'CHARLIE'

Based on the poem “Handstand” by Linda Sue Park

“There isn’t anything that’s more important”, was Charlie’s catch-phrase. It was from a poem about doing a handstand and, years ago, he’d pinned it on the notice-board in the ramshackle shed he used for Gymnastics classes. The edges were brown and dog-eared but he never took it down. Even when the prestigious new Leisure Complex opened, he insisted on taking his notice-board, complete with poem, much to the horror of the Council Officials performed the opening ceremony.

“My poem stays,” he said. And it did; just as it will stay with me forever.

Charlie used to recite the first part of the poem every time he taught the fundamental skill of performing a handstand. He would start with the pointing of toes, locking of knees and clenching of buttocks. When he was satisfied that the gymnast’s body was correctly balanced he would point out the arched ribcage which created an impossible elegance. Then he would insist on complete focus while the gymnast glared at his hands on the floor where ten whorled pads adjusted the pressure by microns in order to maintain perfect balance. From a very early age, it was etched in my brain.

Once, when I was early for training, I inspected the tatty sheet on the notice-board more carefully. Only then did I realise that Charlie’s catch-phrase was not the same as the first line of his poem as I had always believed. I pointed this out.

“I knew you were special,” was all he said. “No one has ever noticed before.

From that moment, I wanted to be special for Charlie. I trained hard and strived for the perfection he obviously believed me capable of. I won medals for the Club and got into the County team. I had to forego pleasures like school discos and parties; eating ice-cream and sweets, but was happy to do it for Charlie.

“After all, there isn’t anything that’s more important”, I would say to Charlie.

At fifteen I became the youngest County Champion in the Floor Exercise. That week it was announced the Olympics were to be held in London.

“Perfect timing”, Charlie said. “I can see an Olympic gold round your neck already. There isn’t anything that’s more important.”

When I reached eighteen I had added the Vault and Parallel Bars to my list of victories, as well as a silver medal for all-round performance with the Great Britain Youth Team. I narrowly missed selection as reserve for the Beijing Olympics but Charlie wasn’t worried. He saw it all as the carefully orchestrated fulfilment of his plans for London 2012.

But that was four years ahead and a vague sense of frustration was settling on me.

“There are other things that are important”, I argued after a particularly tedious training session. “That’s why you manipulated the first line of the poem. What about my future? I want a career. Gymnastics is no good to me”, and I walked out.

I felt terrible afterwards, especially when Charlie arranged a job for me as a trainee Life-Style Coach. I put all my efforts into my training, for a while, but niggling doubts remained. Most of my clients were beautiful women. Some would ask me out but I couldn’t accept. Life was passing me by. Then my brother asked me to be Best Man at his wedding and I had to propose a toast to the bride and groom’s future happiness in orange juice. Was it really that important?

I tackled Charlie again. This time, he grabbed the poem from its rusty nail and waved it at me.

You want to give it all up?” He demanded angrily, before sinking onto the bench and quietly reading the last few lines.

“You could stay up forever, the world inverted

but in such perfect balance that coming down

is like a small death the line breaks, your feet

touch the mat, your spine reclaims its ordinary

curves; you are dull and mortal as before.”

His eyes met mine. “Is that what you want - to be like everybody else? You are special but there isn’t anything that’s not important, as you’ve pointed out before. You must do what is right for you.”

I had to look way. “No, Charlie”, I muttered. “I want to go on”. He handed me the poem and I reinstated it to its rightful place. “There isn’t anything that’s more important”.

Soon after that I was selected for the Olympic Team. That meant training in a secret location; the first time Charlie hadn’t been part of my life. I missed him and managed to sneak away to the Leisure Centre when classes were over. We locked the doors and switched off the CCTV cameras. Then I showed him the exercises I would be performing.

Two weeks before the Opening Ceremony I’d managed to secure a Visitors’ Pass for Charlie so that he could be with the Team Officials for the competition. I desperately wanted to give it to him myself so I bounced into his morning class to surprise him.

Strangely, the room was empty. In fact, the whole building was eerily quiet. Footsteps sounded out in the corridor and the Manager appeared in the doorway. His face was white.

“You don’t know, do you?” His voice shook with emotion

“Know what? I asked

“Charlie was killed last night. A drunk-driver, cornered too fast, the car skidded and . . .

I took Charlie’s poem and headed back to the Olympic Village. I filled the few remaining days with a harsh practice regime. When my body ached and my eyes watered with weariness I took the crumpled poem from my pocket and read it, hearing Charlie’s encouragement through the years.

Finally, I took my place on the floor of the packed Greenwich Arena. I raised my arm to the Judges and went into a handstand. I glared at my hands for a long moment then launched into my routine. It was a flawless performance. I was barely aware of the rapturous applause as a complete set of tens was announced.

I was only dimly aware of the lump of gold being placed around my neck and flowers thrust into my arms. Tears flowed unashamedly as the crowd sang the National Anthem and, in the split second of silence as the last chord died away, I saw my fist punch the air and heard my voice tell the watching world,

“There isn’t anything that’s not important, Charlie”.

BARBARA OSWALD