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icarusI am posting to LJ, with GJ as a back up.
The story will continue to be hosted off-line on my site here: Out Of Bounds. The jump-to link to the last section is here.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "Will it be silver or gold? Or will the Soviets push him back to bronze?"
A/N: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, and teaphile for her birds eye view. And thank you sarka for her Czech wisdom.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
"Welcome to the 1986 Winter Olympics! The excitement is building for the crown jewel of these Olympic games: women's figure skating. But first we have the men's event."
"Yes, Frank, and the star of the show is Canada's seventeen-year-old Rodney McKay."
"McKay has medaled in every major competition he's entered over the last three years, with the exception of the Grand Prix where he was beaten by veteran teammate Serge Martineau. But these are McKay's first Olympic games."
"The pressure is intense."
"He is expected to medal here. The question is: Will it be silver or gold? Or will the Soviets push him back to bronze?"
~*~*~
The hotel was the nicest one near the Olympic village; three stories of intricate brickwork that clearly predated the bombing of WWII. The interior was modern brass and white with thick carpeting, and there was a guard at attention just inside the door. Clusters of well-dressed people carrying briefcases spoke together in whispers, and Radek was reminded of the embassy in Prague where he'd had to get his papers to go to the Olympic games.
He hadn't liked that experience either.
Radek's guide, the director's sister-in-law, left him with her friend, the man he didn't know, and leaned over the counter to speak with the front desk clerk. She gestured Radek over with a little clutching motion. He was asked to sign a book to be permitted in. He set the gold pen down and wrung his hands.
The elevator was new and worked as smooth as glass. Radek watched the numbers as if his life depended on them and evaded any conversation. Outside room number 322, his two guides paused in the hallway. The woman waved Radek in with an artificial smile.
The director of the Czechoslovakian Olympic Committee had a room with the same thick white carpeting, but overlaid with oriental rugs. It was smaller than Radek had expected, considering the lobby, with just a wide bed with two graceful bedside tables. There was a mahogany roll top desk against one wall, and curtains drawn over what looked to be the door to a balcony on the opposite side. The director sat on the balcony side of the bed with his shoes off and tie undone. He was a short man with dark slate-gray hair and a small round face, his brow furrowed with deep worry lines over deep set blue eyes.
"Hello, Mr. Zelenka, come in," he said, waving him in with the same cupping gesture his sister-in-law had used.
Radek wiped his feet outside the door. He was not usually called Mr. Zelenka, that was his father's name, but he obeyed, pausing at the foot of the bed.
"Please, have a seat," the director patted the spot next to himself. "It's Radek, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mr. Director," Radek said, sitting gingerly, upright and wary, hands folded in his lap. The director's black socks had crisscrossing diamond patterns on them.
"Please, call me Karl. There is no need to be formal." He pulled an old fashioned cigarette case out of his pocket. "Cigarette?"
"Ah. I have my own, thank you," Radek said, patting his pocket. He very carefully didn't use the director's name either.
The director brought out his own cigarette and lit it. Glancing over at him warily, Radek pulled out his battered cheaper packet. The director offered a light and Radek was forced to lean forward and accept, aware that this was meant to relax him. It didn't work. They sat back in silence, enjoying the smoke.
"So," the director began, blue smoke striping the air. "How are the Olympic games so far for you?"
Normally this line of conversation would get an enthusiastic response from Radek, spilling out detailed descriptions of all he'd seen and done, plus his views on everything from warm German beer to the current ski jump standings. And figure skating, too, now that he'd taken an interest.
"Good," Radek said.
"Glad to hear it," said the director.
They fell silent again.
"I understand from the other judges that your family would like you to be an engineer. That you show some promise." The director blew a puff of smoke. "Czechoslovakia could use more engineers. Building roads, bridges. It's a noble profession."
"Yes." Radek nodded, blinking behind his round glasses, not even trying to hide his nervousness.
"My son is an engineer." The director pointed with his cigarette. "Quite a good one. He could take you under his wing in the future. Help guide you in your career."
Radek could not think of anything he wanted less. "Thank you, that's... very kind."
"We help those who help us, in my family."
The director regarded him with a sharp eye now, and Radek shrank where he sat. Here it came. He listened with every pore for what was not being said.
"We could use your help," the director added.
"Mine?" Radek squeaked. He elected to play innocent. Ignorant on the other hand, was nothing less than the truth. The director was not prodding in the direction he had expected – and feared – with questions about his loyalty and hints regarding certain Canadian figure skaters. Consorting with Rodney could get him branded a dissident, though he was sure he'd been careful enough. Almost certain. "What for?"
The director sighed, world-weary and well acted. "With your brother.''
Radek's throat closed up in alarm. "Is he in any trouble?"
His mind flashed through dozens of possibilities, all of them entirely too likely. It was not without reason his father had sent Radek to watch his brother Jiri. He was too enthusiastic about the west and Glasnost.
