The Victorian

in Penthouse*

I am famous here. To keep me, the university pays for my tuition, all my meals, and foots the bill on a furnished room. Though a smaller school in Illinois offered similar benefits plus a Chevy Impala convertible, I opted for the large enrollment. Here, I gather more fans.
If I sit in the student union they point me out to their friends. As I strut the streets of campustown, their admiring faces smile at me. Favors abound here: the Athletic Association pulled a few strings so I passed a course I really should have flunked; I pocket the equivalent of a steak dinner for each first place I take; and I ride for free through our brutal winters in taxicabs, warm and pampered. My girlfriends attend all home meets, perched in the bleachers proudly. When I perform in competition a movie camera steadily churns, and during my most difficult moves—a timely instant before the flash of a camera from the Student Daily—I smile; the crowd applauds rapturously. Though several of my teammates who believe gymnastics is a team sport despise me, as long as I continue winning I don’t care what they think.
And so a half hour before the meet begins, hair and jersey straps checked again, I enter the gymnasium dressed in my whites, gleaming and crisp, a warm-up jacket across one shoulder like a toreador. I bestow a slight nod to familiar fans in the stands who call to me, wink at one auburn-haired cutie I’ve seen once before, then stroll to the team bench.
“Greetings, greetings. Rest easy, boys. I’m here.”
I get little response, for my teammates, nervous and preoccupied, fight a tension in muscles they forcefully try loosening. But I, after tossing my jacket on the bench, relax in a smooth, sleek warm-up, stretching like some graceful animal after a safe sleep. Then Iowa enters, a steady stream of white pants and golden jackets. Everything stops when they appear, and for an instant the only sound is the erratic rhythm of their feet slapping the wood floor. Seeing Hatch, I chalk my hands and step to the rings. I jump to them, then pop a gorgeous straight-arm shoot to a handstand, pulling the dislocate high and stretching out so that the momentum carries me up like a great bird. I remain in the handstand for several seconds, pushing my toes to the ceiling so my body holds straight and firm, then I drop through, snap my hips upward and spin a high double-back off the rings.
We meet at the chalk tray.
“Hello, Dan.”
He looks up slowly.
“Teejay,” he replies unenthusiastically.
We shake hands, then he motions with his head towards the rings.
“That was a nice-looking double you did for me.”
“I knew you’d like it.”
“You’ve needed a better dismount for a while now,” he says through a smile. “That straddle-off you’ve been throwing is real garbage can.”
“It didn’t seem to matter the last time we met.”
He flings his handgrips in the tray as his eyebrows crunch together.
“Well, tonight’s another night, isn’t it?” he utters tightly.
Other gymnasts gather near the chalk tray, other tensions mingle in the powdery air.
“Good luck.”
“Same to you.”
At eight the floor is cleared and the meet begins as I slouch on our bench, sipping orange juice with honey. Our team looks terrible. One by one our entire pommel horse team collapses, exhausted, to the pommels. Peterson on parallel bars chokes again on his back-toss Stutz, and poor Coach’s face sours as his hope for at least a respectable showing fades, then disappears entirely.
Disgusted, I consider once again transferring to a better school, but I know I never will. I don’t relish sharing the spotlight for one thing, and though we do have a few good boys and at times the team looks decent, I am, undoubtedly, our brightest star. Even last spring, at the university’s All-Sports Banquet, I was singled out as the newest of the great athletes to emerge from this school. An All-American basketball center and a potential Olympic wrestler were slighted that night because of me, which only adds to my already substantial fears of being assassinated.
Between events I linger on the crowd. Envy appears in their faces. How they long to do what we do! Other men sag miserably beside their girlfriends who watch, excited. I hold within my arms the power to stir their wonder. Some already know this and I love them. Others I’ve never seen before, and though I’m sure they’ve heard of me and are here no doubt to see why they’ve heard so much, I could still pass them on the street unacknowledged. I need their approval, their wild applause, their tribute that pours from those envious eyes.
Soon I shall have it, for it’s nearly my turn.
Up off the bench, I reach for the ceiling, warming all muscles with sleek stretches. Hatch begins the same process, looking away whenever I glance at him. I check my toe straps, then compose myself by fastening my eyes on the dangling rings. When the adrenaline flows evenly, I remove my jacket, take a deep breath, then strut to the center of the floor.
