Finding Tim
A Fourth Alternate Reality

 by: Charlie

© 2005-2008

 

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Episode 34
Dangerous

It’s still Tim here.  What was planned for one episode is filling up two, so I am still your narrator.

 

As Harry, his father, and the coaches winged back East, Charlie and I headed for the Grand Canyon.  We went hiking every day, including one day down to the bottom and the next day back up.  Sunday morning we had gotten up, had a nice breakfast, relaxed in the sun most of the morning, eaten lunch, and returned to our favorite spot–bed–after lunch to watch me on television.  We went out to a nice restaurant for a good dinner, walked around the little town, and returned to our motel. It shouldn’t take much imagination to figure out what we did next!

 

Well, actually, it would take considerable imagination to figure out what we did next.  On this trip we slowly fell into a routine that we generally followed for the rest of our lives.  Our little ritual upon checking into a motel became pretty standard.  We’d come into the room and drop our bags.  Well, this night we were already settled in the room, but that really didn’t change anything.  Charlie always headed off to get ice.  He couldn’t go to bed in a motel without a glass of Coke filled with so much ice you could hardly pour in the Coke.  I’d join him for a little Coke and then strip naked–and Charlie has told you several times that I pride myself on being able to get my clothes off faster than anyone.  I would flop on the bed spread-eagled on my back and wait for Charlie.  The game quickly became for him to find something different, surprising, and sexy to do to me.  On the Grand Canyon trip in 1966 that was pretty easy, because the tradition was just starting.  As we moved through the years Charlie had to work harder and harder to come up with new ideas.  Of course he repeated, but it was most fun when I was hit with something new.

 

That Sunday Charlie hit me with ice.  For me, at least, ice sends me in two different directions.  The cold makes it very difficult to remain hard.  At the same time its incredibly sexy!  That night Charlie began stroking my dick with his hand, and all of a sudden started using an ice cube.  I could hardly stand it!  Not the cold, that was no problem; it was the tension between cold of the ice and the heat of arousal.  Sex won pretty quickly and I sprayed all over Charlie–which he loved.

 

It felt so good that I rolled over, stuck my ass in the air, and said, “Fuck me.”  He did, with considerable enthusiasm, and I came again along with him.  This soon developed into the model for the second half of the game.  Each night in a motel I would lie on the bed, get surprised by Charlie, and eventually have an orgasm; I would reward Charlie based on how exciting it had been.  Routine evenings he got a hand job.  Above average, he got sucked.  Spectacular, he got to fuck me.  So so, he had to jack himself off.  Poor, he went without; I wouldn’t even let him jack himself off.

 

We often talked about whether or not turnabout was fair play.  Should I be “doing things” to Charlie some of the time.  However, we both agreed that we each liked our role and didn’t want to change.  The game was only played in motels; at home our routines were entirely different, and we didn’t assume our motel roles.

 

The next night he put ketchup all over my balls, and licked it off.  A bust, I made him jack himself off.  Tuesday night it was barbeque sauce!  That burns!  I loved it!  It was more fun than ice.  I don’t know what it is about me that seems to enjoy having Charlie push the edge with my balls, but I really do.  At first Charlie was really reluctant to do anything that he thought would hurt me.  I had to convince him to push the envelope, that I would tell him if he went too far.  It took a while, but over time we have had some pretty exciting motel nights. 

 

I am really ticklish, and that is often the source of Charlie’s “surprise.”  Feathers, all kinds of toys, fur, you name it he’s tried it all, always ending up at my balls.  When he is in really good form I have an orgasm before he even touches my dick.  That always gets a “Fuck me, Charlie.” 

 

I am getting ahead of the story.  It was soon time to turn in the rental car and fly back to Minneapolis.  We stayed a day with Mom and Dad and then

headed back to the cabin for just a day or two.  Then it was off to Grand Forks for my sophomore year and Charlie’s first year of law school.

