Swifter, Higher, Stronger

Tony spends a lifetime learning that to be yourself, sometimes you have to be someone else.

Swifter, Higher, Stronger
By Angela Rasch

“There is just one life for each of us: our own.” - Euripides

Chapter One
What It Was, Was Football. — Andy Griffith

The Wilson football helmet they gave me for tryouts was so big I had to stuff a t-shirt inside the top of it, so it wouldn’t spin when I ran. It smelled like someone had left it out in the rain, and then put it away wet. A little stink doesn’t matter. Today’s the day I start being me.

My dad had been a college football star. Grandmom Condore had framed a copy of a newspaper in which he had been called the “Mini-Assassin.” It had been with the stuff we cleaned out of her house after her funeral. Mom hung it on the wall in our living room for everyone to read. At five-foot-four Dad had been the smallest football player in his college conference, but he had been the top scorer, with seventeen touchdown receptions for the season his senior year.

He started throwing the football to me every night after school when I was six. I had come home from school one afternoon in tears after being bullied for being too small. He said, “You need a hobby.” and then took me outside and introduced me to his lifetime passion . . . catching a football.

He told me the best way to learn a new physical skill was to closely watch someone who knew how to do it, and then do it the very same way, unless I could do it better. I focused on catching the football and soon understood the purpose of how he moved his body. In my mind I became him when I was on the reception end.

It felt right — right from the start. I quickly learned to get my hands ready by spreading my fingers as wide as they would go -- to look the ball into my hands -- to cushion the reception by moving my hands in the same direction as the toss — to make sharp cuts on my pass patterns, and a thousand other things. Most nights I successfully caught over one hundred balls. We started over from zero if I dropped a pass I should have caught. Sometimes I let balls slip through my fingers on purpose just to prolong our special times together.

This tryout is going to be a piece of cake. I’ve watched the other boys and they apparently hadn’t been taught as much about catching a ball and running pass routes as I have. Before Dad died he made sure I knew how to be a good football player . . . and how to learn by watching.

“What are you doing here?” A man I recognized as Jerry Falconer’s dad stomped to a spot a foot away from my nose and glared down at me. Jerry Falconer was the class bully, and I had been chosen as his favorite target. “Who’s little brother are you?” The red-faced man sneered. “Don’t you know you have to be at least twelve-years old to play football?”

Some boys heard what he had said and started laughing.

“He’s Tony Condore’s son,” another dad stated from behind me. “He’s actually older than your boy.”

I turned and caught the smile on the face of the man who had spoken.

“What?” Mr. Falconer sputtered. “That can’t be. Jerry’s must be a hundred pounds heavier than this shrimp.”

“Your boy looks like he hasn’t missed many meals,” the other dad said. “I’ve been watching this Condore kid; he’s got great hands. His dad was an All-American at Dunbar.”

“Dunbar’s a Division - III college,” Mr. Falconer scoffed. “If he had been a real All-American maybe it would mean something.”

I set my jaw. He’ll sing a different song when he sees me catch a few balls.

“I don’t coach Division - III athletes,” Mr. Falconer bragged. “I’m only interested in turning out D — I players.”

The unit I had been practicing with was ready to take a snap against the defense, so I ran to my position as the right wide receiver. I noted how the defensive back had taken a stance too far to the inside to protect against a sideline route. I dug a toe into the sod, ready to push off the line on the second count with a quick five-steps-and-out move. If the quarterback read the defense right it would be an easy reception.

“Hey,” Mr. Falconer shouted with authority, “little guy . . . Condore. Who told you to line up for a live play?”

I looked over at him. If I don’t get in, how will he ever be able to judge how good I am?

“I’ve seen enough of you,” Mr. Falconer said. “You can turn in your gear over by the gate. Better luck trying out some other year. Maybe you’ll grow some.”

A couple of the dads said something about how Mr. Falconer should give me a shot, but he shut them up by asking them if they wanted to volunteer to be the head coach. “No — I didn’t think so. So we’ll do things my way. That means we aren’t going to play any undersized, Division - III shrimps.”

I walked to my house hurting worse than if someone had broken one of my legs. When Mom got home that evening from running our family’s hardware store, she told me that football was a stupid game that she’d never liked. She offered to help me find a sport I could do on my own.

The next day she brought home an 8 mm projector and a film she had purchased about the 1976 Olympic gymnastic’s competition. I watched that film a million times over the next few years, dissecting how the athletes did things. We converted what had been Dad’s sculpting studio, a stand-alone eighty by eighty foot building on the back of our property, into a gymnasium for me. It featured a springy, pine floor that I got to know like the back of my hand while I mimicked the athletes who had competed at Montreal.

Mom and I didn’t tell anyone about what I was doing. Gymnastics was my thing, and we kept it private.

I picked Floor exercises as my event. From the moment I tried my first cartwheel, I knew for sure it was for me. It felt right.

Chapter Two
Don't Wanna Be Taught To Be No Fool. — The Ramones

My 256-word composition on what I wanted to accomplish with my life shook in my hands while I read — standing painfully in front of my freshmen English class. I leaned slightly on the teacher’s desk, craving its support.

I had slowly typed it, using two untrained fingers . . . double-spaced on white sheets of paper, with the proper headings. Stupidly I had gotten carried away and disclosed too much about my innermost hopes of being someone who could make a difference in the world.

When I got to the part about wanting to join the Peace Corp to promote world peace and friendship, I caught a pleasant whiff of Mary Gervino’s Babe perfume. The TV ads said it was a clean smell — musky, floral . . . and sexy. Just the word “Faberge” . . . breathed through pouty lips during the commercial was an incredible turn on. I could feel the beginnings of a boner starting to form and prayed that I would be spared at least that embarrassment. A boner was the outer limit of my sexual experiences . . . something I look forward to changing with a consenting female who loves me, but doubt will happen in the foreseeable future.

“My personal philosophy is,” I continued reading from my paper in a voice that hadn’t yet enjoyed the full impact of puberty, “we have to be the best person we can: by making good personal choices, and by making the most of our talents.”

“Good luck on all that, shrimp.” Jerry Falconer snorted his disbelief from the back row. “You’re not going to save the world. The Peace Corp doesn’t accept midget volunteers.”

I spoke before thinking. “I’m not a midget. To be a midget you have to be less than 4’10” when fully grown. I’m already 5’1” -- and I’m going to get bigger.”

The entire class laughed at my futile assertion that I hadn’t been born a dwarf, when proof positive stood there -- a head shorter, or more, than most of them.

I scowled at Jerry, who was a standout on the freshmen football team. I’d heard a rumor that he would be brought up to the varsity squad before the season was over. “You know,” I went on, feeling in my heart that I should’ve probably just sat down, “a person doesn’t have to be huge, like you, to be a good athlete.”

“Oh sure.” Jerry sneered. “There are a lot of leprechauns in pro sports. Just think about what a big honkin’ advantage it would be to be teeny-weeny in the NBA or NFL.”

Everyone but me rewarded his cruel remark with vicious chuckles.

I pointed a finger at him. “I can do things that you can’t.” Before I, or any one else, could stop me -- I launched my body into a standing backflip, landing lightly on my feet after spinning completely head over heels.

My classmates gave out a collective gasp, and I could feel their admiration. For once in my life I really showed them.

Then my body took over and finished off the backflip by going into the splits. It was a gymnastics move I’d done hundreds of times over the last three years, during my secret workouts. My crotch hit the floor and I lifted both arms straight into the air with my hands bent at nearly a ninety degree angle. At least I didn’t say “Ta da!”

Jerry broke the astonished silence. “If any real guy would have done that, he would’ve busted his balls.”

They all roared in response to Jerry’s snide comment.

Setting aside the humiliation I felt -- I concentrated on the satisfaction of having astounded everyone with my backflip. Gymnastics can be my way to acceptance. I went back to my solo, daily training sessions in that studio in our backyard -- perfecting what I had seen on the film and developing my own routines.

Chapter Three
So, I Should’ve Realized a Lot of Things Before — Lennon/McCartney

I was fully prepared. After six years of fierce practicing on my own I finally deemed myself ready to compete against other gymnasts.

My high school didn’t have a gymnastics team. I could have joined a local club, but made the decision to work on my own. I’d had my fill of youth sports coaches with Mr. Falconer, and was satisfied with how things went in our studio. I didn’t watch gymnastics on TV, because I didn’t want to think of myself as inferior. I had the film of the Olympic team Mom had given me, and I figured as long as I was developing toward that level of perfection I couldn’t go wrong.

In fact, I can do some things those Olympic gymnasts couldn’t . . . or didn’t. What I don’t know is how good the other boys are . . . and that’s why I’m here.

The meet was being held at the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor. It had been advertised as a regional AAU meet that would supposedly attract some of the nation’s top gymnast.

I had just graduated from high school. Mom had told me a few months back that she couldn’t afford to send me to college, so I was hoping a Big Ten coach would see me do my Floor exercise and give me a scholarship.

Luckily, I had drawn the first position and would do my exercise before any of the other boys. That’s an advantage. They don’t know anything about me, so what I do will be a real surprise, and they won’t have time to change their routines to respond.

During the warm-up I’d found the floor to be quite a bit bouncier than what I practiced on and adjusted to the additional height on my jumps. Thank goodness the floor’s dimensions they mentioned on the film are still what’s being used. It would have been horrible to find out my tumbling runs were too long; I would lose points if I went out-of-bounds!

It had also been a shock to find out from the judges that I couldn’t use music, but I would have the music in my head. The same music Ludmila Tourischeva had used in 1976.

Luckily I appeared to be properly attired. I’d purchased my gymnastic’s outfit at a sporting goods store in Detroit. Mom had taken it in quite a bit, even though I’d bought their smallest size.

I stepped up to the floor and gracefully took my starting stance. I waved my fingers to indicate I was ready.

“What the hell. . ..” someone said in the stands.

Concentrate. There are three other exercises going on at the same time in this huge gymnasium. What you hear from the crowd won’t necessarily be in response to what you’re doing.

During my first tumbling run I landed everything perfectly. I even did a double, forward, aerial somersault. I thought I heard cheers, and also some angry shouts, but shut them out.