Proudly, as if the meet were already decided in my favor, I approach the chalk tray while excited whispers spread the news. ‘It’s him’ they say. ‘Him.’ I flex when grinding powdered chalk into my palms so that the muscles within my arms appear like knotted rope. A white uniform trimly fits my legs, tapers upward over slim hips (girls don’t make passes at boys with big asses), then arches to a beautiful V as it straps across my shoulders. Believe me, I look terrific.
“Next on Still Rings,” a voice cries over the speakers, “T. J. Phelps.”
Lavish applause and shouts of “Teejay!” follow immediately, and I glance again at Hatch. Watching, he nods once. I thrill as if my veins suddenly run with cool, clean water. I sweep to the rings, get the judge’s nod, and begin.
How I love performing! Envious and entranced, a crowd watches, and for this moment I am the center of the world; nothing but me even moves. My tuned body glides through combinations as sharp as polished blades, settling finally in a handstand as the rings remain still. Easing through a slow roll like underwater motion, I lie back to pull the mighty Olympic cross. The crowd sighs, feasts upon my straining arms. I smile and they cheer, clapping madly. I am a precise gesture of ultimate control, filling the moment with wonder as I soar high above the rings, floating momentarily down again before snapping my hips and spinning the double-back high into the air.
Applause like explosions rips the gym, arouses my teammates who rise to greet me. Excitement totters in the air for a moment while I, like everyone else, focus on the four judges. Serious men scribble notes before speaking to girls beside them who flash my scores. Cheers blast again as high numbers are yelled into the microphone. I want to wave to my fans, to raise a triumphant arm and let them gaze on me for a lingering moment. Instead, Hatch begins and my cheers fade in the rafters.
As always, he 1ooks good. Ever since our high school battles I’ve admired his smooth and silent precision. He barely breathes and I can almost hear well-oiled wheels turn as sockets rotate with a steady click. I turn to the crowd that, having just acknowledged my greatness, stares at him with perhaps the same fascination they watched me. Even my girlfriends. Hatch tunes for a big finish, pulling giant dislocates high above the rings, riding them long and full, then sticking his full-twisting flyaway.
His teammates cheer him wildly of course, and the crowd applauds. I know I beat him but it’s going to be close. I wait an anxious moment before another cheer erupts once his scores are raised. I’m congratulated again as my girlfriends are hugged by their envious roommates while I, steady inside, pretend caring how the team did.
As the meet concludes team totals are announced, but few people really hear, for already the gymnasium evolves into a polite party where spectators descend to the floor and gymnasts join them and conversations arise in the sweaty, dusty air. Hatch approaches solemnly and we shake hands. He tells me I looked good, I thank him, and we part.
Strutting toward me, through any conversations cluttering his way, with nostrils flaring proudly, is Rod Barrick— a white trench coat perched upon one shoulder, the U.S.A. insignia visible over his sport coat pocket. Ten feet away he extends a hand and says loudly, “Hi, Teejay. I’m Rod Barrick.”
We shake hands.
“I know,” I reply. Everyone knows and he knows it.
“You looked real tough tonight.”
“Thanks. Did you enjoy the meet?”
“How long’ve you been throwing a straight-arm giant?”
His voice looms above the gathering crowd, all of them staring at Barrick.
“Not long. I used a straight-arm shoot last year but just got the giant.”
A camera points at him and he freezes, smiling for its flash.
“Well, you looked real tough,” he continues. “Straight-arm giant’s a fine trick.”
I’m about to thank him again when he suddenly leans forward. I, too, lean forward.
“If you have one big trick,” he whispers, “one big trick, no one will touch you in Nationals this year.”
A prickly emptiness drops through my guts like when looking down for the first time from a great height. I lose a breath, straighten up, scan the gym wildly, seeing nothing. I come back to myself, then lean forward again, whispering, “What should it be?”
“That’s up to you. See what fits you best. But if you have one,” and he rocks back again while raising his voice, “and look as good as you did tonight, you’ll win Nationals.”