 

Felix was delighted to have us back in the house, and the first night we had a grand reunion in our big king sized bed.  Wow, was he horny! He couldn’t wait until bedtime.  He joined us for dinner; and then he insisted that we do the dishes naked, and then head for the bed.  We were going to take turns sucking him, but he came in Charlie’s mouth before I had a chance.  Not long after that he came a second time for me.  He returned the favors to us with glee.

 

I had gotten a few notes during the summer about things at UND, but I was eager to see for myself that things that I anticipated were, in fact, in place.  Best news of all, Frank and his wife had arrived in town, had found a nice house, and were ready to go for the year.  UND gymnastics was moving forward.  I was confident that Frank could supply the coaching I needed to make it to the Olympics.  Nevertheless, I hoped to have a few visiting coaches and several trips to Minneapolis to work with the University coach.

 

Bess Phillips had been hired to coach women’s aquatics.  I was delighted to meet her and discover that she was both charming and competent.  She would be working with a small group the first year, but I expected the program to grow quickly.  She turned out to be a good diving coach for the other divers and me, bringing a different style and perspective than Larry.

 

We got a telephone call from Phil telling us of his adventures at the Armed Forces Entrance and Examination Station, where he had reported for his physical.  He had decided that he couldn’t go into the Army pretending to be straight–the Army made it very clear that they didn’t want a homosexual man:  he was a homosexual man; he shouldn’t go in.  So, on reporting he handed the officer in charge a letter stating that he was homosexual, had a partner with whom he lived and was sexually active, and would only agree to induction into the Army if they were willing to accept him as a homosexual man, which, of course, he knew they would not.  It created quite a stir, he was taken in to a back room with a Sergeant and Captain who asked for all kinds of details.  Essentially, they made it clear that they didn’t think he was homosexual, but was trying to use that story to avoid the draft.  Phil had responded that he really didn’t care what they believed; his letter said it all.  He said that although he wasn’t “out” in general, it wasn’t a big secret.  If the Army wished to induct him that was fine, but he would make sure that the press and the growing gay activist community knew it, and would make a big thing about the Army changing their standards and accepting a gay man.

 

Phil really had no idea how far he could push this, but he figured he really had nothing to lose.  He and Franklin hadn’t been making much of a secret of their relationship; and there were a couple “out” pairs on campus who hadn’t gotten in trouble with anybody–though they were shunned by some. 

 

The Captain and Sergeant spoke to each other and decided that Phil should see Dr. Smith (I have forgotten his real name).  As the conversation progressed it became clear that Dr. Smith was a psychiatrist.  Phil had been wise enough not to protest this, as it was clear that they had the authority to ask him to submit to any kind of medical examination.  The question became when.  The AFEES was in Kansas City, Missouri, about a three hour drive from Manhattan.  Dr. Smith would not be available until the day after next, Phil would have to stay at the AFEES until then.  Phil responded that he couldn’t stay that long, he had other obligations.  He would be glad to report back for an appointment with Dr. Smith.  The Sergeant got very indignant and said , “You won’t leave here until we tell you that you can.”

 

Phil doesn’t intimidate easily.  He stood up, so that he towered about eight inches over the Sergeant and said, “I am here on the instructions of my draft board, not the U.S. Army.  I will remain only on their instruction.  I will return on their instruction.  Now if you have any other medical examination that you need to do today, I am here.  If not, I will be going.”

 

Phil thought the Sergeant was going to explode.  The Captain, however, simply said, “You may go.  Your draft board will tell you when to report back.”

 

Phil left, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that he could hardly walk.  Franklin was waiting outside for him, and they hugged right there on the street.  If the Captain had followed him out and had seen them, he wouldn’t have needed any more convincing.

 

Phil called us that night, told us the story, and we all waited to find out about round two.