I was shocked when the horn blew indicating my time was up, but I continued on to the end of my planned routine. During that last twenty seconds I worked especially hard at keeping my hands flexible when they were extended above my head and making sure my toes were always on point.

I stuck my dismount, and then waved enthusiastically to all corners of the gym.

I looked around, and there no longer could be any doubt that I had somehow made some people extremely unhappy. Some were laughing and pointing at me. Others were shaking their heads.

As I was leaving the floor the next competitor slammed into my shoulder, seemingly on purpose. “What the fuck was that?” He asked, while he went by.

I sat and anxiously awaited the first scores I would ever receive. I hoped they would be at least nines. My routine had been much like the Olympians had done. . .only better. . .bigger. . .more.

The three judges held up their cards.

3.6

2.2

2.9

They must have changed the way things are scored.

I pulled on my warm-ups and watched while the other men went through their routines.

Their movements weren’t anything like mine. They did some tumbling, but much of what they did seemed to center on strength and control. They didn’t have my flexibility, nor did they achieve the height and speed that I did on my runs. It was almost like watching a different sport.

Their scores ranged between 7.5 and 9.0.

Something doesn’t feel right, but I just can’t put my finger on it.

After the Floor competition was over I went down to the dressing room and took a shower. I sat on a bench after having put on my shirt and pants and stared at nothing, unable to find the energy to pull on my socks.

“Interesting style.” An older gentleman had sat on the bench next to me. “Who’s your coach?”

“I am,” I managed to say.

“No,” he said politely. “I mean — what’s the name of your high school coach?”

“I didn’t take part in gymnastics in high school.”

“I thought maybe not. So, who was your club coach?”

“Why?”

“You performed some movements better than I’ve ever seen anyone do them before.”

I laughed derisively.

“I’m serious. You have outstanding talent. But. . . . I’m curious what club taught you your . . . style.”

He looks on the level. I explained to him about the film my mother had bought for me and how I was self-taught. I told him how this was my first meet and how different things were from what I had expected.

His eyes didn’t blink while he listened intently and nodded several times. After I finished he seemingly pondered my words for a few moments, and then spoke. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been practicing for today, on your own, for six years?”

I nodded. “I just patterned myself after Nadia Comaneci, Nellie Kim, Olga Korbut, and Ludmila Tourischeva.”

“And what about Nikolai Andrianov, Peter Kormann, Eberhard Gienger, or Michael Nikolay?”

“Who?” I’d never heard of them.

“I see what happened. That’s remarkable.”

“The judges didn’t think I was so ‘remarkable’.”

“They probably didn’t know what to think. I was thrown myself, until just now when you told me how you learned to be a gymnast and who you watched to learn. It’s obvious you don’t know that women’s gymnastics are totally different than men’s?”

What? No wonder. Shit!!!! My training film had been about the women’s team. I just assumed. . . . I dropped my face into my hands and shook for a moment. I’ve wasted six years.

My world crumpled.

His hand touched my shoulder. “I’m on the Olympic selection committee.” He handed me a card with the USOC logo. “We have just under a year left before the Los Angeles games for you to . . . adjust. I think you have amazing, natural talent. Have you considered being a part of the U.S.A. Olympic team?”

Chapter Four
I Roll and Tumble, Cried the Whole Night Long — Muddy Waters

“I heard someone say you’re going to quit the tryouts to help Bogdi coach Betty Sue.” Eric looked at me over his bowl of oatmeal and raisins soaking in cream. His glower indicated he didn’t think much of the idea. The dining room of the Olympic gymnastics training center reeked of Cramergesic ointment, a pungent, minty odor that permeated our food.

When you look at Betty Sue you immediately think “sweet”, unless she’s in her leotard, and then you think “dynamo”. Betty Sue Rotunda has great dimples. I shrugged, interrupting my thoughts about the female gymnast. I have dimples, but on a guy they’re dorky. “I’ve always been a sucker for her smile. . ..” I couldn’t help it. Whenever she flooded me with her huge smile I had to return it with a similar one of my own.

“I know. The only thing wrong with Betty Sue’s looks is that she has a face that will have bartenders carding her until she’s fifty. I know -- I’m the one who’s dating her, but. . .. Noooo. . .!” He shoved his evening meal away with disgust, and then slapped the table. “Bogdi had no right to ask you. Damn him and his triple-XL sweatsuits.”

His gym uniforms are probably 2XLs, but his walrus mustache is definitely XXXL.

Eric frowned. “The teams haven’t even been selected. Not Bogdi. . . not anybody . . .. No one knows whether or not you’re going to make it.”

I chuckled. Eric’s probably the only gymnast in the entire men’s Olympic training center who holds out any hope that I’ll make the team. I came in as a long shot as a Floor specialist. I’ve found out that one-event-wonders usually don’t make the team, especially those, like me, who aren’t very good at what they do. I don’t have the strength for Rings, which eliminates me from consideration for participation in the All-Around. That makes me much less desirable as a team member.

After graduating from high school I had gone to work in Mom’s hardware store. It barely made enough profit for her and me to live on; there was nothing left over to send me to college. The store provided a living for eight families with all the ancillary services we provided like bike repair and glass installation, and that was the most important thing. I had resigned myself to a life of selling widgets to do-it-yourselfers, but the Olympic gymnastic team had offered a possible way out, even if my “style” was a little strange. The USOC took care of all my expenses, and Mom had said she could get by for a while without me.

I looked up at the interlocking rings of the Olympic symbol -- representing the five major continents. A small tear escaped the corner of my eye as I thought about that afternoon’s training session. Our coach had told me for the millionth time that I needed to tighten up my routine. “Tighten up” was his way of telling me to make my actions appear more masculine. Either my hands were flying about too much, or my hips were swaying when I ran, or something else I’d inadvertently taught myself over the years that would reduce the score the judges would give me.

Funny — at least half the guys who’ll make the team are closet gays -- and most the judges . . . but I won’t make the team because they want to protect the “image” of the sport, by eliminating someone whose movements looked feminine. I’m heterosexual, at least I think I am, but without a willing female who loves me to test that theory -- I might be making the same mistake I made with the gymnast film.

“Bogdi’s only trying to field the best women’s team,” I asserted in Bogdi’s defense. “He thinks I can help Betty Sue get better. What he’s proposed makes sense. She deserves to have the best chance possible. Going up against the women from China and Romania in Los Angeles isn’t going to be a cakewalk.”

“If you’re sure about your decision, I’m glad you’re going to help her. She’s the first girl I’ve ever dated, but I know she’s special. Betty Sue is the most honest person I ever met. Coming off a knee injury isn’t easy, and she’s trying to do it in half the normal time. She has no family, since her mom and dad died in that car crash. She’s faced up to every problem life has dealt her and taken personal control — a lot like you.”

“I’ll admit we’re alike in that we both seem to be able to concentrate as much as is needed to get the job done.” I was pleased that anyone would compare me to someone as strong-willed as Betty Sue. She and I both consider Nadia Comaneci to be our inspiration, and Nadia had been coached by Bogdi.

“Don’t they ever play anything on the radio but Michael Jackson?” He shook his head at what blared over the intercom. “I’d even listen to something by the Urythmics, if it meant I wouldn’t have to hear Billie Jean or Beat It one more time.” He pounded the table again. The muscles in his arms stood out like they did when he did the Iron Cross on the still rings. When he did his routine he looked chiseled, like a handsome Greek statue. “Damn it, Tony, you can’t give up. You’re the best.”

I laughed loudly at his insistence, but stopped short when I caught the stares of those eating around us.

“I mean it,” he continued. “Your tumbling is years ahead of anyone else’s. There are guys here who will be competing for medals who can’t do a double forward-aerial . . . AND YOU”VE STUCK A QUAD.” He had intentionally raised his booming bass voice, which Betty Sue said was two times the size of his body, and stood and glared around the room — apparently looking for someone to challenge what he said.

Of course Eric isn’t much of a judge of things. He thinks he’s average-looking, when he could easily be a matinee idol. “I don’t want to quit. . . .” My mouth twisted at the foul taste from even saying q-u-i-t. I had left Bitteroot, Michigan, hoping to return one day an Olympic hero.

Eric is right. I can do tumbling runs no other human being has ever done. If my mind can conceive it, my body can do it. “I just can’t do those runs the way the judges want them. . . .” My shoulders slumped and my voice cracked. I fought back the tears and pulled myself together. “Bogdi is giving me a chance to get into big time coaching. I’ll be helping the U.S.A. team and Betty Sue. Coaching is a lot better than selling lightbulbs, small appliances, and shovels.”

“I suppose it’s natural for you to want to help her; after all -- you and Betty Sue look like brother and sister.”

He’s the third person to tell me that. “Our families are both first generation Sicilians. I’ll bet if we go back to the old country we have lots of the same ancestors.”

“I’m going to marry Betty Sue, someday,” Eric vowed wistfully.

“You keep saying that, but with my help she’s going to become a household name and marry some rich contractor.” I laughed, and then ducked the dinner roll Eric fired at my head.

“You two are really alike,” Eric continued. “She always puts on her right shoe and right wristband first, just like you.”

I laughed. Athletes are all superstitious, so that didn’t surprise me.

“Tony,” he said with a frown, “watch out for Bogdi. He looks like a big, cuddly bear, but he has a mean streak. He’ll do whatever it takes to turn out top gymnasts. You’re not going to be important in his scheme of things.”

Chapter Five
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes - Ziggy Stardust

His thick index finger jammed against a blue on gold sign he had taped to the wall of the gym. “You . . . READ!”

I’d read the sign a thousand times, as had everyone else in the gym. It said, “Don’t argue . . . just DO.” What it meant was. . .when you’re in Bogdi’s gym you did what he said — without question. I wasn’t surprised that Bogdi would bully me to do something I didn’t want to do. He pushed everyone around. Most of the girls were having eating problems trying to maintain their health on the 900-calorie diet Bogdi stipulated.

Because of the dark rings around their sunken eyes, I didn’t believe in the Bogdi diet and had been sneaking them apples and raisins. Betty Sue told me that two of the women suffered from binge-purge syndrome, but she wouldn’t say who they were. She was the only one of the women that didn’t seem to have a self-image problem.

