Scoring
Scoring
* * *
“Man, that’s gotta
be a ten—it’s gotta.”
“Seriously, man,
I’ve never—never seen anyone throw that shit.
Infriggingcredible!”
Robin, wearing his
mask but otherwise in the American uniform, gave a wary smile to
the other gymnasts when he heard the comments and threw a wave
to the crowd who were giving him a standing ovation with enough
noise to rock the rafters. He hopped down off the platform,
joined the rest of his teammates for the obligatory hugs and
back slaps then turned to the scoreboard. And waited. And
waited. The judges were conferring and that was always either
very good or not so much. It could go either way.
The scoreboard
flashed his name and number followed by his score for the
rings—an 8.45.
An 8.45? That was
the kind of score a talented high school gymnast might get if he
was having a very good day but on the international circuit that
was tantamount to an invitation to seriously rethink your next
career move.
Say wha? The crowd
erupted into a solid wall of booing, the other athletes turned
to the judges and the American coach walked over to the judging
table to find out if the judges were, in fact, blind.
They were at
World’s, the World Gymnastic Championships. The meet was being
held in Paris this year and this was the team finals. The US men
were up against Russia, Romania, China, Japan and Germany, with
the US and China being touted as the earl favorites. Okay, there
were some other teams here but none of the others seemed to have
a prayer at winning anything and so no one counted them in the
mix. Robin had been brought in as a last minute alternate after
one of the US men broke a leg late last week and the other alt’s
were down with flu and mono. He’d tried to beg off and made it
clear to the American coaches that he wasn’t as up on his
routines as he’d like and so might have to make some
substitutions with his moves. After a meeting behind closed
doors the coaches said they were okay with that, they just
wanted the team up to it’s full complement. Besides, only five
of the six team member’s routines would count towards the score
so even if he wasn’t at his best it should be okay while still
allowing them a small cushion for mistakes.
Robin stood there on
the edge of the platform, a slight smile on his face, his hands
on his hips and with complete calm. He knew exactly what the
problem was; he’d just stuck a full twisting triple layout and
no one was supposed to be able to do that. It involved the laws
of physics—it was considered impossible. He’d turned a new stunt
without warning and judges hated that. They were voicing an
opinion and making a statement. Luckily Robin knew ahead of time
what would probably happen and since he wasn’t here for the
medals, so long as the rest of the guys nailed their routines,
his score didn’t matter.
This had been going
on all afternoon; he’d managed a 7.65 on the floor, probably
because he’d thrown some major ballet moves in between the
tricks, saying that he liked the way they flowed better than the
usual stiff men’s connecting moves. Then he’d somehow made the
entire routine look like Balanchine had choreographed it. Even
the standard stuff, the passes and the balances seemed lifted
from a dance company, yet still worked as advanced, Olympic
caliber athletics. Somehow he made it work.
As far as the team
itself went, he’d done just fine; he got along well with
everyone, he was easy to deal with and made no demands. He was
friendly, polite, professional. He didn’t grandstand or make any
waves; he kept as low a profile as he could with no diva
behavior. The simple fact was that he was a publicity magnet but
he also happened to be a very good gymnast. It was a win-win
situation for both the American team and gymnastics in general
and no one was complaining—except the judges. Sure, he’d had
that private meeting with the US coaches the morning he’d joined
the team and while no one really knew what they’d discussed it
was quickly becoming obvious.
It was also now
clear to everyone in the arena what the game was; Robin would
throw unheard of routines using original and incredibly
difficult moves which, because they were new and unsanctioned,
wouldn’t be counted. He’d only be given credit for the regular
stuff and thus his ridiculous scores. In the meantime, he was
raising the standards for everyone in the sport. So the
situation was that his scores didn’t matter, just the tricks he
was turning and landing did.
With a small shrug
for the benefit of the crowd, he picked up his gym bag and
walked over to the next rotation with the other American guys.
No one on the regular team could risk this kind of blatant
departure from the straight and narrow, but Robin—world famous
Robin, f’chrissake— could get away with it since he
wasn’t a member of the usual team and had no desire to be. The
other guys had made this their life’s work, Robin hadn’t. He had
nothing to lose.
The next rotation
brought Robin’s group around to the parallel bars. Robin was the
fifth man up. Sitting quietly while he waited, chatting with the
rest of the athletes as he did some stretches and idly watched
the routines going on around the gym, just hanging out, waiting.
When his turn came around he walked up to the platform,
acknowledged the judges and began. The entire crowd, as well as
the cameras, were trained on him.
He began simply
enough with the usual handstands and roll-throughs but then
added the new moves, almost looking as though he was making it
up as he went along, though that would be this side of
impossible. He threw himself into the air, turning flips and
pikes and even a layout then catching himself again, keeping the
movement going, not interrupting the flow, one move naturally
flowing into the next. The final move, his dismount was a double
double—two sommies with two twists added on; spinning in two
different directions at once and then another stuck landing. His
score was an 8.3. By this point of the competition the coaches
didn’t even bother to complain, they knew the kid would be
screwed at every rotation. It didn’t matter.