Heads turn to me, their faces smiling. Admiration swarms about me like bright lights; I shine in the moment. Barrick shakes my hand, winks aggressively, then sails away. I want to pursue and hear it again—this time use the microphone!
The sound of coins falling from pockets of retired gymnasts who have kicked off shoes to throw one good, remaining trick tingles through Barrick’s words repeating in my brain.
“One big trick,” his voice panders as I float from the gym to the locker room. “The National Title!”
Held in a huge coliseum, a gym for giants, Nationals draw tremendous crowds and Wide World of Sports (who show the meet a month later on TV to millions) and Sports Illustrated with their shiny colored photos, and half an issue of Modern Gymnast all devoted to this one meet. I’d be Champ of the Year, Lord of the Rings, and have forever the great walnut plaque with the inlaid gold plate. I dream of winning this, of shining high above them, all other performances dimmed by my luster. If for such triumph I need one big trick, then I’ll scour my brain for a few of the biggest; but as I peel the jersey from my shoulders I know there is really only one.
No one knows who devised it, but we all soon learn a ring man is supreme if he holds the Victorian, the ultimate move on the rings. And we learn one thing more—that it’s never been done. Stories sporadically circulate that someone has done it; less than a year ago I heard that “Lats” Davis from Wisconsin was throwing one, and simply linking a name with the move brings notoriety and a few questionable wins. But the stories prove untrue; they work on the trick for a while but always give up, declaring, as we all know, that the Victorian is impossible.
Suddenly the fluorescent lights sing and the smell of oranges and steam garnish the air. All the little hairs on my neck shiver and an orchestra spills sweet music—for I have a vision! In a vast and silent coliseum I am performing this move, fulfilling the legend built upon so many failures, soaring alone and untouched as angel strings and blissful horns play for me as hot beads from the showerhead blast into my skin.

Two days later and an hour before team practice when the gym is empty, work on the Victorian begins. I shall keep it a secret, for I want the move to be seen unexpectedly, before any rumors sure to arise. And so, once I snap on a jock and a pair of shorts, then dump an orange in the training-room refrigerator, I walk upstairs like the hero in the movies going forth to fulfill some divine plan. I enter to the perfect set; the gym, empty and immense, bleachers pushed accordion-like against a wall, glows in golden sunlight gushing through windows high near the rafters. Here is the setting where the greatest wonder will be done. The rings await me, suspended motionless, waiting to come alive while I stretch and work myself into a light sweat. I have brought with me my own invention, a racing-bicycle inner tube cut into one long strip. I call it the cross machine, and it works like this: put one end of the inner tube in one ring, the other end in the other ring. Now grasp both rings with the inner tube under your hands and jump into support position above the rings, arms straight. If you put your feet on the loop of the rubber tube, you substantially decrease your body weight, so you can lower yourself into the iron cross. Gradually increasing the size of the loop by giving the rubber tube more slack means you’re hauling more weight, but since you’re steadily building strength, you soon won’t need the cross machine at all.
Once I loop the tube through both rings, giving it very little slack, I jump into support position with the inner tube behind me, working so it straps across the small of my back. After a deep breath, I lean backwards into the position of the Victorian. I float on my back, the rings remaining at my sides at a forty-five degree angle from my body until I resemble an inverted jet plane. Staring at the rafters, I remain motionless, holding position for the full, slow count of three. Once I’m familiar with this new position, I give the cross machine a bit more slack, though the first few adjustments make little difference and I still float nearly effortlessly. I give it a few more inches and a few more after that, but when I rock into position this time I strain instantly as the skin around my neck seems about to tear. Pain sears the back of my arms as my eyes blur and swell gigantically. I crash to the mat, exhausted. I wait for the sparks to stop flying in my eyes before standing up, but once I do, I grow dizzy and, about to puke, sink back in a heap. After another moment I drag myself to my feet, then mark this spot on the rubber tube with a thick line of chalk. Pulling in several more inches of slack, I jump back on the rings and lean into position. My face shivers and I feel the muscles in my arms and chest unraveling, but I can hold position the full three seconds and more before collapsing to the mat. I’m wasted but soon my teammates will arrive, so I throw one Victorian, and then another, and try for a third while staring at the ring cables through eyeballs bulging from their sockets.
