Why do I still do this sport?
I cross my arms and stare straight ahead. 7.8. On a front handspring. I shouldn’t be receiving anything lower than an 8.0 on a vault I’d been competing since I was 13. Ridiculous.
Maybe there's a conspiracy. The judges know I'm 22. Or they think I'm a freshman who needs to be broken in with inexplicable start values and lower scores. Either way, I shouldn’t have bothered to compete. Sure, sure. Scores don’t matter. I open my grip bag and yank on the rubber blue wrist bands. Put it behind you, as always. I buckle the chalky straps. You know, you don't have to do this anymore.
Shut up. I know that. I know I'll keep doing it anyway. But right now, I have no idea why.
We stride over to bars. I am not nervous; I am pissed and feel a vague sense of dread. I should not be doing this. I should not be attempting a free hip and only able to eke out a cast back hip circle.
I rub chalk onto my hands as the touch warm-up comes to a conclusion and wish I didn’t have to compete. I wouldn’t even touch bars if we had someone else, if I didn’t have a cleaner routine (or a routine, if only three elements long) than others, if I did not remember how badly I had burned for so long to be able to compete, to be able to flip, to be able to walk.
Jess lands her flyaway and salutes the judges. I walk between the bars and wait for the judge to acknowledge me. Leave out the uprise and instead kip-cast-flyaway-hopefully not land on my face as I did in the warm-up? Missing B, I’m already missing two other B’s, but this will be one less…
I am never this unprepared.
She raises her hand. And the moment I hit the bar, I know exactly what I am doing.
Here I do not have words. I feel myself hitting angles and reacting with the precise balance of aggression and calm. I feel myself leap to the next bar, I am swinging, I am spinning, I am on the floor saluting.
This is why.
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For the first time in my life, I’m excited to compete a beam routine. Beam was my first love, long before I danced in imitation of Riverdance, dramatically struck the floor in time to Speed, tumbled up the “Stairway to Heaven,” and engaged in imaginary sword-fighting pirate duels.
I used to feel invincible on beam, at least in practice. They groaned. I stepped lightly, always lifting my chin and flicking my wrists. They wobbled. I recovered and moved on quickly. They fell. So did I, but when I stayed on, I was on.
Then I changed levels, my hands missed the beam one too many times, and love turned to exasperation turned to separation. When I made myself step across the beam, it was almost a mockery. Remember when you loved beam? When you were good at it? When you weren’t afraid to do things?
Yes.
But this past week, I forced myself to do something new – no, not something that would shock a crowd, but something I had never made myself do before. And I’d landed solidly. Not accidentally. I did it again. Every time, two feet striking the beam and staying put.
My hands begin to sweat a bit as I wait for the judge. No adrenaline, I advise my body nervously. I don’t need the extra energy now.
My hands hover over the surface as if I am about to play the piano. This is between you and the beam.
“Yeah, Diana! SHOW IT OFF!” Mindy shouts and I have to smile as I land on the beam after the press handstand mount.
I land my roundoff and burst into another grin, then recall that I am in fact on beam and not floor. Who would dare show joy on beam?
With every move hit I surprise myself. Switch leap tuck full. Straddle jump tuck three-quarter. Yes. I become a bit more nervous. Stay on – yes! Okay – yes!
And of course by the time it’s necessary to dismount, I pray that nothing goes wrong, swing my leg, flip backwards, hit the floor, take a small step, and salute.
Remember when you loved beam? When you were good at it? When you weren’t afraid to do things?
Yes.
This is why.
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