"No, he isn't in any trouble. Although a sixteen year old boy, far from home? That is simply asking for problems. Wise of your father to send along his responsible engineer," the director patted Radek's knee twice at the word 'responsible,' hard enough to make Radek wince, "to keep an eye on his little brother."
This engineer talk was getting to be a little much for Radek. "I'm still in school, not in university yet. If I'm even a candidate next year."
"That will not be a problem," the director assured him, with a firm confidence that told Radek all he needed to know.
Whatever the director wanted, he wanted it badly enough to offer a bribe. Which meant that he would not accept a no. This was no mere favor. Now Radek was really nervous.
"Er, I do not understand," Radek said, dodging any agreement to the bribe. Especially when he did not know what it was for.
"I need you to convince your brother not to throw away his entire future for just one ski jump," the director said.
Radek asked, with growing trepidation, "Which jump do you mean?" This was much worse than he imagined.
"The large hill."
Radek dropped his face to his hands. He couldn't help it, he knew it was dangerous not to appear cooperative, but that was his brother's main event. Without it, he had no Olympics. They were taking it all away.
The director continued, his voice rising and obviously irritated, "He is just sixteen, with a long Olympic career ahead of him if he remains eligible. In four years he'll be twenty. There will be another Olympics. He should not jeopardize that for nothing." The director's eyes had darkened with alarm over Radek's reaction. "He's such a young boy, of course he lives just in the moment, for this one jump. He does not consider the future. But he needs to think of the wider implications." And that phrasing alone convinced Radek the Soviets were involved somehow; why, he didn't know. His brother had jeopardized their medal count? A Soviet jumper had powerful friends? "As his older brother you must have a better understanding. Someday he'll need to work, he'll want to be married – maybe even go to university like yourself. He needs to not ruin all this for himself, for you, and for your family, when just a little patience will make all the difference."
Radek pulled himself together, to ask, the words strangled, "You've spoken with him?"
He prayed his brother had not said no.
The director smiled, his voice tinged with relief. "We need you to talk to him." He spread his hands, the shadow of anger still on his face, but calmer now. "He does not know us. But he'll listen to his older brother."
Radek bowed his head. There was nothing to be done about it. "I'll do what I can."
He made no promises. Because he knew what his brother would have to say.
~*~*~
Monday morning, Rodney was at the door before John could even knock, pushing past John onto the porch. He turned and grabbed John's arm, pulling and shoving him towards the Chevy.
"In, in! Get in the car. We've already lost two days and the only reason I didn't make you skate yesterday is that my Sundays are sacred as the only day of the week I get off." He yanked open the car door.
"You've been getting off pretty much every night from what I've seen." John smirked, his eyes glittering with humor as he slid behind the steering wheel. Rodney slammed the passenger side door and snuggled his shoulders into the seat at the reminder.
"Driving! I don't see you driving! Cheap jokes aren't going to get us to the rink any faster." He checked his watch, sitting forward and tapping his foot. "We're going to be three minutes late because of this time-wasting conversation alone."
"No, we won't." John looked over at him suspiciously as he stepped on the gas, speeding up. "Have you slept?"
"You have a mere eight days to get ready for a major competition – no, make that seven days and twelve hours – you haven't performed a single one of your jumps in over a month, and you're worried about whether or not I've slept?" Rodney took a deep sip from his coffee mug.
"Okay. That's a no." John crouched over the steering wheel, shifty-eyed and looking anywhere but at Rodney. "I think we're gonna be fine."
"Well, pardon me if I don't find your utterly baseless confidence all that reassuring!"
At the rink, John discovered that his playful, relaxed, and imaginative coach of the last six weeks had vanished, to be replaced by Josef Stalin. Rodney was already giving orders while they dressed, rink-side.
"When you wake up in the morning, what is your first thought?" Rodney snapped his fingers when John didn't answer right away.
"That I need to go to the bathroom."
"No! Wrong. Your first thought is to run through your short program, visualizing every aspect of your choreography. I want you to imagine your program as if you were really there."
"While I'm going to the bathroom." John gave him a tired look.
Rodney huffed, almost whining. "If you must."
John was on the nearly empty ice before Rodney, beginning his warm up. Rodney shouted to him as he returned, rounding the first lap, "We won't have any time to work on the dance aspects so I want you to walk those out at home – with music! Never mind how it looks to the neighbors, in fact, it's better if the neighbors see you so you get a little practice performing."
John whizzed by him, thinking of the kind of speed Yong Suk had managed. He wondered if he could do it.
"But right now we'll need to focus on your more difficult elements, try to get you back up to speed. Sadly, we'll have to eschew music for this morning -- though tomorrow I want to see your entire long program, straight through."
Rodney stepped out onto the ice, straightening his orange warm-up jacket with a tug. John turned and stroked backwards, losing a little momentum. Yong Suk did favor forward jumps. He was beginning to see why.