The pommel horse,
admittedly his least favorite apparatus, he went easy on the
original moves and managed an 8.575, his personal high for the
meet.
At the end of four
rotations he was in dead last place on every apparatus, and
didn’t care. Well, except for the Japanese guy who’d fallen
twice from the parallels and then took three steps on his
landing. Rob had managed to top him by one tenth of a point.
Fifth up for the US
team was the vault. Everyone did well, everyone stuck their
landings and the vaults all had at least a 9.8 start value or
higher. Then Robin stepped up to take his position at the head
of the runway, eighty feet from the vaulting table. He was
relaxed but focused, ignoring the noise and catcalls from the
crowd. Settling himself, mentally preparing, he straightened his
body, nodded at the judges and started his run, building to full
speed at he reached a point maybe eight feet from the spring
board. He turned a perfect roundoff onto the board, his body
straight, pushed off the table with both hands and twisted three
and a half times in a layout position to an almost stuck
landing. There was just the barest of tiny hops at he found his
balance, body upright, arms up, smile in place. He clenched his
fists for a moment in relief and triumph and made his way back
to his team as the knowledgeable audience exploded into cheers,
whistles and applause.
The judges looked at
one another then down at their monitors, pushing replay and
slow-mo over and over. It wasn’t supposed to be possible. It
wasn’t and certainly not by an almost six-foot male gymnast. If
anyone it would have to be one of the four and a half-foot tall,
seventy-pound women to make this happen and that was still
considered an impossibility. Gymnast number one seventy-four had
just turned and landed the world’s first Yurchenko 3.5 Twist
(or, as some called it, an Amanar). Up until today the standard
and considered one of the most difficult vaults done—was a 2.5.
Turn that, land it cleanly and you had a good chance at an
Olympic medal. This show-off, this acrobat had added a
full twist without warning; and not even a half twist—he added
an entire rotation.
Over in the pit the
rest of his team were surrounding the young man, slapping his
back, shouting their excitement and congratulations while the
American head coach gave the judges a steady look, daring them
to cheat the boy out his fair score this time.
They waited while
the judges conferred. Everyone waited, Robin sitting down,
slipping on his warm-up jacket and taking a drink from his water
bottle as he leaned back against the wall, exchanging a few
words with the teammates around him.
They waited three
minutes, five. The crowd got louder, rhythmic clapping growing
into foot stomping and whistles. At eight and a half minutes the
score was finally posted: 0.0
Even Robin, who’d
taken every score he’d received that day with good humor looked
a question at the American coach at that—0.0? The TV microphones
picked up his voice as he turned to the team captain seated next
to him and quietly asked, ‘That seem a little low to you?’
The coach returned
from his short conference with the head judge. “You didn’t tell
them ahead of time what you were doing so you didn’t get any
credit for the vault.” He said it loud enough for the audience
and the TV microphones to hear.
The coach was
furious, his face red. Robin just nodded in acceptance, clearly
not upset and slightly bemused. The noise from the crowd grew
louder, building, building and drowning out anything else until
all the rotations stopped, the meet brought to a standstill—the
clapping and foot stomping seeming to shake the building until
Robin began to fear the crowd might get seriously out of
control. An official came over and spoke to Robin, not an easy
thing with the noise level in the arena. The young man listened
for a few seconds then nodded.
Standing, he hopped
up onto the vaulting platform and calmly looked around the
arena, his hands on his hips. Finally, every eye in the place on
him, he gently raised his hands, gesturing the crowd to quiet
down, his obvious calm and good humor affecting the audience.
Amazingly, within a minute or so the place was silent. He
smiled, gave a small shrug that read to the top tier of seats
and quietly, though pitching his voice to carry said, “Hey,
c’mon, it’s just a vault...” He held out his hands in a gesture
of asking a question then added, “Let’s get on with this, shall
we?” The booing was replaced by cheers as he gave a small laugh,
a small ripple of laugher started, mixed with applause and,
situation defused, the meet went on to the next and last
rotation.
The final rotation
brought the American team around to the high bar, the glamour
event; high flying, releases and twisting, absurdly difficult
and dangerous dismounts. The crowd waited impatiently for Robin
to take his turn, the meet coming close to a stop as he mounted
the platform with the American coach, chalked his hands and
jumped straight up to catch the bar, the coach standing by as
spotter. Every eye in the place was on him; the rest of the
American team gathered close by to se if he was going to pull
off the dismount they’d seen him practicing earlier that
morning.
No one was
disappointed; the giant swings quickly turned into a series of
release moves, blind or otherwise which hadn’t been done before
in competition. Every stunt was carried to it’s fullest
extension, every twist and flip was crisp, every grip change was
sure, legs straight, every toe pointed. The final wind up, a
series of stalters and then two fast giants to build speed ended
with a perfectly timed release shooting him towards the ceiling.
He tucked and spun almost too fast to count the four and a half
rotations before he landed with an audible thud on the mats,
legs together, arms up in a textbook stick.
This time there was
no big grin or laugh, just a satisfied small smile as he
privately acknowledged a job well done.