Eight weeks of my intensive work with Betty Sue had yielded very small improvements in her Floor exercise. We had gotten to know one another, talking extensively long into the evenings about what we both wanted out of our lives. Our goals matched almost perfectly in that we both wanted to achieve fame so that people would take us seriously, and we subsequently could advance our theories that all good things are the product of a positive attitude.

If Eric wasn’t such a great guy — and if I thought I had a chance, I’d. . . .

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Betty Sue said quietly. “I didn’t mean to create a problem.”

“You not problem, Rotunda.” Bogdi shook his head violently. “I know Betty Sue winner because you in my gym. Only winners in Bogdi’s gym. Wannabe coach, Tony, is problem.”

Bogdi’s theory was that I would serve as a model for Betty Sue to help improve her Floor exercise. He thought that if she picked up as little as ten percent of what I could do, she would be fifty percent better than any other women on earth. Together, he and I had choreographed a Floor routine for her that used some of the things I had perfected, moves that were several steps above what any woman had ever done. Betty Sue would be pushed to her absolute physical limits if she could copy my example, but if she succeeded, she would win the gold.

Betty Sue had just mentioned to Bogdi that she was having a hard time visualizing herself doing what I could do.

Bogdi lived and breathed visualization. The women gymnast spent at least an hour a day lying on their backs visualizing themselves doing their routines perfectly. Bogdi called that hour’s work their “TEN thoughts.” According to him they would never get a score of ten from the judges if they couldn’t first imagine themselves doing a routine that should receive a ten . . . and without a ten there would be no gold medal.

Just as quickly as Betty Sue had told Bogdi about her inability to visualize herself doing my routine, he had created a solution. “You. . .Tony. You fix. You make you look like Betty Sue.”

The six women who trained daily under Bogdi were used to his every directive being followed and didn’t question his instincts. Their heads bobbed, while mine shook vehemently from side to side -- setting off Bogdi’s ire and the subsequent pointing to his sign.

“I get coffee,” Bogdi said while heading for the door. “When I back, Tony and Betty Sue be twins. I get doughnuts so you pigs not get.” He stomped out of the gym door muttering about gymnasts who eat too much.

The women’s voices echoed throughout the gym with positive glee about how they could meet, or even exceed, Bogdi’s expectations of how I should look.

I suspected they were happy to have any sort of diversion from the grueling pace he put them through day after day. Perhaps this is Bogdi’s way of giving them some time off — at my expense.

“You’re about the same size and build as Betty Sue,” Greta said, while eyeing me.

I’m still the same height I was in junior high — just a shade above five feet. Betty Sue weighs eighty-eight pounds, and I weigh about ninety-seven. Her thighs are actually bigger than mine, but. . . .

“I’ve got an extra leotard that’s a little stretched out,” Betty Sue said shyly. She pulled a long-sleeved, red, white, and blue leotard from her gym bag that I recognized as what she’d worn at nationals. “It’s a good leotard. If I have a bad performance in a leotard I throw it in the trash.”

All the women nodded.

“What size are your feet?” Lucy asked me.

“Four,” I stated with resignation.

“That’s a women’s size five and a half . . . or a six,” Lucy stated. “I’m a seven. Francine, you’re a six, right?”

Francine produced a pair of those ballet slipper-like things made for women gymnasts.

“Okay,” I relented, “I’ll be a sport. I’ll wear the leotard and slippers, go through the routine, and give Betty Sue the visual she needs.” I stepped into the coaches’ office and quickly changed into the leotard and slippers. When I came out I felt foolish, but was ready to do my best to work with Betty Sue.

Bogdi came back into the gym, took one look at me, and growled. “Have-ass!”

We all stared at him.

“Might as well not do. . .if have-ass.” He waved his arms wildly, and then left the gym, again.

“Have-ass” was Anglo/Romanian for “Half-ass” and the worst condemnation Bogdi could make. All of us knew that giving less than 100% was unacceptable in his gym.

“What?” I asked the circle of women around me. “What is it he wants?”

“He wants you to make an all-out effort to look as much like Betty Sue as you possibly can,” Lucy answered helpfully. Her hand cupped her chin. “The first time I saw you come into the gym I was sure you had to be her little brother. You look so much alike. With a little help, here and there, Betty Sue will think she’s staring in the mirror when she looks at you.”

I could feel a blush take over my face. Betty Sue’s drop-dead gorgeous, but I don’t want to be compared to her. No man would want that.

“It won’t be so bad,” Betty Sue said, and then flashed her mega-smile.

I melted. “Okay. You guys do whatever you think is right.” I’m such a sucker. . ..

“I’ve got a training bra in my locker,” Shannon said. “I was going to have it bronzed, because I finally grew out of it.”

None of the girls are over-developed. Women gymnast, as a rule, have little boy bodies so my transformation won’t be terribly challenging. I was starting to accept my fate.

“You’re 60’s haircut is actually longer than mine,” Betty Sue said. “Good thing you’re so old-fashioned. I can style it to look like mine. You’ll look sweet.”

Her natural enthusiasm and warmth is taking over. She doesn’t even understand that I’m not crazy about “looking sweet.”

She took after my hair with scissors, comb, and brush.

“This will help you get into the right spirit.” Greta had snuck up behind me and sprayed me with perfume. “It’s called Babe. . .everyone loves Babe.”

Oh geez. What if I get a hard-on? What will they think?

“Your yucky body hair has to go!” Shannon squealed. She ran to find a razor and shaving cream and within minutes they had removed every bit of hair from my body other than what Betty Sue had fashioned into what she called a “pixie” — and the hair that was hiding under my briefs.

Francine manicured my nails -- applying a coating of light-pink polish.

The group stood around and surveyed me for several minutes.

“Almost there,” Shannon announced, “but Betty Sue never starts the day without making her face. It’s a good thing Tony doesn’t have facial hair.”

I shave, but I only have to do it every other week.

I’d never thought of Betty Sue as being a woman who used much make-up, but she actually must have spread it on thickly. It took three of them nearly thirty minutes of dabbing and brushing various things on my face, eyes, and lips before they were satisfied my face looked something like hers.

“Too much mascara,” Shannon complained.

I nodded. My eyelids were being pulled by the weight of my overloaded lashes.

“There’s no such things as too much mascara.” Betty Sue giggled and was joined by the others.

I expected to look like a circus clown, but when they placed us side by side in front of the mirror the women used to work on their proper performance posture -- I didn’t really see all that much make-up other than the glossiness of my lips.

My goodness — we do look a lot alike. She’s more muscular than the normal girl and I’m less muscular than most guys . . . so our physiques are quite similar.

“Other than Betty Sue being 4’10”,” Shannon said, “and Tony being a couple of inches taller, they’re almost identical, if you don’t look too closely.”

“Your underwear is bunching up,” Greta exclaimed. “A leotard shows the world whatever is under it.” She ran to the locker-room and came back with an elasticized brief. “These panties will smooth things out.” Her face turned pink. “And, you have to wear the training bra . . . for realism.”

I’m sure my face is as red as hers.

“Here,” Shannon said, while handing me a squatty, round plastic container. “This is Babe dusting powder. Use it all over your body. It will make your leotard feel nice and silky.”

“It already feels nice,” I blurted out, and then bit my lip, afraid I had said too much.

I again went into the coaches’ office to replace my underwear with what Greta had given me. I struggled with the bra to get it set in the right position and used the powder liberally. When I came out I was determined to make sure all of my embarrassment wasn’t in vain, by going through Betty Sue’s exercise perfectly.

Bogdi returned and nodded toward me silently.

Betty Sue and I looked like two peas in a pod while completing our normal warm-ups and calisthenics.

I then performed the Floor exercise with Betty Sue watching intently. In my estimation I had scored a ten.

“Not have-ass!” Bogdi bellowed when I was done. Much to my astonishment he ran up to me, and then lifted me off my feet, and gave me his patented bear hug reward, which he bestowed on the women he trained who pleased him.

At least he didn’t kiss me.

While Betty Sue took the floor to try to duplicate what I had done, it occurred to me that I hadn’t given a thought to making sure my movements had been “tightened-up”. I blushed, knowing how feminine my routine must have looked, but then put it out of my mind as I concentrated on Betty Sue’s efforts and what I would say to her after she finished . . . to help her improve.

As it turned out, there was little I could or needed to say. She too, was given a bear hug and an “Almost good” from Bogdi. It was obvious that all she had to do was work on consistency. She had made a quantum leap in her development and unless we had severely miscalculated the competition, she would do well in the Olympics.

After he set her down, Bogdi turned to the rest of us. “Never be satisfied; never enough; never.”

Finally able to relax and think about what had happened, it occurred to me that I had been totally at ease while doing that Floor exercise, more than at any other time during my gymnastics career. It all felt totally natural to me.

“Everyone,” Bogdi bellowed.

We assembled around him and waited for him to speak.

He patiently pointed a finger in each person’s face. “Gym is our home. It be place we proud of. What goes on in Bogdi’s Gym, is Bogdi’s business. No one else must ever know.”

Gymnasts live by a strict code of confidentiality. They have to depend on each other to prevent the competition from knowing about injuries or the contents of their routines. I was certain no one would ever tell anyone about what I had done or how I looked that afternoon.

That night I received a call from home. Mom had taken seriously ill, and I was needed to manage the hardware store to keep the doors open. My duty to the store’s employees and my mom ended my career as a gymnast coach and my dreams of ever becoming someone who could help people realize their hopes.

Chapter Six
I’ll Play the Game and Pretend. — Paul Simon

No one cared.

No one had believed someone like me could actually make the Olympic team, so those who knew I’d gone to the tryouts weren’t surprised that I didn’t make it. In fact, most people hadn’t noticed I was gone until I came back, if then.

Once in a while someone would notice my shaved arms, and I would tell them that I had lost a bet. No one questioned that; they seemingly had me pegged as a loser.

My mom’s illness turned out to be pneumonia, which the doctors said was related to the aneurysm that ended her life. Two things struck me at her funeral. Mom had managed to acquire a lot of friends through her work at the hardware store — and I had no family left. Her brother had died several years before and had never married. Dad had no siblings, and so I was all alone. The ache in my heart was something I knew would never go away.

