Gold Medal Summer

by Donna Freitas

  I take it from her, the material soft from years of washing. “I guess everyone in our family is feeling generous today.”

  “Did Mom show you the painting?” Julia asks.

  “You knew about it?”

  “Well, she showed me after I guilted her about you.”

  “I got all teary,” I confess.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I nod. “I can’t believe she made it, after all that resistance.”

  “Mom’s not completely oblivious.”

  “I guess not,” I say.

  Julia looks at the clock. “It’s time you got in there and started warming up. Show Angelo that you mean business.”

  I take a deep breath, in and out. Regionals is here. Help me, Nadia. I reach for the door handle but Julia stops me. “You can’t get out like that!”

  “Like what?”

  “Put on your shirt. You’re going to march in that arena like you own the place.”

  “What, is the shirt magic or something?” I ask hopefully.

  “It is. At least, I always thought so. It never failed me.”

  “No. I guess it didn’t.” I take off my warm-up jacket, replacing it with Julia’s famous T-shirt. It fits perfectly. “So? How does it make me look?” I twist around so she can see the back.

  “Like a girl who’s going to go in there and win today.”

  “Thanks, Julia,” I say and give her a big hug.

  “Don’t thank me. Just own those routines.”

  “Okay.”

  “And good luck with Coach.”

  “Okay.”

  “And one last thing —”

  My eyebrows arch, waiting to hear what comes next.

  “— give ’em chills, Joey.”

  I smile. “I’ll try.”

  “There is no try,” Julia says.

  “Sure thing, Yoda.”

  Julia puts her hand on my shoulder one last time. “Show the judges the Joey Jordan they’ve been missing all this time. Make them forget about their jobs.”

  “I will,” I say, and I mean it this time. Then I get out of the car and go inside, psyched up, head held high, ready to kick some serious rival butt.

  The arena is huge. Two tiers of seating, the back rows so high and dark I can barely make them out. In the center are the events, the runway for the vault down the entire left side, the floor to the back, the bars next to the start of the runway, and the beam to the right. People are already warming up. A giant scoreboard hangs from the ceiling like an upside-down pyramid. A big college basketball team normally plays here, but today the names of the teams participating in Regionals scroll across the bottom and top in lights.

  I watch my competition race by.

  WARWICK TITANS

  HARTFORD ARIELS

  NEWTON TWISTERS

  BOSTON GYMNASTICS ACADEMY

  VERMONT ELITE GYMNASTS

  HANOVER TIGERS

  JAMESTOWN GYMCATS

  The board may as well say SARAH WALKER over and over again, because she is all I can think about. As the name of each gym appears, there are a few scattered cheers from the spectators filling the stands.

  A few more go by before I see

  GANSETT STARS

  Whistles come from one section in particular, on the bottom tier to my left. Then I hear “Pasta power!” and I want to die.

  There’s a cluster of Gansett Stars parents sitting together. My dad is waving and my mother next to him is chatting with Trish’s mom. My father means well, I tell myself, and simply wave back. At least he’s here.

  “Nice shirt,” says someone walking by.

  I remember that I’m wearing Julia’s tee. Immediately I straighten, shoulders back, chin up, and walk over to the spot where my team is gathering to begin warm-ups, prancing like I own the place.

  I’m ready to talk to Coach.

  Coach is nothing if not cool when he sees me.

  “Joey,” he says, his voice flat.

  Stay calm, I tell myself. “Hi, Coach. There’s something we need to discuss.”

  Angelo crosses his arms, the muscles bulging, his jaw set.

  I refuse to be intimidated, so I take a deep breath and say the speech I’ve been working on, with everything that’s been swirling around in me for what feels like forever. “Coach, I’ve been one of your gymnasts for more than half my life,” I begin. “And I am grateful for your total devotion to our team and for turning me into the best I can be in this sport — for the fact that you demand no less than this from each of us.”

  His eyes soften a little — enough that I see. He nods.