Three nears; time to leave. A chalk-dust cloud that I have stirred puffs thinly in the gym’s golden heights, and only my footprints have disturbed the fine white powder covering the floor, my secret kept within this gym belonging just to me. I slip through a door and past the locker room filled with my teammates, their voices echoing like across an indoor pool. I rest on the padded hospital table in the training room while slowly eating my orange. As I finish, Crazy Billy enters, a parent’s concerned scowl across his craggy face.
“You haffin drouble agin?”
“Nope,” I say, sliding off the table. “Just resting.”
I return to the gym, gaudy now with buzzing fluorescents, throbbing with the team’s workout.
Weeks pass, and during that time, an hour a day, I throw the Victorian. I push myself until my hands burn from the constant friction and the backs of my arms ache like they’ve been pounded with a sledgehammer. Occasionally I want to stop just for a while, to rest or simply let my hands cool until practice begins. Instead, I imagine Hatch working out or a face not mine on the winner’s block at Nationals, and so I keep pushing, and every day I grow stronger. Blue veins in my shoulders push to the surface, muscles grow stronger beneath. An extraordinary power swells within me as the slack on the cross machine begins increasing.
But while some muscles strengthen, others seem to break down, and twice a week I must take whirlpool treatments on my shoulder. During each session I stare for a dismal half hour at the other whirlpool bathing a basketball player’s knee. He’s had surgery once already and the hot water bloats his scar and his leg turns mucus green; he straps it in a vicious harness before hobbling away. I emerge from the whirlpool, nauseous from the hot, swirling water, and though this eases the pain in my shoulder only until the next practice session, nothing can be done, save a slower pace, for the burning stabs of calcium deposits deep in my elbows.
Practice never varies. Over and over, for the entire hour, the rubber tubing straps across my back as I ease into the Victorian and build the needed strength. While my aching body simmers for a moment, I gaze through the special rings edition of Modern Gymnast, flipping past pages of photographs, exercise ideas, and a batch of meet results to pause on the centerfold. It is a penciled line drawing of the Victorian performed by Big G, whose exploits we sang in ballads on the bus:

In his freshman year he came out for the rings
And found he could do all sorts of things,
Shoot-hands and giants and Olympic crosses
Our gymnastics team will take no more losses With Big G, Big Gymnast.

His muscles bulge like a comic-book Hercules, he wears a Greek warrior’s tunic, a visored helmet, shin guards down to his pointed toes. Effortlessly, with his cocky smile, he holds the Victorian above the caption “The Impossible Dream” written with foamy clouds. With my destiny spread before me, I lean closer on my elbow as a scalding flash slices through the tendons to my hand. I jump back, rise, slam the damned elbow into a padded wall. Angry and invigorated, I return to work, insisting my body bear the pain. The day arrives when the cross machine hangs at the spot I had marked with chalk nearly a month before. Once I rock into position, my shoulders, elbows, the backs of my arms all feel stabbed with white-hot pins. I quiver horribly and bite so hard I know my teeth will shatter, but I hold it, I hold it, and celebrate by forcing myself through this for another half-hour.
The season continues, and because of these additional workouts my routine improves remarkably. I remain undefeated while predictions arise regarding the school’s potential champion, and one afternoon a reporter and photographer appear at team practice. Coach greets them appreciatively, but they are reckless and disrespectful, singing, “All the monkeys aren’t in the zoo.”
“A team picture,” the reporter announces to the gym. “We need a team picture.”
Coach herds us together.
“Everyone in a line,” the reporter demands but the photographer can’t get that in a frame. “Okay, you four at the end, down on your knees in front of the rest.”
Coach repeats the order, hurrying us into position. The camera flashes while the reporter checks his clipboard.
“Phelps,” he cries. “We need one of Phelps. Which one’s Phelps?
He looks up. “Are you Phelps? Are you?”
Coach pulls me to one side while scattering my teammates. The reporter glances at me and shoves the photographer my way, then returns to his clipboard. “Okay, one of T,” he writes while speaking, “J,” and he looks up disinterested, “Phelps.”
I fix my hair, check my jersey straps, and, flexing slightly, gaze past the camera, proudly filled with my secret destiny. “What’s the T. J. for?” the reporter asks. “Tomato Juice?”