Robin gave a wave to
the audience, hopped down from the platform, the cheering from
the standing ovation drowning out any other sound, wave after
wave of applause, whistles and air horns contributing to the
din. Sitting down, he took the grips off his hands, exchanged a
few casual words with the gymnast sitting next to him, had a
drink from his water bottle while he waited for his score, the
rest of the team clearly more anxious than he was. Finally the
groan from the crowd caused him to casually glance up to the
scoreboard; 6.95, the lowest score of the meet due to the
unapproved moves, none of which could be counted—the meet’s
lowest score, if you didn’t count the 0.0 he’d scored for the
vault. Robin just smiled at the expected absurd mark and
shrugged before picking up his bag and walking over to wait with
the rest of the team for the official announcement of the final
team standings. The rest of the team had come through with close
to perfect routines, but were edged out for the bronze by five
hundredths of a point because of a few minor bobbles costing
them a couple of tenths here and there. They’d go home empty
handed, Robin apologizing to them because he knew—they all knew
that if he’d played it straight and followed the rules they may
well have won a spot of the victory stand. The team’s reactions
were mixed but no one blamed him or thought he was
grandstanding, they’d all known what he was doing and no one had
complained. They’d be back next year…
During the medal
ceremony the Chinese, Japanese and Germans lined up to receive
their medals. The other competing teams were already back in the
locker room changing, showering and planing on what to get for
dinner, making plans for an early evening since they’d have more
competition the next day when the individual medals would be
decided. The meet was over for Robin and he packed all his stuff
into his gym duffel; his scores hadn’t been high enough for him
to qualify for any individual finals.
As the athletes
changed they could hear the applause out in the arena slowly
getting louder and louder. After a few minutes an official, one
of the judges came in and found Robin in a bank of lockers,
changed into a pair of worn jeans and just pulling on a clean
black tee shirt. The man looked nervous as he spoke to the young
man quietly, asking him something, the other men watching but
unable to hear. Robin shook his head, negatively answered the
man who kept talking, the arena noise getting louder, the
stamping and rhythmic clapping becoming an impossible din until
finally, after more pleading, Robin reluctantly nodded and
allowed the man to lead him back out to the hall.
As soon as he
appeared through the doorway the angry booing and whistles
changed to applause and cheers until it became almost a physical
force. The thrown paper cups and trash became a shower of
flowers and stuffed animals aimed at the obviously embarrassed
young man. He ducked his head a moment then straightened and
raised his chin, smiled and waved to the crowd before turning to
the face and applaud the medal platform where the three winning
teams waited uncomfortably for some cue as to what to do.
The officials took
the opportunity to hand out the medals and flowers to the
winners while Robin stood, clapping and leading the crowd in
honoring the men who’d been named the winners. Finally, as
quickly as possible, the ceremony was over, the three teams
waving to the crowd as Robin slowly backed out of sight back to
the locker room.
* * *
Several days later
Dick Grayson sat down at the breakfast table to find a copy of
the Gotham Times at his place, folded open to the sports page. A
quick look showed the paper was a couple of days old and had a
recounting of the gymnastics results, complete with a couple of
pictures, including one of him in a perfect handstand on the
parallels. The unfair scoring was given prominent space complete
with editorial comment. A filled plate was silently put in front
of him.
“I have no desire to
pry, but forgive my curiosity; doesn’t this sort of thing
frustrate you? I fear the judges failed to give you any real
credit for what you accomplished, surely that must grate.”
Dick shook his head,
“Scores don’t matter to me, you know that. They never have.”
“Then why put
yourself through endless hours of training only to be
undervalued for your efforts?”
He shrugged then
tried to articulate. “It’s like when I was still in the circus.
Y’know?”
“You mean
performing?”
“Well, yeah. I mean
stopping bad guys is cool and I love that I can do it but I know
I’m good at the gymnastics—at the stunts and the moves, but a
lot of guys can do that. I can work a crowd and I’m
really good at it, always have been, even when I was a little
kid.” He twisted his napkin a little and chewed his lip, a
little embarrassed. “And when I managed to diffuse the crowd,
stopped it from turning into a mob, it’s just such a damn
rush…It’s not an ego thing—well...” He picked up a glass of
orange juice and suddenly smiled. “Okay, maybe there’s some
ego there.”
Alfred stood,
considering Dick as he sat there, suddenly understanding.
“You miss it, don’t
you?”
“God, I love it so
much.” He smiled in admission of the truth. “The crowds, the
applause and knowing I can still work an audience like that.”
Alfred nodded, of
course. “Well, then I say that you should enjoy it, Master Dick.
In my opinion you’ve quite more than earned it.” He refilled the
orange juice glass. “It says here that not only did you prevent
a riot, but that the moves you landed will be likely added to
the approved list sooner than one would normally expect, they’re
being reviewed this week at some International Gymnastics
Committee meeting. It seems you have quite a bit to be proud of,
shall I arrange your long-range schedule to allow you free time
for next year’s meet?”
Dick smiled and
shook his head. “Thanks, but ’been there, done that. I don’t
have anything to prove.”
Alfred nodded and
turned away; the boy was more than right.
12/25/08
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