I took the guards off my blades and stepped onto the ice as the coach put my music into the portable stereo system we use for practices. It always sits on top of the boards near the doorway. Under that high roof, Swan Lake sounded tinny. But it didn't matter. I'd been living the music for the last eight months, and I knew it by heart. It even scared me a little because I could never forget that the coach had been skating to it at the Olympics when she'd fallen and lost the gold medal. I'd associated Swan Lake so much with working on my routine that I'd forgotten how lovely it is on its own. The music seemed to tug me out onto the ice, as if by invisible strings. And as I glided along without the weight and darkness of my Zuzu the squirrel costume, I felt almost like I was flying. So I bent forward, spreading my arms like wings, as if I were a real bird. For a wild, heady, moment, I felt like I could do anything, so, lifting one leg behind me, I balanced on just one thin steel blade. I thought of hawks I'd seen swooping gracefully first to the right and then to the left-not to hunt but just for the sheer joy of it. I cut elegant arcs in the ice as I surged forward, leaning to one side and then the other. I had never felt more in control of my balance, now that I didn't have the outer skin of a squirrel shifting in unexpected ways. All too soon, the music ended, and I straightened again and stopped with a grin. The coach asked, "How do you feel?" "Like I could do anything," I said cheerfully. "Good. Try to keep some of that confidence when you skate your routine now," she said and motioned for me to take my place. "Sometimes you look like someone doing long division rather than skating." "I'm just worried about messing up," I said as I got into position. "You've got too vivid an imagination. Don't worry. Don't even think. Just let the music and your body do it all for you this time," she instructed. I tried to shut out all the imaginary calamities and just listen again. Don't worry. Don't think, I told myself. As soon as I heard the first sweet notes, my muscles knew what to do before my brain could tell them. I was starting to enjoy myself when I tried to go into a flying camel spin and wound up doing a nose-dive into the ice. "Get back up, " the coach urged. "Keep going." My double lutz is my other major problem. It always gives me trouble, and although I'd done it successfully in the winter show, I still wasn't landing it consistently. It didn't help either that my feet suddenly began aching inside my too-tight boots. It made me pause just a fraction of a second, but that was enough to throw off the timing of my jump, so I didn't leap high enough and I was barely through my second rotation before I started to descend. I fell hard and swept forward like a human dust rag. "Up!" the coach ordered. "Finish the routine." I once again rolled over onto my knees and turned as I rose. I was sure I had a bruise on my hip now, but I tried not to let all my aches distract me. I completed the rest of my routine, feeling less like a graceful hawk and more like a wallowing hippo. At the end of practice, the coach had me skate my entire routine again, and I tried to recapture the wonder of those first few minutes of the day. However, it was as hopeless now as a groundhog trying to catch a jet plane. Even when I managed to stay upright, I made so many mistakes that I felt like the newest rookie. "Sorry," I panted. "If you tried your best, you have nothing to be sorry for," the coach called as she waved me off the ice. "It felt so good at the start," I said as I moved toward her, "but then I lost it when I fell, and I never got it back, no matter what I did." "Not every skater gets to experience that nice part," she said, "so count yourself lucky. And try to remember what it was like. It'll give you something to strive for." Note: A Flash plug-in version 7.0 or above is required to play this feature. See Online Tips for more information on how to download this plug-in.
|
