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 nothing I could do about it—and it killed me a thousand times over.
THE ULNA NERVE IS DIRECTLY CONNECTED TO THE LITTLE FINGER AND PASSES NEAR THE ELBOW. BECAUSE IT IS NOT PROTECTED BY MUSCLE OR BONE, INJURY IS COMMON. IT IS ONE OF THE THREE MAIN NERVES IN THE ARM AND THE LARGEST UNPROTECTED NERVE IN THE BODY. THE ULNA NERVE TRAVELS ALONG THE INSIDE OF THE ELBOW UNDER A BONY PROTRUSION KNOWN AS THE “FUNNY BONE.” SOMETIMES WHEN THIS AREA IS BUMPED, IT CAN CAUSE A SHOCK-LIKE FEELING.
When I was thirteen, my father began to disappear from the family. I didn’t notice this because he often worked late and my focus on gymnastics kept me in an impenetrable world, with only my dreams and goals surrounding me. I knew my parents fought, but I didn’t know to what extent.
During those years, my entire family worked at the restaurant, Giovanni’s Avon Towne House. My father and his two brothers had inherited it after our grandfather’s death—an event that created a giant chasm within my family. What I remember most about my grandfather was a teddy bear he had given me named Oatmeal. Oatmeal was covered in soft white fur with a plaid bow tie and plaid paw pads. As with most gifts we get from people we cannot remember, we somehow take those people’s essence and infuse it into the thing they left behind. Oatmeal was my grandfather.
Unlike my parents, my grandfather seemed to be acutely cognizant of everything around him. His focus frightened me because it was alien to my family’s ways. His death broke the links in the iron-chained fence of my extended family, and the peace we had obtained began to corrode, forever changing the family dynamics.
My brother Michael worked in the kitchen as a prep cook, supervised by my father; my mother was the hostess and manager of the waitstaff; my sister Trish was a bartender; my sister Jenn was a bus girl; and my cousins and aunts were waitresses.
My mother and father worked the same nights and saw each other more than they wanted to. I wanted to work with them, but I was too young. My family gave more importance to working a job than to education or sports. They had an “Old World” work ethic, and if someone didn’t work more than forty hours a week, they were considered lazy. I was petrified of being called lazy, and did anything to avoid being labeled as such.
Growing up in that business made for an interesting childhood. We had to celebrate our holidays on other days. Holidays were the busiest times, and even though we came together as a family to work, we weren’t actually together. The success of the restaurant brought us everything we ever asked for as kids. We weren’t rich, but we had enough money to live comfortably. The difficult side to this was that everything revolved around the restaurant. All of our family conversations were about other employees, and arguments that started at home continued into the restaurant, and those started at the restaurant continued into the home. The building was not just constructed from wood and stone; intertwined into the structure was the mortar of my family’s flesh and blood. It held us together, and it eventually destroyed us.
I
