Alana Smith
I was 7 when I started gymnastics.
Ballet just wasn’t for me. I had too much energy for slow and steady and graceful. I needed to run and bounce and flip and bend.
I remember the distinct smell of the gym. Chalk and sweat and equipment — specifically, the floor. We’d sit and stretch toward our toes, not being able to reach far at first, but the longer you held that painful position, the tiniest bit further you could reach. The splits were the ever-elusive goal.
Out of the four events — bars, beam, floor and vault — I excelled most at bars. Mostly because that was where I felt most confident and consistent. Bars were much less scary than the beam and required less flexibility than the floor exercise. And this is where I would score the highest, leading to blue ribbons or the occasional medal being sent my way.
So, this event took a lot of my focus because even if I fell off the beam or landed on my rear on the floor exercise, well, bars were my constant.
Until they weren’t.
It was the state championships for youth gymnastics in Alabama. I had trained for 2 years as a level 4 gymnast, which isn’t very high in the skill ranking overall, but it still took me a few years to get to. So, I was pretty good at this bar routine by the time the state championship came around the second time. I knew I could win bars.
There’s a lot of pressure on you when you are expected to do well at something. I was so nauseated as we moved to the bar exercise. My coach told me to eat some chalk to settle my stomach, but the thought of that was worse than my nausea. I saluted the judges and stepped up to the bars.
I did the beginning of my routine — so ingrained in my muscles and brain from repetition — and as I was thinking of sticking the landing, I completely choked and fell backwards out of a routine move.
I couldn’t believe it. I had done that simple move so many times and it wasn’t something I should have messed up on. I regrouped and finished the routine — and stuck the landing — but I was devastated. That fall was a half-point deduction.
I was so incredibly angry at myself for choking when this was supposed to be my year. I got second place and missed the 1996 state champion title by two-tenths of a point. Sheesh.
I ended up doing gymnastics for only about six months after that. I just wanted to do regular 12-year-old stuff. I didn’t want to think about eating chalk or spending three hours in a gym. I wanted to lay by the pool on Saturdays and watch “Titanic” five times and talk on the phone way past my bedtime. And 1997, well, it was my year.
Happy New Year, y’all. I hope this is your year.
Alana is a nurse anesthetist, writer and boy mom (ages 8 and 3), who lives in north Shelby County with her husband, kids and Boxer, Sam. When she’s not writing or chasing little humans, she can usually be found in the aisles of Target. She shares her writings at Holy Moly Motherhood (on Facebook and Instagram), where she takes on all things motherhood and marriage.
