Glory Page 11

  During the school year, my gym time ran from two thirty to six thirty. So my morning schedule at the Parton place went something like this: Breakfast at nine in the morning (usually cereal), right around the time Missy was back from driving the girls to school; by nine thirty, I was starting my homeschool work up in my room. (Elissa, who was just three and a half and not yet in kindergarten when I first moved in, would curl up at the foot of my bed with her toy computer to copy me as I typed on my MacBook — so cute!) After I’d finished my homework, Missy and I would sometimes hang out and talk, or climb into the Chevy Suburban and swing by Hy-Vee grocery store to pick up some items for dinner.

  Dinnertime — that was an immovable daily appointment in the Parton house. By the time Missy picked me up from Chow’s and we rounded the corner back to the house, supper was usually already in the works. Missy makes a mean ham ball — a kind of mouthwatering meatball that contains a mix of beef, pork, and, of course, ham. It’s got sauce on it, and she bakes it in the oven. It was one of the first recipes she cooked up after I arrived, and I’ve loved it ever since the first bite. There’s just one thing that can make ham balls more delicious — a side of cheesy potatoes. Divine!

  “Who wants to pray?” Travis asked before supper one night, as he always did; the other girls would usually fling their hands up in the air and go, “Me! I wanna pray!” But I was usually too shy to be the one to pray. What if I stutter? I thought. Or what if I say the wrong thing? That’s why everyone looked a little surprised when I volunteered for the first time. We all locked hands, closed our eyes, and lowered our heads. “Thank you, God, for this beautiful day,” I whispered, hoping I wouldn’t stumble over my words. “Thank you, God, for blessing everyone, and help us to accomplish what we set our minds to. Bless this food and our bodies. Amen.” Phew, I made it through that one!

  After dinner, the girls would sometimes play around or wrestle with Travis in the middle of the living room. “I got ya!” Travis would yell out, holding on to Hailey’s ankle. Meanwhile, Elissa, Leah, or Lexi would be squirming to break free of the grip he had on them with his other hand. Sometimes, I’d swoop in to help them break free. “Come on, Lexi!” I’d say, dragging her up by her right arm. A family fight club — so fun!

  In addition to our family times, I often chilled and chatted one-on-one with Travis or Missy. For me, Travis felt like a father and a big brother combined in one — and oh, how I missed John, my sidekick! That’s why I was especially excited when Travis would utter the sentence I looked forward to every couple weeks: “Wanna grab a movie tonight?” He and I saw every type of flick you can imagine, from action to comedy. Though he’s not a big fan of vampires, I once twisted his arm into taking me to the midnight showing of the third Twilight movie. Now that’s a friend! And in the months to come, as my training with Chow grew more strenuous and I rounded the corner toward my goal, I’d have to lean on that friendship like never before.

  After a 9.0-magnitude earthquake and a tsunami devastated the residents of Japan in March 2011, and the resulting nuclear situation filled the air with toxins, the International Federation of Gymnastics officials considered moving the World Championships to another city. They ultimately decided to keep the games in Tokyo. By October, the air quality had become safe again.

  I’d never been to Japan. So when I arrived in Tokyo with the women’s team, the capital was a feast for my senses: Lush green gardens dotted with colorful pagodas. Immaculate boulevards lined with couture shops. The smell of miso soup’s rich broth wafting through myriad homes and high-rise apartments. And people — millions of them, it seemed — sashaying through the streets and city squares. Truly a world away from West Des Moines and Virginia Beach!

  At fifteen, I was the youngest competitor on the US team. Going into Worlds, a lot of people perceived me as the team’s uneven bar specialist. And with good reason: Chow had coached me in mastering the kinds of skills that lifted me high up into the air above the uneven bars. I’d used his techniques to claim the silver medal at the U.S. CoverGirl Classic in July 2011. “A great bar routine is like a beautiful song,” Chow once told me. “It should have a nice rhythm and flow, and it should be as graceful as it is powerful.” A bar performance is passion and lyrical poetry in the form of sport. And it’s as close as I’ve ever come to actually soaring.

