sierra brooks

I want you to try something.

Extend your arm out until your elbow is straight, and hold your thumb and index finger about four inches apart. That’s a little wider than a credit card. A little less than half the width of a piece of notebook paper. Got it? Cool.

Now read this.

Now look back at your fingers.

Now imagine building up to his moment for fifteen years. The thousands of practice routines. The injuries. The gigantic bruises. The unimaginably large blisters (referred to quaintly as “rips,” but which, man, you do not want to Google Image Search that) that every bar worker suffers. The frustration of learning new skills, each of which seems physically impossible until it is mastered, at which time your reward is trying to add another half-twist. The pain and heartbreak of the uncountable falls that inevitably accompany a sport seemingly designed by someone unfamiliar with the normal mechanics of the human body.

Now imagine training for a year during COVID. Learning to practice with a mask on. Being isolated from your family. Getting tested six times a week in both nostrils until your nose bleeds. Staying away from normal college activities for fear that you could end your entire team’s season at any time by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Enduring two weeks away from the gym mid-season in a sport built on consistency and repeatability. Surviving and advancing through NCAA Regional semifinals. And Regional finals. And National semifinals. And the first three rotations of National finals, on national television with a record audience watching.

JD Scott

The NCAA women’s gymnastics tournament consists of 1,632 routines. 1,631 were in the books.

One routine was left.

[Hit THE JUMP]