Chapter 9
“Come on, Matt, let’s go! You got this! Let’s get it! Yeah, baby—nice—that’s it—yes, sir—yes, sir—YES!”
Danny jumps into the air, pumping his fist when Matt sticks the landing on his high bar dismount.
Applause fills the arena, and Matt holds up his arms, chest heaving as he takes it all in; then he points at the stands where Julia and the rest of Team USA are cheering, every last one of them on their feet.
The second he comes off the podium, Danny tackles him into a hug. “Bro, that was the best routine you’ve ever done. I’m so proud of you, man.”
“Thanks, bro,” Matt replies, his voice thick with emotion.
Last week, he’d told Danny that he’d decided Rio was the end of the road—that no matter what happened in the team final, the all-around final, or today’s high bar final, he wasn’t coming back for another Olympics.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he’d said, wincing as he stood up to leave the hot tub.
“Time for Grandpa Miller to hang up his grips.”
Danny’s going to miss him like hell next quad, but he’s glad Matt’s finishing his career with a routine like this, that stick the cherry on top of a near-flawless set. All that’s left is the score, the two of them staring up at the jumbotron, holding their breath and hoping, praying—
“All right, I’ll take it,” Matt says as a 15.366 flashes on the screen, putting him in second place behind a gymnast from Germany.
“Dude.” Danny gives Matt a slap on the back, although it’s too soon to celebrate for real, since there are still five competitors left—including himself at the very end.
But aside from the German, and Danny, only one other person had scored higher than Matt in qualifications: Epke Zonderland.
And a few minutes ago, the Flying Dutchman had come crashing down on the mat, ending his quest for another Olympic medal.
Which means—and Danny doesn’t even want to say it out loud, in case he jinxes it—there might just be room for both of them on the podium.
Matt’s obviously thinking the same thing, eyebrows raised at Danny; but superstitions run deep in gymnastics, and he keeps his mouth shut.
They return to the seating area, a line of folding chairs set up along the wall of the athletes’ corral, and Danny can’t resist a quick look at his phone, rereading the same text he’s read half a dozen times today.
Sasha: Good luck
Sasha’s in the audience right now, camped out in the nosebleeds with the rest of the Russian team.
They’re impossible to miss, thanks to the enormous flag they’ve draped over the railing—a show of support for Ilya, who’d competed in the parallel bars final earlier this afternoon and won bronze.
If Danny squints, he can just make out Sasha sitting next to Kirill, his hair darker than everyone else’s.
Danny’s parents are here, too, somewhere in a sea of Team USA supporters, enough of them to fill an entire section of the arena.
And that’s nothing compared to all the people back at home: the rest of his family and friends, the fans who’ve sent him gifts and good-luck messages, the casual viewers who watch gymnastics once every four years.
Millions of people across the country, their eyes on him, waiting to see if he’ll win gold and glory for the USA.
And so far, he hasn’t won shit.
Matt says no one’s blaming him for the team final (“Bro, that was a fucking disaster, we all screwed up”), and maybe he’s right—but Danny’s the one who’d dropped the ball on high bar, when a hit routine might have kept them on the podium.
He’s the one who’d walked off the mat knowing he’d blown their last shot at a medal, who’d seen his teammates swallowing defeat as they patted him on the shoulder.
Afterwards, he’d tried to reset and move on, but then there was the all-around final, where he’d fumbled his vault landing and almost missed another catch on high bar—mistakes he might have recovered from in a different meet, but not when Kohei Uchimura and the other top contenders were on their A-game from start to finish.
And yesterday, his third attempt at a medal on floor had fallen short with a so-so routine, weak and wobbly on his triple twist dismount.
Fifth place, seventh place, fourth place.
Orbiting around the podium but never landing, Antwerp and Nanning all over again—and the worst part is, he doesn’t even know why he’s fucking up.
He’d felt so good going into the team final, and then that slip on his Kolman had come out of nowhere, as if he hadn’t spent all year nailing that skill in competition.
Since then, it’s been one stupid error after another, missing out on medals that could have easily been his if he’d just repeated his routines from qualifications.
And while no one’s said anything to his face, they’re definitely not holding back online.
Okay, I love Danny but… he’s kind of a mess.
seriously can someone send him a sports psychologist??
Right? And can they do it before the high bar final so we don’t have to watch him choke AGAIN.
