Quadruple Flip

Chapter 1

Chapter 1October 2013

St John, New Brunswick, Canada

The ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating—Skate Canada

Practice ice, ten hours before the pairs free skate

“s**t! No, Tom Alan! No!” Nobuo Tsuchino bellowed. “Chigau! You must throw her harder. Higher!” It was twenty-five years later, and Nobuo Tsuchino was now a father and a coach.

“You must throw her more gracefully,” Kyoko Tsuchino chimed in. “And your landing, Erika,” she said to her daughter, “it is not as elegant as it should be.”

A new decade, a new millennium, another Olympics, and a new pair—not representing Japan, but America. Kyoko Tsuchino seemed more determined than ever not to let poor artistic marks keep her and Nobuo’s protégés off the top step in Russia, as they had kept her and Nobuo off the top step in Canada.

“I’m trying,” Tom Alan complained, answering his coach in Tsuchino’s native language. “I am!” Though about as un-Japanese as a boy could get, Thomas “Tom Alan” Baranowski, the sandy-haired, blue-eyed, American-born child of an Italian-American mother and a Polish-American father, spoke Japanese almost fluently and understood every critique and curse word in either tongue. Next, he turned to Kyoko-san, his head choreographer, and in softer English with all signs of petulance gone, he said, “I’m sorry.” He knew his partner’s landing was his fault, not hers. It was hard to look elegant when you were lurching forward, struggling with all you’ve got because some huge, six-six goon of a guy who was supposed to throw you as if he was releasing a delicate dove, chucked you like a dude hurling logs in a lumberjack contest. “I…I didn’t throw her right.”

“Hey, at least I stood up,” Erika offered, skidding to a stop next to him. “That’s better than an ass-landing.”

Tom Alan’s nineteen-year-old partner had her mother’s doll-like Japanese features but with a mouth that sometimes belied it all. She liked to curse—maybe to shock people, maybe because as an athlete she was allowed no other vices. It was definitely a form of rebellion. When she spoke Japanese, she used words and phrases normally reserved for males, and when she spoke English, said words no Japanese woman ever would. She knew a lot of words; she was smart—gifted, even—but her favorite words were definitely blue.

* * * *

Tom Alan first laid eyes on Nobuo and Kyoko Tsuchino in 2002, back when he was twelve, back when he was Tommy. The pair had relocated to America right after the ‘88 Olympics for a couple of reasons: one professional, one very personal. They’d made a home in Salt Lake City, Utah, but traveled back to Japan quite often. Ice skating was huge back in the late eighties, and Maki and Tsuchino, fresh off their silver medal in Calgary, prospered as Tsuchino and Tsuchino with shows such as Stars on Ice and Champions on Ice. They worked beside such legends as Boitano, Witt, Yamaguchi, and eventually Kwan and Cohen. Their only child, Erika, born in 1994, traveled the globe alongside them. She was a US citizen, but the Japanese people, because of their love for Nobuo and Kyoko, thought of Erika as their own. Now they thought of Tom Alan the same way.

When the Winter Games came to Salt Lake City, the Tsuchinos celebrated by setting up a free skating day at the rink they owned and operated. Tommy Baranowski—disheveled, shy, and gangly—was among the throng of kids who wandered in. It was his first time on ice. He wore loaner skates a few sizes too big—not too different from bowling alley rental shoes—which didn’t help his coordination one bit. There was nothing athletic or artistic about him that day, but there was a joy in his movement, and a determination—every time he fell, he got right back up—that could not be denied.

Mr. Tsuchino spent the next hour instructing Tommy in basic skills and was pleasantly surprised at how well the ragamuffin boy picked them up. He even had the boy skate beside his then eight-year-old daughter, who had literally learned to skate as she’d learned to walk. Tsuchino was pleased—shocked, actually—at how Tommy, with no previous experience, managed to almost keep up.

Not-so-little Tommy was the last skater on the ice that day. Truthfully, he would have liked to stay all day. “Just a little while longer,” he asked, his eyes sad.

“I’m sorry, Tommy. It’s time to go,” Kyoko-san said with a warm, friendly smile.

But Mr. Tsuchino passed on his business card as he gently shooed him out the door. “Keep skating, young man,” he said. “And keep in touch.”