A click, a flash, and, business done, they speak among themselves as I stand there, ignored. The reporter talks flippantly to Coach while glancing about the gym, so I stalk to the rings, snap myself to support, and await his careless gaze to fall on me. When it does, I extend my arms to a perfect iron cross. He continues talking though his eyes remain on me, suspended in air with muscles like spun metal. The photographer fumbles with his camera, then snaps off several pictures, but even when the camera drops to his belly I remain solid, holding the cross. My shoulder cramps tightly and the pain in my elbows becomes burning razors slicing towards my hands, but that damn reporter shuts up and watches, amazed. I smile slowly. The photographer tiptoes devoutly forward and takes another picture; the reporter stares, spellbound, and I remain in this position, making sure he remembers.
Work on the Victorian continues. While slack on the cross machine increases, sunlight remains longer in the gym; I’m running out of time, with Nationals less than two weeks away. I begin a final push, though I’m in constant pain now, even when I’m not on the rings. A dull ache like a fever settles in my body, the whirlpool treatments are beefed up, I pop Darvon after every practice to get me through the night. And I always smell of muscle rub; clothes smell of it, bedsheets, too, and, at unexpected times, a girl friend. I hate parts of my body as if they weren’t really me, only obstacles somehow, attempts to hold me back. In spite, I push even harder, throwing the move again and again, increasing the slack and the constant pain.
Always I grow stronger; what slack there is on the cross machine I know is incidental. I feel capable of magic as a crystal, seething power swarms in my arms, my whole body peaked. The gym stands hushed and golden as I rush through a warm-up and jump to the rings to throw the Victorian for the first time without the cross machine—for the first time ever! Pumped up and ready, I rock back into position as the ceiling spins below me crashing to the mat. I come back from someplace fuzzy and dark to find myself in a twisted pile on the floor, the rings bouncing crazily. I can’t feel my left ear. Standing slowly, wobbling like a drunk, I’m about to spill lunch and hear a distant buzz in my ear, like something broken in my skull. My heart pounds wildly and I take deep breaths, wondering what went wrong. It must have been a balance shift; I did not compensate for the lack of the pivotal cross machine that served like a supporting hand.
As I chalk up, I close my eyes and work my brain until I envision myself performing the move. The image focuses and remains, so I approach the rings, jump to support position, then ease into the Victorian. In perfect balance I tremble, a radiant, screaming strain, gravity all nonsense. Now muscles merge into one molten point until I remain free, in reveling suspension, pushed to the limit no one’s reached before. Oh, I have it, alright; it’s mine.
Great gymnasts are often separated by only a hundredth of a point. Someone may win one day, be edged out the next. The scores of the rest are always razor close and victory is decided not by perfection but preference. With all competitors so near perfect scores one can never be indisputably the best—that is, until now. For with the Victorian as pinnacle to my already formidable routine, I am, without question, the greatest ring man ever. Other great gymnasts will come and go, but my legend will be sung across the land.

Everyday at practice you can see him arrive
He stood five foot six, weighed one forty-five
Awful broad at the shoulders and his middle wasn’t
And on still rings he can do every trick,
Teejay, Teejay, Teejay Phelps!

In my first ecstasy I long to show the move and be acclaimed instantly. But as I gaze upon my hands and feel the wonder surging in my arms, I suddenly turn calm. There are no disappointments at no more worlds to conquer, rather wondrous rest after soaring, alone, to the top of the sky. And now that I have done so, there’s no rush to show it. I shall wait for the perfect moment. I shall wait for Nationals.
But one day as I’m practicing alone, just as I ease into position and all the little hairs on my neck stand edgewise, the door to the locker room clicks. I drop immediately to the mat. Coach is staring at me.
“What were you just doing?”
Trapped in the panic of a shoplifter when he knows he’s nabbed, I manage only to say, “You’re early.”
He flicks the light switch, walks forward, stops, and points to the rings.
“What were you just doing?”
The lights jerk on loudly, the gym glares.
“When?”
“What do you mean ‘when?’ Then. Right then, before I came in.”
“Nothing. A front lever.”
