Abbey Numedahl

Handspring

Please come back to gymnastics, Annika.

I know it’s been a long time. I’ve finally graduated college, but I haven’t stopped coaching. Call it penance or bad luck or just life, but I’m still here, waiting for someone to coach with even half your talent. Please believe me when I say that I still think you could be really good. You are squandering your potential by staying away. It’s been six years. You are probably almost 14 now, and I’ve tried everything. I’ve called your parents, I’ve written friendly, “we want you back” form letters addressed from the gym, and once, against my better judgment, I even tried to find you at school.

You never knew exactly what was happening with me, that Saturday morning. The thing is, I think you’re old enough to understand now, so maybe if I could tell you, you would forgive me, and trust me again, and come back, while there’s still time. You could send us both to the Olympics. We could even be friends.

It was a weird year for me, Annika. I was 20 and I was already a head coach, waking up at 7 a.m.on Saturdays to write lesson plans and lead day camps. I started to develop crushes on the fathers of my gymnasts because they were the only men I interacted with about anything but classwork. It didn’t feel normal, you know? I imagined that all my peers were on benders, smoking pot, having sex, with people their age. I wanted to be doing those things.

See, I wanted to quit, scale back my hours, but you kids wouldn’t let me. I would show up two minutes late to start a class, and the little ones would be all over me like a pack of cats, wrapping their little arms around my legs, purring at me. I’d get a substitute so that I could watch my sister’s piano recital, and when I came back, my kids would freeze me out for half the class before asking me why I left them with Jennifer. I’m not immune to these things. Children are very delicate, Annika. But so are adults. I’ve learned that.

You were my favorite, of course. We weren’t supposed to have favorites, but as humans, we must judge. When we first met, I saw something in your eyes. A reflection. You were 5, but god, were you a brain. I could barely out-logic you into learning tumbling passes, and when I did, I felt like a terrible person. Here I was, studying Philosophy, and you were outwitting me. On top of that, I was still trying to convince you to do things that you knew might hurt you. What sort of ethics were those? That whole idea is cracked.

You were 7 that year, the last time I saw you, and I knew that you had to learn a back handspring to make it to competitive team. You would tell me every day that you wanted to be on team so badly, that you wanted to go to the big meets, and have your dad and mom and brother see you compete. I don’t judge them, but it seemed like an honest enough need. I’ve seen your dad walk in, his face in his Blackberry. I’ve seen your mom hurrying you to get dressed while she juggled the baby’s things. You would jump up and down as she held the door, as if you were trying to launch yourself into her line of vision. You only wanted them all to see how beautiful you were. I wanted them to see, too. So I was pushing you.

It was a week before team tryouts, and I hadn’t been able to get you to even try a back handspring. I just wanted you to make the cut, and I knew, knew, that you needed that back handspring. You had a flawless floor routine, you were even doing front tucks, front handsprings, but the back! I think it was the throwing your whole self backwards, into the unknown, aspect of things.

It’s difficult, Annika, isn’t it? You can never really know how it’s going to go, taking such a horrible, thrilling leap of faith in yourself, in the things you cannot see or verify. It can be very rewarding, or very painful. So sometimes, we opt not to try. I understand.

You and I had been at a stalemate for ten minutes, a long time out on that floor, with the big clock ticking and all the parents and other kids watching us. You would say that you were scared, and why you were scared, and I would tell you how to do it, and we would go back and forth, back and forth. I finally asked you, straight out, what was the worst that could happen?

“Well, my arms could miss, I could land on my head, I could hurt my neck—I don’t know if it would break it, but it would hurt—I could land on my elbows and maybe dislocate something, I could step back on my ankle wrong, coming out of it.” The words were weighted as if you were giving me a lecture, a list of things I’d do to you.

I told you that you had my word.

“I will be spotting you. My hand will be under your back. You might miss, but I’ll catch you. I’ve landed on my head with a spot. You get a little starry-eyed, but you recover in a second or two. You gotta try sometime, kid.”