 

I hadn’t been on campus a day before I got a message at the natatorium to come to Prexy’s office.  Charlie and I debated whether I should hurry over in my swimsuit, perhaps dripping wet, but we thought that might be pushing Prexy a little far.  The two of us headed over to Twamley Hall–the main administration building–and checked in with his secretary.  We were sent right in and welcomed warmly by Prexy.  His answer to my question of why he had sent for me was to ask for an outline of what I expected to accomplish this year, so that he could be ready for me.  It was said with a twinkle in his eye, but I think he was really serious.

 

“Well, we need to continue the faculty endowment and expand it to include the entire staff.  We have to get funding for gymnastics and women’s aquatics in place–right now Fred Milson is guaranteeing the funds for the two coaches.  That’s not fair to Fred.”

 

Prexy replied, “At last I am able to be one up on you.  Fred and I have been busy over the summer and funding for both coaches for this year is in place: 25% from the Trustees and the rest pledges from athletic alumni.  Fred made about two hundred calls this summer to former UND athletes.  The theme was ‘Catch Tim’s Vision.’  He obviously learned from you.  It worked.”

 

Charlie said, “The fundraising team Tim had in place for the Endowment for Faculty Salary Enhancement is ready to go this year.  I think they can function without Tim, and that will be good for them as well as Tim.”

 

“I agree,” said Prexy.  “So that brings me back to my original question,  ‘What’s on for this year, Tim?’”

 

“Can’t I just be an ordinary student-athlete?”

 

“Can you?”

 

“Probably not.”

 

“Certainly not.  Don’t tell me you don’t have ideas.”

 

“Prexy, I really don’t.  Not now.  I need to get going on my studies, my diving, and my gymnastics.  That takes a lot of my time.  And this year I have to be a lot more serious about the gymnastics.”

 

“What does your day look like?”

 

“To the gym by 6:00 for 2 ½ or 3 ½ hours of either diving or gymnastics.  Classes and study till noon.  Lunch.  Except for a couple of afternoon labs my classes are over by noon.  Four hours in the pool or gym after lunch.  On lab days that means coming back after dinner.  Charlie and I try to eat together each evening.  Then study till ten.  Then Charlie and I clean up the house and go to bed.  Up again at 5:30.  Charlie insists that we sleep later on weekends, so we try to sleep till nine but we usually wake up ahead of that.”

 

“Marine Corps basic training isn’t that rigorous.  I don’t believe it.”

 

Charlie helped out by saying, “Believe it, sir.  He’s been following that schedule since at least 9th grade.  He thrives on it.”

 

“I work hard on my studies and relax with my diving and gymnastics.”

 

Charlie added, “That’s especially true for the gymnastics.  He loves the balance beam and spends time on it every day.  But the beam’s not a men’s event, only women’s.”

 

“That doesn’t stop me.  I love the beam, and it’s nice to have something to work on that I don’t have to worry about rules and form.  I just relax.”

 

Prexy said, “I am still waiting for the first shoe to drop.”

 

Charlie didn’t help by saying, “Be especially careful of the second one.”

 

As we walked across campus from Twamley I saw a young man that I had met the previous year.  I waved and he came over and joined Charlie and me.  “Charlie this is Ted.  Ted–Charlie.”  They shook hands and we started walking over to the coffee shop.

 

Charlie said, “Ted, join us for a Coke?”

 

“Sure.  I’m not intruding am I?”

 

I said, “Not at all.  Ted, you look happier than when I talked to you last year.”

 

“I am.  Since my talking with you last spring, I have come to terms with myself.  God, Tim, I really appreciate the time you spent with me then.”

 

Charlie interrupted with, “Would you two like me to get lost?  It sounds like it is getting kind of personal.”

 

Ted looked at Charlie and said, “I’m gay.  But I know that you are, too, so I am comfortable with your being here.”  He thought for a minute and said, “You are only the second person in the world that I have said that to.  It’s wonderful to say it to you.”

 

I said, “Ted, that is too small a closet.  What about your parents?”