A month after that, Tommy was living with the Tsuchinos. He became Tom Alan and started skating every day. When Nobuo and Kyoko returned to Japan permanently in 2008—out of familial duty because Kyoko’s father had died, and her mother supposedly needed to be cared for—Tom Alan went along as a part of their family. The Tsuchinos became more than coaches to him; they were just like parents—with a twist. They saw themselves more like in-laws. Tom Alan would eventually call Nobuo Tsuchino Papa, but Erika was never expected to be like his sister. They were raised under one roof, yes, first in Utah, then in Japan. But they were raised separately, not as siblings at all, but as something else.

In no time at all, Erika and Tom Alan became magic on the ice. They took pre-juvenile, juvenile, and novice medals over several years, peaking with World Junior Figure Skating Championships gold in 2011—a bittersweet victory, because of the devastating earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan just days later. That fall, when they moved up into the senior ranks, it was a bit like starting over, but they were right on target to make the 2014 Sochi team.

* * * *

As they listened to their coaches’ critique, Tom Alan dropped to one knee in front of Erika to tighten the laces on his boot. Nobuo Tsuchino stopped what he was saying. Tom Alan caught him staring. His papa had a look, and Tom Alan immediately knew he’d taken Nobuo back to 1988, to the day he proposed to Kyoko-san.

Nobuo Tsuchino had high hopes for Erika and Tom Alan, on the ice and off. They would follow in his and Kyoko’s footsteps and skate under the Olympic rings, and then, just as with him and his young bride, the pair would marry and become a family. He would officially have the son he had always wanted, and his daughter would have a stellar, caring, and wonderful spouse. Nobuo had spoken of this with Tom Alan many times in recent years. “She is a special girl, Tom Alan. I see how she looks at you. You would do well to fall in love with her, as she obviously has with you. Especially since,” Tsuchino often added, “no other woman would have you.”

The last part was always said with a smile, though the first part, Tom Alan knew, was as much a wish for his father, his sensei, as seeing his team wear gold at the Games. If Nobuo had his way, shortly after the Olympic torch was extinguished at the end of the 2013—2014 figure skating season, Erika Tsuchino, at the age of twenty, would become Mrs. Thomas Alan Baranowski.

Tom Alan was rather noncommittal about marriage and almost everything else. Everything except his skating. Though they spent more time in Japan of late than in the US, he and Erika still competed for the States. She considered herself mostly American but would have dual citizenship if Japan allowed it. Tom Alan, conversely, though he loved Japan and his Japanese family, felt a hundred percent American. Nobuo Tsuchino never even suggested he try to feel differently. Not about that, anyway.

* * * *

“It’s an improvement over this morning.” Erika beamed, speaking of the jump attempt. “Blades over butt,” she said, patting Tom Alan’s as she offered him a smile.

Tom Alan returned it—the smile, not the pat—grudgingly at first, but then he offered a sincere smile: blinding, charming, dorky. He couldn’t help himself. He adored his partner in sport and in life with all his heart. Yes, he loved her. There was no doubt about that either.

Kyoko smiled as well; she couldn’t seem to help it either. Nobuo, however, was not moved. His face remained stoic and pensive.

* * * *

Junior rank and senior rank—it was a whole new ball game on the international level. American pairs skating had lacked any notoriety for far too long. Tai Babilonia and Randy Gardner were household names in their day. In 2013, however, even die-hard skating fans would have a problem naming three current US pairs teams, partly because no team seemed to stay together very long. Tom Alan and Erika had the advantage of time, at least. A lengthy familiarity with one another had translated to comfort and a sixth sense that served them well. Still, an Olympic berth was not guaranteed. Their 2012—2013 showing had been less than stellar. Fourth at US Nationals meant their season had ended in January—no trip to Worlds. If they were going to make a name for themselves before Sochi, it was going to have to come during the 2013 Grand Prix season—the six fall events hosted in six different countries capped off by the prestigious Grand Prix Finals, where the top scorers at each compete against each other. Tom Alan and Erika were at their last of back-to-back assignments for the series, Skate Canada. They sat in fourth place, out of six teams, after the short program. For a definite spot in the finals, they knew they had to move up at least two positions.

