Two Thousand and Thirteen

(An old post unearthed)

The crowds had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already excited voices were gabbling from the commentary box, but even as it started it was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from the crowd. The program was unfolding like magic. He could see just enough of what was issuing from the fuzzy bootleg feed to realize that it had all happened, as he had never foreseen; two jumping passes with beautiful quadruple toes, a triple lutz tearing across the ice surface, a jaunty step sequence set to trumpets. Fragments of triumphant phrases from the commentary pushed themselves through the din of his mind: 'Everything fluidly connected--an integral part of the moves before and after--some wonderful skating skills and movement over the ice--the rise and fall of the knee--the amazing transitions--the effortless speed--"

Under the table Morozombie's feet made convulsive movements. He had not stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was standing, swiftly standing, he was with the crowds in the arena, cheering himself deaf. He looked up at face of Patrick Chan on the computer screen. The colossus that bestrode the world of men's figure skating! The rock against which the hordes of Japan, Spain, and the rest of the world dashed themselves in vain! He thought how ten minutes ago--yes, only ten minutes--there had been equivocation in his heart as he wondered how boring or dismal the performance would be. Ah, it was more than the competition of the 2012 Rostelecom Cup that had perished! Much had changed in him since those first days of watching Patrick Chan, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened, not at the 2011 World Championships in Moscow, not at the 2012 Canadian National Figure Skating Championships, not until this moment.

The voice from the commentary was still pouring forth its tale of quadruple jumps and skating skills and program components scores, but the shouting had died down a little. The crowds on the screen were returning back to their seats. Morozombie, sitting in a blissful dream, paid little attention as he filled his glass with vodka. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back watching the program in his mind, with everything forgiven, his soul white as Alexander Fadeev's costume at the 1989 Europeans. He was on his public blog, confessing everything, loving everything with nary a snarky thought: the little hop after the lutz, the transitions into the spin set to the beginning of Musetta's Waltz, the gravitas of the solemn choreographic step sequence...

He gazed up at Patrick Chan's face. Six years it had taken him to learn what kind of crack the judges were smoking. O cruel needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two vodka-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Patrick Chan's La Boheme.




(with my apologies to George Orwell)