“Dude, they’re fucking trolls,” Matt said when he caught Danny on Twitter after the all-around. “Ignore them.”
But Danny keeps reading the comments, even though he knows better, even though they make him feel like shit. Last night, he’d scrolled through an entire Reddit debate about why he sucked, and this morning he’d woken up with a knot in his chest, those anonymous voices in his head.
Overrated. Inconsistent. Failure.
What if they’re right? What if he messes up again today and leaves Rio with nothing?
His pulse races, and he can’t seem to draw in enough air; he realizes he’s rubbing at his chest and quickly stops, hyperaware of all the cameras in the corral.
That’s not gonna happen, he tells himself, trying to take quiet deep breaths so Matt won’t notice.
You’re just nervous. Totally normal. You’ve got this.
“Yo, Danny.” A sharp nudge startles him out of his pep talk, and he looks over at Matt, who’s gesturing towards the podium. “You need to get your grips on, dude, you’re almost up.”
Danny’s stomach drops when he sees the third-to-last competitor, a Brit, stepping off the mat.
He always starts putting on his grips when the person two spots ahead of him begins their routine, so he doesn’t have to worry about being rushed; but now he’s scrambling to pull the grips out of his gym bag, feeling rattled as he shoves his hands through the wrist protectors.
And even though he knows it’s just a ritual, and it won’t really affect his performance, he can’t help thinking it’s a bad omen.
“Damn,” Matt says softly, a split second before the crowd bursts into applause.
Danny glances up at the scoreboard. The British gymnast received a 15.466, pushing Matt’s 15.366 down to third, and it slowly dawns on him what that means.
He looks back at Matt, whose eyes linger on the rankings before he turns to Danny with a rueful smile. Neither of them needs a calculator to do the math: Danny had gotten a 15.800 in qualifications.
“Bring it home, bro,” Matt says, holding out his fist.
Because he’s expecting Danny to win, too.
Everyone is.
But what if I can’t?
Danny forces the thought away, shoving it behind a smile as he bumps Matt’s fist. He doesn’t mention his doubts, or the fact that his breath keeps sticking in his throat and it’s starting to freak him out.
He’s used to feeling nervous before he competes—you’d have to be crazy not to—but this is different.
This is something in his chest he can’t get out, something that’s tightening around his ribcage like a boa constrictor.
The Brazilian in front of him seems to finish his routine in record time, and Danny’s heart is still pounding as he climbs onto the podium, trading nods with the other gymnast; his hands shake as he chalks up, accidentally knocking some of the powder onto the mat.
He smiles at the judges—you always have to smile—but everything inside of him feels wrong, all jumbled up like a laundry cycle, and he doesn’t know why.
The judges must have saluted, and he must have saluted back, because suddenly he’s standing under the bar, thinking Please don’t fuck this up, please don’t fuck this up as Coach Garrett comes up behind him.
“You ready, kid?”
He always asks, and Danny always nods, giving him the signal for the boost. But for the first time since they started this ritual—for the first time ever—Danny isn’t anywhere close to ready, imagines himself saying No instead.
Except he can’t. Once you salute the judges, you have thirty seconds to start the routine, or you’ll get a penalty.
And what’s he going to do, freak out in front of everyone—in front of the cameras—because his chest is doing something weird?
No way. He’s competed on broken bones before, he can handle this. He has to handle this.
Fuck, why can’t he breathe?
There’s no time, no choice except to nod, even though he’s so far out of the zone he can’t see it anymore.
He’s too disoriented, too distracted by everything around him: Coach Garrett’s hands on his waist, waiting for him to jump; the lights above the bar, shining into his eyes; the earsplitting roar of the crowd, Matt’s voice somehow managing to carry over fifteen thousand people.
“Come on, Danny! Bring it home!”
He tries to breathe again. It doesn’t work.
His thirty seconds are up.
He jumps.
For a moment, right when he catches the bar, he thinks everything’s going to be okay.
But as soon as he starts swinging, he knows his grip is off; despite all the chalk he’d put on earlier, his palms are sweating into the protective leather strips on his hands, making them moist and worse, slippery.
Not a big deal in practice, when he can either do an easier turn or just hop down and rechalk; but now he’s on the merry-go-round for real, and there’s no getting off until he’s done.