  “But one of the things you train us to be is independent. We may win as a team, but that win is made up of individual performances. I can cheer for everyone else, but when it’s my turn to go up on an event, I go it alone. You’ve taught me that after I stick something on the low beam, I should know to go up and stick it on the high beam without you having to ask. You’ve taught me that training in the gym at practice isn’t enough, and that to truly make it, I must also train on my own. That to succeed at gymnastics, I am in charge of my own destiny — as my coach, you can only take me so far. But more than all of this, you’ve taught me to trust my gut when it comes to pushing myself to a new level, one that’s beyond everything I’ve achieved so far.”

  Almost there, Joey! You can do it.

  “And that’s where I am now,” I say finally. “This summer I knew I was ready for something different, something that would push me like never before, and even though I know you don’t agree with what I’ve done, I hope you realize that without your coaching over the years, I never would have had the confidence to do this, or the independence and motivation to follow it through.” Even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I realize that they are true. “And I know, I mean, I really know, that today, if you let me do my new routines, they will win me gold.”

  Coach’s arms drop to his sides. “Joey,” he says quietly, but that’s it.

  So I try one last thing. “You demand our trust, Coach. And now I need you to trust me — to trust my gut. Please.” I close my eyes.

  Wait for the verdict.

  Angelo sighs.

  The silence feels like it lasts a thousand years.

  Then: “I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this …”

  I open one eye, hope beginning to surge inside of me.

  “… but all right, Miss Jordan. I’m going to trust you on this.”

  Everything about me is suddenly bursting. My heart hammers with joy. “Really?!” I squeal.

  “Yes, really,” he says.

  I throw my arms around him in a huge hug. “Thank you, thank you! You won’t be disappointed! I promise!”

  Coach lowers me back to the floor. “You’d better win gold.”

  I’m bouncing, I’m so happy. “I will, I will!”

  “Calm down, Joey,” he barks suddenly, that familiar demeanor returning in a flash. “You need to focus. You can’t win without total focus.”

  “Absolutely, Coach. Yes, Coach,” I say, erasing the glee from my face even though I can’t erase the feeling inside, and I run off to find Maureen and tell her the amazing news.

  Maureen is thrilled. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day!”

  “I know! I’m going to make you proud,” I tell her.

  She squeezes my shoulder. “You will. I know it too.”

  “I feel like a winner today,” I say, then smile big.

  “There’s my girl,” she says, then, “All right, time to go warm up on bars.”

  “Sure thing.” I slip out of my warm-up pants.

  I’m ready. Really and truly. I know I am. I jog over to chalk up and meet Trish.

  “Joey,” she practically squeals, looking around the arena. “I can’t believe we’re finally here!”

  “I know! This is the biggest meet so far in our careers.”

  We hug, careful not to leave white handprints on each other’s backs.


  The crowd is growing bigger and bigger every minute. Gymnasts are warming up everywhere I look. With Regionals about to begin, I know that this is the moment I’ve been waiting for — that I’ve been training for — all summer. A part of me wants to implode with the pressure, with the way this place and its occupants are practically designed to intimidate me, to psych me out, to separate the gymnasts who can from the gymnasts who cave.

  But the part of me that is strong, that can withstand it all, is so much bigger.

  And I remember the faith that people have shown in me today — my mother’s painting, Dad’s corny enthusiasm, the work that Maureen and Julia put in to get me here and give me new routines, ones that are especially for my kind of talent. And Coach being willing to trust me. Plus the work that I put in to get myself to this place.

  Because in the end, nobody else could get me here today, but me.

  This is exactly what I am thinking when Sarah Walker stalks up to us, smirking.

  “So, Joey,” she says, her voice so sugary I might be sick. She cocks her head to the side. “Do you actually think those sweet little moves you’ve learned on beam are going to wow the judges today?”

  I smirk back. “Gee, Sarah,” I say, my tone mocking hers. “Did you walk all the way over here just to reveal your insecurities to me? How thoughtful.”

