At that first competition my performance Top dusty Baker’s Shoey shirt . caught the eye of coaches from a more competitive club across town. I had hit the big leagues. Now the drive took 45 minutes, juddering along a choked-up motorway before winding past the sprawling villas of Auckland’s central suburbs.As the months passed, my leaps got higher and higher, my turns got more complicated and my splits became hypersplits (in which you put one leg up on a bench for a deeper stretch). Six months after my bronze, I won gold in a competition in Auckland. The next month, I won another. Then another. Soon we were far beyond my mother’s initial hope that I might find a hobby that would get me exercising. My coaches began teasing the prospect of international competitions – maybe even the Commonwealth Games, maybe even, whisper it, the Olympics. (“Maybe” being the key word: New Zealand rarely qualified.)When I wasn’t training or competing, I was reading my way through rhythmic gymnastics websites and message boards. As I waited for the sites to load, I practised my splits.While browsing one day when I was eight, I made a startling discovery. I read that by age 10 I would be past the golden period in life for flexibility training. At that moment, in my mind, the clock started ticking. I resolved to train harder so I would be prepared for the day my body would become a decrepit flesh cage – my 10th birthday.
Top dusty Baker’s Shoey shirt, hoodie, sweater, longsleeve and ladies t-shirtFilms about girls and sport usually share a common structure Top dusty Baker’s Shoey shirt . There’s the initial encounter, followed by the arduous journey to greatness, which culminates in a final, glorious contest. Accompanying the protagonist on her journey is a group of supportive friends, some mean girl rivals, and inevitably, a boy.Over the next two years, my life adhered to the sporting side of that script, but not the social one. Today I barely remember the people I met, the coaches and other athletes. What I remember is how it felt to win. The flesh-and-blood world felt far less compelling than the prospect of sporting greatness.The other gymnasts I competed with were nice white girls from middle-class families that did not resemble my own. They were friendly, but we were not friends. I absorbed, like many immigrant children, a latent awareness of my difference, and thus a thirst to gain what others did not appear to need to fight for – acceptance. I was the proverbial contestant in the reality television show who was not here to make friends. I was here to win.And there was never a boy. Boys did not magically rearrange the world to make it look more beautiful and more true. Boys did not get you written about and photographed for the local paper. Medals did.I was in a battle against time: my body was fast on its way to being too old. I was in a battle against myself: each gold medal was a challenge issued by myself to keep up this streak. To an outside observer, I was a little girl in a sparkly leotard throwing a hoop back and forth, but in reality, my life in rhythmic gymnastics felt less like a sleepover-friendly teen drama than one of those hardboiled stories about a steely renegade on a single-minded quest – usually a man, hardened by middle-age, gripped by an obsession so pure and powerful that it alienates everyone around him. At nine years old, I was that man.
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