Читать книгу Acrobaddict - Joe Putignano - Страница 15

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HEART

THE HEART IS A MUSCULAR ORGAN RESPONSIBLE FOR PUMPING BLOOD THROUGH THE BLOOD VESSELS BY REPEATED, RHYTHMIC CONTRACTIONS AND IS FOUND IN ALL VERTEBRATES. IN THE EGYPTIAN Book of the Dead, THE HEART WAS WEIGHED IN A BALANCE AGAINST THE FEATHER OF MA′AT, A DEITY SYMBOLIZING TRUTH. THE HEAVINESS OF THE HEART PROVIDED THE MEASUREMENT OF SIN. IF THE HEART OUTWEIGHED THE FEATHER, THE POSSESSOR WOULD NOT HAVE A FAVORABLE AFTERLIFE.

The dark hallway opened to a giant indoor tennis court full of gymnastics equipment. The apparatuses looked hazardous, beaten, and weary, reminding me of old-fashioned torture devices used in wars hundreds of years ago. These structures stood like tombstones jutting out of an archaic graveyard, sanctified and solid. The equipment had absorbed the souls of all the athletes who had performed and trained on those devices—each spirit giving the gym more character and stability, transforming the space into its own thriving organism.

I walked into my very first gymnastics class knowing I wanted to be a champion. I heard an ethereal voice that whispered, “This is your fate.” The very thought of beginning my journey there made my heart race and my palms sweat, and created a hypnotic state of determination, desire, and hunger in my nine-year-old brain. My hunger was akin to that of a ravenous animal that had been starved for its entire life, and then freed from its cage to search for food. Only fear rivaled my enthusiasm, as I knew this was where I had to prove to a merciless God that I was worthy of the gift of movement.

I sat in the row of tiny blue plastic seats, anxiously watching the classes. I looked around the gymnasium at all the strange equipment, focusing on the high bar. I couldn’t believe how tall it was, and I shuddered thinking about gripping the chalk-covered steel bar. It looked down upon me and whispered the tales of past gymnasts’ abuse and violence. Their torment, blood, desperation, and drive still stained and smothered the bar. The two tall, red supporting posts formed an invisible gateway to a dimension of endless work, pain, and agony that I would need to endure. That gymnasium would become an orchestra that would flood my soul with music.

The class was trying “aerials,” no-handed cartwheels, coached by a man who intimidated me. He was in his twenties, muscular, serious, and strict. Our class was beginning and I waved to my mother, letting her know I was all right. I wore ridiculously oversized red shorts with my two skinny, chalk-white legs protruding from the folds, and walked over to join the other kids. I had a moment of uncertainty, and looked back at my mom. When our eyes met, she looked down at the book in her lap, secretly telling me, “You don’t need me now; you can do this.” There were only a couple of other kids my age in the class, and they weren’t very good at tumbling. We spent the entire hour rolling on the floor. It was definitely not my idea of a gymnastics class—more like a “Mommy and Me Gymnastics without My Mom” class. I knew I was going to come back, but still, I felt gypped.

I walked over to my mother, feeling underwhelmed at what I had just experienced, and she asked, “Why didn’t you show the coach what you can do?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my bony shoulders.

She asked me if I would show her the flip I had learned on my own. I went over to the corner of the carpeted sprung floor and raised both arms next to my ears like they did in the Olympics. With a running start, I did a round-off back handspring back tuck—a no-handed backflip in a tucked position. I raised my arms again, finishing with pride and confidence, and looked over for my mother’s approval. The coach, whose demeanor had scared me, went over and talked with my mom. I stood on the floor, pretending not to listen, watching the clouds of white chalk blur into the open gym space.

Everything was still. Time had stopped, and I was the only one there watching and waiting for judgment. I heard him ask where I’d learned how to do that flip, and my mom said, “By himself, in the basement. He’s been down there for a month every day after school. He grabs the couch cushions and starts bouncing around.” My mom had a beautiful way of making everything sound playful.

The next day I became a member of the World Gymnastics preteam, and my life would never be the same again. I was no longer a nine-year-old boy; I was to become a warrior. The team practiced more hours than a regular class, three times a week for two hours. I received my first uniform and began training routines to compete against other gymnasts. I couldn’t believe I was on the gymnastics team after only a few classes. I was afraid, but knew my chance to dive into the unknown and release the movements lying deep within me had arrived.

On my first day of team practice, the gym greeted me with the same dynamic presence as the first time I had emerged from its long, shadowy hallway. It was massive, unchanged, and unaffected by times gone by. I knew this world would never change. It would always be man and apparatus, struggling to coexist, making peace and artistry, questioning and mocking physics and the potential of the human body. Like a church, a cathedral, a synagogue, or a mosque, that place held power for the believer, and what it represented would always remain the same. The equipment might change, but the heart of the place would remain like a divine kingdom for seeking athletes. It was to be our Mount Olympus, and we were the chosen gods.

A boy my age was stretching on a large foam mat, saying rude things under his breath in my direction. I was new and not about to confront him. I smiled and started stretching to avoid looking him in the eye. His name was Chris, and he was bigger than me, with an energy that screamed, “Don’t piss me off, little guy; I’ll squash you like a bug.” I disliked him immediately. He was gawky and his skills were choppy. I felt his technique insulted the passion that raced through my veins, but there was something he had that I didn’t: strength. That challenged me because I knew I would have to work twice as hard and twice as long as him to keep up.

There was another boy on the preteam who seemed to be a lot like me. He was quiet, focused, and talented. His name was Seth, and we instantly became friends. Being the same age and at the same skill level, we were placed in the same division for competition. I was happy to find a friend I could relate to, because there was something about Chris that frightened me.

The coach from the day before came over and introduced himself as Dan. I stood there in fear, already ashamed that my strength was less than that of the boy next to me. I could feel Dan had the knowledge and the map of how to get to my physical destination. My body understood his words before my mind could make sense of the movements. Thinking became the enemy. I had to believe in myself, let go of fear, and trust Dan with complete faith that he knew what I did not.

Through gymnastics, the lion born inside me broke out of its cage. I would travel to the end of time to finish what I started, without letting anything get in my way. It became my way of communicating with the God I’d heard about. He was there in the silence, between my breath and beneath my heartbeats, despite my physical pain. It entered me and went through me, peacefully but strong, and I loved it more than anything I’d ever known. It got me out of bed excited to greet each day, and it became the source of my existence. This human art of strength, flexibility, and determination spoke louder than anything else I could hear. My spirit was trying to be free, and this was how I would release it to exist without boundaries. While flying through the air, I found peace within me. I was satisfied. I was complete. I was finished. I was . . . beautiful.