  Sarah’s expression is haughty. “You can tell yourself whatever you want, Jordan.”

  “Really? Well, thanks so much,” I say, and whirl around so she can see the back of my shirt. “Can you read that, Sarah? Or are the words too confusing?” As I turn to face her again, I clap the chalk from my hands, creating a cloud of white.

  Sarah waves in front of her face and coughs.

  I stare at her as the chalk settles. “My sister, Julia Jordan — you know, the U.S. National Champion?” I bat my eyes before continuing. “She gave me her favorite shirt for luck today. Funny how she didn’t personalize it with your name for me, hmm? It must be because she doesn’t even know you exist.”

  “Whatever,” Sarah huffs and stomps off to rejoin her teammates.

  Trish looks at me with admiration. “Go, Joey,” she says. “Where did that come from?”

  I laugh. “I think Alex is here with us in spirit.”

  “Is she coming to watch?”

  I shake my head. “She’s still hurting. It’s too soon.”

  Trish nods. “Well, we have our own personal cheering section over there anyway,” she says, pointing toward where our parents are sitting together.

  I turn to see them and I’m met with a huge surprise. Not only are Trish’s parents there, and my parents, and Julia talking to one of my teammate’s older sisters, and dozens of other family members of girls from the Gansett Stars, but standing on the stairway next to their section is someone I definitely didn’t expect to be here today.

  Tanner Hughes.

  He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, his hair falling around his face, his thumbs hooked into his pockets.

  And he’s looking at me.

  Just like I imagined it all summer.

  Trish starts squealing again. “Isn’t that the boy who sometimes waits for you after practice?”

  “Um, yes,” I say, still not quite believing that he showed up at Regionals. To see me. “I guess it is.”

  Trish and I get in line for the bars, and while we wait, I keep glancing to where Tanner is standing, watching us.

  “He is so cute,” Trish says.

  “Oh, believe me, I know,” I agree and smile, ear to ear. Then I look over at him again and give a little wave.

  He nods his head, smiling back.

  And right then, just before it’s my turn to launch into my kip cast handstand that I am certain to perform with more momentum than Coach has ever asked for because my blood is racing, I realize something. Even though boys can be distracting and fill your life with drama, and mess with your focus and your drive and all that stuff that makes them forbidden in the life of an elite gymnast, sometimes they can make you feel like a million dollars, and sometimes their presence at a competition can get you even more psyched up instead of out, and sometimes that desire you feel to show off what you’ve got to impress them can really, truly work in your favor.

  Of course, I don’t have any other times to compare this one to, since this is the first time a boy has ever shown up to watch me.

  I’m just making a guess.

  Because, at the very least, I know that today is one of those times.

  When warm-ups are over, Angelo and Maureen gather us together.

  “Today is the day,” Coach says, “that you go out there and show everyone that you are the stars I know you to be. I want you to shine brighter than you ever have before.” He puts one arm around Maureen to his right and another around my teammate Heather to his left, drawing us closer in. One by one, all of us follow his lead until all our arms are laced together. “We’re going to take home plenty of gold,” he goes on, looking at each of us individually.

  When Angelo gets to me, he stops, eyes on mine, and nods. I’ve trained with Coach long enough to know that this is his way of letting me know that he has faith in me. That he more than has faith in me. That he expects me to win. That today is my day to win.

  So I smile back.

  “Make me proud today, ladies,” he says.

  “Yes, Coach,” we respond in unison.

  “Okay, ready?” he asks us. “One … two … three …”

  And my teammates and I all yell together, “Gansett Stars!” and then clap and whistle and cheer as we pull out of our huddle. Maureen passes around a mirror, then comes around to dab our lips with gloss and brush eye shadow and blush on our faces. Then each of us receives a bouquet of red roses to carry when we march out onto the floor.

  The announcer comes over the speakers, her voice booming throughout the arena. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and gymnasts from all over the northeast, to today’s main event, the New England Regional Championship!”

  The crowd cheers.