 

“You haven’t met good, solid North Dakota farmers.  They are wonderful people, but they take their church and their morals very seriously.  A gay son doesn’t fit.”

 

“Everyone has to make their own decision.  But it would be terrible if your life was shaped around your fear of your parents finding out who you were.”

 

“I know....”

 

Ted stopped talking because we were getting to the coffee shop and other people were around.  The opportunity for a private conversation had ended.

 

We sat at a table and made light conversation.  Charlie was pretty quiet, letting Ted and me talk.  Finally he said, “Tim, our house is the obvious spot for serious conversation.  Let’s invite Ted for dessert on Thursday evening.  Ted, come by about 7:30.  We’ll toss you out at 10.   Confidentiality will be assumed.”

 

Ted was a little hesitant, but said he would like to come.

 

I said, “That’s a good idea.  Please come, Ted.”

 

He had to go, and but agreed to come by on Thursday.  Charlie and I headed for the bookstore to start the job of getting textbooks.  It was clear that a scholarship to law school was one thing; buying textbooks was another.  I suspected that the bookstore profit on law students might be the only way that the law school paid its way.

 

Classes started on Wednesday, and my schedule started tying up most of my time. Charlie’s law schedule wasn’t light, he had his job–though the time was very flexible--and he did make an effort to get to the archery range most afternoons.  Between school and job, he was forced to miss some days, and that was a problem.  The range wasn’t open early in the morning, simply because the schedule said 9:00 a.m. and that’s when the attendant arrived.  It was too dark to extend the hours into the evening. 

 

Ted did come by on Thursday evening.  He poured his heart out about life in his closet.  With Charlie’s and my examples, he just about had built up the courage to come out in Grand Forks.  But coming out back home was another matter.  Charlie asked, “Where is ‘back home’?”

 

“Ross.”

 

“Never heard of it.”

 

“You aren’t the only one.  Montrail County in the far northwest corner.  Nearest town is Stanley about seven miles east.  That’s where I went to high school.”

 

“How big is the school?”

 

“About 300 in six grades.”

 

“Your parents are farmers?”

 

“Yes.  We have about 1000 acres.  Wheat, soybeans and sunflowers.  We make our living with sunflower seeds.”

 

I said, “And you’re gay and all alone?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You know, statistically we can guess that there were 14 other gay boys in your school, another one or two in your graduating class.”

 

“I doubt it.”

 

“So do they,” I said.

 

“Maybe, but that didn’t help us at all.”

 

“So what is keeping you from coming out here?”

 

“The word getting back there.”

 

“So your parents are controlling your life here from the farm in Ross.  And they don’t even know it.”

 

“There are several kids from Ross here, one from my class.  A few more at State down in Fargo.  The word would get back.”

 

“And?”

 

“I don’t know.  I have imagined a lot of things.  I just don’t know.”

 

“You going back to Ross after college?”

 

“Hell, no.  Too small.  I think that my parents knew when they made it possible for me to come here that I wouldn’t be back to live.”

 

“Then they aren’t small people.  They think beyond Ross.”

 

“Oh, yes.  But not beyond the walls of the German Baptist Church.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Do you?  You guys are so damn lucky.  Not just because you can dive, but because you can be yourselves.”

 

“We know we’re lucky.  We are struggling with how we can share some of our good fortune.  If we thought it would help you, Charlie and I would go out to Ross with you some time and talk with your parents.  But that wouldn’t come with any guarantees.”

 

Despite about two hours of talking, we never really got beyond that point.  Ted was seriously torn between loyalty to his parents, fear of what they would think and do, and dread of life in the closet.  He didn’t date girls, and couldn’t date boys.  So he was lonely.  He really appreciated the evening with us.  Remembering Charlie’s time limit, promptly at 5 till 10 he got up, thanked us for the ice cream and berries, and left.

