Jennifer Sey - Chalked Up: My Life in Elite Gymnastics

F OR MY MOM

H ELLO? H I.

May I speak with Jennifer Sey? An unfamiliar voice. Authoritative.

This is Jennifer.

Hi. This is Mike Jacki, the head of the U.S. Gymnastics

I know who you are. Hi, Mike.

I didnt think youd remember me, Jennifer. Its been a long time.

Over twenty years. But I remember.

Im calling because we need you. For an upcoming competition.

I dont do gymnastics anymore.

I know. But youll have some time. A year. It has to be you. Youre the only one with the grace. The poise. It has to be you.

I hem and haw a bit, forcing him to beg me to come back. Eventually I concede. I have to find a gym in San Francisco. I have to lose weight. A lot of weight, about forty pounds. I have to overcome my fear of climbing back onto the balance beam and the uneven bars. Im thirty-eight years old. Is this possible? I want it to be, so I try. But I cant even perform the simplest moves. A handstand on bars sends me crashing. My weakened arms cause my hand to slip under my womanly weight. I land in a heap beneath the high bar, face bloodied from smashing into the fiberglass rail on the way down. My feet, bigger and wider than twenty years ago from giving birth to my two children, dont fit nicely side by side on the beam anymore. It used to feel as easy as walking on the floor, now it sways beneath me like a tightrope, my flat, heavy foot slips with just a simple step and I straddle the beam, coming down hard on my crotch.

I cant do this. Ill have to call and tell them no.

Im such a disappointment.

And then, in a panic, I wake up. I ready myself for a day of work, troubled but wistful for a simpler time.

For years I have wrestled with my young life spent as a gymnast. When the present seems particularly stressful or uncertain, I dream this dream of being called back to the sport. I am so special, so memorable, so unique, that the Gymnastics Federation official needs me and only me. When, in my adult life, have I been deemed so exceptional that I am the only possible person who can fulfill a particular slot? Other than being a mom. And really, even the worst mothers are irreplaceable in the eyes of their children. So that confers nothing special. I must do it, I tell myself in my dream. I will train by myself. I will prove that this time I can do it on my own without the reproachful glare and abusive tirades of a coach guiding my every move.

The point of this dream is not lost on me. When lifes options are either unappealing or unclear, gymnastics still seems the obvious and compelling choice. It harkens back to a time when all decisions were uncomplicated. I did it because its what I did. Easy. The road ahead was well lit and safe. If I persevered, simply followed directions, Id stay on course. Id succeed. And if I didnt, I would not be to blame. It would be the faulty directions that caused my failure.

In my dream, I am reminded of all that was destructive and unhappy about my time toward the end of my career, the physical pain, the woozy light-headedness and hunger, the emotional desperation at having lost the only thing I had ever known. And yet, I also feel anxious because I cant go back. Its an impossibility. I wake in a panic. I must find my way now, as an adult, without anyone telling me exactly what to do.

This storymy storyis not intended to be an indictment of the sport of gymnastics. I was born with a competitive ire and near-manic ambition. Often this predisposition provides an edge in a highly competitive culture. At times, it morphs into self-destructiveness.

Gymnastics was the first excuse for me to turn on myself. I have repeated this behavior throughout my life. In college, my 3.8 grade-point average wasnt good enough; at work, my year-end review didnt earn me a promotion, meaning I might not make vice president before I turn forty; at home, when my son cries, he sometimes wants Daddy instead of me. This self-criticism turns desperate and frenzied, causing a variety of physical discomforts: wrenching stomach knots, heartburn, constipation, insomnia, headaches, infected cuticles from picking until I draw blood.

This is who I am. I am in constant psychic motion trying to better myself, beat myself, win. If gymnastics hadnt found me at age six, I would have found another childhood outlet for these inclinations.

I tried to tell this story in other ways. I shared it in snippets, when pressed, with friends who didnt know me when gymnastics comprised my entire identity. During college, Id have to explain the lost year between high school graduation and the start of my freshman year at Stanford.

What were you doing?

I was training.

For what?

The 1988 Olympics. Gymnastics.

Did you make it?

No.

Upon graduation, with little work experience to boast of, the additional section at the bottom of my rsum listed 1986 U.S. National Gymnastics Champion. In job interviews, this inevitably invoked questions. A former college football player who believed dedicated athletes to be the hardest-working employees gave me my first job because of my gymnastics accomplishments. The interview lasted for two hours, and all we talked about were the parallels between life and athletics.

Plagued by the dreams and roused by the interest of near strangers in my story, I wrote a fictional screenplay. It lacked the veracity required for emotional impact. I made a short film. And still, the dreams came. So finally, I just wrote the whole thing down.

This is a story about the ups and downs of my life as an internationally competitive athlete; as a young girl growing up in a world where underage and underweight girls were looked upon as cultural icons; as a fierce competitor in a culture where second place means losing; as a onetime winner who wasnt going to win anymore.