  The crazy thing is that I once hated bars. “I suck at bars,” I’d often tell Mom. “I’m never going to be any good at them.”

  “You’ll continue to struggle if you speak so negatively,” my mother told me. She quoted Proverbs 23:7 (“As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he”) and Proverbs 18:21 (“Life and death are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof”) from the KJV. So I started to change the way I thought and talked about the uneven bars. “I enjoy bars and will one day be great at it,” I’d say to myself instead. And over time, I began to believe that. As Chow improved my technique, my performance also improved. What you think, believe, and repeat will often come true for you.

  I awakened on the morning of the competition feeling pretty jittery. Nerves just happen when you’re facing a pivotal competition — and I knew this was my chance to literally show the world what I was capable of at an international meet. As I laid out my purplish-blue leo and pulled my hair into a scrunchie, I asked God for His help. I didn’t get down on my knees; Mom has always told me that God hears our prayers whether we’re standing, sitting, kneeling, or even half asleep. That’s because it’s not about the position of your body; it’s about the position of your heart. As I used little clips to hold back a few disobedient strands of hair, I prayed the simplest prayer I knew: “Lord, you’ve promised to give me strength,” I whispered. “I need that strength today. Amen.”

  Every gymnast on the team was counting on the girl next to her, which meant every routine needed to be superior during team qualifications. I competed in all four events. We were all feeling anxious because we lost our team captain, Alicia Sacramone, who tore her Achilles tendon while we were training beforehand. I placed third for the US, but unfortunately — because of the two-gymnasts-per-country rule — I didn’t qualify for the all-around competition. I was very disappointed. When I mounted the beam for my routine during team qualifications, I could sense everyone in the arena holding their breath, just as I had been holding mine all day. But can you believe I got through the entire ninety-second routine without a single fall? Aside from a few bobbles here and there, my other routines were solid as well. Major exhale!

  That day, God answered my prayer — big time. With a combined score of 179.411, Team USA edged out Russia and China to win the gold. “We did it!” my teammates yelled practically in unison as we huddled and high-fived at the sidelines. The tears I cried that day were born not just of euphoria, but of relief. I hadn’t achieved my ultimate goal — I wanted to come home as the all-around world champion — but I had proven something to myself and others. When the pressure was on, I could deliver.

  I’d accomplished something else as well: I qualified for uneven bar finals. After grazing my foot on the high bar during the routine (hey, it happens!), I placed fifth. Yet the strong bar routine I performed during team finals was still a big hit with at least one person — Márta Károlyi. She noticed just how high I was flying on my release skills, and she gave me a nickname afterward: the Flying Squirrel. At first, I thought, Really? A squirrel? Why not Supergirl or Wonder Woman — they fly, right? Then again, at least squirrels are cute, so I’ll take it! Good thing I made peace with the name. It stuck.

  As our team won gold, I watched the other girls’ moms hugging in celebration. I yearned to have my mother there too! Because the overseas trip was so expensive, she hadn’t been able to afford the flight. I knew that, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. More and more as the months snaked by, I missed her. Terribly. And in a way, experiencing the thrill of an enormous win made the disappointment of not having her there even more pronounced. “God is always right beside
you,” Mom would remind me. But the truth is that I felt alone. Very alone.

  From the floor of the arena that night amid the jubilation, I called Mom. “I’m … all … by … myself!” I sobbed into the phone. “I’m … so … alone!” I was so distraught that my mother could hardly decipher my words. She tried to console me, but I cried even more.

  “Baby girl, calm down and take a breath,” she said. “You know I’d be there if I could. I promise you this: I will never miss another meet. Ever. No matter how much it costs, I will find a way to get there.” Just then, Missy beeped in on Mom’s line, and my mother put her on the line. She thought hearing Missy’s voice would make me feel better, but I began crying again! Once I finally caught my breath, I told Mom I’d Skype when I returned to my room. I did.

  When I arrived back in Des Moines, Mom surprised me with something far more precious than a silver or gold medal: she had traveled to Iowa that day just so she could hold me once more.