 

Charlie looked at me and said, “I thinking talking helped.  I’ll bet there are a lot of other kids on this campus that would love a safe place to talk.  I think our contribution might be to provide such a place.”

 

I replied, “Maybe we open our doors every Thursday evening.  Invite the gay students that I have met.  Of course, most are in the closet, so they would have to be confident that this was safe space.”

 

“No one can deliver guarantees on that.  But if the invitations are carefully issued, I think we can keep things safe.  We can’t invite people the first minute they come out to one of us.  We have to establish some kind of a relationship before we bring them into a group situation with closeted friends.”

 

“Agreed.  And the invitations won’t just be from me.  You are a student now, and I am sure that there are gay law students.  You will be immediately recognized, and I don’t think it will be long before someone wants to speak to you privately.”

 

“I think you are right.  So what is the agenda for our Thursday night meetings.”

 

“No agenda.  Just talk.  And listening.  It will take care of itself.  What these kids need is a place to talk.  We can give it to them.”

 

“What about lesbians?  Straight friends?”

 

“At first, no.  We’ll see how it goes and ask the group who they think should be invited.”

 

“You are assuming there is going to be a group.”

 

“Yes.  I’ll bet one forms pretty quickly.  There is another question to ask:  What about sex?”

 

Charlie didn’t hesitate with the answer to that.  “Absolutely not.”

 

“What if a couple of kids want to use our guest bedroom, because they don’t have anyplace else?”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“You’re quick on that reply.”

 

“Absolutely.  If there’s even the slightest suggestion that we are doing it for our own gratification, and that got out, we would be dead in the water.  And if we were making rooms available to straight pairs we’d get in trouble; it would just be bigger trouble if they were a gay pair.  Sex with our friends is OK, but not with anyone we meet on campus–unless a long term relationship develops, outside of the Thursday night meetings.  That’s possible, but not likely.”

 

          “You’re tough.  But from personal experience I know that you know how to draw lines and that you have the will power to stay on the right side of those lines.  Tempting as the alternatives may be, I agree with your lines.  We’ll follow those rules.  In your word: Absolutely.”

 

“Thanks, Tim.  If you think about it, you’ll know that anything else could be courting disaster.  We are running some risk just getting a gay group together.  But the risk is minimal, and I’m willing to take that level of risk–because I think it is the right thing to do.  But physical sex has got to stay out of bounds for this group.  Of course, if two kids meet and decide to experiment, or fall in love, or both, and they do it somewhere else, that’s their business.”

 

I thought for a while and said, “I have three or four boys in mind that came out to me last year.  I don’t think I’ll have too much trouble contacting them this year and inviting them for Thursday evenings.”

 

“Good.  I have one young man from last year in mind.  I’ll ask him.”

 

“Think Felix will join us?”

 

“Not at first.  I would want the group to be just students at first.  But after a while I think we could invite him and he would accept the invitation.”

 

And so started “Gay Night” with Charlie and Tim.  We heard some wonderful stories those Thursday nights, and some really very sad ones.  I’m going to leave the telling of the best of those stories for Charlie in future episodes.

 

But before I pass the baton back to Charlie, I do want to tell you a little about my diving and gymnastics.  I had a new diving coach to work with me along with Larry--Bess Phillips the new women’s aquatics coach.  I had always considered the superlative compliment for a dive to be, “Perfect.”  Bess wasn’t as interested in “perfect” as she was in “graceful.’  She’d say, “Grace is not just for girls, it’s for everybody–especially divers.”  She thus gave me a new insight as I mentally planned for and carried out a dive.  I’d like to say it improved my diving, and I believe that it did.  But you couldn’t measure it in point scores.  I had some of my highest scores at the previous summer’s NCAA Nationals. I don’t believe that had anything to do with coaching, skill, or anything like that.  It had to do with love and support.  The “first year with Charlie” syndrome.  Charlie agrees with me.

