Lost Magic
SOFIE HEWITT
‘Our final skater to the ice is the Jumping Kangaroo, Genevive Smith from Australia. She’s performing to ‘Thunderstruck’ by AC/DC. Quite an unusual choice.
In interviews she has said that the story behind this free skate is ‘Frankenstein’s bride returned from the dead, wanting revenge.’
She’s had a disappointing season by her standards, but is in the lead after the short, with a score of 59.60. Her season’s best for free skate currently sits at 140.72. She will need more than that to beat Kim Ye from Korea.
Let’s wish her luck.’
- ‘Skate Canada’ Commentary 2024
When I was a kid, I was told I was magical. Watching me skate was like watching witchcraft. Hypnotic, elegant, otherworldly.
I believed them.
Competition days used to be filled with endless possibilities. The way my heart raced filled me with endless drive. It felt like magic in and of itself. Now, competition days are full of disappointment. Anxiety grows and digs into my chest, until it unfurls like a blooming flower. The feeling of dread becomes impossible to escape as it eats away at my heart.
I pace.
Back
and forth,
back
and forth,
back-
I stop.
Coach Ignatova’s thick Russian accent prevents me from spiralling. Her words are all Eastern European sounding, with her ‘th’ sounds replaced with ‘s.’ It’s comforting. As comforting as the voice that has yelled at me from the rink’s sidelines for most of my life could be.
‘Stop that,’ she tells me from the corner of the warmup room.
Her blonde hair falls in perfect waves down her back. Sunglasses on, neck pillow propping up her head, reclined in her seat. Relaxed.
I wonder what deity I should sacrifice my firstborn to in order to attain that level of chill as I try to ignore the dread pooling in my stomach.
Stay focused. Present.
Figure skating is a mental sport as much as a physical one, and my mind hates me. I struggle to keep my head above the water. No matter how much I visualise, the undertow pulls at my feet. The doubt, the insecurity… is always there. Mocking me.
Figure skating is also a competitive sport. Each element is scored. Clean elements are rewarded with a base value. Plus or minus as much as five points depending on technique. Mediocre only earns the base value. Failure means a negative grade of execution.
Competition days have their own routines.
Routines help.
Usually.
Currently, my routine is on fire.
Hence: pacing.
First, I slept through my alarm. A heinous side effect of being an insomniac with anxiety. I’d spent hours last night staring at the hypnotic cracks on the hotel ceiling. There were thirteen, in case you were wondering. The oversleeping, paired with the heaviest traffic to ever have existed, results in missing half my 6.15am training session. Leaving me underprepared.
My good luck continues when, I rip my laces in half after attempting to tighten them, when a precarious landing to my triple loop almost made me a pancake. The next twenty minutes were spent running around trying to find a spare set.
Going through my pre-performance stretches helps calm my nerves, until I realise the gods’ plan to destroy me. My pre-performance snack, a chocolate bar - that I need for a boost of energy before performing - is MIA. Kidnapped, held hostage in the basement of someone’s stomach, no doubt.
‘I know you’re in here,’ I mutter, uselessly digging through my bag.
I must have killed billions of puppies in a past life for this karma. My hopes of a stress-free competition day have been defenestrated, then run over. Repeatedly.
I sometimes wonder why I stuck with competitive skating as my career. It certainly isn’t for all of the back, knee, hip, and ankle pain, or the longevity. Maybe because the sport has been the one constant in my life since I was four, and my aunt decided to give me lessons, giving me something to do while my parents were working. Which was always. Or because of the praise and validation I received in juniors when I became the first Australian woman to win all major competitions, or when I was seventeen, and also the first Australian woman to achieve bronze at the Olympics. When I’m skating, it is the only time I feel free, like I’m flying, like I’m myself. The exhilaration it gives me is like nothing else.
Given my recent performances, I wonder if these reasons are good enough ones to continue. I haven’t won a major competition, except nationals, in three years. The more I fail, the more embarrassing it feels to try. The inferno that once lit my blood when I skated has burned out. Embers are all that’s left. Somewhere along the way my magic… died. My body kept on with the motions, but my soul’s decay eats me from within.
But then I remember that skating was my first love, first passion, first joy. I love it even when I hate it, even when I fail. The musicality, the artistry, stretching my body to the absolute limit. There is nothing on earth like being the first on the ice for an early practice. The feeling I get before I perform is addictive, the breath right before my music starts and I burst into motion, that infinitesimal moment when the world seems to still and everything goes quiet, and I feel… alive. Addictive.
‘Skaters to the ice!’ announces the loudspeaker.
From the corner, Coach gives an encouraging smile.
Time for the six-minute warm up.
If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to perform a free skate, look no further. The experience is akin to running at top speed for four minutes straight. Doesn’t seem that complicated right? Think again. While running, add in about seven jumps, each jump with multiple clockwise rotations – two to four. Remember, the more rotations the more points you get. You must also spin as fast as you can while contorting yourself into the most difficult positions possible, at least four different variations of positions, at least twice. There is also a series of difficult turns with deep knee bends and perfect balance that is required. Speed is a must. While doing all of this – perfectly I might add, no mistakes allowed, or points will be deducted – remember that artistry is equally important as technical skill. Think graceful, angelic, soft.
