Elite gymnastics and pineapple on pizza

The tale of an extraordinary weekend

Nov 24, 2023

She gets it from me…

Considering my own sporting prowess - always B team, largely on the bench and pretending to have a period every week so I could avoid P.E. (back in the days when male P.E. teachers would let you get away with that) - it will come as no surprise that I have a national gymnast for a daughter.

Or perhaps it will.

It sure shocked the hell out of me.

When Taz (Tasmanian Devil) was just 4 years old, she was ‘selected’ for elite gymnastics after her second session at recreational gym with her friends. She spent the next two years training on floor, bars, beam and vault, until the tender age of 6, when we were called in for that conversation you never want to hear, no matter how old you are.

I’ll never forget the tears in her eyes as she sat there wondering, in that way that only a child can, what she had done wrong to be ‘dropped’ from the squad. It broke my heart. It turned out that she wasn’t quite bendy enough (technical term) for what is known as ‘artistic’ gymnastics - that which you see in the Olympics - but her coaches thought she had great potential for a different gymnastic discipline called TeamGym. Something I had never heard of, but a sport that has changed the course of her life - and in that knock on way, has changed ours too.

A whole new world

For the subsequent ten years, she, like her incredible teammates, has trained for on average for fifteen hours a week, week-in week-out, through summer holidays and Christmases, and competed across the country in what is actually a glorious team sport. It’s all about how they perform as a whole, not as an individual, and that is what makes it so joyous. These youngsters (for that is what they are) have learnt lessons in resilience, bravery, overcoming anxiety, conflict resolution and teamwork that would put most adults to shame.

This weekend, her gym club joined other British teams to represent Great Britain in the inaugural ‘Mid-European TeamGym Championships’ in Lignano Sabbiadoro, Italy.

In TeamGym they train as a team of five boys and five girls, who compete over three disciplines which I shall describe below with expert technical precision. I have been watching it for ten years don’t you know:

Floor - a gymnastic floor routine for all ten of them simultaneously, where they have a number of skills to demonstrate whilst performing in perfect synchronicity with the music and each other! Think synchronised swimming but without the nose clips…or water. Quite extraordinary.
Tumble - a ‘stream’ of three runs down a bouncy tumble track, performed by six of the ten gymnasts in each run. Here they fling themselves into the air forwards backwards and probably sidewards; twisting, tumbling and somersaulting down the track, with the next gymnast starting to run before the first has barely landed. If one gymnast doesn’t land on their feet and get out of the way pronto, they are whipped off the mat by the coaches so that the next one doesn’t land on top of them. It’s incredible, if heartstopping, to watch.
Trampette - another ‘stream’ of three runs using a trampette and/or vault where six of the ten gymnasts in each run launch themselves into the air at alarming heights, to do triple-flipple-double-back-twisting God knows what - and then attempt to actually land on their feet. Seriously?

Ten years in, I still cannot keep up with the moves. Even when Taz replays them to me in slo-mo it is a mesmerising blur of limbs and leotards.

Wanna make the world dance, forget about the price tag

Having never experienced high level sport personally, unlike ‘Himself’ (hubby) who was offered a semi-professional rugby contract, represented his County in swimming, water polo and all sorts (aaahhh…..maybe that’s where she gets it from), I had no previous insight into what it means to be in an elite sport, and especially one that is not funded.

I have godchildren who have played in elite rugby and football, and not only do they train for free (having been scouted by clubs); their trips and kit are funded, they are provided with hotels and transport at important fixtures and goodness knows what else. Their sports’ funding bodies have money, and use it to nurture talent. It is quite wonderful (although no less brutal in terms of selection and deselection).

‘How curious’, said Alice.

In an unfunded sport, like TeamGym, the parents pay for every training session (three or four a week) and for every bit of kit. We pay for our gymnasts to ENTER competitions, we pay to watch them, we pay for all travel and accommodation for them (and obviously ourselves). Whilst this weekend was the equivalent of The Champions League (club representing GB in Europe), when gymnasts qualify to represent GB directly in Euros, the parents even have to buy the GB tracksuit, and them flags don’t come cheap.

