Twelve thousand square feet, a virtual bunker, it had everything that jolly Tumbleangels, run by two sweet women both named Emily, didn’t. The color-coordinated foam wedges and cartwheel mats were replaced by mammoth spring floors, a forty-foot tumbling track, a parent lounge with vending machines. All of it gray, severe, powerful.
And she had Coach T., nearly all his energies devoted to Devon, beneath her on the beam, the bars, spotting her at the vault. Barking orders at everyone but Devon. (“She doesn’t need it,” he said. “She just needs our faith.”)
This was the place Devon began spending twenty-five hours a week, before school, after school, weekends. And, because it was thirty minutes from their house and Eric’s work schedule was unreliable, it was often the place Katie and thus little Drew spent four, five, seven hours a day, Katie’s default office, her laptop open, trying to do her freelance design jobs.
But it was impossible not to watch Devon. Everyone watched her.
Katie and Eric tried never to say the word Olympics. But it was hard not to think about. Because it was all anyone at BelStars thought about.
“Once in a generation,” one of the other parents said, watching Devon.
You never think you’ll hear a phrase that big in real life, much less find yourself believing it.
You never think your life will be that big.
Just after Devon’s tenth birthday, Coach T. pulled Katie aside.
“Let’s meet tonight. You and Eric and me,” he whispered so no other parent could hear. “To talk about our girl’s future. Because I see things bright and bountiful.”
And so it was, that night, sitting at the grand dining-room table of his grand home, Coach T. pulled out a large easel pad and showed Katie and Eric the flow chart, punctuated by fluorescent arrows, Sharpied hieroglyphics. It was titled “The Track.”
“My friends, this is a decision point,” he said, perpetually bloodshot eyes staring over at them. “Are you ready?”
“We are,” Eric said.
“Yes,” Katie said. “Ready for what?”
Teddy laughed buoyantly, and then they all did. Then, turning the easel paper toward her, he waved his pen, magician-like, and explained.
“Devon’s on the brink of becoming a Level Ten gymnast,” he said. “The highest level.”
THE TRACK
“And she can top out at Ten,” he said, shrugging a little. “And be proud of herself. Compete in big events across the country. Attract recruiters for a college scholarship.”
He looked at them, that forever-ruddy face, the dampness of his bloodhound eyes.
“Or she can take the other path, the narrow one. The challenging one. The one for the very few indeed. The Elite path.”
E-lite. It was all anyone talked about in the gym. Elite-Elite-Elite. A constant purr under their tongues. The trip of the l, the cut of the t.
“Going Elite means going from competing nationally to competing internationally,” Teddy said. “If this is the desired track, she needs to qualify as an Elite gymnast. First, Junior Elite, and she’s not even close to ready yet. I’m shooting for her thirteenth birthday. Then Senior Elite, the year she turns sixteen.”
All three were silent for a moment. Eric looked at Katie, who looked back at him, trying not to smile.
“An Elite career lasts five or six years, max. But each year, the hundred, hundred and twenty Elites compete to land spots on the national team. From the national team, you are only one step away from…”
Teddy paused, briefly, watching Katie and Eric, letting the moment sit with them.
Then, with his thickest Sharpie, he underlined the words Olympic Team and circled it, and starred it.
The words themselves like magic, an incantation.
Katie felt for Eric’s arm and then began to pull back, embarrassed.
But Eric grabbed for her, clutched her hand. And Katie could feel it, an energy vibrating off him, like sometimes when they watched the meets together, their bodies humming beside each other, so alive.
“Then, God willing, Devon makes the world championship team. And, every four years,” he said (and the way Katie remembered it, they all held their breath), “the torch.”
Eric exhaled, looking down at the rug. “So,” he said, “you see it?”
Teddy nodded once, slowly.
“But you need to commit. Both of you.” He paused. “It takes a family to make this happen. And it takes action. Devon needs to be here at least thirty hours a week, maybe more. We need to get her before she changes.”
“Changes?” Katie asked.
“Changes,” he said, nodding again, grimly this time. Then, in a flash, turning a smile on. “They all change. Become women. Glorious women.”
“Well, you can’t stop that,” Katie said, smiling too.
“No,” Teddy said, laughing with sudden loudness. “Of course not.”
And it happened, just like he’d said it would. Just as the Track foretold.
First came constant, vein-pulsing work, more five-hour practices, more out-of-town meets, countless jammed fingers and torn palms and two weather-beaten cars with blistered tires and dent-pocked doors, Eric’s in the shop half the time, and the credit-card debt ticking up, and a gym that cost almost as much as one of their two mortgage payments.