* * * *

Skate America, one week prior, had gone remarkably well. Though the field was not chock-full of champions—the Russians, the Germans, and the Chinese, all top in the world, were not there—Tom Alan and Erika still earned their gold medal mostly on their technical scores. They usually scored quite respectably on spins, footwork, and particularly jumps. Their throw jump, the throw quadruple flip, was one no other team on the planet was attempting. It was their ticket to notoriety and, hopefully, Russia.

The quadruple flip seemed inconceivable. Single skaters weren’t even doing quad flips yet. Still, Nobuo Tsuchino was determined that his pair would be the first to land one at an Olympic Games. “It is easier because you are being thrown,” he told Erika.

Bullshit—Tom Alan could almost see the thought on Erika’s face. Mouthy, yes, but not stupid; she would never say it to her coach out loud.

It made sense in theory—throw jumps should be easy—but not in reality. If it were that simple, all pairs would be doing triple axel throws or quad throws by now. They weren’t. There was a special, precise timing required, and a trust, a bond.

The trick had an overall success rate of around forty percent for Tom Alan and Erika. Not bad. That fall day in late October, however, twenty-four hours before they were planning to perform it as part of their “Bells of Moscow” free skate as a tribute to Maki and Tsuchino, the success rate lingered somewhere around five percent. Really bad.

* * * *

“f*****g s**t!” Nobuo exclaimed in English—mostly because there weren’t many real curse words in Japanese—as the pair tried and failed at the quadruple flip again.

Erika agreed. The word “f**k” flew from her mouth as well, as she landed on her ass.

“Nana korobo ya oki!” Nobuo Tsuchino hollered. It translated to “Fall down seven times, get up eight,” and he said it almost as often as he said “s**t!”

* * * *

The jump had been iffy during morning practice at 2013 Skate America. The rate of success before that, though, had been right around that less-than-half range, cementing the decision to try it in their free skate.

As the pair finished their footwork section, the Detroit, Michigan crowd had been on the edge of their seats. The most knowledgeable ones could tell by the setup, by the way Tom Alan positioned Erika and the speed they had developed, that they were putting in the throw quadruple flip.

“They’re gonna do it!” the announcer squealed. And the crowd, the crowd went wild—screeching, stomping, cheering. As Erika tore through the air, did four revolutions, then came down, every single person there, spectators, commentators, and reporters, had gotten to their feet. Erika had, too—both of them, though, not just one.

Fuck! Tom Alan knew she had thought it.

“f**k!” Nobuo had said it out loud.

They received a small deduction on the landing but got huge points for finishing the rotation.

Now, as they became known as “The Quad Flip Kids,” the pressure was really on to do it even better in Canada. If they got another gold, they’d be off to Japan—surrogate home ice—for that year’s Grand Prix Final. The international judges would be paying close attention to them after that, which would bode well for Sochi.

* * * *

“It is a must that we improve our second marks,” Kyoko stressed. “We cannot depend only on tricks. Especially when those tricks are not dependable.”

Tom Alan raised the hem of his T-shirt to swipe the sweat off his face, baring his six-pack gut and a hint of golden pubic fur before hiking his sweatpants up where they belonged. “I’ll try, Kyoko-san,” he said. Though he would never have called Nobuo Tsuchino by only his first name, Kyoko-san had given him permission, on the very first day they met, for him to do so with her.

“The program lacked passion and beauty” was a common complaint regarding Tom Alan and Erika’s free skates throughout the start of their senior career. Their program elements score—which more or less represented what used to be the “artistry” score, awarded for choreography, transitions, positions, execution, and interpretation—often sucked. Erika was passionate and beautiful on and off the ice. Therefore, Tom Alan figured, the sucky marks were on him. At Skate America, even though they won the event, their second marks were still rather low. They were lower than the second and third place teams for sure. Figure skating scoring was confusing—even to those in the sport.

Tom Alan was more than a foot taller than Erika. It was unusual for a pairs team to have that much of a height difference. It made the throws and lifts a bit easier, but it was definitely a factor in the less than stellar artistry the team was accused of putting out. Erika was balletic, lyrical, and refined. Tom Alan—not so much.