This isn’t to complain by means of comparison, it’s more to give an insight into how it is in sports that are slightly off-radar yet no less demanding in terms of athlete and family commitment.

This weekend, as our gymnasts set off to Lignano, they travelled with their coaches to stay in a hotel with them, not with us. So as several sets of parents (gleefully?) said goodbye at Gatwick airport at 5am last Thursday, knowing we would next see them when they competed and likely not before; we followed under our own steam to support, cheer and be together at any opportunity we could.

It would have been churlish not to go, right?

Who knew it was so close to Venice…ahem…

Travelling on a shoestring

Having funded Taz’s trip, we had about 50p left to get ourselves there, so we travelled in super-budget style. Now there is one airline I simply won’t travel with, unless there is absolutely no other option, and that is Ryanair. It’s not because of my years in aviation safety I must add - in fact as an air traffic controller, Ryanair were a dream because the pilots would always happily take any short cut offered and perform the equivalent of a handbreak turn to make a ‘gap’ work in a landing sequence. It’s a bit like TeamGym streaming when I think of it… you definitely want to make sure the one ahead is off the runway before the next one lands!!!

Easyjet prices were rocketing with their ‘demand’ algorithm in full swing, so we opted for Wizz Air, complete with miniscule baggage allowance and comedy seating allocation - more on that later.

Now even with a full baggage allowance I am NOT good at packing. It does not suit how my brain operates. I overpack everywhere I go, and always bring more than half a suitcase of clean clothes home with me. It feeds into my anxiety in a really deep way - I need to have contingency clothes for everything - and here I was, presented with the challenge of packing for a four day trip, in Europe, in November, within one tiny under seat rucksack.

Feck.

None of my rucksacks were small enough for the requirements, but good old Milletts came through with a £10 Black Friday deal so we were ‘go’ for launch.

‘capsule’ clothing - check
toiletries - check
meds - check
book - check
notebook & pen (essential!!) - check
ipad (unearthed purely to watch downloads on flight) - check
chargers and adaptors - check
water bottle - check
decaf teabags - check
passport & docs - check

All within 40x30x20. Proud.

Once on the plane however, I realised - FUCK I FORGOT MY SWIMWEAR!!! What if a body of water presented itself?!!?! Do you not know who I am?!?

A bloody marvellous team mum came to the rescue, advising that she had a spare - disaster averted. However, upon seeing the half-filled, green, ‘out of season’ swimming pool at the hotel, I figured I wouldn’t really need to avail of the offer anyway.

Wizz Air did everything possible to ensure hubby and I were not sitting together as we set off for Venice, and as we refused to actually pay for the pleasure of each other’s company (he would be catching flies and I had downloaded ‘Robbie Williams’ on Netflix), we travelled in true budget independent style, but it was actually pretty good.

Ti amo Venice

The first time I visited Venice was the year after my beloved dad died. He used to take our mum to the Opera in Verona every year. He was a proper Italophile. Whereas Mum would have travelled the world (and subsequently has), Dad would have happily gone to Italy every year. He even looked the part despite being Irish - I give you Don McDonaldeone.

The spring after he passed, my sister and I took mum to the opera in Verona in his stead. We watched Don Giovanni, and although it was an incredible experience - that particular opera was long, boring, and my arse really hurt on the stone amphitheatre seat. But seeing the actual moon peeping out from behind the scenery was out of this world (literally).

The following day, we got a train to Venice for the afternoon, and it blew me away. I knew it would become somewhere that would pull me back time and time again as there really is no other place in the world like it.

The second time I visited Venice was with my elder daughter, Fiver (scared Watership Down rabbit). I take each of my daughters away for a weekend individually every 4 years, and Fiver and I had the most magical few days there.

Until this weekend, Himself had never visited.

Pineapple on pizza?