 

Well, I had hit a peak, a plateau that I could hardly rise above.  But I was able to hold that level and didn’t find myself on a downward slope.   I held on my plateau with little trouble as long as I kept up my intense practice schedule.  I wasn’t sure that I would be able to rise above that level in the Olympics, and as the year went on, I became convinced that I would never duplicate last summer.  It didn’t bother me, because–at least during this year–no one anywhere was equaling my NCAA scores!  I was on top of the heap and on top of the world.

 

That fall I wished I could have said that for gymnastics: It was by no means clear that I would be good enough to even qualify for the Olympics unless I continued to improve, and improvement was coming very slowly.  But Frank’s arrival on the scene changed that almost miraculously.

 

Frank was a good coach, but not a super-coach.  He made no claim to run in the big leagues, and was perfect for North Dakota.  His coaching skills far exceeded any gymnast in Grand Forks–probably in North Dakota and northern Minnesota.  He laid no claim to being an Olympic level coach when he came to UND, and neither he nor John had made any such claims when I joined their St. Paul club.

 

But Frank was a really nice guy with good instincts.  His insights into my gymnastics changed me from a good gymnast to Olympic level in a single school year.  My improvements on the rings, floor exercises, and the high bar were startling–and directly attributable to Frank’s keen insights.

 

His not getting faculty status that year had its downside as well as its upside.  On the down is that as staff he did not share in the payout from the endowment fund that Charlie and I, and many other students, had generated the previous year.  The insight that I gained from his exclusion from the fund is what prompted me to tell Prexy that this year’s effort had to include bringing the entire school staff under the fund umbrella.  The upside for Frank is that he didn’t get any teaching responsibilities.  In fact, his total job description was to coach gymnastics for the club, which this year had about 22 participants–after the infusion of a really good group of Freshmen.

 

Frank made himself useful to the entire athletic department, and was liked and respected.  He helped out in all kinds of capacities whenever he was needed–and if didn’t conflict with his primary responsibility for the team.  The first thing that I knew that fall was that here was Frank sitting poolside for all of my practice sessions–early in the morning, afternoons, evenings. If I was at the pool so was Frank.  He never spoke, never commented, just said, “Hello” and watched.  I would ask him what he thought of a dive and I would just get, “Great” or “Ten”–never specific comments.

 

I asked Frank why he never commented and he said that it wasn’t his area of expertise and amateur comments were more likely to hurt than help.  That, in itself, was insightful, as almost everybody thinks they know what makes a dive excellent, when most really haven’t a clue.  I asked Frank why he spent so much time at the pool, and his reply was, “Getting to know my star gymnast.  If I don’t know him better than he knows himself, I can’t help him get to the Olympics.  And that’s what I am paid to do this year.”

 

That was Frank’s second great insight into my coaching.  The third came one evening when he invited Charlie and me to dinner.  After a wonderful dinner with him, his wife and two pre-teen boys, he took Charlie and me to his den, sat us down and in just a few words created an Olympic champion gymnast.

 

“Tim, I have watched you dive for a month now.  Of course, I watch your gymnastics practice as well, right now I want to talk about diving.  You have the most intense level of concentration of any human being I have ever watched.  I almost think the diving board could fall away from under you and you would continue to concentrate on the next dive.  You try to bring the same level of concentration to your gymnastics, and for the most part you succeed.  I am sure that you will continue in that way, and you will continue your slow improvement as a gymnast.

 

“But think a little about the rings.  It is essentially a strength test.  When a gymnast holds that “T” position, he is using every bit of muscle power available.  Many coaches believe that work in the weight room and other efforts to develop serious muscles is essential for success on the rings.  Granted, you can’t accomplish much on the parallel bars or the high bar without solid muscles, but grace and  style can go a long way.  On the rings you need muscle.

 

“Tim, muscle isn’t your strong suit.  It isn’t essential for diving, and when you shorten your gymnastic practice time to allow for diving practice, it is often the strength sessions that get put aside.”