As their coaches bickered in Japanese, Erika and Tom Alan fidgeted with sleeves, boot ties, and a wispy treasure trail. Tom Alan did that, not Erika, though she did watch him do it. A monitor in the practice arena showing the dance teams’ practice session caught Tom Alan’s eye. Jennifer Brand and Milo Fisher, champions in Great Britain and contenders for Grand Prix and Olympic medals, were practically floating across the ice. Tom Alan was transfixed by Brand’s grace, but also by Fisher’s. The short Brit with the crazy head of wild, curly hair was sheer fluid movement. He was stunning, magical, and sexy as…

“Tom Alan!”

“Yes, Sensei.” Startled back to reality, Tom Alan listened to instructions from Tsuchino as a group of sports reporters from different nations stood behind the boards watching the practice session. They all took notes. Some took bets on whether or not the throw quad would be successful by show time. “Nana korobo ya oki! Take it from the step sequence leading into the throw,” Nobuo Tsuchino ordered.

“Let them have a break,” Kyoko suggested. “Work off-ice on their positions.” She gave a beautiful, sweeping arm movement as an example. “We can get back to the jump later on.”

Ignoring his wife’s idea, Nobuo keyed the music to the spot just prior to the steps. “You will do the goddamned throw!” He clapped twice, hard, his signal for his team to move quickly.

Erika adjusted her panties, yanking them from unwanted places, snapping the leg elastic as they settled into their rightful place. Tom Alan gave his face one more swipe and then followed Erika’s example. In order to do something as challenging as a throw quad, everything had to feel just right, including the way his UnderGear rubbed against his—under gear. He pulled, tugged, smoothed, and squatted, fiddling with his genitals like baseball players do in front of crowds. He wondered what his component scores would be if he did it during actual competition, like they did.

Nobuo Tsuchino hit Play, and music filled the rink. Tom Alan’s and Erika’s sharp blades carved intricate patterns in the ice as they performed their level-three steps. Nobuo, knowing level-four footwork was necessary for Olympic gold, looked for places to inch up the difficulty.

“Reach for her now!” Tsuchino ordered. “Good. Turn her.”

Tom Alan did as instructed.

“Throw her as hard as you can.”

Tom Alan always felt a bit like an oafish giant next to his precious, tiny Erika. He felt as if everything they lacked, every medal they’d ever lost, had been his fault and his alone. He tried to be more graceful. He tried to move as he’d just seen Milo Fisher move.

Milo Fisher…

His mind was wandering. That wasn’t good. He needed to concentrate. A throw quad—any throw jump—wasn’t simply about heaving a girl like a football. It was intricate and complex. If he threw her too early, before she was ready, she would at best underrotate, land on two feet, or pop the jump. If he threw her too hard, she could overrotate and not be able to control the landing.

“Hard!” Nobuo hollered, just as Tom Alan turned Erika.

As she was about to tap her toe pick into the rock-hard surface for liftoff, the coach repeated his command even louder: “Zenryoku!” in Japanese, “full force!”

Tom Alan heeded the command. He threw Erika with such might she soared farther than she ever had before.

It felt wrong from the start.

Her air position was slightly off. She was leaning forward—slightly—then more. Her landing would be problematic.

Kyoko gasped.

Tom Alan cringed. Skaters got used to falls. They practiced for them and learned how to bounce right back up, barely missing a beat of their music. This fall was different—Erika hadn’t had time to prepare. The jump was so out of control, the brief time she twirled high in the air, seconds really, was not enough to consider everything she needed to consider in order to land on her feet, or even her derriere.

Erika crashed to the ice on her side with a resounding thud. Her head hit next. The pain must have been delayed, but only for a matter of moments before her brain caught up with the concept of her skull connecting with unyielding ice. Erika cried out, and a wave of panic and guilt shot through Tom Alan.

Photographers clicked countless images, their flashes disorienting. Reporters, gathered spectators, and other skaters awaiting their practice time murmured in shock. It was bad, really bad.

Erika called for Tom Alan, not her coaches, not her parents.

“Kiki!” Feeling totally responsible, regretful, and worried, Tom Alan rushed to his injured partner’s side.