The Gymnast
by Mark Lucius
The night was made for boredom, but boredom would not prevail. We three high school seniors, nary a wise man among us, traveled to a neighboring school fifteen miles from our southeastern Wisconsin town—looking to fill an empty Friday night in February 1970.
Another Friday, we might have watched basketball, gone to a party, played a few hours of poker with friends. Something we liked better. But all that February night offered was a wrestling meet away from home. A classmate excelled at the sport, so we went to cheer him on. He won, the meet ended, and we left the brightly lit gymnasium for home.
None of us could have guessed that soon, we’d be gambling with our lives.
We walked out into air stinging like tiny needles. We were a few feet from Tom’s father’s 1969 Ford sedan when a rough voice commanded that we halt.
“Stop. Hey, stop! I need a ride.”
I turned around to see a familiar figure wearing a jacket much too light for winter. His hands were stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans, and even in the shadows I could see that distinctive flat-top two inches high.
The Gymnast.
“Shit,” whispered Jim.
I felt the same. The Gymnast was a star all right, and I knew that in a few weeks, he’d contend for the title of best all-around gymnast in Wisconsin. He had won first place in the horizontal bars the previous year. But something about him set my teeth on edge. I understood, feared, his competitive drive that breached all boundaries.
I thought back to a day the previous summer, the four of us listening to music. An argument broke out over the lyrics to the Rolling Stones’ “Honky Tonk Woman.” Tom, Jim and I agreed Mick Jagger sang, “She blew my nose.” The Gymnast insisted, with surprising vehemence, that Jagger lapsed into German. “She blew mein hose.Get it, she blew mein hose!” Started dopey, ended bitter, a dispute made for high school.I recalled The Gymnast’s tenacity—his need to win at everything—when Tom agreed to give him a ride home.
But The Gymnast wanted more.
“I’ll drive,” he said and reached for the door handle
“No,” said Tom, and then louder, “No. It’s my dad’s car.”
I can still see their breath mingling in the air.
“You gotta let me. I’m a great, great driver.”
“No. God. No.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Well,” said Tom finally, “only a few blocks.”
I took the right side of the back seat, Jim to my left. Tom, the would-be driver, sat shotgun.
The country road was lonely, the only light coming from the car’s ghostly beams. Icy patches littered the land. We’d traveled maybe a quarter mile on flat road when the Ford arrived at the bottom of a steep hill.
Suddenly—and God it was sudden—the Ford froze like a startled rabbit, then began rocketing with a roar, up, up, up the hill. Now, I froze. Without word or warning, The Gymnast’s right foot had stomped the accelerator.
Inside the car, no voices at first. But I saw the speedometer climbing—forty, fifty, sixty miles an hour. Halfway up the hill, the three of us roused and reacted.
“What the hell?”
“Slow down!”
“Stop!”
I stretched forward and saw The Gymnast in profile; a trace of a sneer on his lips, thick arms ramrod straight, right gym shoe glued to the floor.
The car topped the hill going seventy miles per. My heart dropped into my stomach, then bounced up to my throat.
Now, streetlights gave a clear view of what lay before us. My hands squeezed the headrest in front of me. A football field away … was an intersection … a stoplight on red … and a green station
When the Gymnast braked, I knew it was too late.
Zig! The tires shrieked as he spun the Ford to the right and away from the station wagon …
Zag! He yanked the steering wheel back left, still braking while threading the car through a cramped space between station wagon and stoplight post …
Zig! He was still braking, tires on extended howl, as he twisted the Ford around the stoplight post in the hardest of right turns.
When we swept past the station wagon, my head bounced off the right rear window, and I looked up to see a middle-aged woman in a blue coat on the passenger side of the green wagon. Her mouth was wide open, as if she was crying out to the male driver.
The Gymnast, acting like we were on a casual country drive, finally slowed the Ford to an idle alongside the road. Tom exploded: “You … crazy … fucker!”
I shook off the effects of centrifugal force. Inhaled burnt rubber. Rubbed my aching head.
The green station wagon rolled up behind us. Its driver left the wagon and appeared next to the Ford. Slowly, The Gymnast rolled down the window. A man peered in and thundered away, “If I ever see you in this town again,” he raged, “I’ll take you to my friend, and he’s the Chief of Police.” In his bulging eyes, we were all to blame.