 

I said, “I hope you aren’t going to tell me I need more strength work.  I haven’t found that it helps the gymnastics much.  That why I don’t do a lot of it.”

 

“No, I’m not.  You have always made your own decisions about practice, and I respect your self-analysis of how you can best use your time.  I am going in a completely different direction:  “This may come as a radical thought, but I think your concentration hurts you on the rings.”

 

Charlie jumped in, “His concentration hurts him?  It’s his greatest strength.”

 

Frank continued, “Right you are, and he uses it magnificently, as both a diver and gymnast.  I think we all agree that is what sets him apart from the crowd.  But, Tim, I think it works against you on the rings.  When you put all that concentration on a strength event, it focuses your mind on your muscles, and therefore on their limitations.  You know exactly how far you can push yourself, and you push exactly that far.  That is a serious limitation.  Don’t do it.  You need to concentrate on something else.

 

“Look, the rings involve pretty simply routines. Some parts are very difficult to execute, but they have none of the complexity of your dives, or a floor exercise.  You don’t need to concentrate on those routines, once set, you can do them in your sleep. Well, do that.  Find something else to focus your mind on.

 

“What?”

 

Charlie looked hurt.  “If you have to ask, something is seriously wrong.”

 

“Charlie, I always think about you.”

 

“Frank didn’t say ‘Think about,’ he said ‘Concentrate.’  Focus your mind just like you do before and during your dives.  Think carefully about every part of me, what I did yesterday; what I am going to do tomorrow.  Or tonight.  Don’t miss anything.  And let your routine flow.”  He turned to Frank, “Frank, you may be onto something.”

 

I thought long and hard about that.  I’ll bet I concentrated more in the next ten minutes or so than I do getting ready for a difficult dive.  Frank and Charlie just sat there, completely silent, and let me think.  Frank was right, of course.  An incredible insight. 

 

I said, “OK, guys, let’s go to the gym.  Right now.  I have to try this.”

 

Frank said, “Now?”

 

Charlie said, “He means, ‘Now.’  Frank, you know him.  If you didn’t want to go to the gym this evening you shouldn’t have started the conversation.  He won’t sleep till he tries out your suggestion.”

 

Charlie was right, of course.  We headed to the gym; I dressed; Frank rolled out the rings and set them.  Charlie got the right idea: he stripped to the waist and stood about 20 yards out from the rings, facing me.  Frank lifted me to the rings, saying this was not the time for me to be leaping to the rings.  I looked at Charlie.  He’s gorgeous.  Strong, slender, handsome.  Well, yes, I’m prejudiced.  There was nothing sexual about his stance, and my thoughts weren’t sexual.  But they sure were loving.  I pulled myself up to the “T” position and just drank him in.  After about ten seconds Frank said, “OK, Tim, pull on up.”  I did.  “Dismount,” called Frank, and I did.

 

Frank asked, “How long do you think you held that position?”

 

“5 or 10 seconds.”

 

“Wrong.  I said ‘OK’ at the 25 second mark!” said Frank.

 

Charlie was hugging me.  Frank was hugging us both.  I was in tears.  In two minutes Frank’s insight into my concentration had advanced me from good gymnast to Olympic gymnast.  None of us could believe it.  But it turned out to be absolutely true.

 

About a week later Frank called  me to his office and said, “Let’s talk about the high bar.”

 

I know what you’re thinking, “What sort of dramatic insight could he bring to the high bar?”  Well, nothing quite as dramatic as he had to the rings. 

“Tim, a big problem on the high bar is fear.  When you are flipping up above the bar, letting go with your hands you are pretty high in the air.  Fear of falling inhibits a lot of gymnasts.  Actually taking a fall can almost ruin a top competitor.”

 

“That’s true, I guess.  I haven’t taken a serious fall.  I’m not afraid up their either.”