Also, my few friends from high school had moved away to college and forgotten me.

I threw myself into my work at the hardware store. It wasn’t a difficult business to run because all of the employees had been there for years. I picked up management skills on the fly and ended up putting in twelve-hour days, which was no big deal since I had no life.

Between paying down the operating loan and the need to keep the doors open to support my employees, I was mired in faucets, paint, cleaning supplies, and tools.

Just when I had reached a point of utter despair, Cherry came into my life.

She worked at the drugstore at the other end of the strip mall. Every day at 11:45 I went to the Hungry Steer for lunch. It was located two doors west of the hardware store and one door east of the drugstore and offered an edible American menu. She arrived at the same time.

We said “hi” for a couple of weeks before we both decided our meals would taste a lot better if we could be distracted by conversation.

As it turned out we had a great deal to talk about. It seemed like we shared identical opinions on everything I thought was important. If we had taken one of those compatibility tests they talked about on TV, I was sure we would have had perfect scores.

Probably the best thing about her was her laugh. If came often and lasted a long time. She was also so good-looking that I was amazed she was interested in me, but she was. She asked a million questions. What was my favorite color? Who would I want elected president? What day of the week did I do my laundry? Nothing seemed out-of-bounds.

About a month after we started eating our lunch together I decided it was time to move our friendship up to another level. “I was wondering if you’d like to do something Friday night? Maybe see a movie?”

“Uhmmm,” she said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening. Bill Sauer just walked in.”

The way she gushed “Bill Sauer” — as if he was covered in chocolate sauce — exposed a flaw in our relationship.

I looked toward the door and saw a guy from school I barely knew striding toward us.

He plopped down in the booth . . . on Cherry’s side. “How you guy’s doin’?”

I nodded.

“I’m soooo flippin’ tired of this rain,” Cherry said. “It seems like it’s been raining a month of Sundays.”

“Uh huh,” I said, not liking where our conversation seemed to be heading.

Bill looked toward me. “What’s the deal, Toby? I heard you went away, but then you came home because you weren’t good enough.”

“It’s ‘Tony’,” I said.

“What did I say? I said ‘Tony’ didn’t I? Clean your ears out.” He signaled the waitress to bring him a glass of water. “Say Cherry — How about going to the Poison concert with me Friday night. They’re a new, hot band out of Pennsylvania making a one-night stop here.”

“She can’t,” I said quickly. “Cherry’s going to the movie with me.”

Cherry looked at me dismissively making my heart stop. “Where did you get that idea? I mean — really Tony. I like you for a friend. . .but. . . .”

I stared at the floor, hurt by her rejection and afraid of what was coming.

Her words came in quick bursts, almost as if she had practiced. “Look, Tony, it’s about time someone straightened you out.” She placed the fork she had been using to eat her French fries carefully on her plate at precisely a spot that would have indicated three o’clock had it been an hour hand — like she always did. “You think you’re really something because you manage that stupid, nickel and dime hardware store. Golly gee, don’t you realize it’s a podunk store in a podunk town, for gosh sakes.”

Time had stopped. I looked for the shortest path to the door, but didn’t know if my legs would support me if I got up.

Bill laughed loudly, which seemed to add fuel to her blaze.

“I thought I would be nice and do you a favor by allowing a pipsqueak like you to eat lunch with me — but that doesn’t mean you can take advantage of the situation. A girl has to be careful what people think of her. How would it look . . . have you ever thought of that? Geez. A normal girl like me going out in public with a pygmy. . .my parents would absolutely go bananas. My dad hates runts.”

By the time I went back to selling plungers and Drano my ego had shriveled to the point where all I could manage was checking the inventory in the backroom.

That night I watched the opening rounds of the Olympic women’s gymnasts’ competition on TV at home . . . by myself. Even though I knew all the women on the U.S. team I felt detached and almost uninterested — until Betty Sue started her Floor exercise. Seeing her doing the exact moves I’d done for, and with her, created an out-of-body experience for me. For those ninety seconds I was her and she was me and we performed with skill and grace . . . even the most difficult movements.

My arms, legs, fingers, and torso twitched and bent with her every leap, coaxing us toward excellence.

I wasn’t the least bit surprised when she was awarded a perfect score of ten. We’d earned it.

For the next few nights she continued to dominate the competition by winning a bronze medal for Uneven Bars, a silver for Team Competition and Vault and gold in the All-Around and Floor. She was the first American to ever win the All-Around. Each time she did the Floor exercise I was one with her. When she was doing her other skills I had a deep concern, but didn’t have that feeling of us being the same person.

When it was all over Bogdi did his best to hog the camera. I wasn’t at all surprised when he failed to mention my role in helping prepare Betty Sue, but he could’ve. And if he had, how would he ever explain what happened that day? How could I tell the world I’ve felt at peace once in my life . . . for a few blessed hours in that gymnasium?

The TV camera loved Betty Sue, and she became an overnight sensation. Both the men’s and women’s teams had done well. Eric won a silver medal in the Pommel horse, the first USA medal for Pommel horse since 1932.

The last night of the Olympics, during the closing ceremony, the TV announcer went on and on about how Betty Sue had become America’s Sweetheart.

“I’m just telling it like it is.” Howard Cosell said through his nose. “That little gal could run for president and beat the pants off Reagan or anyone else who they might run against her.” He shot a lopsided smile into the camera and continued his gasbagging. “I have it from a good source that there will be wedding bells in the near future for Betty Sue and Eric. So ends the single lives of two of the most eligible people in America.”

Eric’s perfect for us.

What was that? I didn’t just turn into a homosexual? Did I?

Chapter Seven
Why Don’t You and I Combine. — Hayley Mills

When the doorbell rang at my home six months later I was sure it would be George from the store. We’d been having trouble with the paint can shaker, and I’d told him to stop by to tell me -- on his way home -- if it acted up, again. It was a Friday night and I would gladly go back to the store to adjust it -- rather than sit in front of the TV, at home, by myself.

“Hi, Tony.” Betty Sue stood there, grinning. She had sent me a sweet, warm letter after the Olympics, thanking me profusely for all the help I’d given her. She had enclosed a picture of her standing outside of Pauley Pavilion where the competition had been held. It didn’t read like the kind of letter you’d normally answer, so I hadn’t.

“Hey, Betty Sue. What are you doing in Michigan?” My legs trembled. Seeing her made me feel warm all over.

“I came to see you. . .silly.” She laughed. “Ask me in. Eric’s down at the Holiday Inn watching a ball game on television. I wanted to talk to you. . .just us.”

“What a nice surprise.” I showed her to my living room and realized with shame how a layer of dust on every chair but mine and unread newspapers gave hints of my lonely existence. “I just read in People magazine about how you and Eric eloped. Congratulations!”

“Thank you. I’m crazy in love with him. He’s my first and only love. I had a boyfriend in high school, but that really didn’t count because he was in West Virginia and I was at Bogdi’s gym already and was taking high school by correspondence.”

“Did you miss out on a lot by not going to a traditional high school?”

“You give up your teenage days. You miss proms and games and high school events.”

“That sounds awful.” . . .even though my high school days weren’t all that wonderful.

“I'd say it was a good trade. You miss something, but I think I gained more than what I lost.” She smiled and warmed the entire room. “Anyway, Eric and I didn’t want our wedding to be a circus. We decided to go back to West Virginia and have the ceremony at the Baptist church where my mom and dad are buried.”

“I wish I could have been there.”

I went to the kitchen, and then brought her a glass of water. While passing it to her I noticed her hand was shaking as much as mine.

“I wish you could have been in the wedding,” she said after sipping the water, “but it was done so quickly.” Her smile easily outdid the 40-watt bulb in the corner lamp. “I had Shannon as my maid of honor and Eric had Tim stand up for him, a friend of his from UCLA. That’s all the people who attended the wedding. But it must have been a real wedding because that was four months ago, and now I’m two months pregnant.”

“Wow! Congratulations! That’s wonderful!” They’ll have a beautiful baby.

“It will be nice to have some family again. After Mom and Dad died I was left like you, with no one. Of course, in my part of West Virginia people die so young; not having kin is just part of life.” Her face clouded with sadness. “I was sorry to hear about your mom.”

“It’s been a little rough,” I admitted.” I’d forgotten that Betty Sue’s parents had long ago passed. She has no more family than I do. . .except Eric. “I saw you on Johnny Carson. I loved some of the things you said.” She had told Johnny that she wants to make her life work teaching healthy attitudes to kids.

“Uh huh. I believe if you think you can do it, you’ll be right. On the other hand, if you think it’s going to rain, it will.” She reached across the two feet that separated our chairs and took my hand in hers. “But you know all that. We talked about it nearly every night for eight weeks at training camp.”

We had. “It was good to hear you saying those things on the air. Maybe some kids were listening.” She had stopped seeming like Betty Sue Rotunda, Olympic hero, and had become simply, Betty Sue, my friend.

“They do, Tony. It’s amazing how people listen to me now: men, women, adults, and kids . . . everyone. Gee I wish you could have been in L.A. with us. It was fun. They had a game room for the athletes with a new sensation called Pac Man — that we could play for free.”

I smiled. “It would have been fun to be there with Eric and you. Are you getting back into the gym to get ready for the U.S. championships?”

“Not hardly. Pregnant moms can’t jump much; and didn’t you hear? Several of the Floor skills I learned from you had been removed from the Code of Points because they’re considered to be too dangerous.”

That’s the gymnasts’ world’s way of saying something is illegal. “More likely they’ve been removed because the Russian women can’t do them.”

We laughed, the first laughter in my house for months.

“Nope,” Betty Sue went on . . . patting my hand for emphasis. “I’m through with competitive gymnastics. I’ve been going to the gym every day since I was four — I’m ready to be done with the grind. I’ve got something else going, which is why I’m here — I mean besides the fact that I should have made the trip long ago. It’s been crazy for me, but that’s no excuse for failing to stay in touch with one of my best friends.”

“We were good friends at training camp,” I allowed.

“Good friends? Heck no, Tony. We were best friends.” She squeezed my fingers and shook them gently. “Outside of Eric, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and I’ve been a pig letting my world get crazy and not calling you, but that’s all going to change, if you agree to help me.”

