Second

Second

“Can we take a break?” I ask and shade my eyes from the glare.

“Sure, sure. Do you want some water?” Shane asks with his coifed hair and perfect teeth. “Hey, kid, get Eric a bottle,” Shane says over his shoulder to an assistant. He snaps his fingers to the cameraman and the lights click off. The temperature in the hotel room instantly cools. I breathe.

The kid gets up from his chair and with a sneer on his lips, drags a bottle of water from the cooler and hands it to me. I say thanks and his reply is a small flick of his index finger. But I know nothing is fine. This whole interview is falling apart. No one in the room believes me. Not the cameraman, the producer or, my interviewer Shane Olsen.

My mind spins; why should they believe me? I am a washed up ex-Olympic athlete who had a very public decline. It’s astonishing what one drunken rant posted on YouTube will do for one’s career.

I read the expressions on their faces and I see what makes my fall from grace worse: I came in second. No one remembers the guy in second place. Gold medalists get tables at restaurants, gain sponsor contracts, and the attention of beautiful women. Bronze medalists are welcomed home with open arms and a, “You did great!” Silver medalists get, “Oh dude, you were so close. That’s gotta suck.” Second is a curse.

Shane eyes me. “You dropped off the face of the earth after the Olympics,” he says and playfully taps me on the knee.

Shane is a television sports interviewer. He’s a big guy, probably six feet two and two hundred pounds of sculpted muscle. I’m a gymnast five foot-five and one hundred and fifty pounds on good days. So when Shane pats my knee it’s not friendly, it’s condescending.

“A lot of people are worried about you, Eric,” Shane says and glances back to his producer.

Maybe people should have worried a long time ago.

Gymnastics felt like flying. I tumbled and threw my body on the mats. I flipped and twirled on the rings. I felt like a god. When I went to the Olympics, I was the star of the team. Then I came in second.

Second.

My lips stick to my teeth. I sip water. “Let’s do this thing.”

Shane nods. The lights switch back on.

I speak of the 2008 Olympic games. I present my case. There were one hundred and twenty-five Olympic records broken that year. Thirty-seven of those were world records. I ask, “Didn’t anyone think to question why so many records were broken?”

“Athletes are better trained these days?” Shane suggests.

“In four short years?” I retort. “Is training more effective? Are coaches better?”

“What’s your point,” Shane asks.

“When something defies the odds maybe the odds are stacked,” I say.

“You’re talking about doping?” Shane asks.

I nod. “Doping is just the beginning. There is a lot of money riding on the Olympics. One Olympic gold medal can ignite a country’s prestige. Imagine what fifty can do.”

“Let’s slow down. Take one subject at a time. We’ll cover to the corruption charges you allude to next.”

I nod. It’s a reasonable request. He wants his story.

“Have you taken performance enhancing drugs?” Shane asks.

I nod.

He recites a litany of drugs like some kind of grocery list. I admit to testosterone, cortisone and HGH. “The others don’t help a gymnast,” I say.

“Admitting to doping puts your reputation in jeopardy, your silver medal in jeopardy. Why now?”

I want to tell him of the pressure every athlete faces to start doping. The ones that refuse can’t match the pace and get cut. I want to tell him of the crippling pains that shoot from my neck down to my shoulders. I want to tell him I can barely grip a pencil because of the nerve damage to my hands. I want to tell him that no one should compromise health to compete. Mostly, I want to tell him that doping is only the icing on the cake. The real crime is how much money flies into the hands of security guards to coaches to political connections for silence and favors.

I realize no matter how detailed my reports are on bribery and payoff trails, the only story that will hit the nightly news is my doping confession. I've been played.

All this flips through my mind. I say, “Lies never rest. They are like an itch you can’t reach.” I close my eyes and hope that what I say today will reach someone somewhere, somehow.