Chapter 4A - The Olympian: Alexandra Orlando - by Anne Shier (a.k.a. "Annie")

(Based on the book “Breaking Through My Limits:  An Olympian Uncovered”,

copyright 2012, by Alexandra Orlando)

(Chapter 3 is called “My World Record” – this is the beginning of Chapter 4:  “The Olympian”)

As related by Ms. Orlando (from early-to-mid 2006):

I lightened my course load at university, and sat down with my coach to plan for Beijing.  That’s what I wanted, and I knew she could take me there.  No matter how difficult it was going to be and how hard she was going to push me, this was what I wanted.  I knew exactly what I was getting myself into, and I was hungry for it again.  The only thing we could do was get out there and compete, hit the world cup circuit, go to training camps alongside the world champions in Eastern Europe, train more hours, sacrifice normal twenty-something living, and stay in when everyone else was going out and having fun.

My weight became a huge concern, and so I began to work out with a trainer and put all my energy into getting into shape.  I would have done anything to slim down.  The Olympic Qualifiers (trials) were in September 2007, and I had only a little over a year to put everything I had toward that one day.  It meant everything to me.  No one was going to stand in my way, and I would not let them. 

2007 started with a bang.  I was sent off to Moscow to train without my coach for a few weeks in their national centre.  I was terrified.  I didn’t speak a word of Russian; I knew how difficult it was going to be, and that the training was going to make me feel worse than I had ever felt.  I knew what to expect (in terms of training), but it still didn’t prepare me for the actual camp.  Pain doesn’t begin to describe it:  the exertion, the sweat, the blood.  Now, it was clear to me why the Russians were the best in the world – because they had been training like this every day of their lives since they were little girls.  They didn’t have school, or work, or family to deal with to occupy their time.  They had one thing to do and one thing only.  No distractions. 

I improved more at that camp than I had in the whole of 2004.  The Americans were also training there at the same time, and their national champion was vying for that coveted Olympic spot as well.  She was my direct competition, and it helped me to train alongside her, to see how she worked, to see her attitude in the gym, and the type of person she was.  They had their whole team and their coaches there, while I was all alone.  There were days when I longed for my coach, for some familiarity, some real concern or love, just a hand on my back, some warm words of encouragement.  But they weren’t there.  I became so strong.  I would close my eyes and wipe the sweat dripping down my face, feel my muscles just shaking and the burn from my knees as they bled through my tights.  All I could think of was Beijing.  All I could see was the Olympics.  “Just keep going; it will all be over soon; don’t stop.  Please just don’t stop.”  I begged my body to listen.  Sometimes it didn’t, but that constant fight between body, mind and soul kept me moving.

It was a great competitive year for me.  I was in the best shape of my life.  Finally, all of those hours in the gym, combined with stress and the discipline I had, were paying off.  I had lost weight, and was light and fast.  Everyone noticed, and I had an energy level about myself that I hadn’t had in years.  It felt right.  It was going to happen.  All I had left was the Pan American Games in Brazil at the end of July, and then Olympic Qualifiers in September.  That’s it; it was finally here and I was so ready for it, I wasn’t even nervous.  But nothing was ever easy for me, and it was all too good to be true.

I headed down to Brazil with my best friend and teammate, Stef.  Yana and Carly had retired and, with a hard goodbye, I knew that they were with me in spirit.  Stef had begun training with my coach that year after switching clubs, and we instantly became close.  She was probably the funniest girl I have ever trained with; she could always make me laugh with her huge laugh.  Stef had improved so much that year and I couldn’t have been happier to have her on my team.  We were quite the pair; we walked into that gym and made it known that we were the team to watch.  My coach had it easy this time as we were both so on.  Sharp and energized, we were ready to compete, and I was both anxious and impatient to get out there.  My coach would always laugh at me when I was like that as she knew this meant I was confident and prepared.  She could breathe a little easier then.

The competition was spread out over three days.  The first day was qualifying for the all around, so only the top ten moved on.  The second day was for "duking it out" for the Pan Am title; and, the third day was for the event finals, which would take the top eight finishers in each event from the first day of competition.  It’s confusing, I know.  It was the first day and I couldn’t have felt better.  I had competed in two events and was far ahead of the American.  We were ecstatic.  I figured it would be close, but I didn’t expect to be that far ahead.  I was a shoe-in for gold, but it was still only the qualifying round, so we didn’t get too far ahead of ourselves.  It was my third event, and I marched out there with my ribbon in hand, so confident.  I was the crowd favourite; I could feel their energy and thrived on it. 

Halfway through my routine, the impossible happened.  My ribbon broke in half.  The metal swivel that holds the stick to the ribbon completely detached, and I couldn’t get it back together.  I couldn’t hear the crowd, the music, my coach.  I was in a daze, but didn’t even think of stopping.  That wasn’t in my nature.  Within a split second, all these thoughts were running through my head, and I gathered up my ribbon and kept going without my apparatus.  If I was going down, I was going down in style, in my own way.  I finished and sat there, motionless, stunned on the carpet.  The crowd was on its feet, erupting in applause.  I was in complete shock.  The judges were in shock.  No one knew what to do.  I slowly walked off, not sure of what just happened, or what it meant.  I still can’t put words to what was going on inside me the moment it happened – the sharp intake of breath, the screaming inside my head; I only kept moving on instinct.

The scoreboard flashed a zero, and I broke down in tears as the thousands of people in the stands started to boo the judges loud enough to shake the arena.  They wanted this for me, and tears streamed down the faces of those I passed as I couldn’t bear to look anymore.  I could see the Canadian judges fighting with the head judge.  My coach got me out of there quickly and told me that I had one more event to do.  “Just focus,” she said, “they only take three scores to get you into the overall competition.  Don’t worry; stop crying.”  This was a lie that we both needed to believe at the time.  I don’t remember doing anything until it was my last event.  I went out there and don’t even remember how my last event went.  I don’t remember coming off the carpet or seeing my score.  I was still in shock.

If I’d had a spare ribbon on the side of the carpet, I would have been fine.  I would have picked it up and gotten a deduction for substituting a piece of apparatus, but I wouldn’t have gotten a zero.  Apparently, if you are not yet halfway through your routine when your ribbon breaks, you get an automatic zero.  We fought that I was halfway through, but the decision was already made by the head judge.  My zero would stand.  I ended up eleventh with three scores – a few tenths of a point off tenth place to squeeze into the all around the next day.  I was basically disqualified, and couldn’t believe this was happening to me.

(to be continued in Part B)

copyright 2014, Anne Shier.  All rights reserved.