We had 24 hours in Venice before joining up with our fellow gym parents in Lignano, and we made the most of it, although in true Italian style, with plenty of time sitting, eating and watching the world go by. We ate pizza (wryly noting the ‘Brexit’ pizza with egg and bacon), enjoyed tiramisu, drank local wine, and just meandered - although seeing Himself in his red hoodie darting through the alleyways had me looking over my shoulder for Donald Sutherland more than once.

And whilst we’re on the subject of pizza - I don’t care what anyone says about the pineapple debate - if they do it in Italy, it’s gotta be right.

All this and in bed by 9.30pm. Perfetto.

Eurovision

The next morning as we collected a car back at the airport, I finally clicked why I hadn’t been able to arrange city centre car hire 🤣. It had been puzzling the hell out of me when I was booking. I have my moments.

Upon arriving in Lignano, we met up with the other parents, and I cannot express how lucky we are to be part of such a fabulous bunch. As someone who ‘missed out’ on the whole ‘school mums’ side of life by working full time throughout those years, I never expected to find such friendship here. I thought it would be competitive, hostile, or just really random, but my God what a brilliant set of people we have got to know.

Lignano itself, is a glorious summer resort, with wide avenues, miles of golden beach, and rows of bars, cafes and restaurants…er…during summer. In November there were only three hotels open and we had filled one of them. The empty streets and closed cafes were like a scene from 28 Days Later, but the advance reconnaissance crew had achieved their mission - identifying a homely bar around the corner from the hotel that sold wine at Euro 1.50 a glass. Result.

It was a classic local bar full of older Italian men playing cards, watching sport on TV and not ordering anything. Cue a truckload of British parents and cheap wine - and that was us until 2am, fuelled by ‘Bugles’ - the crisp of champions. The bar owners were delighted. The locals perhaps not so.

The following morning after bike rides and a walk on the beach (should have borrowed that cossie after all), it was off to the venue to actually see our kids for the opening ceremony.

Now I’m not sure I can do the opening ceremony justice. Suffice it to say it was like a cross between a Fast Show sketch and a Eurovision Song Contest gap filler, but MUCH longer. If only Graham Norton had been there to narrate it. There were butterflies, a very Bavarian looking band, dancers frolicking around a well, and a barefoot woman in a frock belting out ‘I need a hero’. It was gloriously bonkers, and almost as entertaining to watch the bemused looks on our gymnasts faces as it was to watch the show itself.

Contenders…ready!

And then the day was upon us. I barely received a text message that morning as I knew Taz would be getting ready, doing hair & make up, getting into the zone, warming up, but I can sense her anticipation even when we’re not in the same room.

Having spent years as an air traffic controller, I’m very calm in stress-inducing situations, but watching my child and other children I care about throwing themselves into the air brings a unique kind of anxiety. It’s so brilliant to watch, but all you want them to do is land - primarily so that they are safe, but secondarily because you know that if they stumble, they will carry the weight of a ‘points deduction’ on their young shoulders, and feel that awful feeling that they have let others down. Of course that couldn’t be further from the truth, but they are young, sensitive, and ‘doing right by the team’ is their number one driver. That is where the heartbreak lies in watching - not that they will experience pain in their legs, arms or back(although there is obviously that), but that they will experience hurt in their hearts, and carry the feeling of responsibilities beyond their years.

Amidst the worry, sick stomach and heart in mouth feelings, there is utter wonder at what they are doing. It's absolutely stunning to watch. I reflect on an interview I heard with former Olympic gymnastic champion Nadia Comaneci, where she described how she would make micro corrections whilst in the air, innately knowing what she needed to do even when not connected with any surface. I ask Taz about this - yep, she agrees. Apparently you know if it’s not right when you’re in the air, and you just try to change it so you can land. How the bejesus do you actually do that?

She goes onto explain that the gymnasts that do triple somersaults (triffs to those of us in the know) have to do a half turn at the end (er..because they haven’t done quite enough already?!?!?!). This is because if you are just tumbling ‘forwards’ you have to land blind, but if you chuck in a twist so that you’re landing ‘backwards’ you can actually see the floor. Handy.