She went on to tell me she was doing a pilot for a TV series. It would be an adventure / comedy in which she would be the main character, who solves crimes by using good common sense and tumbling. “They say I have a Q factor of 83.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

She blushed. “The average Q factor, or popularity rating, for a sports personality, is 52. They tell me an 83 marketing evaluation makes me the most popular sports personality there is, male or female.”

“If Q factor means you’re a nice person, I’d say they’ve got it right.”

“You’ve always been my biggest supporter,” she said grinning. “Eric and I both think you would have a Q factor better than mine, if people got to know you.”

I shook my head. It was surreal to be talking to her, in my house, in Michigan, but it felt absolutely right.

“The TV producer, Loren Thompkins, said I have a fresh and perky personality. He said everyone thinks of me as the girl next door. And, that’s supposedly good.”

Only Betty Sue could say those things without sounding stuck on herself. “How can you solve a crime by using tumbling?”

She giggled. “I’m not real sure, but they want me to make the opening credits really exciting. They’ve tested the idea with sample audiences and they think it’ll be a success. I told them I’m a precision gymnasts and without the drama of competition it would be hard for the average person to think what I do is ‘exciting.’ ”

“People outside of gymnastics really don’t understand how hard it is to be precise.”

She stopped, as if what she had to say next would embarrass her. “The TV people said that having my face on a Wheaties’ box has set me up for life, if I play it smart.”

I’d read in Sport magazine where some wise-guy columnist said it was the first time Wheaties had used a life-sized picture, but I didn’t want to embarrass Betty Sue by repeating it.

“So, will you help me?” Betty Sue asked. She let go of me and clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture.

I felt uncomfortable making her beg. “Do you really need a coach? I would think there’s a lot of people who could be your personal coach, including your husband.”

“A ‘coach’ isn’t exactly what I’ve been thinking about.” She quit talking and allowed me to listen to dead air for about thirty seconds. “Do you remember that day in the gym when Bogdi made us dress you like me?”

I glanced around the room, afraid to let her see into my soul through my eyes. “Uh huh.”

“Do you ever think about it?”

“Y-y-y-yes,” I whispered. When I glanced toward her I saw that she was allowing me my privacy by pretending to be interested in the front page of a month old Bitterroot Times.

“I think a lot about that day, too,” she said and sighed. “It was like you were with me in Los Angeles. When I was doing my routine at the Olympics it felt like you were right inside me.”

“I know.” I looked directly at her.

“You do?” She beamed at me.

“Uh huh. I do.” We are the same person at times. All of a sudden I felt comfortable with the thoughts I’d been having. Betty Sue approves.

“The TV series could be real cool, Tony.” Her eyes danced with excitement. “John Fogarty has a new album coming out and he’s friends with Loren Thompkins. Fogarty has this new song that he thinks is pretty great that he’s willing to let us have for the theme song of my TV program. The song isn’t released yet, it’s about baseball and is called Centerfield, but he’s willing to rename it Betty Sue and rewrite the lyric to match our show. How about that?”

“That sounds great, I’ve loved John Fogarty for years, including his CCR stuff, but you still haven’t said how I can help you.”

“We want the opening credits to be one long, continuous, uncut shot of me tumbling. The studio will construct a tumbling platform that’s six times as long as the normal diagonal size we compete on . . . so it will be just a little bit longer than a football field. Are you still in good gymnastic shape, Tony? You look fit.”

I nodded. “I still work out every day, it’s a hard habit to break, so I’m sure I can show you how to do a long tumbling run the length of that special platform.”

She shook her head slowly. “More than that. I need you to be me in that opening scene. I need you to be my stunt double in the series. You can do amazing things that will cause America’s jaws to drop . . . things I could never do.”

I listened to her enthusiasm, noted her determined posture, and knew her need. “Is this TV show really all that important to you?”

“It is, Tony. People listen to me. Even though I’m not even five feet tall they want to hear my opinion. I’m reaching the kids. I’m making a difference. If I can make this show work, I’ll be able to help so many, many more kids.”

I can’t possibly turn her down, but. . . . “I’ve got the store to. . . .”

“Eric and I have worked that out. We knew from what you said when you left training camp that you couldn’t just abandon your employees. We’ll buy the store from you, pay off the bank loan, and then sell it to your employees on a long-term note, so that they can make a go of it without you.”

“Do you have that kind of money?”

“The endorsements game has been very, very good to me. And, there’s a lot of money floating around the TV show. You’ll be highly compensated.”

“You’ve thought this through?”

“Yes, Tony. Mr. Thompkins and I have had several long conversations about you. He thinks we can make it work if you’re willing to keep things quiet. You could live with us and stay in character . . . as my twin sister.”

“You want me to be your twin sister on the TV show?” I asked incredulously.

“No . . . we’ll only tell people that you’re my twin sister if we’re absolutely in a bind. I don’t think that will ever happen. On the set one of us will always stay in my trailer. Mr. Thompkins will make sure every shot with you in it will be taken from a distance. He said that will be the easy part. Tony, you care about people and want to make a difference. You can help people through me.”

“Hold on. Did I hear you right? Do you really want me to live as a woman, in your house?”

“Uh huh. Mr. Thompkins said it would be safest if you tried to look as much as possible like me twenty-four hours a day. When people see you they will assume you’re me. Would that be too hard for you?”

“Hard?” I asked. I have a feeling it would be easier being her than it is being me. “I don’t know if it would be all that hard, but won’t it be weird for Eric, you, and your new baby?”

She laughed. “I suppose my baby will think I’m weird, no matter what. As for Eric, having two of me living with him will be twice as much of a good thing . . . at least I hope he thinks I’m a good thing in his life.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that.” She wants me to dress and act like a woman -- on national television. It sounds bizarre, but it also sounds much better than anything I’m doing now.

“Sure, the baby will just think of you as an aunt. Please say you’ll try it for a year. I need a close friend out there. All of this stuff is so new and different. Heck, I didn’t even have a driver’s license until a month ago. Say -- remember that time you did everyone’s voice. You sounded so much like me I couldn’t tell the difference when we played back the tape recorder.”

“Uh huh. I’ve always been good at mimicking people.” She does have a little girl’s voice when she gets excited. If I were to alter my voice to be like Betty Sue’s the biggest change wouldn’t be in pitch, but in speed. She talks incredibly fast. “I don’t know. Are you sure I can do it?”

“You can do anything you want. You have more natural athleticism and more determination than anyone I know. Think of what you’ve accomplished. Please, Tony. They actually take me seriously. You know how it is for you and me. People think small people have small ideas. Winning those medals has changed that for me, but it will wear off and go back to the way it was before, unless I do something like this TV series.”

“Are you sure I can do it?”

“You just need to be cocky. That’s what I intend to do. I’m going to walk onto that soundstage like I own it, no matter how many butterflies are in my tummy.”

She will; I’m sure of that. “I’d like to try it. Believe me, I’ve had my fill of being invisible. Betty Sue, I don’t know how to say this, but you’re the most important person in my life and. . . .”

“I know. Eric is my husband and I love him dearly. But -- you are me and I am you.” She rose and pulled me out of my chair to hug me. “I love you like the sister I never had.”

Sister? I suppose in reality. . .. “I’ve been practicing in my gym.” I said softly while breaking our hug — a hug I knew instinctively would be the first of thousands to come in the future. “It’s been different since I’ve gotten back from the training center. When I practice I daydream about how it felt when. . .. Then I become you and do things the way you would do them.”

Her head bobbed slowly. “I thought you felt that way. I’ll call Eric, and he’ll tell the studio. Can we tie things up here so you can be in California by next Friday?”

I nodded. “Sure. . .. It’s going to be okay, isn’t it?”

“It feels perfect,” she said. “When it feels this perfect, it has to be right.”

Chapter Eight
Will Things Ever Be the Same Again? — Europe

Betty Sue had asked to talk to me. When I entered her home office she was working behind her antique, mahogany desk, one of the few pieces of furniture in our house that hadn’t been built special ordered; it dwarfed her. They were conservative with their money, spending only when needed, but unafraid to pay a little more for quality and security. We lived together in a gated community that offered the kind of privacy we required.

I had just returned from the beauty parlor and felt sexy. Of course, we were limited to Betty Sue’s trademark pixie cut for our hair, but all other aspect of our appearance was open for debate, but since our eyes and skin were so close in color we rarely disagreed on cosmetics. Jayne, our stylist, knew what was going on, but she never said anything. Betty Sue and I had explained our situation to her and asked for her complete confidence. She told us that several of her female Hollywood clients had male stunt doubles. Her statement and the fact that I’d lived as a woman for a year without any difficulty had finally made me completely comfortable with the situation.

Betty Sue’s first baby, McKinley Elaine, was a miniature of her mother. As it turned out I did a lot more stand-in work for Betty Sue than what we had originally planned because of her “delicate condition” during much of the shooting schedule. The network quickly warmed to our series and worked out a special arrangement with our sponsors to buy thirty one-hour episodes the first season.

Baby McKinley seemed to love being on the set in our trailer, and I loved the hours we spent together. I did double duty as her mother’s onstage stand-in and McKinley’s nanny. It seemed like I had a natural flair for child rearing.

“The Foundation is going full-speed ahead on our new project.” Betty Sue grinned. “We’re really going to find five and six year olds who aren’t quite ready for traditional school because of a lack of educational preparation in their homes. We’ll provide for them a few months of intensive learning to get them ready to make it in regular schools. It’ll be like Head Start, without the governmental red tape. Our program will use almost all volunteers. The government’s program has one paid staff person for every six volunteers, which runs up the cost. We’ll put the savings into books and other tangibles.”

“That sounds terrific.”

“Eric will be in charge of all operations. He finishes his psychology degree from UCLA this spring. Plus . . . Head Start is all about force-feeding ABC’s and other basic learning skills, whereas our new program will have a healthy dose of developing positive attitudes, which is his basic philosophy, as well as ours.” Betty Sue shivered with excitement. “It’s the best thing we’re doing right now. General Mills has been terrific as a corporate partner, and there are three or four others eager to come on board.”

“Do you really like doing all those commercials?”