 

“You spent a summer in the circus, didn’t you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You did some trapeze work, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s about twice as high as the high bar, right?”

 

“Actually a little higher than that, and when the trapeze swings it goes even higher.”

 

“I’d be scared shitless up there.”

 

“I guess I was at first.”

 

“But you got over it, right?”

 

“Yes, I loved swinging on the trapeze.  I finally got so I could do a headstand–with a head plate.”

 

“On a swinging trapeze?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How many gymnasts do you think could say that?”

 

“I doubt any.  Gyms aren’t equipped with circus trapezes.  Girls sometimes swing on little ones, but this thing swung in a 24 foot arc.  It hung from the top of the circus tent.”

 

“How old were you when you spent that summer with the circus?”

 

“17.”

 

“You’re parents were OK with that?”

 

“They checked it out pretty carefully.  Sutvan’s circus was very straight and as safe as they come.  They were serious accident free that summer, and in fact had been for about six years.”

 

“OK, here’s my point: you can win the high bar on the fear factor.  Take advantage of that; push the envelope.  Let yourself go.  You can dominate that event if you play on your absence of fear.”

 

Frank was right.  We didn’t see sudden changes as with the rings.  But I developed new more spectacular programs for the high bar that really made people gasp.  I didn’t call it the fear factor; I called it the circus factor.  Whatever it was, I found myself near the top in that event.

 

Frank’s last insight was with the floor exercises.  “You need to put yourself on the map.  I see gymnast after gymnast doing pretty spectacular stuff in the floor exercises.  You can keep up, but getting ahead is going to be tough.”

 

“But you’re going to tell me how, right?”

 

“That’s what you pay me for, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“People already call you Mr. Velcro because you always stick your landings. I don’t know how you do it.”

 

“That’s where diving really helps.  When I dive I have to stay perfectly aligned or I splash and lose points.  Every part of your body has to be just right.  I bring that same discipline to the gym.  If you are perfectly aligned, then sticking is easy.”

 

“I wish it were as easy as you describe it. There isn’t another gymnast anywhere that would agree with you.”

 

“I always stick.  There has to be something to it.”

 

“You win.  But I want to talk about where you stick.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Yes.  I want to suggest that you be Mr. Dangerous and play the lines.”

 

“You lose serious points missing the line.”

 

“I know.  It is part of living dangerously.  But I think you have the skill to  land exactly where you want to.  Work on a set that starts in one corner and lands you facing the center of the mat, with both heels about a half inch from the line.  And stick it.  You have to learn such control that if you feel yourself missing you can throw your weight toward the mat center and avoid going outside the line–better to be 3 inches toward the center than 3/8 of an inch outside.  But you can do that.”

 

I spent hours that fall tumbling and landing on a target.  In fact, we got a cloth target from Charlie’s archery club and I learned to land my feet in the center as accurately as he shot an arrow at the center.

 

I’m not sure just what this added to my point scores, but it added to audience appeal.  Anybody who thinks that audience reaction doesn’t affect judges is full of prunes.  And gasps and applause are second only to having supporters who love you for inspiring greatness.

 

By Christmas break of that sophomore year I was ready for the world–the gymnastics world, at least.   But Charlie had a pretty exciting fall that year as well, and his big time was Thanksgiving.  So I’ll sign off for now and let him write about that.  I hope I get a chance to write a few more episodes!

 

To be continued...

Editor’s note: I have talked to several people about the problems of gay men and the draft.  The response of many of them was to simply go in the Army and stay in the closet.  Others chose a route similar to Phil’s, but their stories are not widely available.  I would be interested in real life experiences.  I will note that the business of Phil’s refusing to stay at the AFEES and wait for Dr. Smith is true to life.  While it was not being gay that triggered the demand that a young man see a psychiatrist (it was a different form of Army foolishness), the exchange with the Sergeant and Captain are as close to real life as my memory of the story allows.

 

 

Posted: 06/06/08