Tom drove home. Nobody said a word.
*
Whatever psychic wound I incurred from the near accident healed quickly. I was a teenager. We almost died. But we didn’t. A few weeks later, I watched The Gymnast stand on a center podium at a different school. He had led our high school to its first state gymnastics crown. He grasped a medal for winning the tourney’s all-around event. His smile was no sneer. Even I, caught up in the moment, stood and cheered. As sports editor for our school paper, I didn’t think it strange when I lauded his greatness in the front-page lead story.
In 1985, I got home from work, fed my cat, and tore open a thick envelope that had arrived in the mail. Inside was a booklet commemorating the fifteenth anniversary of my high school graduation. Classmates had submitted pictures and paragraphs, sketches of their lives. I flipped through the book, and there, amidst accountants, factory workers and real estate agents, I found a familiar face. His summary began:
“This former star athlete is now a stunt man in Hollywood. His most recent film is Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler Part II.”
“Jesuuus Christ.”
My reaction was fed more by astonishment than anger. My mind still refused to link The Gymnast with a serious threat to my being—not to mention that of the couple in the station wagon. I read that short summary over and over… and The Gymnast’s audacious behavior seemed to make sense. He was a risktaker, a daredevil, a stunt man. He’d dropped us into the jaws of death and pulled us out again. A crazy guy with a crazy story, almost like a movie. A talented but arrogant teenaged athlete risks his life—and others—before finding his true calling in, of all places, Hollywood. The Gymnast really was the star, Tom, Jim, and I mere “extras.”
About a decade ago, I tried writing about the incident. My early drafts focused only on our eerie adventure and my surprise discovery. The drafts had a “gee-whiz” quality, look what happened to us! But I couldn’t think of a decent ending, so I put the story aside.
A few years later, I took another crack. Then I tried to answer lingering questions. Why would such a disciplined athlete, on the cusp of another precious medal, pull such a trick? He was a teenager, sure, but he’d spent years perfecting a craft that brought him as much acclaim as high school can offer. Wasn’t that enough? Was he pissed at us for that goofy argument about “mein hose?” But I found no answers, only mental gymnastics. Again, I stalled.
Still, I couldn’t quit writing about the incident, and maybe now I know why.
For one thing, my perspective on that night has shifted dramatically. I better understand what The Gymnast almost took from me. My wife, our daughter, my stepson, our grandchildren. College, grad school, a forty-five-year career. Movies, golf courses, and a lot more music than the Rolling Stones. I haven’t dreamed a dream; I’ve lived a life. Rich. Full. The opposite of boring.
But there’s another reason. Through all my attempts to capture what happened that night, I’ve spent too much time feeling powerless, stuck in the back seat of that 1969 Ford sedan. I’ve squeezed the headrest in front of me until my fingers poked through vinyl. I’ve looked down from the top of a hill at a sight I knew would be my end—death by a green station wagon.
I decide to change that scene by writing about it. Acknowledge what happened, but for a moment turn memory into fantasy. Silly, maybe, but no sillier than Mick Jagger singing in German. So, I take my young, skinny self out of that back seat.
Now, I’m a smart, no, a wise eighteen-year-old man who can sense an argument churning out of control. Tom and The Gymnast, I see their breath mingling in the air.
“You gotta let me. I’m a great, great driver.”
“No. God. No.”
I step forward out of the dark and grab the car keys before Tom gives them away. I’m not afraid of The Gymnast. He doesn’t really want a fight; he’s got practice in the morning.
“Get in,” I say to the three of them, and I take my place behind the wheel.
I turn to The Gymnast in the backseat. Calm but resolute, father to son, I say, “Not tonight, stunt man, not tonight.”
If he sneers, I don’t see it. I’ve already turned my back on him.
And I drive us home. All fifteen boring, beautiful miles.
Mark Lucius worked in corporate communications for forty-five years, which included two decades as speechwriter and counselor to two chief executive officers. He won five Cicero Awards from Vital Speeches of the Day. His previous personal work has appeared in bioStories, Great River Review, Hippocampus, On the Premises and other publications. His long-form memoir about caddying for pro women’s golf pioneer Patty Berg was selected for inclusion in Best American Sports Writing. He lives in Milwaukee with his wife, Barbara.
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