![]() ![]() I have never met a gymnast who forgets the day she was added to the wall. I held it above any medal, ribbon, or trophy I had ever received. There was something elitist about being added to the 9.0 wall it was a recognition, a spot with the greats, or even just physical evidence of your hard work. Painted red and blue at the back of the gym, a competitor’s name was added after every meet for every score she received of a 9.0 or greater. Janis outnumbered all of us on the famous 9.0 wall. She was our own little inspiration board, a perfection to work towards, a level of achievement the rest of us only accomplished in our dreams. ![]() Each gymnast stopped during her practice at one point or another to watch Janis throw a vault or stick a beam routine. She flew through the air, a blur of ponytail and limbs, and stuck a landing on one of our many blue eight inch mats. In other words, our nationally ranked pride and joy did a really cool trick. To my right, Janis piked a Yurchenko on vault. The process became so automatic that I found my focus drifting again. Buckle one, in the loop, pull to tighten, close. I pushed myself off the low bar and started to buckle my grips around now-swollen wrists. Stains discolored the carpet, brownish splatters that reminded a few scarred gymnasts of landings gone wrong. I thought about its layers, first springs, then wood, foam, and finally the blue carpet and white tape. Across from me, the floor took on a new appearance. I also had a second home, where I grew up and found myself, with about a hundred sisters and a few coaches, or gym-moms as we call them. I had a home, my place of residence, and a family who all shared my last name. I was now twelve years old and living a dual life. The sport had chosen me at four years old and hadn’t let me go since. Both my wrists and their new protectors were too tight, so I leaned my hands hard against the low bar and looked out over the gym. I grabbed each wrist and cracked it before sliding a red wristband onto each. All of that had to change, and it had to change in one practice. After eight years of wear and tear, my old pair had given up, leading me to new wristbands, buckles, stiff leather, and smooth surfaces. I was lucky enough to have brand new, two-buckle grips that had a lot of breaking-in to do. The only way for me to catch my breath at practice was to put my grips on slowly before we began our final event: bars. ![]()
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