The Gymnastics Game

In the summer of 1976, at the ripe old age of fourteen, my best friend Janet and I signed up for an eight week Gymnastics class offered on Tuesday nights at the Buckley Country Day School. The Buckley school boasted a fine and renown reputation offering rigorous training in all things gymnastics; the beauty and creative routine of floor exercise, the breathtaking allure of the uneven bars and the heart thumping thrill of the “pommel horse,” a contraption with a soft bench and two bars used to hoist yourself airborne.

Yes, our excitement unlike those treacherous uneven bars was unparalleled and dreams of acrobatic excellence not yet achieved but now within reach, all consuming.

The eight week class flew by in a flash but did little to cure our love of gymnastics. Obsessed with the recent 1976 Olympic miracle performance of the tiny, Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci, who scored both perfect tens and the love of the world-over, we made a silent pact that we too, with a little practice, could become Gymnast proteges. But this time our training took place through our own device, performed in the tidy green grass of my Long Island back yard. The only instructors being Janet and myself.

Clad in leotards, ponytails and ballet tights we would take turns scoring each other, following strict Olympic style as we delivered a numerical award ranging from one, to ten. We created home-made score cards to hold up when the performance was complete and placed a simple lawn chair front and center to aid in the comfort of the judge.

“Four and a half!” Janet would announce authoritatively and with absolute finality as she held up her scorecard upon completion of my routine. “You didn’t point your toes!”

On more than one afternoon, those Saturday sessions we dubbed “The Gymnastics Game” would end hastily, tearfully, following angry words and hurt feelings due to a low score or particularly harsh criticism delivered.

We were never quite able to agree on what constituted the perfect toe point…

There is one particular Saturday, while playing “the Gymnastics Game” on that jade green lawn with Janet, in the comfort of my Long Island backyard so very long ago, that I will remember, oh so vividly.

Janet was judging. Poised to begin my routine, and fueled by a surge of confidence and zeal. I stood tall on tip toes, and stretched my arms high to the summer sky. Racing across the lawn, I bellowed for affect, shrieking at the top of my lungs…. “NADIA COMANECHI!!!!!!!! Completing a cartwheel, round off and forward front summersault I landed firmly on the ground in front of Janet’s chair my arms once again, raised to the heaven’s in triumph and glory.

But something was wrong.

Janet’s face was beet red, laughing wordlessly, tears streaming down her face. She pointed discreetly, toward the distance of the lawn behind me.

Spinning around, I came face to face with Jimmy Johns, our lawn boy and neighbor, still clad in his senior Eagle Scout uniform, gripping the lawn mower. His be-speckled face sported an expression of both shock and interest. I shall leave it to you, dear reader to interpret what he saw but let’s just say my leotard had shifted upward considerably, no doubt a result of the theatrics of the arm raising. One might say I had given Jimmy a “rear” glimpse, far more interesting than that, as the old saying goes, of watching the grass grow.

I still love gymnastics. Janet to my good fortune, still remains my best friend. We often reminisce about “the Gymnastics Game” played in my Manhasset back yard, now, over fifty years ago.

We had so much fun.

In honor of my sixtieth birthday, while celebrating in Florida, I did a cartwheel on the beach. I sent the video clip to Janet.

“It was definitely not a perfect ten,” she said authoritatively.

“Your toes were not pointed.”