I don’t know if it was what I said, or if we just finally came to some nonverbal agreement, but I could sense your reluctant trust as you set up. You shifted your weight a few times, put your arms up, looked back twice. I nodded at you, and you actually pushed off.

You were only about 45 pounds then, smaller than the others, but there was power in your legs. We’d done drills before, had gone through the checklist over and over. You knew what to do. Keep your arms strong, use your hips, believe in your legs.

There was something innately perfect about how you worked. Like you could calculate trajectory in your head or something, that your long hair flowing behind you in a loop was your feathers, and you were some strange, lovely bird- or moth-girl. I had this feeling that me spotting you was a complete illusion, only necessary for your brain to know there was something between you and the floor. I had this wild idea that there were tumbling passes latent in your arms and legs that would make us all cry, astound us, if you would only do them.

Time felt slow as I watched it happen. When most girls do back handsprings, they look choppy, harsh. But your hands connected with the floor at an exact right angle. Your back created a beautiful, soft arch, which affected me so that I can still recall it in memory today. Your legs sailed over like it was a natural thing, defying gravity, repurposing ourselves for flight.

When you landed safely, your small face was wide with shock. You stood for a moment as if you thought something bad might happen. You looked at me for an explanation.

“You did it!” I smiled, offered my hand for a five.

You were so logical and independent, that it surprised me when you threw your bony little arms around me. It was like someone hit me with a stun gun, and for one moment in that steel concrete warehouse, I didn’t want to be anywhere else. The rest of the two-hour practice, you made me spot you. You did the handspring over and over again, each time with the same precision.

As you were pulling on your coat to go home, you grinned and looked up at me.

“I can’t wait to do it again.”

I said I was excited for you to come back so we could keep working. I think I said how proud I was of you. Then, I wrote, with motherly pride, “Annika” on the list for team tryouts. I was going to write up a Star Gymnast card, but that is when the trouble started. I was distracted because I could hear Jess and all the other college-aged girl coaches laughing, over on the tumbling floor.

They were being really loud, so I walked over. Their faces were craned up at the enormous industrial fans that circled 40 feet off the floor. They were playing this game we started the Friday before, while we waited to start staff meeting, where we took turns throwing our slide-on sandals at the fans. We always wanted the sandal to directly hit the fan blade, to be propelled sideways, into the foam pit.

The party girls, basically everyone but Bernice and me, were telling their tall tales from the week before. You remember Bernice, right? Well, I had this aversion to Bernice. She was 35, single and overweight, and even outside of teaching class, she said “bumper” instead of “butt”. No one normal does that, when they aren’t working with the kids, just so you know. She wore Sketchers, she had a roomful of dolls, and she had no issues with the fact that she was coaching gymnastics into middle age. When I looked at her, I thought I knew how Dorian Gray must have felt when he saw that portrait of himself, all gross and aged. I was horrified that she was me, someday, Annika. I avoided her, but the thing of it is, she was me.

Back then, I was just trying to be friends with Jess. Jess was out every night at the DTD house. She was popular, although sometimes I wasn’t sure why the directors let her keep her job. You might think the same thing of me, now, but I cared about you guys. I honestly don’t believe that Jess cared about anyone. She came into work smelling like vodka. She always had a crier, in every class she taught, and she left the mats in messy piles. I didn’t mind her shortcomings, then, though, because I was studying this thing called social capital. Basically, Annika, it means that you can get something from other people, just by being their friend. This might sound bad, but I thought being Jess’s friend would help me meet guys, find my way with people my age. Shitty, right?

No one was even close to hitting the fan in the game today, so I began trying. I drew my arm down to my waist, and let the sandal swing up, hard. I kept my eye on the blade, even after I released the sandal. It floated up into the air next to the fan, and fell back down to the floor. On the next throw, my sandal flew up, in a perfect, straight line. It hit the fan blade. It made a low thud, and it was lobbed down, like a hunted bird, to the in-ground foam pit.