  My heart leaps in my chest. I look around at the stands, find my parents, my sister, Tanner, so many people here for me today, and smile. Then I take a deep breath, line up behind Trish, and tuck my bouquet along the length of my right arm, gripping the ends of the stems tightly in my hand, the sweet scent of the roses reminding me of all the other times I’ve done this, gotten psyched up to step out there and present myself to the judges and all those spectators.

  Today, everyone is going to go home remembering my name, Joey Jordan, gold medal champion. It’s up to me to make this happen, and I will. I know it.

  “Good luck, Trish,” I whisper as we wait for the announcer.

  “Good luck, Joey,” she says, whispering over her shoulder.

  And then it’s time.

  “Gansett Stars!” booms throughout the arena, and one by one my teammates and I begin our march, arms swinging, the flowers swishing as we move. Our hands are flicked, toes pointed, chins up, shoulders thrown back, and we wear the biggest smiles on our faces we can manage. We line up one by one in our team’s spot on the floor exercise, surveying our competition, acknowledging the judges, then we wave at the crowd with our left hands. When the cheering dies down after the final team is announced, the arena hushes with anticipation.

  Regionals is about to begin.

  Standing on the podium to receive a gold medal

  is like a dream I’ll never forget.

  For a few minutes I got to share that space with my heroes —

  all the girls who were there before me,

  and all the girls who will follow after.

  It’s amazing, getting to be a part of history like that.

  — JULIA JORDAN,

  U.S. National Champion

  So far, things are going all right.

  Just all right. My vault was fine, with a score of 9.15. Bars was fairly good, actually, coming in with a 9.20, and it’s possible I’ll take bronze, which gives me some
confidence that I’m still a real contender for All-Around.

  And now everything is about to change. Because I’m up next on floor.

  Classical music tinkles from the speakers as Jennifer Adams does a very solid, very standard, very boring floor routine. She doesn’t need floor to medal today, though. She’s already taking home gold on bars. Sarah Walker has a silver on vault, unless someone else manages to get ahead of her, and this shockingly tiny girl from the Newton Twisters who pulled a Yurchenko layout full — she’s taking home the gold.

  Jennifer Adams does her final tumbling pass — a very high front tuck step-out into a round-off back handspring double twist — followed by a couple of steps and a leap, and then she drops dramatically to the floor in a tuck as the music ends. The crowd cheers nicely but not wildly. Another ripple of clapping erupts around the arena as a girl from Vermont Elite dismounts on beam, followed by another as someone else finishes bars.

  I’m up.

  Maureen leans in and gives me a squeeze. “Remember, Joey: poise and style and flair. Look like you’re having the time of your life.”

  “Okay,” I say to Maureen, and take a deep breath. I acknowledge the row of judges and begin my march out onto the floor. Screams of “Go, Joey!” from my teammates echo behind me. I hear a “Yeah, Joey! You can do it!” from Julia and a “We love you, Joey Jordan!” in unison from Mom and Dad. There is polite clapping throughout the rest of the arena, but no more than that.

  And why should there be? No one has had any reason to pay attention to Joey Jordan before today. Or even so far today. So far, I am only above average. Like Julia said, I need to show everyone what they’ve been missing.

  I hear one last “Go, Joey!” This one’s from Tanner.

  And I smile. That was just the thing I needed to hear.

  I stop when I get to the far left corner of the mat, right near the white lines marking out the boundaries, and get into the starting pose that Maureen and Julia tweaked until they thought it was finally perfect. I wait for the music to begin.

  Then it does. Before I can get any more nervous or any more psyched up for this, my floor routine is happening, and not only happening but practically over. Floor routines go so fast. Between the first bars of my fantastic music and the last, I really do have a blast. I dance and fly like never before, and the smile never leaves my face — not because I want to impress the judges, even though smiles certainly help, but because I am honestly and truly in my element. My leaps soar, my tumbling passes are perfect, my flexibility impresses the crowd, I hit every single hand flick and head nod, and I pose like I am born to do this.