  The Conversations

  For the twenty-two months I lived in Iowa, I talked with my father four, maybe five, times. Actually, we texted more than we talked. But after Team USA won the gold at the World Championships in Tokyo, Dad neither texted nor called. He didn’t keep up with my career as a gymnast — which is why he had no idea how important the milestone was. More than anything, I wanted him to pay attention. In my heart, I’d always hoped that he actually cared. I still hope that.

  “Do you want to plan a fishing trip?” Dad wrote to me in one text. “I can’t wait for you to come home.” The crazy thing is that for several years, I’d been awaiting that exact kind of invitation from him. A few weeks after I received Dad’s text, Travis came into the kitchen one morning. “Missy,” he announced, “I think I’ll plan a trip to go ice fishing.” My heart froze. Just hearing that sentence made me miss Dad all the more.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oh, Auntie Em, there’s no place like home.

  —DOROTHY IN THE WIZARD OF OZ

  CHRISTMAS PEEKED FROM AROUND THE CORNER. AS FALL GAVE WAY TO winter and the sycamores stretched naked toward the sky, Iowa grew chilly. The hours of sunlight diminished slowly by the day, making dusk descend far too soon. In just a few short weeks, I would celebrate a milestone. I was turning sixteen.

  “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!” From the ice-filled tub where I soaked my feet every few days, I could overhear the radio tune, one that always made me think of my beloved sister. I absolutely hate soaking in ice, especially when it’s already freezing outside. But when you’re an elite gymnast, an ice tub is just a fact of life: the intensity of the training puts constant strain on the joints. I usually got through the soaks by blasting music in my ears — like “Superstar” and “Enchanted,” or any random mix of hits I could string together on my iPod. But that night, I’d stepped into the tub without my earphones and instead imagined the holiday to come.

  “Let earth receive her king,” crooned the carolers on the radio. Mom, Joyelle, and John had already given me the best gift I could ever ask for; they were flying to spend Christmas in West Des Moines. They’d come for my big birthday and then ring in the New Year with me. As their visit drew closer, I caught myself daydreaming about it during my sessions at the gym. Li was training me on the beam. Chow oversaw my routines on the vault, bars, and floor. Our sessions were increasing in difficulty as the calendar marched toward the Olympic year.

  I loved living with the Partons. Yet nothing could replace the comfort, the familiarity, the immeasurable pleasure of simply sitting around in my PJs with my own family. Or smelling Mom’s matzo ball soup from the kitchen stove. Or curling up beside Zoway and Chan Chan. Across the months and miles, we’d all stayed in touch as best we could: Joy and I would always Skype or call each other after our weekly must-see show, The Vampire Diaries. I talked with Mom just about every day, and she’d usually put John and Arielle on the line. Most of our calls ended the same way. “I love you, Boo Tookie Boo!” (another of Mom’s many nicknames for me). Once we hung up, my mother’s final words still hanging in the air, I missed my family even more.

  “And heaven, and heaven, and nature sing …” The chorus trailed off as I reflected on the time I’d already spent away from Virginia Beach — the rigorous workouts, made far easier by the fun I shared with some of the other gymnasts. Sierra, Courtney, Vicky, Alexis, Nora, Tina— from September to January to December, day in and day out, so many of the girls at Chow’s gym became sisters to me. We trained hard, but we laughed even harder. Some of my teammates had their sights set on gymnastics scholarships; others, like me, were dreaming of an Olympics bid. And as 2011 slowed to a finish with the holiday season, that 2012 goal felt so suddenly close.

  Throughout 2011, Chow gave my skills a complete makeover. Back when I’d arrived at his gym, he’d asked me to forget the techniques I’d learned — not because they were necessarily wrong, but more because he could train me best if we started from scratch using his method. I “forgot” my skills simply by not performing them for weeks at a time; then once the old habits had fallen away, I began with a fresh approach. I was using too much effort to perform my giants on the uneven bars, for instance. Chow taught me how to relax while doing the exercise.

  His approach worked — so well, in fact, that Mom was amazed when she saw how much stronger all my routines had become. “Your technique and new routines are just amazing!” she told me. As difficult as it was to be far away from my family, I had made the right choice to come to Iowa. The upgrade to my skills was proof of that.

