Dark Night

Fallout boy

We trooped unenthusiastically into a meeting room and Mr Petrov closed the door behind us. This wasn't good at all. Why was I here? This wasn't my fault.

"I think we can all agree that this result is not optimal, especially going into an Olympic cycle," Mr Petrov said. My brother occupied himself with drying off the blades of his skates before putting the guards back on. "The question now is what to do, because as it is right now, those programs are not competitive."

My brother exploded, predictably blaming everyone else for the steaming pile of poo he'd left on the ice. Metaphorically speaking, of course. And I was a special focus. "I should have known better than to listen to you," he raged. "The one time I do, and look what happens."

"Don't blame me for this," I snapped. "Everybody who has bothered to evaluate your programs, including Brian, your first serious coach, has told you to work on your expression. It's too late for you to do anything about it now, you're hopeless. I didn't choose the music, the choreography, the costumes, any of it. It's not my fault that...this ... happened."

"You sure helped out Tang," he snarled.

"I told him how he could up his game," I said hotly. "He didn't have to listen." I was surprised to find myself on my feet with my hands bunched into fists. "He did because he's not an idiot. And his results are magnificent. He took a few broad comments and made something amazing. You can't compete against that, you'll be a joke. You don't have a prayer of beating him, even if he broke his leg. You're quick to take all the credit for yourself but you never take responsibility for your screwups, which this is a superlative example of.  You never listen to opinions you don't want to hear. And why shouldn't I give him my considered opinion? He's treated me better in the short time I've known him than you ever have. He respects me. He likes me, I'm not an inconvenience to him." My brother rocked back like I'd hit him. I hadn't, though it did sound like a great idea. I looked at the coach. "And you've been working with him. You know how awful those programs are. Why didn't you say something?"

"Well, this is not a family therapy session," Mr Petrov said into the silence. I felt that he wanted to add 'though you clearly need one.' "And in response, young lady, I tried to dissuade him, but, as you say, he does not listen to criticism. So the question now, to circle back, is what is to be done."

There was unproductive discussion, blah blah.

Finally Grandpa put the responsibility where it belongs. "Stan is incredibly focused, which is usually good. In his skating. However, things have gone disasterously wrong. Even I can see that, and I haven't carefully studied skating like Delia has. So I think the appropriate question to be asked is 'what does Stan intend to do?'"

More unproductive discussion, in which my brother tried to defend himself. Unsuccessfully. Finally Mr Petrov cut him off, pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering in Russian. Switching back to English, he said, "Delia, if this was presented to you as an abstract problem, what would you advocate?"

I thought. "The programs have to be scrapped," I said after a moment. "There's not a single redeeming feature in them, from the music choice--so overused and tired--to the boring choreography. My brother obviously can't learn to be graceful, he can't even lift his arm as opposed to just sticking it out, so something has to be done to play up his undeniable strengths, which revolve around the physical demands of the sport. Jumps and spins as well his connection with the audience. New music is a must." I thought my brother would pop a blood vessel in his brain, his face got so red.

"So what music would you advocate, oh wise one?" he asked snidely. I was heartened when Mr Petrov swatted him.

"Give me your phone, show me your playlists," I requested after a moment. "You can't use jazz or pop music like John, the comparison is too direct and you'll lose." He reluctantly handed my his phone and I started scrolling.