Free Acrobaddict by Joe Putignano Page A

like Icarus. And when gymnasts do not heed the warnings of their coach, they plummet, like Icarus, to their demise.
    There is a transition from confidence into what I call knowing . To know something is a total absorption of faith into the mind and its vehicle, the body. Once something is understood and conquered in this way, it creates a force we use to perform. This knowing is a perfect harmony between the mind and the body: We know we can’t fly, so we don’t attempt it. Those who attempted flight had disharmony between their body and mind. That power takes years of practice to summon, and isn’t always accessible. Sometimes I would call on the force and nothing would happen. Then there were times when I performed a baffling skill without harmony, but I landed perfectly on my feet and had no idea how it happened. I would launch myself into the air with intention and become entirely lost to centrifugal force and gravity, not knowing which direction was up or down, but somehow I would safely land on the mat.
    Getting to the Olympics was all I could think about and all I wanted. I never saw anything beyond that goal. To say I was obsessed is an understatement. I continued to excel in the sport while tightly holding onto my Olympic dream as if my life depended on it—and to me it did. Everyone around me knew this—the neighbors, the kids at school, my teachers, and even my doctors. I knew that if I didn’t fulfill that dream I would be a failure, every day, for the rest of my life.
    The old wallpaper in my bedroom had been torn down, and the walls were redecorated with my competition ribbons and medals. I had more first-place medals than any other ones, and they were strung all over the walls, telling the story of a determined boy who had endured the pain and agony of a sport he loved so much. My room was also covered in pictures of my heroes from gymnastics magazines, alongside a few posters of Freddy Krueger.
    I returned to the Olympic Training Center for another training camp, and this trip was different from the first one. The young troops of warriors were more fervent and tenacious than before. Their skills were sharper, cutting with precision, and that worried me. It appearedthey handled the stress of gymnastics better than I did. Again, I was amazed at how many other outstanding athletes there were throughout our country, other soldiers like myself who would undertake anything for an opportunity to live out their passion and obsession.
    My coach, Dan, was my hero and began to take on the role of a father—a Daedalus to my Icarus—as many coaches do with young athletes. I was becoming the warrior he had trained me to be. He taught me about aspects of myself that I never knew existed. He taught me to surrender to this unique power and helped me uncover a profound resilience and to have complete trust in my abilities. I knew he was responsible for my success in the sport, and I looked up to him. Dan taught me the value of being a good person. He showed me how to win and how to be respectful when I did. He was the greatest adult I knew, and together we would succeed in achieving my goals.
    The relationship between coach and athlete is immensely important. The coach must unearth the strongest part of the individual without crushing it and convince the human body that it can achieve anything the mind asks of it. The coach must persuade the athlete that he or she is invincible in the face of obstacles and to be pure of heart while conquering them. Finding these skills in a coach was difficult, because even though there are great ones, there are also many bad ones.
    I was not prepared for what was about to happen. On a random winter day in the gym, Dan sat us all down by the pommel horse for a discussion. I sat on top of the apparatus, in my need for the most attention, and he told us he had some bad news. My body stopped moving and I listened closely to his words. He said apologetically, “I have been coaching you guys