  With the Olympics less than a year away, I needed another upgrade — altogether new skills that were harder than any I’d learned before. That meant the skills were also scarier. Do you have any idea what it feels like to master a round-off double back on the beam? Or a double pike dismount? Or an Arabian double front leap combo on the floor? Let me tell you: it can all be pretty frightening, especially when you’re first learning. We gymnasts live with the constant fear that we may fall flat on our faces or behinds, or that we’ll injure ourselves in some irreparable way. In a sense, my gymnastics training can be boiled down to two words: courage and discipline. It takes plenty of chutzpah to remount a beam or bar after you’ve fallen countless times. “The journey of training every day — the hard work, the effort, the improvement, the progress — that’s more important than getting the gold,” Coach Chow once told me. “The victory isn’t just about earning a medal — it’s about winning every single day that you train.” So true — but a gold medal is always nice too, lol.

  At certain times — usually when I was missing Mom, home, and Virginia Beach — my passion and discipline waned. If my heart wasn’t in my routine on a particular day, Chow would call Travis. That happened in November 2011. “You need to come pick her up right now,” Chow told Travis over the phone. “I need you to reinforce for Gabrielle that she has a goal to get to the Olympics.” Once I’d hopped into Travis’s truck, we’d drive around and chat. He knew I was homesick, but he also knew I’d come too far to fizzle out. “You need to stay focused,” he reminded me. “We’re all here to support you. That’s why you need to give Chow one hundred percent.” On most days, I could do that. But on other days, when my training was especially tough, I had this overwhelming desire to just let go of everything.

  Around mid-December, I had one of those days. The World Championships were behind me. The American Cup competition was ahead of me in March 2012. And as much as I enjoyed Missy’s banana nut bread, I yearned to sit at my own mother’s dining room table, elbow to elbow again with Arie, Joy, and John. What would it be like to just forget this whole thing and go home? I mused. I bet I could just live on the prize money I won at Worlds. My feelings even caught me by surprise: How could I consider giving up after all my family and I had fought for? Yet every time I tried to switch the channel on these thoughts, their refrains grew louder.

  One afternoon when I was absolutely beside myself with homesickness, I began drafting a note to my mother on m
y cell phone. “Gymnastics is not my passion anymore,” I wrote. I stopped and stared down at the sentence — six words that could mean a different life for me. It seemed crazy — too insane to say out loud or even think about. A shiver traveled up my spine. My brother, John, is great at track, I thought. I’ve always loved Usain Bolt. Maybe I could swap gymnastics for running. I returned my fingertips to the keyboard and continued writing: “I want to get famous off of running track.” Or maybe not.

  Two weeks after I started that text and one day before Christmas, my family arrived in West Des Moines. I could hardly wait for them to pull into the driveway at the Partons’ house. When they finally did, I dashed out the front door to meet them.

  “Breezy!” Mom screamed as she opened the car door. She ran toward me and scooped me up into her arms.

  “What’s up, Brie?” John said as we embraced.

  Joy and I then hugged for the longest time, both of us suppressing tears. I could cry right now as I remember the moment. It was pure bliss to see my family. That night over dinner, our laughter reverberated from the Partons’ walls.

  Mom booked a room large enough for the five of us at Staybridge Suites. We didn’t have a Christmas tree at the hotel, but Mom had packed our gifts into a suitcase. “Here you are,” she said, handing each of us a carefully wrapped package.

  In the following days, other than a trip to the mall, we didn’t do anything all that special — and that’s what makes my family so amazing. Even if we’re simply sitting around, laughing and reminiscing, it’s still fun — kinda like a comedy hour that stretches into twenty-four of them. Joy, John, and I got a snicker out of watching our mother sweat it out in the hotel’s gym: she’d asked me to help her with a workout plan by becoming her personal trainer for the day, which was the second time she’d requested my help. I’m sure she now wishes she’d given that more thought before she opened her mouth, because I loved making her workouts impossible. “Keep going, Mom!” I shouted as she struggled to hoist her upper half toward the ceiling for a sit-up. “That’s right, Mom,” I said with a chuckle, “This is what I go through every day!”