I feel the tension as every single gymnast takes to the floor, or runs in the tumble and trampette streams, but it obviously ratchets up for me when Taz takes her turn. In one of the streams she performs a quite mind blowing two-and-a-half-twist manoeuvre - something that she lands time and time again in training - but here, under the lights, she stumbles. My heart lurches in synch with hers. We are connected like E.T. and Elliott. I don’t need to see the expression in her face to know what she’s feeling. She’ll want to cry, but she can’t. The music is still playing. She has to carry on, and less than a minute later, run and perform again. This time she nails it.

As they complete the stream and file into the tunnel to await their next apparatus, her head is bowed. She’ll be frustrated, angry at herself, cross, but mostly sad and disappointed that (in her mind) she didn’t ‘do better’ for her team, her friends, her coaches, her club and for us. They are all so hard on themselves, but the beauty is, once they’re together, there is no criticism - they hug each other, tell each other it’s ok. It happens to every gymnast at some point, and it will happen again.

When she emerges for their next piece, she glances up at me, mouths ‘I’m ok’ and shapes her hands into a heart shape. Our signal to each other that we’re good. She has been lifted.

I can breathe. And then it all starts again.

and breathe neon sign on tre — Photo by Max van den Oetelaar on Unsplash

We all stand together

The team came in with a Silver medal, and the best thing to witness was how they congratulated the team that got Gold. The gymnasts from the two teams had become close over their four days in the athletes village, and they were genuinely proud of their new friends. They respected how well the other team had performed, and felt proud of themselves for coming such a close second. The maturity of it was quite breathtaking.

When you see them lined up in their sparkly catsuits and leggings, performing their incredible skills, lifting each other metaphorically and physically, it’s easy to forget this is a team of kids who are only 13, 14, 15, 16 years old. Some of them have never been away from their parents before (particularly because of Covid). They are young girls and boys thrown together in exceptional circumstances, facing pressures that many adults have never come anywhere close to experiencing. They are subject to the natural human drive to succeed, to not let others down, coupled with the things particularly acutely felt by teenagers - fear of embarrassing themselves, of saying or doing the wrong thing, of upsetting anyone whether that be a team mate, coach or parent. The strength of character is astonishing.

After the medals were handed out, the kids went back to their hotel to decompress, and to quite fittingly (for once) bury themselves in their devices. We left for our own celebrations, and having not eaten since breakfast, looked forward to a double portion of ‘Bugles’ at our local bar, before rounding the night off with dinner and ‘meloncellos’ (puke emoji). It was supposed to have been an early night as we were all so tired, and I was gently reprimanded by Fiver the next morning, as she told me that she had cleaned the house and gone to bed early with a cup of tea, whilst I was out til 2am. Again.

You’d think I was the teenager.

The whole weekend was utterly awesome.

Aftermath

The next time we saw Taz was at Gatwick, two days later. The gymnasts had had a closing ceremony and an athletes banquet (think ‘school disco’ on acid). Dressed up in their finery, they got to properly let their hair down - no mean feat in itself considering how tightly plaited it was (boys and girls).

Upon arriving home the adrenalin seeped away and the exhaustion kicked in. Taz was utterly disdainful at being made to go to school the following day. I unpacked my tiny rucksack, still with half on my clothes unworn. I have devised a groundbreaking mathematical formula:

{Clean clothes on return} = [{clothes packed} / 2]: regardless of case size.

My notebook and pen were unused, but I can’t travel without them. I am a writer after all.

When we were all together, Fiver asked ‘what was it like’?

Well a lot of words went through my head, as elite sport is brutal, brilliant, glorious, wondrous, heartbreaking and joyous, but to sum it up simply?

‘Extraordinary’

I hope you enjoyed this insight into our bonkers world - do you have experiences like this in your family/friends? What crazy place has it brought you to? I’d love to hear.