His face settles and an amazed smile begins in his eyes.
“Teejay, that was awful high for a front lever.”
He shakes his head and speaks to some vague figure at his feet.
“So you’re the one who’s been working out. I wondered who it was.”
He lifts his eyes to me in love and wonder. “And you've been working on—”
“A front lever,” I insist. “It was a front lever, Coach. You ought to know rings better.”
His smile catches for a moment and he draws back slightly.
“You spend too much time on parallels and high bar,” I pursue. “You’re not really familiar with rings sometimes.”
“I know enough, damn it,” he mutters tightly, “to know that front lever was high.”
“Maybe a little.” I allow a second to pass: “Why, Coach? What did you think it was?”
His lips pull in, he makes a few indecisive gestures, then turns and stalks away.
“Whatcha working out so much for?” he yells from across the gym. “Y’already got shoulder problems. Want it to fall off?”
He yanks a mat across the floor, then flings it at high bar.
“You got Nationals in two days, Hot Dog, and if you blow that you blow the season.”
And so, keeping my secret to myself, I avoid him as we leave for Nationals. I kiss my girlfriends good-bye, then board the chattered Trailways that lugs us all through a dismal day and into Michigan sometime after ten. No one’s hungry, so after checking into our rooms and storing the gear, we slump to uneasy sleep filled with nervous visions about tomorrow.
At breakfast the next morning we’re all as somber and preoccupied as the night before. Coach eats hardly a bite and lights a cigar stub.
“Well, here we are,” he utters hesitantly.
Some freshman says, “Yup.”
“It’s all come down to this,” Coach continued. “After today, it’s all over.”
We nod solemnly at his words and stare at the drying remnants of egg yolk.
“Just do your best,” Coach says to the chewed strands of his stinker. “Take it easy. Remember who you are.”
Since the team already knows, the reminder depresses them. Nothing is said.
“Anyone want these?”
Two sausages patties appear in the air. No one does, and when the fork clanks to a plate, a dozen heads snap its way. We finish, board the bus again, and head for the coliseum.
Ah, but Nationals! Even two hours before the meet, the parking lot bustles with cars and scurrying spectators and dozens of neatly parked buses. The coliseum, a grand, saucered structure atop a cement plain, sucks in people through its gaping doors and spills them into the arena—a garden with a lofty dome towering above shiny wood, a great tan pond where gymnasts whirl and excite the swelling crowd. And what a locker room: spacious, carpeted navy-blue, rows of lockers the size of coffins and painted gray. I find one, slip from my clothes, then unwrap my gorgeous uniform. Heroic, portentous music plays as I don crisp, eggshell-white pants, the snug jersey with the gold crest. In the washroom crammed with gymnasts, I brush back a few hairs, align my jersey straps, then gaze into my own eyes brimming a fine fire, the strong, green eyes of the greatest ring man ever. With my warm-up jacket draped across one shoulder, I enter the lofty gymnasium where I’ll show the multitudes the ultimate performance.
The floor spins with skirted girls and suited judges, cameramen weaving black hoses, and more than a hundred gymnasts from across the country. I must wait in long lines before my chance to warm up on the rings, and while waiting I nod into the resigned eyes of the many ring men I have beaten; tonight the poor bastards haven’t a chance. Only a few places ahead hunches the bulky back of “Lats” Davis, his jersey tugging across his thick shape.
“Hello, Lats.
“Hiya.”
“You’re looking strong.”
“Aagh.”
And he is; probably threw a back lever as a freshman in high school. He’s strong enough for any trick, even the Victorian, but he’ll never hold it since he thinks, in his muscled mind, that the move can’t be done.
Suddenly I feel really sick. I’ll never know how I overlooked it, but I realize now that when I show this move, and do what all thought could not be done, I’ll have cleared the way for others to get the Victorian too. As the line for rings grows thinner, leaving only those dozen with a chance for medals, I worry how many of them will hold the Victorian the next time we compete. “Lats” for sure, and a few others, no doubt. Strength seeps from my body, leaving only the aches and not enough power to clench a fist. Inevitably, I run into Hatch.
“Ready for today, Teejay?”
“Yea, ready.”
His body brims with such energy he can’t remain still.