“At first I felt like a carnival barker, and then I realized it was an enclosed circle. My fame allows me to sell product for the sponsors. The ads I do make me more famous, which allows me to sell even more product. That same fame makes it possible for the Foundation to accomplish what we do. I have to love the commercials for the results the Foundation has been getting.”

She and I were both wearing acid-washed denim skirts and silk blouses. We bought two of everything and dressed from the skin out in similar outfits as much as possible. We couldn’t go into stores together, but we went separately and split the shopping duties. Betty Sue favored knitted wool cardigans and matching skirts — some by Chanel. I liked her taste, but preferred to wear the skirts with silk blouses, but without the cardigans.

She stands so erect, taking advantage of every sliver of natural height she has. I wish I could wear the two-inch heels she has for the series, but when I stand in for her I wear flats, to compensate for our height difference.

“The network is pushing me to sign a new, three-year contract,” she said, while putting aside the work she really loved.

“I would imagine so,” I said. In a way it sounded like an echo of her when I talked because for the last several months I had always used my “Betty Sue” voice. It was just easier. “If it wasn’t for Bill Cosby, your show would be number one.”

She nodded. “His show is better than ours. As competitive as I am, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that he’s a much better entertainer than I’ll ever be — but the network thinks we can beat him.”

“How? I think everyone in America wishes they were a Huxatable. Is the network going to kidnap Ahmad Rashad and force Phylicia to sabotage their show?” Ahmad had been one of my favorite football players when he played for the Vikings. I suppose that was because I appreciated what he did to become a pro-bowl wide receiver.

She shook her head and grinned. “The network has been doing their focus group thing. They want to make some changes in our show, especially during sweeps.”

I groaned. Some of the ideas the network came up with were just plain stupid. Yet, some of their guidance had involved pure genius.

“Do you remember David Carradine’s show . . . Kung Fu?” she asked.

“Sure, who could ever forget Little Grasshopper? Does the network want to work David Carradine in as a new member of the cast?”

“No — they want to make our show more of a Kung Fu kind of series with tumbling that is much more acrobatic. They want the tumbling scenes to be an integral part of the story.”

I nodded. It had occurred to me that the tumbling hadn’t been used as much as originally intended. “I can see the series becoming more like Kung Fu with more of a moral message. The writers stayed away from tumbling because of your pregnancy, but that shouldn’t be a problem now that you’ve had the baby.”

“Storks aren’t like lightning,” she said with a Mona Lisa smile. “They often come to the same house more than once.”

I shrieked. “You’re going to have another baby.”

She got up from her desk and came around it to embrace me. As usual, the two of us couldn’t contain our excitement, and jumped up and down in celebration.

“Eric is in seventh heaven to be a papa again.”

He’s a terrific dad! She’ll have to cut back on some of her college courses with two kids. Betty Sue was trying to get her degree on campus. I was getting my advanced education through reading books on my own.

“Did you tell the network about the new baby?” I asked.

“I told Mr. Thompkins, who said we could solve it by using you more. He said you’ve become incrementally better and better at being me.”

I smiled with pleasure at the compliment. I’d worked hard at aping her every nuance. Mr. Thompkins had willingly provided videotapes of each scene Betty Sue acted in so that I could study them in the trailer. I had broken down everything she did — practicing facial expressions for hours in front of my mirror. I worked at holding my hands like Betty Sue to express my feelings. I even arched my back slightly, like she did, to emphasize my fake breast when I wanted attention. It all added up, even changing my gait to match hers.

I also watched Betty Sue in person nearly fifteen hours a day, picking up her colloquialisms, the way her left hand found her right ear lobe when she was in deep thought, the slightly exaggerated sway to her hips when she entered a room where she didn’t know everyone, and much, much more.

Every other week or so, Eric would mistake me for Betty Sue, which I took as a high compliment for what I was trying to achieve. I quickly realized that I had picked up all of Betty Sue’s flirtatious actions and ached to try them out on Eric, but that would have crossed a sacred line I had drawn.

Even more gratifying was when the baby would mistake me for Betty Sue, which I tried to correct as soon as I realized it. Of course, if McKinley needed comforting and Betty Sue was out, I would allow the baby’s misconception to go unchallenged. What was the harm in McKinley calling me “Mama”?

I bit my lip. “I don’t know. When they take those tight shots we aren’t all that similar. . ..”

“He thinks we can fix that. He said that if you’ll have a small amount of plastic surgery on your chin and forehead, some additional dental work, no one will be able to tell us apart.”

“There are other issues,” I said with a small laugh. “We don’t have the same bra needs . . . and plumbing.”

“Have you given any more thought to going to Europe?”

“Going to Europe” was our code for a sex change. Betty Sue and I had had several late evening discussions about my life. I had confided with her that I was beginning to think that maybe I should have been born a woman. More specifically, I had told her I thought that I had been born a woman, but in a male body. She had found a hospital in Switzerland that specialized in that kind of surgery for the very wealthy. They could be counted on to be discrete.

Betty studied me. “You could have the surgery and the cosmetic changes needed for the show at the same time.”

I chewed on my forefinger. I had picked up that bad habit from Betty Sue. It was something she did when she was nervous. “I just don’t know. I enjoy the time I spend doing things as a woman. When Eric and I are out together in public I feel as comfortable and as content as I ever have in my life.” Even though Eric is about average size for a male gymnast, he towers over me. “I don’t know though. It’s such a final, scary step.”

Betty Sue laughed. “You make becoming a woman sound like jumping off a cliff. What’s the big deal? You’re just changing sides.”

“It is a big deal. For one thing that operation will take almost all the money I got from you and Eric when I sold my business, plus half of what I’ve made for my work on the series.”

I lived in such tremendous joy, and had no desire to change it. Just the process of watching Betty Sue to copy the way she showed her affection and love was pure bliss, especially when she was showering her attention on Eric, who I had grown to greatly admire. I would giggle to myself when I saw how Betty Sue could, without fail, calm him instantly when he was agitated by using her pet name for him, “Tiger.”

“I guess now is as good a time as ever to tell you.” She grinned like a jack-o’-lantern.

“Tell me what?” I asked expectantly.

“Eric and I think you should have a full measure of independence. Sometimes we think the success we have has been accomplished by exploiting you.”

“Not at all,” I cried. “You should never feel that way. I’ve done it all with my eyes wide open.”

“Nonetheless,” she said, holding up a hand to silence me. “We’ve set up a bank account in your name in the Bahamas. We’ve transferred one million dollars into that account. That money is yours. All taxes have been paid on it. We stuck it in a Bahaman bank for privacy. If you decide not to have the plastic surgery and/or the TV show is cancelled tomorrow, for some whimsical reason, you can walk away with enough money to assure a fairly good future.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t either. There are no words that can express how grateful we are for what you’ve done. Eric and I are saying ‘Thank you’ so I suppose you could say ‘You’re welcome’.”

“You’re welcome, very much.” I grabbed her in another hug, which seemed like too little of a response, released her, and then looked her in the eye. “There are eleven people who know about our secret.”

“That’s how I’ve got it counted: Mr. Thompkins, you, me, Eric, the two cameramen — Steve and Ramone, our makeup specialist - Silvia, our stylist - Jayne, Dr. Watkow, our agent — Bev Minx, and our housekeeper -- Goget.”

“Can we trust them?”

“This is Hollywood. It’s filled with secrets and people who know their careers would be over if they violated that trust. When I saw our doctor this afternoon to set up a mommy’s diet for me for the next seven months, I talked to him about you maybe making a sex change. He suggested that he could start you on a regimen of hormones. He said it would soften some of your features and make us even more identical.”

“Do you want me to do that?”

“I want you to be as happy as possible. I’ve watched you closely during the last year, and I think everything you’re doing agrees with you.”

“I think so, too. The only thing is, I would be much happier if you and Eric would start calling me ‘Tanya’. It seems strange to be called ‘Tony’ when everything about me seems so feminine.”

“That would be easy. So . . . should I sign the contract?”

“If it depends on whether or not I will have the plastic surgery, I say ‘Do it’. I’m going to have the cosmetic surgery and see our doctor about starting on the hormones. I want to think a lot more about the sex surgery. Now that I know I can afford it, I want to take the time to make certain it’s what I want to do.”

“Is it so hard making a decision to be Betty Sue Rotunda?” She put a hand on her hip and glared at me.

I laughed. “It’s harder than you think.”

“Why? I love being me. Why wouldn’t you want to be me? After all, I’m America’s Sweetheart.”

I laughed again, knowing she was kidding -- but then I became serious. “The hard part is . . . and I mean this. The hard part of all of this is . . . I feel like a fraud.”

“You shouldn’t. . ..”

“But I do. You won the medals, but when I’m out in public I feel the love from those who recognize ‘you.’ If I had won the medals, I could fully enjoy their adulation.”

“But you did. Without your abilities and sacrifices I wouldn’t have the medals or the TV show — and all it allows us to do.”

“But I didn’t. . ..”

She put a finger to my lips. “Listen. I didn’t want to tell you this, because it would only cause hard feelings and there wasn’t any point, but now I see you need to know. When I went to Bogdi to tell him I was retiring from gymnastics, he became very upset.”

“Didn’t you tell him you were pregnant?”

“No — I wasn’t telling anyone at that time. I didn’t want to jinx it. Eric and you were the only ones who knew before the third month. I didn’t even tell Thompkins until it became necessary.”

I smiled at that affirmation of our close relationship.

“Bogdi wanted me to continue in his gym — just so his career would flourish even more. He wanted to hurt me when he saw he couldn’t change my mind. He knew how close you and I are so he told me that my success had been made on your bones.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“Bogdi told me that you would have easily won the Olympic gold in the Floor exercise. He said the men’s team’s coaches were split three to three over keeping you on the team, so they asked Bogdi for his opinion to break the tie. He said it was his private opinion that the international judges would accept your style and acknowledge your expertise, but he told the men’s coaches that you couldn’t possibly win. He knew you were a shoe-in for the gold, but he wanted you to coach me, so he sabotaged your career.”

“But . . . what about the judges’ bias against feminine movements?”

“How do you think Greg Louganis won his gold medal -- and will probably win again in Seoul?”