The other girls cheered as I jumped in and fished it out, comically. I waved it around as I pulled myself up to ground level. We were all impressed to see that the junky plastic strap was broken. I made some big joke about being able to afford another pair on the bullshit money we were paid, though truth be told, Annika, the money was fair. Everyone, except Bernice, laughed. Inside, I could feel the pride starting to bubble in my chest. I liked being laughed at. It was intoxicating.

You’ll do a lot of things to get people to like you, Annika.

But then again, maybe you won’t, actually. That would be quite cool, if you don’t. You don’t have to, you know.

The staff meeting started a few minutes later. We were walking through safety tips that day, and I almost couldn’t control the zingers that were escaping my mouth. We watched a video called Gym Safety, from the Floor to the Door! Safety Officer Sam was the host. If there had been bushes around, he would have popped out of them. He was always teaching a lesson, and they were numbered like they came out of some biblical rulebook. Rule #5: Always make a child WALK off of the trampoline. Rule #10: Always follow through on a spot. Rule #13: Always make sure the mats line up. No cracks, no whacks!

For the rest of the meeting, as we walked around the gym, inspecting, I played the role of Safety Officer Sam. I pretended to chide Brittany for not screwing her water bottle closed correctly. I blew a pretend whistle when Amy tripped on a floor beam. The double entendre involving “no cracks, no whacks” was pretty inane, but Jess laughed. I wasn’t thinking about my words, I was just saying things for the laughs.

I don’t think you’ve ever seen this side of me, Annika. Maybe you would tell me if I’m actually being funny or just mean, stupid.

Anyway, at the end of the night, when we were all putting on our jackets to go home, Jess approached me.

“What’re you doing tonight?”

“Uhm, nothing really planned.” I shrugged. I hadn’t expected this.

She looked around. She didn’t want Bernice to hear, and I knew it because she waited until the heavy glass door shut behind her as she left.

“Well, Britt and I and a few others were going to go to my friends’ house. Rugby players. Interested? Want a ride?”

I held back for a moment, composing myself.

Do you ever picture yourself at 45, alone and childless, Annika? It’s a terrifying image, but I thought these kinds of social opportunities would save me from that. That fear motivated me, in a serious way.

“Yes. Yeah! Count me in.”

The house where this party was held was huge and covered in trash. Eight men lived there, and it smelled like sex and cheap cologne.

Jess offered me some kind of Jungle Juice, as it was called, and I took it. One draw from the drink, sugary, and bright purple, and I could tell I was breathing fire. There were raunchy carvings in the wood beams of the ceiling. They really were horrible, Annika. I didn’t want to think about what they meant, and I’d rather not repeat them here. I can only imagine what Safety Officer Sam would say. Rule #25: Always read the writing on the wall. Avoid jackass emotional idiots, like Rugby players.

Jess began introducing me around to people as “Gina, she’s hilarious.” At first I shook my head, but then I figured out that people laughed when I made some stupid face to be “hilarious,” so I did. I regret doing those kinds of things, now. Don’t play to your social crowd, Annika. Be your sweet, real self, it’ll always serve you better.

The night felt so short. I hadn’t drunk much in the past, and I hadn’t known about the time warp. I don’t remember it all, but I know that I drifted from group to group. Inside, outside, upstairs, downstairs. I played the pong game. I saw no fewer than three bedrooms that were identical, with black lights and Jenna Jameson posters and bunk beds.

I watched some girl named Kacee lift her skirt to show her thong. I was sad for her. For some reason, at that moment, I thought of you, and how I hoped you would never do things like that. I hoped you’d always be excited about going to gymnastics meets, and seeing me. I really thought that. I did.

