Routine

The same tinny music repeats itself for the hundredth time over a mostly clear loudspeaker system resonating throughout the busy gym. Occasionally the twang of a springboard or the rattling of the bars interrupts the monotonous sound, mixing with the chatter of the parents on the bleachers alternately checking their phones and watching the kids. Down on the floor thirty tiny gymnasts take turns performing a variety of flips, leaps, turns, and dance moves on the four apparatuses while dedicated coaches shoo them from one place to another. The well oiled machine of the meet moves along for the better part of four hours and repeats itself six or seven times throughout the weekend as the teams come and go.

For each little girl, this weekend represents a culmination of years of work, daily practices, and hours of training. Most have given up other hobbies, missed birthday parties, and often skipped vacations for more hours in the gym. Some attend public school, but many do not, opting instead to homeschool or study at the gyms where they spend their waking hours. Their bodies show the wear and tear of their routines with callouses, tape, and braces on hands, ankles, knees, and more. Worn leather grips contrast with new team warmups as they move from one rotation to the next. Each girl glitters and sparkles in a cloud of rhinestones topped with elaborately styled hair, yet simple unmade faces peek out from between the trappings.

A girl salutes, then steps onto the vault runway at the judge’s signal. She runs hard, but her legs seem to tangle under her as she hits the springboard. The thud of flesh connecting with the vaulting table resonates throughout the room as she crumples to the floor. A gasp collectively escapes from the stands as the little body writhes into the space between the board and the table. One mom jumps to her feet, but remains rooted in place. Slowly, she takes several steps down the bleacher stairs glancing back at the other parents who smile and offer support.

The little girl on the floor tries to sit up, the anguish running down her face. Her jerky movements give away the pain she tries to hide. Her mom approaches the fence, but makes no move to enter, silently watching her daughter fight to move uncooperative limbs.

A large muscular coach approaches the girl on the floor. This bear of a man reaches down and swoops her into his arms, effortlessly lifting her like a baby. She clings to him, burying her face in his chest for a moment before looking around the room. He starts to carry her away, but she tugs at his arm softly. He stops, and turns his body sideways as the tiny girl looks at the judges table next to the vault. She raises both arms above her head and with all the decorum she can muster throws out her chest in a sharp salute.

The tinny music plays on. It never faltered despite the drama playing out only feet away from the square taped on the floor. The bars never stopped bouncing and the judges never looked away from their events. Athletes and coaches each lost in their own competitions completed their duties just like they were taught. The girl’s own teammate stands ready beside the vaulting lane, a look of concern on her face, but her body erect and awaiting the judge’s signal. A second coach fills the man’s now empty spot beside the vault and the competition continues. Her mother returns to her seat.

A parent asks, “Was that her first vault or her second?” and her mom replies, “The first.” They discuss the score deductions for failing to vault at all.

On the floor the girl is back on her feet now, the bruise on her chin’s swelling apparent. She’s standing awkwardly, her swollen knee out to the side as she puts on her grips and reaches into the chalk bucket to begin preparations for her bar routine.