“Is he a homosexual?”

“Does a bear poop in the woods?”

I slapped my forehead. “Eric told me long ago that Bogdi couldn’t be trusted.”

“Bogdi’s not totally horrible. I enjoyed the vigorous training. Some didn’t. He did what he had to -- to repair all the fragile egos that were put on the line every day in his gym.”

She sees the good in everyone. “I think Eric knew what he was talking about with Bogdi.”

“Eric is normally right. He always said you were the best gymnast he ever saw. He still says that.”

“What does Eric say about me having a sex change?”

“He doesn’t see it that way.” She leaned in and whispered. “He calls it a gender correction.”

Chapter Nine
There’s a Shadow Hanging over Me. — Lennon/McCartney

I was in my room sitting in a chair reading The Cider House Rules when Betty Sue knocked.

“Come in,” I said, arranging my two-piece, white long-gown peignoir modestly around my legs. I wasn’t surprised to see that she was dressed in an identical lace and tricot set.

She carried a parcel wrapped in plain white paper. “I watched the national championship last Saturday,” she said with a smile. “You did your normal great job, Tanya.”

“Thank you.” Betty Sue had asked me to be the commentator on the broadcast, because she wasn’t feeling too good.

“When I see you filling in for me,” she continued, “it’s like watching myself in a mirror. Sometimes I mouth your words before you say them; we think so much alike.”

“There were two or three women who competed who have gold medal potential for the upcoming games.”

Her head went up and down in agreement; she then sat on the couch and patted a spot next to her.

Something’s up. Betty Sue always likes to be close when we talk seriously.

“It’s been over four years since you started being my double. It hasn’t been too hard on you — has it?”

“Not at all,” I answered, sitting next to her. I touched her arm. “You know I consider it an honor to help you with your projects in any way I can.”

She nodded. “The twins will be two years old a week from Saturday. Who would have ever thought I would have four girls -- so quickly. They all seem to love you, including Sheila Ann.”

Her baby was three months old and already quite active and alert. “And, I couldn’t love them more.”

A tear fell from her eye.

“Is something wrong, Betty Sue?” She hasn’t been looking all that healthy lately.

“I have a huge favor to ask,” she said, avoiding my question. “It’s the Mt. Everest of all favors, and I’m a horrible person to be asking you, but I have to — for all of us.”

“You know I’ll do anything I can for you.” A sympathetic drop seeped from my eye. I never could hold back when Betty Sue was crying.

“I don’t want you to do this favor -- for me,” she said. “I want you to do it because it’s what you want to do. But — it’s for me, too. Am I confusing you?”

I nodded and reached for a hug. Her hugs always make my world safe and comfortable. I couldn’t get along without them.

After we broke from our extended embrace she spoke. “You know I’ve been under the weather.”

I nodded. Eric would run three miles every day with Betty Sue, and then he would run three miles with me. Betty Sue and I obviously couldn’t run together, or people would think they were seeing double. Lately, Betty Sue had been skipping her runs.

“Last week, I went to see Dr. Watkow. He referred me to a specialist who told me that I’m quite ill.”

“You’ve been working too hard. Take a month off and rest up; you’ll be fine.”

She shook her head. “Not this time. I’ve got the cancer.”

I shook in disbelief. “That can’t be right. You’re too young and take care of yourself — you can’t have . . . that stuff.”

She nodded. “It does seem a little perverse, but I had a second opinion from another specialist confirming the first diagnosis.”

“They can cure cancer now; you’ll go to the best doctors and they’ll. . ..”

“No,” she said softly. “I have what they call stage four pancreatic cancer. They tell me it’s quite advanced . . . and that I’ll die. . ..” Her voice broke, “. . .before Christmas.”

I gasped. “But that’s only four months away. . .. No. It’s not possible.” This can’t be happening.

She smiled softly, apparently to calm me. “We don’t have time to wish and hope for a miracle that isn’t going to happen. We need to prepare for the inevitable . . . and that’s where that huge favor comes in.”

I closed my eyes and prayed for the strength to stop crying . . . to be brave for her.

“What I need to do,” Betty Sue said, “is to switch places with you.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll go on filling in for you until. . ..” As much as a tried I couldn’t hold back the tears.

Betty Sue held me and rocked gently until I quit sobbing. “You don’t understand. For the good of everyone, we need to trade identities. I will become Auntie Tanya, and you’ll become Betty Sue, in every way.”

“But, I couldn’t. . ..”

“Shhhhh,” she said quietly. “Let me talk for a bit. This is bigger than you and me. You see, Tanya. I have four little girls who would be devastated if they lost their Mama. You can see to it that such a tragedy doesn’t happen -- for them.”

“I. . . . But, I couldn’t. . ..”

“Hush! The TV series has a few more years to run, and it serves its purpose nicely as the catalyst for our foundation. That work needs to go on. There are a lot of little boys and girls who need our help. You remember how it was with photocopiers years ago, when you made a copy it wasn’t as sharp as the original. In your case, the copy is in some ways even better than the original.”

“We can’t even talk about this. There’s got to be. . ..”

“You can carry on in my place. I’ll be watching, of course, from above.”

“Oh, Betty Sue. . ..”

“Eric needs a wife. You need a husband. I stole your life, the least I can do is give you mine.”

“You didn’t steal anything. . ..”

She touched my damp cheek with her cool hand, brushing away remnants of my tears. “Since we started our charade you have had to be content to live much of your life vicariously through me. You’ve had zero chance to meet anyone special — and that hasn’t been right.”

“It’s what I wanted. Some things are too important to let your own happiness get in the way.”

She laughed sweetly. “You’re entitled to be happy. You’re a wonderful person who fell into a strange lifestyle. Your problem is you have a heart of gold and care too much about helping people.”

“Look who’s talking,” I teased.

We laughed despite everything.

“Eric and I have talked it through for the last four days,” Betty Sue said. “We think the three of us have been blessed with an opportunity to carry on after I’m gone.”

“Won’t Eric want the option to marry again?” Oh my. How could I ask such an indelicate question?

She didn’t seem to be offended. “Eric wants our children to be as happy as possible. He wants my life’s work to continue. Eric and I both can tell that you love him.”

“I would never. . .. You’re my best friend.”

She held up a silencing hand. “And, that’s exactly why you now must act on your feelings. He wants to stay married to me, through you.”

I bit my lip. “You’ve come up with some crazy ideas, Betty Sue.”

“And they’ve all worked out pretty good, haven’t they?”

I nodded.

She handed me the parcel. “For years I’ve been keeping my five Olympic medals wrapped in a plastic bread bag beneath my bed. I want you to have them.”

“Betty Sue.”

“No, from this moment on, you are Betty Sue. I’m Tanya. You’re going to tell the girls tomorrow morning that Auntie Tanya is ill.”

I nodded, tears gushing down my cheeks. There’s no other way.

She hugged me and spoke into my ear. “You need to go down the hall to your bedroom to sleep with your husband.”

I tensed, my mind reeling, not having any idea what to say.

“Eric is waiting for you. There’s a bottle of Nina perfume on my dressing table. I always use it, so now you’ll always use it, and I’ll wear your Babe.”

I nodded. Neither of us uses a lot of scent. Oh heavens, who cares about. . . .

She continued to whisper in my ear. “You must have sex with Eric tonight.”

“I couldn’t,” I stammered.

“You must,” she said firmly. “For all this to work, you and Eric have to be man and wife. I need to know, before I die, that you two are going to be a wonderful couple. I know the two of you. You’re both so romantic that you might forego sex for the rest of your lives to honor my memory.”

“But I. . ..”

“Your surgery was done three years ago. You need to consummate your womanhood.” She shook a finger at me resolutely. “Tanya, you’re ready.”

“Eric. . .?”

“Eric is as hesitant as you are, but he knows what’s right for everyone. He’s a tiger in bed. You’re going to love it.” She pushed me gently toward the door. “You both need to do this. . .for me. I will be content to leave this world for a better place, knowing my life has been simply wonderful -- if you’ll tie up this one last loose end for me.”

I did my best to smile while floating in confusion and reticence toward my new bedroom -- until suddenly my heart sang.

She’s right -- as usual. I’ve always been a sucker for her smile. . . Every time I’ve trusted her it not only felt right . . . it was right . . . and turned out right.

“Tanya?” Eric asked lovingly. He pulled back the covers, inviting me to share the bed.

“No it’s me; lie still Tiger.” I summoned conviction from deep within me and breathed heavily in anticipation of our ongoing life together. “It’s Betty Sue.”

His powerful flexors and biceps cradled me as our lips met for the first time. My world expanded — far beyond what I had ever visualized.

The End

Kudos

Comments

This was really enjoyable

there was a great mixture of sweet along with the salty tears. I liked the russian coach there was a kind of fun in his portrayal. I really got the arse in school though and the coach. I went to school with a few sports legacy families and the worst and biggest ass of them all was the combo of the basketball coach and his son. That whole family was vile and corrupt in my opinion. Worst of all the son, the "greatest athlete in our school." is now years later the head coach, so I found all of that part bitterly realistic.

Which is the mark of a good story.

Bailey Summers

I started

Just scanning this to see what it was all about. By the time I finish I had tears in my eyes. Well done, well done!

Hugs!

Grover

As usual ...

... a first class read from Angela Rasch.

I think I would be quite happy selling tools and hardware but I can see that it wouldn't suit someone like Tony. I suppose a complete impersonation was on the cards right from the time Brogdi insisted Tony help Betty Sue visualise her perfect 10 performance but the route was an enjoyable one and not without a few obstacles. I admit my first thoughts were that an injury would force Tony to compete in the Olympics but perhaps the gender testing regime might have scuppered that possibilty.

Not for the first time Angela demonstrates not only her mastery (mistressy?) of the genre but her transparent love of perfume as a personal statement.

Thanks

Robi

Thanks, Robin

But it's Bogdi (not Brogdi). Bogdi is a Romanian name meaning "Gift of God" -- reflecting this Bogdi's mega-ego.