The first three minutes, you’re trying not to crap yourself, your whole mentality devoted to not messing up any elements. By minute four, your legs are trembling enough that you’re afraid they’ll give out. At the end, breath ragged, lungs burning, you smile and bow to the judges. You pick up a stuffy that has been thrown onto the ice and glide back to your scowling Russian coach. Briefly you wonder if the commentators will call you wasted potential.
Surprisingly the six-minute warm-up doesn’t result in a career-ending injury. The short program left me in first place, meaning I perform last, so I keep myself warmed up as the rest of the skaters perform. I ignore the loudspeaker as each of their scores are announced.
Butterflies swarm my chest, moulding and expanding into one giant butterfly that will burst forth from my stomach, killing me and thus excusing me from going onto that ice and failing.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
I send a prayer up to the sporting saints. Simone Biles, Sam Kerr and Yuna Kim.
‘You’ve got this,’ Coach tells me. ‘Deep breaths. Skate your heart out.’ The familiar words centre me.
She pats my back. I shake out the anxiety. Our ritual.
I. Can. Win.
I skate out to the middle of the rink.
Alone.
Starting pose - right hand over my left eye, palm outwards, middle and ring finger ajar so my eye is poking between them.
The distant figures of the crowd are a dark background to the bright lights shining down on me. The judges scowl at me from behind their computers.
I’m exposed. The prey as it is hunted. Their anticipation feeds the nausea churning within me. My heartrate becomes a drumbeat within my chest. Rhythmic. Fast. Loud.
Deep breath. The world stills. My music starts.
I begin.
Every step, facial expression, extension, turn, spin and jump is perfect. Each beat of the music perfectly encapsulated in my choreography.
Until it isn’t.
For those unfamiliar with the ISU judging system for jumps, let me help you. There are a few things the judges look for when analysing jumps. The obvious being, is the jump pre-rotated or not? How much flow and speed does the skater maintain throughout the jump? What does the air position look like? Landing edge?
Now, how I performed the worst jump of my career. As I kick my free leg forward and jump into my triple axel position, the angle is all wrong. My speed going into the jump felt good. It wasn’t. The uncontrolled axis that my body was on meant I didn’t need to worry what my landing edge looked like because the angle had me landing on my heel barely two rotations into the jump, glancing off the ice, sending my body hurling across the slick surface, headfirst.
News flash people, ice is slippery.
Like a rock thrown into a calm and quiet lake, I hit the ice, sudden, hard, my landing makes a splash. Not a physical one, but a mental one. I can feel it ripple through me, and that one moment of distraction is all that’s needed for my loss of concentration.
I don’t fall on jumps during competition.
I never used to…
I get up and continue my program so fast that I don’t immediately register that I fell, the pain, or the future ramifications. Only that I’ve failed. I can’t not think it.
Move past it. Focus. Next element.
But… I can’t.
I’ve failed.
How am I failing at something I’m supposed to be the best at?
Giving my blood, sweat and tears for my sport and still failing is truly a special kind of torture.
Before I know it, I’ve struck my ending pose. The music cuts off. The crowd cheers. Barely keeping my composure, I bow to the judges, and skate towards the opening in the boards. I ignore the pain digging into my hip, my skull. I’m greeted by Coach. She’s encouraging, but I can see the disappointment. It’s in the way she can’t quite meet my gaze, the way her lips press together, her wearied sigh.
I’m sorry.
I feel tears wanting to make their appearance.
‘That looked like a bad fall, are you okay?’ she asks.
All I can do is nod as I put my hard guards on and struggle to breathe.
We head towards the kiss and cry – a seat surrounded by cameras, where skaters wait to receive scores.
‘Don’t worry, kiddo,’ she says, rubbing a hand across my back as we sit. ‘It’s only the first grand prix of the season. At this point, you’re still in the running to make it to the final. Good to get the mistakes out now.”
Mistakes out.
Mistakes are simply an example of my failure, my weakness, my regression. I bow my head. If it wasn’t for the cameras streaming live footage of me across the world, I would be a bawling mess.
Don’t let anyone see your weakness.
I stop listening to Coach, replaying my fall in my head. I’m sick of getting my mistakes ‘out.’ I’m tired of making a fool of myself. I’m done with failing.
I want my magic back.
‘The scores please.’ The announcer’s voice is chipper.
Can’t they see my career crumbling around me?
Should I quit while I’m not ahead?
My scores are announced.
145.72 points. 205.2 once combined with my short program score. Five points off Kim Ye, and thirty points under my personal best.
Second place. Again.
My vision blurs.
I’ve lost my magic.
I’ve lost…
Born and raised in Sydney, Sofie Hewitt is a passionate storyteller currently writing her debut sports romance novel about figure skating. Her passions include crying over books, crocheting her wardrobe, and photoshoots of her child (dog).
