The problem, I realize, is presentation. Her chin needs to be a fraction higher, her shoulders should pull back by two inches. Her posture is stiff and strong, lacking grace. She goes through the motions of each skill in a technically accurate way, but that’s it. She’s moving, not performing. If I could teach her how to do that, she could be a champion.
If. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if anyone can. It’s a lot of pressure.
“What do you think?” Ryan asks.
I get the sense he’s been watching me take her in to gauge my reaction.
“She’s good,” I say truthfully. “Really good.”
“But…” he prompts.
I hesitate. “She could be better,” I admit.
He nods and silently watches his charge work. She squats with one leg extended, then winds up to perform a clunky pirouette with her foot maneuvering inches above the ground. It’s an awkward spin—known as the wolf turn—but the Olympic code of points awards it an insanely high difficulty score, so almost every top gymnast attempts to squeeze it into their floor and beam routines these days. I’m glad the move wasn’t in vogue when I was competing.
“How would you want to train her?” he asks.
“I’d want to see her perform a full routine first, just to get a better sense of where she’s at,” I say. “But already, I can say that she needs to focus on her performance. She’s talented, and her skills are impressive, but she could look a lot more polished. And her tumbling needs to get under control—she needs to stick those landings.”
Ryan nods in agreement, and that gives me the confidence to keep going.
“It all boils down to one problem, really,” I explain. “She needs to be sharper. More in control. Clean lines, solid landings, more intentional movement—that’s what’s missing.”
I pivot to face him, and I’m grateful to see a bemused expression on his face. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. He calls out across the gym, “Hallie, ready to run a routine? Let’s show Avery here what you can do.”
Ryan connects his phone to a stereo system and calls for the other gymnasts to clear the floor. They scatter, giving Hallie a wide berth as she makes her way to a spot a few feet from one corner of the floor. She freezes into a pose with her left leg extended and her right arm above her head. Then, a tinkling flute leads into a sweeping piano melody, and her body comes alive. The structure of her routine is familiar: a few brief dance steps, an impressive tumbling pass, followed by a series of hastily executed acrobatic movements and artistic elements designed to propel her into a new corner of the floor, where she launches into another tumbling pass. The structure repeats again, giving her exactly ninety seconds to pack a lifetime’s worth of training into a single performance.
There’s no denying it—it’s a good routine. But it’s not the kind of show that brings home Olympic medals. Here, too, her posture is rigid; her motions seem rote and uninspired. The elegant music she’s chosen doesn’t fit her style at all.
“How long has she been competing with this routine?” I ask Ryan.
“It’s changed a bit over the years, but basically, she’s been doing this for forever,” he says.
I nod. “She needs an upgrade,” I say.
“New music? New choreography?” he asks, looking concerned. “Now? With less than a year to go?” We both look back to the floor as Hallie lands her final tumbling pass, throws her arms into a dramatic flair, then sinks into her end pose. She holds it for a second, then flops down on her back, chest rising and falling hard with the intensity of her breath. Floor is an endurance test; the best gymnasts make it look effortless, but that’s just an act.
“Yeah, now,” I say. “This is okay, but it doesn’t play to her strengths. And there’s so much to refine. It could be better for her to start from scratch and learn something she loves, rather than beating a dead horse here.”
Ryan grimaces and rolls his neck, letting the vertebrae crack. Reflexively, I rotate my wrists until they crunch and push each knuckle into a satisfying pop. The sport is brutal on our joints.
Hallie joins us by the stereo. She has her hands on her waist and she looks like she’s trying not to appear out of breath.
“What’d you think?” she asks, biting her lip.
“Awesome,” Ryan gushes. “Great height and rotation on the double Arabian; that’s really come a long way. The wolf turn looks tighter today, too. Your left hip isn’t dropping as much anymore.”
His comments aren’t the full picture. Of course her double Arabian had fantastic height—she excels at tumbling, even the forward-rotating flips requiring superhuman power like that one—and she knows it. Her wolf turn was passable, but that’s hardly the most pressing item to critique. I don’t know Ryan well enough to determine if he’s a softy or if he just lacks the gimlet eye necessary to pick apart the subtleties of a women’s floor routine. But either way, he’s shortchanging Hallie. He’s letting her slide by without the grueling feedback she needs. If Dimitri ever saw this routine, Hallie would never hear the end of it.
“Avery? How did I do?” Hallie asks.
She radiates desperate energy; I can feel how badly she craves my approval. I was just like her once.
“That was very good,” I say honestly, steeling myself to be straight with her. “But there’s room for improvement, and I’d love to work with you.”
Her jaw sets with disappointment. “Yeah?” she asks.
She shifts her weight onto one hip and crosses her arms across her chest. The muscular curves of her triceps jut out proudly, and for a split second, a wave of doubt washes over me. My triceps are soft and flabby. Seven years ago, sure, I could do what Hallie just did. I could do it better. But now? Who am I to tell this lean, powerful dynamo how to improve?
Hallie’s hazel eyes narrow, and in them, I recognize a self-conscious flicker. I see her swallow hard. If I’m guessing right, she’s gifted, hardworking, but anxious. I bet she knows her natural talent and ambition can only take her so far. Ryan knows it, too. That’s why I’m here. In my experience, a coach can’t only be your friend—they have to push you, too. Ryan doesn’t seem like the type to zero in on a gymnast’s insecurities and manipulate them into motivation, the way Dimitri did. But if he’s an effective coach on bars, beam, and vault, then maybe I could be the bad cop on floor. Gymnastics is classified as an individual sport, but it’s not really. No gymnast can succeed without a coach shaping them into the best version of themselves.
“Yeah,” I say, straightening up to my full height.
I take a deep breath and try to plaster on the front of calm confidence I used to wear in competitions. I’m out of practice.
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re incredible,” I say. I explain what I’ve already told Ryan. “But your execution is sloppy and rushed. Your landings aren’t clean. Your posture is stiff. Your toes aren’t even one hundred percent pointed.”
“I point my toes,” she fires back. “I’m not a baby.”
I’m stunned into silence. If I had given Dimitri so much sass, I would’ve suffered through an extra hour of conditioning alone.