Chapter 52 2014
It started after the short program. The technical base value of my program was five points higher than any of my competitors, and I skated the program nearly flawlessly with the exception of two insignificant wobbles on my landings.
But, true to form, the three eastern European judges on the panel—two of them the same judges who judged me at Worlds—gave me low GOE points—the bonus that reflects how well an element was executed.
On some of my moves, they even gave me negative points.
The deductions tanked my score, and I ended up at the bottom of the leaderboard.
The white trio of snooty eastern European judges epitomized the enemy, and the reaction to their low scores against a skater who looked different was impassioned.
That afternoon and evening, it was all anyone was talking about.
Every commentator and reporter who covered the games weighed in, and the internet blew up.
But the thing that ignited the true firestorm was a post made on YouTube by someone called TruthSayer.
The post showed a split screen video of my short program aside Tina Yu’s, the skater who had won the event.
The words across the top read Be honest, who would you rather watch skate?
Seeing the video cut deep and made me feel wrong in just about every way.
Known for her balletic style, Tina Yu was perhaps the most elegant skater ever to grace the ice.
She wore a wispy yellow dress with silver beading that looked like shimmering rain and skated like a dark-haired Tinkerbell flitting and fluttering around the rink as if sprinkled with fairy dust. Toward the end of the thirty-second clip, the question faded, and new words appeared: “Beauty versus the Beast. The judges made the right decision.”
Seeing the side-by-side comparison caused the loneliness stone to return. TruthSayer was right. I was a stubby runt with no grace at all. It wasn’t just about my face. It was everything about me.
The video went viral, and suddenly, everyone was interested in figure skating and especially interested in Tina Yu and me.
Hundreds of athletes and celebrities gave their opinions.
Maria Lindsey, the principal NBC figure skating commentator and former gold medalist, declared, “Patch is the best female figure skater the world has ever seen. Show me another skater who has landed a triple axel in competition along with a signature move no one else can replicate. No one jumps higher or completes more rotations. She deserved first in the short program, and if she skates clean in the long program and doesn’t end up on the podium, the only reason will be outright prejudice and hardheaded resistance to the evolution of the sport. ”
An Academy Award–winning actress said, “I don’t see what looks should have to do with it.
It’s not a beauty contest. Did we judge Michael Phelps on whether he was better looking than Cullen Jones?
If that’s the case, sorry, Michael, but Cullen gets the gold.
Seriously, the judges need to get over themselves. ”
The problem with her argument, along with everyone else’s, was that, unlike other sports, since its inception, figure skating had been as much about aesthetics as athleticism.
Which meant the judges had every right to give me the scores they did and that Tina Yu rightfully won the event.
I felt terrible for Tina. She was the unwitting villain in the media saga, pitted against me in the court of public opinion.
The following day was the long program, and it turned out bad for both of us.
I skated on autopilot and turned in a performance that was clean, technical, and proficient, but which lacked my signature joyfulness and spunk.
Tina skated flawlessly, her performance impassioned and one of the most beautiful I’d ever seen.
Neither of us got the scores we deserved.
I finished seventh in the long program, which put me sixth overall, and Tina placed fourth, which allowed her to eke out a disappointing bronze. In my mind, she deserved gold.
All I wanted was to return to Prague and lick my wounds.
Everything I’d strived toward for nearly half my life had ended with a fizzle.
I’d made it to the show and had failed. No podium.
No anthem. No medal. I was almost seventeen, which meant I’d be almost twenty-one by the time the next Olympics came around, already old for a woman figure skater, and with my lackluster finish, my career was essentially over.
The letdown was enormous. A giant echoing hole had been left in the place where my adrenaline pump had been, and I woke up the following morning and for a long time stared at the ceiling, unsure of my reason for getting out of bed.