You might think this is a lot to digest already, Annika, but oh, the night went on. By the time it was 2 a.m., the other coaches I had come with had all vanished. I felt so very out of place, so I poured a drink. I started to talk to a dull-looking tall guy named Jason. God, was I loose. I was drinking the bad stuff too fast. If you ever do start partying, stick to beer. Liquor makes you crazy. That’s not an always or never rule, just something to think about.

He asked me if I was a freshman.

“Naw, sophomore,” I said, my face numb. “Got enough credits to graduate a semester early, though.”

He mentioned that he was 6’8”. Not a typical height for a Rugby player but he managed. Coach was starting him in the next match.

I drank more. We went through the motions, mostly because I felt like I’d be a failure if I lost this one guy who had shown me interest. We talked majors, where we were both from, our out-of-school activities. It grossed me out, how interested he was that I was a gymnast, but I think that I had smoked some pot, which I had never done before. It made me quiet and spacey, and I think I smiled, maybe coyly, on accident.

Rule #55: Always use your voice.

I’m not sure how we ended up in his room. All of a sudden, we were there, and he was touching me and I thought, this is just fine. This is normal and maybe you, Gina, are normal, and won’t grow old, alone, with dolls. But his mouth was too big for me. It was like he was eating me whole, his jaw retracted, threatening to swallow me.

Oh, Annika. The rest is foggy.

The next morning, I could taste the weed in my teeth and the booze on my tongue, and I felt awful at Open Gym, holding the hands of little girls while they walked across the beam, watching kids slide down the yellow slide. The whole room spun like after you do an entire pass of cartwheels without focusing on one spot. I couldn’t stop crying. My voice broke every time I had to say, Please, slow down.

And then you were there. Looking so cute and smiling so big.

“Back handsprings?” You made a little jump when you asked.

No, no. I didn’t feel like I should spot you, no. I knew I shouldn’t.

You were waiting. Every time that I started to do something else, you would hound me.

“Now?” You asked. “Now? Now?”

No. No, no.

I just couldn’t refuse you all day, telling you “no” over and over. I should have, but after a battle that lasted 20 minutes, I agreed. Like an idiot, I just agreed. I thought I might be ok. I used to think, back then, that I could.

I don’t know if you were tired that morning, too, or if you were just so excited to try and succeed again, so excited about team. I have no idea. But we weren’t in our usual synch. You were off and I was off, but really, I was off. I saw flashes of Jason, of me trying to push him off, away. I felt the hollow drum of my stomach churning with hunger and sickness.

There was no setup. You threw yourself and your arms back, hard. I tried to grab you, but I was too late. The drinks and the pot and the jerks made me too late. I panicked when I saw the slow motion video of you, going back. I saw your arms bending, watched as your shoulders betrayed their strength and allowed your whole weight to sink fast, limply, to the floor. I saw your head whipping, your face making deep contact with the ground. The crumpling of your body as it fell through the air, the moment your head snapped back. I knew that you’d at least break your nose, but I told myself no, no, it will be alright. My heart thumped, hard, as if that would save your neck.

You over-rotated bad, Annika, and it was my fault, because you were 7 and we usually do a little checklist of things for you to think about before you go for a big, new move, but I was so, so tired and so, so sick and I wasn’t inhabiting my head. You lay there, still for a second, like you were dead.

And then, I heard you. You cried out loud and from so far down. I knew we were supposed to let broken children lie there on the ground until a paramedic came, or until they moved on their own. That really is Sam’s Rule #3. But I couldn’t. I gathered you up in my arms. I think they all thought I was crazy; I didn’t care. I kissed you on your long dark hair. I told you I was sorry. I cried like I was the one all mixed up and wounded. I hated myself, and I still hate myself, because you were blameless and hurt, your neck all jammed up and your nose bleeding and broken and your wrists sprained. I did it.

And I knew that you would never trust me again, which I had worked so hard for. And that I would lose you as soon as I let go of your little body that morning. So for just seven more minutes, until they came to check you out, I wasn’t letting go.

Return to Volume 7.2

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