“What are you throwing?” he asks.
“About the same.”
Then, in afterthought, “You?”
“About the same. Straight-arm giants.”
“Oh.”
“Got them right after your judges let you beat me.”
And there’s always that. Without exclusive ownership of the Victorian, I will be even with them again, haggling it out time after time, unsure of victory, unconvinced by defeat. I imagined all that was over, but here I am with the impossible fact that what I’m about to do actually puts me back where I started, back with the rest of them.
The gym tilts like a funhouse floor once the meet begins, but I manage to land on the team bench, wade through the national anthem and all those introductions. Alright then, so they get the trick. Tonight I’ll win big, thrill the multitudes, fulfill the legend. After all, that was the point of all this, wasn’t it? Well, wasn’t it?
But as the meet continues I still feel so weak, and a tangible knot bulges in my chest as another event concludes. It’s all moving too fast, allowing me no time to think, as if those months that separate me from the rest of them just can’t wait to get at me. My shoulder may not even last another season. And those whirlpools still to sit in. And my damned elbows. Suddenly it’s time for rings.
Hatch prepares; a moment later, I begin, too. I try working for a rhythm to flow through my arms down into my hands, but the knot inside won’t untangle. Adrenaline rushes unevenly and nothing I can do, not even focusing on the rings, will soothe it. Coach, sensing this perhaps, stands beside me, fidgeting.
“How you feel?”
“I'm okay.”
“Your wrist taped?”
I show him. He contemplates it, is about to speak, gives up, and begins rubbing my shoulder.
The gymnasium hushes as Hatch approaches the rings. He mounts with his usual pull-through to a cross, pulls to support, presses a stiff-stiff to handstand. I've never seen him look better. Even Coach stops rubbing my shoulder as Hatch sails through a perfect giant, clean and exquisitely slow. When he pops his full-twister, his teammates explode even before he hits the mat. Somewhere in the crowd’s applause Coach turns to me.
“You can beat him, you know.”
I know.
After Hatch’s scores are raised I hear my name loud through speakers, fix a dry smile on my mouth, and try strolling coolly. But it’s a ploy. I’m nervous as hell. My body just won’t settle and my hands, as I chalk up, are clammy-wet. For one mad moment I consider not going up, simply walking back to the bench and sitting down, conceding the whole thing. Anything to remain untouchable, anything to stay the greatest.
But then it comes to me, something divine stirring the gym with fresh winds. Heavy clouds sweep to the rafters where they turn thin, then vanish, and as if weights upon me dissolve, I leave the ground and rise to solitary heights where I’ll always shine like one great star. I remain at the chalk tray while uneasiness jitters the crowd and Coach moves toward me, but I’m fine now, for I know how to remain supreme. I’ll have to do without the crowd’s acclaim as well as this convincing though temporary win, but I’ll always have the certainty that I am the greatest—and so be forever the only one holding the Victorian, for I will not show it. I will not show the Victorian at all.
I can finally approach the rings, get the judge’s nod, and begin. I throw a very fine routine, each moment solid and controlled, but where the Victorian belongs I simply roll through and into the next move before dismounting. I receive much applause and my teammates congratulate me, but while they look anxiously at the judges I know already that Hatch has won, his own teammates swarming him at the sight of my scores.
“Why?” Coach asks, his eyes incredulous. “Why didn’t you show it?”
Through Hatch’s fading cheers I tell him, “I want to keep it for myself.”
He sighs deeply, turns, and slumps away. After gathering up his warm-up clothes and clipboard, he moves from the gym with the rest of my team, and soon the floor empties and the crowd disappears with their noise through passageways. All the lights shut down save for one golden floodlight at the dome’s peak, glowing in the dusty air where the rings hang motionless, waiting for me. The air sways with a single note, plucked in a distant corner of the golden coliseum as I approach the rings and perform, for no eyes but the disinterested glance of a cleanup crew, the most singular routine. I soar in great loops through wondrous giants, sailing so high and lofty I can never be touched. I glide and churn with amazing power when, somewhere, voices sing as I roll past the pain and ease to the Victorian and hold it forever, loosed from competition’s tangle, before spinning the double-back way into those golden clouds.

*illustration by Helene Guetary