Perfume is a personal statement. Curently I'm a huge fan of Cashmire Mist and wear it almost daily. Today I happen to be wearing an old sentimental scent called Bellodgia. Tuesday I wore Evening in Paris. For those of you who love romantic perfumes from the past, you might try The Vermont Country Store. It also is a source for Tangee lipstick, which I absolutely love.

http://www.vermontcountrystore.com/browse/Home/Apothecary/Co...

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Just so warm,

ALISON

'and so sweet. A really heart warming story.

ALISON

Tony/Tanya

Thank you for a wonderfull story ... a complete story like this is hard to find ...good clean fun ...
You are a very good author and story teller ... thank you ***** Rating ....Rone welles xoxoxoxoxo

So nice and so sad

A beautiful story. It caught me without tissue nearby though and I spent my train ride sniffling.

Hugs,

Connie

Excelsior!

That was a really good story. I liked how Tony's abilities as a mimick were established early on so that the unlikely way it progressed seemed oddly reasonable. And I loved all the seventies/eighties references, though now I've got Cosell's ridiculous intonations stuck in my head.

But you missed a real opportunity to make it even better. Think how much swifter higher and stronger Tanya would have been if she'd been exposed to Pink Kryptonite and became a superhero. As a shapeshifter she could have turned herself into Betty Sue far more easily, and if she could have somehow extended the range of her super healing powers it could've had an ending that didn't make me cry. Also the evil Romanian coach would have made an awesome vampire supervillian. Just some friendly advice for your future efforts...
~~hugs, Laika

.
What borders on stupidity?
Canada and Mexico.
.

Darn

It was obvious once you pointed it out. She could have become Bizarro Betty Sue and . . . .

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Surprises Galore!

Whenever I read an Angela Rasch story, I know there will be surprises. Readers will have to suspend disbelief, but this story is like a roller coaster ride. It's full of twists and turns, highs and lows, sidewinding rolls and backside flips. Citius! Altius! Fortius!

Heus Amica! Citius, Altius, Fortius?

Non malum....Mihi vere placit, Gratias multus!

Dio vi benedica tutti
Con grande amore e di affetto
Andrea Lena

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

re: story

oh angela, what a tear jerker. you out did yourself. loved it.
robert

Excellent Story

Angela,

A very good read. I must admit I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and for Betty Sue to stab Tony/Tanya in the back. I sure didn't see the end coming, but you are so good at the unexpected.

Like others, I really appreciated all of the Pop Culture references...

Thanks for an enjoyable read.

Hugs,

Kristy

Fuzzy Warms

I've got those fuzzy warm feelings after reading this. Good job.

You mixed in a lot of sports but it felt right for the story. Actually, it was an odd mix of sports, television and romance, and it all worked out well.

The ending was wonderfully bittersweet. You had me sighing uncontrollably.

Thanks for the story.

- Terry

Holy... Moly...

Angela... This is, by far, my favorite one of your stories. It's official.

Sad, so sad, and in so many parts. But at the same time, there is a degree of hope. I was praying that Tony would overcome all of the obstacles in his path, and in the end, she did, with the help of what sounds like one of the most wonderful people in the world. I fell in love with the cast, and despite being set before I was born I felt as though I could connect with the characters and the time it was set.

Excellent, excellent story.

Melanie E.

Very Angela Rasch!

I loved it! Of course, that's what you intended isn't it?

It takes someone of your caliber to make such an offbeat plot seem so believable.

As Bogdi said, "Not have-ass!" ;~)

I'm glad I wasn't at that initial tryout. I probably would have died from sympathetic embarrassment.

Hugs,
Carla Ann

Lost Identity

RAMI

This is a wonderful, touching story, but it is sad, that Tony,never ever had an identity of his own that was truly respected.

FRom the start, Tony was a non-entity, and while Betty Sue meant well, she was in part responsible for the demise of Tony. First, my creating the fictional Tonya, and now by bestowing her identy, Betty Sue on him.

Tony lived short while, and never blazed like he should have. Now he is gone and will not even be a memory, except for two people.

RAMI

Ten Kudos to Angela Rasch

Ten Kudos to you, Angela, on this story! It's great in every respect.

(Of course I really only gave you one Kudo. I wouldn't stuff the ballot box. BCTS isn't Chicago, after all. <grin> ).

Kris

{I leave a trail of Kudos as I browse the site. Be careful where you step!}

Quite an interesting...

Quite an interesting read. It brought back many memories for me. (Women's Gymnastics - though, for me it was the uneven bars I wanted to do, not the floor Exercises.) I remembered wishing I could be "Nadia" back in '76... *sighs* I also recall Bela Karoli (off and on - over many years since then). He had a reputation!

I'd not remembered (if I ever knew) that Mary Lou Rettin's family name had originally been Rotunda. Nice of you to weave that in. And the rest of the team! And the leg injury... Wow. Glad you worked her around to be less of a conservative though! LOL Until I went and looked up her Bio - on Wikipedia... Wow. I knew you researched a lot! Nicely done. Before the "coach" joined the picture (and sounded so much like what I'd picture Bela Karoli sounding) I'd thought you had modeled your girl gymnast after Cathy Rigby. But the year & Bela convinced me otherwise. NICE!

I actually managed to make it onto a high school varsity sport, though, it wasn't Gymnastics. I didn't have the strength - which as you indicate is key. I was a swimmer. You did a good job - from my point of view - in representing the dedication and amount of work needed to be competitive at most levels.

The slow transition to Tanya was interesting, and worked for me. But, I wonder about Tanya... She seems to be willing to submerge herself and her needs/desires in order to help those around her. In many ways, that's really nice (& I find myself attempting, with less success to do similar) but I wonder if it's really healthy. I also wonder where she & Eric would be in ten or twenty years... In such a situation, I'd wonder if she'd begin to question her own worth as a person - having to live someone else's life. Would / could / should she & Eric eventually tell the truth? (I know what pretending to be a guy all those years did to me... I also think I know how much the truth hurt, but also brought us closer, my family.)

All in all, quite a nice read. Thank you for sharing.
Annette

Only what we've come to expect from you

This was crafted with your usual pains-taking attention to detail. I get but a fraction of your sporting references but they, as usual, are oh so plausible. I was never sporty and suffered some ignominy of rejection at the try-out; failure was penalised by educators and peers alike. Parents were naive, disinterested or both. I can therefore appreciate some of what your hero/ine endured.

I loved the story, and I cried that Tony/Tanya's gifts, dedication and talent were not appreciated other than by proxy.

Susie

Why I think the world of you

I am absoluetly stunned by your story. I read it and felt as Tony would feel being rejected for not meeting others standards. Then suddenly in his new world of friends he is accepted fot who he realy is.
However I am more stunned that as you edited "The Pawn" you had this story in the works.

I am glad to call you friend knowing how talented you are and how you still find time to help others. You could almost call this a biography with the exception of the gender repair.

Kudos I like stories that keep my interest from beginning to end.

Marcie

A Womans gotta do what a womans gotta do

Keep an open mind with everyone you meet so that you will never miss an opportunity for a friendly relationship.

Editing For You, Marcie

Editing for you is an absolute treat. Your story had so much raw emotion, all I had to do was NOT get in the way.

Thank you for commenting. I'm glad you liked the story,

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

OH MY!

Dear Angela,

When I finished reading this excellent story, after i recovered from the psychic shock, I was trying to think of all the clever and complementary comments I could write and that it deserved, but as i read what everyone else had said, i realised all that i wanted to say had already been said. I can only add that I concur with everyone else.

They say in Consumer Research circles that if a product is put out, and comments asked for, people are six times more likely to say something if they find something they dont like about it, than to praise it when they enjoy it. Nobody said anything less than lavish but honest and well earned praise, so please take it from me, this story is OUTSTANDINGLY GOOD.

Thank you for sharing it with us all, and bless you.

Briar

You Just Gave Me A Lesson

I wrote a story with a somewhat similar theme (male takes over the life of a famous female) and you have demonstrated how it should have been written and could have been oh so much better.

Believe me, I am not only jealous, I am in awe at your story-telling skills. You are by far and away the most skilled writer on this site and when I read your tales I know why I will never attempt to write for Hatbox. My efforts would be like a glow-worm competing against a 1000 watt light.

Jill, you are truly marvellous,

Joanne

Thank You, Joannebarbarella

An important part of wanting to write good stories is finding an appreciative audience. Your comments are very important to me.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

You were right Jill!!

I did enjoy this story and it was similar to the other story!
Tanya and Betty Sue loved each other and at times were one person I feel.
So it was right for Tanya to go on as Betty Sue. I wonder if her kids
will ever know. It was a little sad that it took Tanya so long to understand
her real self!! I know that feeling as It took me a long time to be myself
but I am so happy I did!! Now I will have to read more of your stories as I
have enjoyed these two so much!! Thank you Jill!!

Hugs,
Pamela

“Go where your heart takes you.”

Kids

My guess is the children will be told at an appropriate time.

Jill

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

I was wrong

After I saw "sweet/sentimental" I thought to myself, sure, Angela's sweet is rather BITTERsweet. Then there was a sport theme and later everything what could be at least a bit of sweet was ruined to the bitterness of wormwood. And then were last chapters that weighed out all bitterness and cold.

Actually your story could go with "tissue warning" tag. So I've to admit it's more than merely Sweet.

Damn you!

Wow! This was a very powerful read. I suspected it would end bittersweet, but damn, girl! To have the selfless giver become America's darling, and to have Betty Sue, in the end, do something so incredibly selfless... I mean, WOW! I'll be crying for a while...

*Kisses Always*
Haylee V

Swifter, Higher, Stronger

Comments

This was really enjoyable

I started

As usual ...

Thanks, Robin

Just so warm,

Tony/Tanya

So nice and so sad

Excelsior!

Darn

Surprises Galore!

Heus Amica! Citius, Altius, Fortius?

re: story

Excellent Story

Fuzzy Warms

Holy... Moly...

Very Angela Rasch!

Lost Identity

Ten Kudos to Angela Rasch

Quite an interesting...

Only what we've come to expect from you

Why I think the world of you

Editing For You, Marcie

OH MY!

You Just Gave Me A Lesson

Thank You, Joannebarbarella

You were right Jill!!

Kids

I was wrong

Damn you!

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More like this

Story Stats

The Hatbox

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Resource Hotline

TransPulse