"Now. We'll start with single jumps and work our way up. Don't be upset if it doesn't go as well as you remember. It's just like riding a bicycle—"
John swung his inside leg back, arms flung out in a slicing gesture as he nicked the ice with his toe pick, spinning tight into an effortless triple Lutz, landing backward again. It really was his favorite jump. Something about starting and ending backward, not knowing where you were headed and flying blind....
Rodney made a strangled sound off to his right. John glanced his direction to see if he was okay.
"Okay, okay, that's, uh, not bad for a first time out...." Rodney said, his voice a little high, gliding onto the ice behind him with a sharp clap as he rubbed his hands together. "Okay, then. Um. Let this be a lesson to you: if you ever have to stop the jumps for a while, always keep up with your spins. Then they'll return to you as natural as breathing." He frowned. "Apparently."
John returned, hands on his hips as he finished the curve of his momentum. He nodded, pursed his lips and said in a dry voice, "I'll try to remember that."
[Previous][Next]
The story will continue to be hosted off-line on my site here: Out Of Bounds. The jump-to link to the last section is here.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "Will it be silver or gold? Or will the Soviets push him back to bronze?"
A/N: Thank you to
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, and teaphile for her birds eye view. And thank you sarka for her Czech wisdom.Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hired ex-skating champion and 'artiste' Rodney McKay to be his coach. At the 1986 Olympics, Rodney had befriended a young Czech ski jump judge and began a quiet affair. His attempt to show Radek the world outside the iron curtain backfired, however. Meanwhile in the present, after John gave up on making it to the America Cup this season, their teasing friendship developed into much more. Now it appears John might be able to compete after all. Of course, Rodney thinks John has followed his directions.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
"Welcome to the 1986 Winter Olympics! The excitement is building for the crown jewel of these Olympic games: women's figure skating. But first we have the men's event."
"Yes, Frank, and the star of the show is Canada's seventeen-year-old Rodney McKay."
"McKay has medaled in every major competition he's entered over the last three years, with the exception of the Grand Prix where he was beaten by veteran teammate Serge Martineau. But these are McKay's first Olympic games."
"The pressure is intense."
"He is expected to medal here. The question is: Will it be silver or gold? Or will the Soviets push him back to bronze?"
The hotel was the nicest one near the Olympic village; three stories of intricate brickwork that clearly predated the bombing of WWII. The interior was modern brass and white with thick carpeting, and there was a guard at attention just inside the door. Clusters of well-dressed people carrying briefcases spoke together in whispers, and Radek was reminded of the embassy in Prague where he'd had to get his papers to go to the Olympic games.
He hadn't liked that experience either.
Radek's guide, the director's sister-in-law, left him with her friend, the man he didn't know, and leaned over the counter to speak with the front desk clerk. She gestured Radek over with a little clutching motion. He was asked to sign a book to be permitted in. He set the gold pen down and wrung his hands.
The elevator was new and worked as smooth as glass. Radek watched the numbers as if his life depended on them and evaded any conversation. Outside room number 322, his two guides paused in the hallway. The woman waved Radek in with an artificial smile.
The director of the Czechoslovakian Olympic Committee had a room with the same thick white carpeting, but overlaid with oriental rugs. It was smaller than Radek had expected, considering the lobby, with just a wide bed with two graceful bedside tables. There was a mahogany roll top desk against one wall, and curtains drawn over what looked to be the door to a balcony on the opposite side. The director sat on the balcony side of the bed with his shoes off and tie undone. He was a short man with dark slate-gray hair and a small round face, his brow furrowed with deep worry lines over deep set blue eyes.
"Hello, Mr. Zelenka, come in," he said, waving him in with the same cupping gesture his sister-in-law had used.
Radek wiped his feet outside the door. He was not usually called Mr. Zelenka, that was his father's name, but he obeyed, pausing at the foot of the bed.
"Please, have a seat," the director patted the spot next to himself. "It's Radek, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mr. Director," Radek said, sitting gingerly, upright and wary, hands folded in his lap. The director's black socks had crisscrossing diamond patterns on them.
"Please, call me Karl. There is no need to be formal." He pulled an old fashioned cigarette case out of his pocket. "Cigarette?"
"Ah. I have my own, thank you," Radek said, patting his pocket. He very carefully didn't use the director's name either.
The director brought out his own cigarette and lit it. Glancing over at him warily, Radek pulled out his battered cheaper packet. The director offered a light and Radek was forced to lean forward and accept, aware that this was meant to relax him. It didn't work. They sat back in silence, enjoying the smoke.
"So," the director began, blue smoke striping the air. "How are the Olympic games so far for you?"
Normally this line of conversation would get an enthusiastic response from Radek, spilling out detailed descriptions of all he'd seen and done, plus his views on everything from warm German beer to the current ski jump standings. And figure skating, too, now that he'd taken an interest.
"Good," Radek said.
"Glad to hear it," said the director.
They fell silent again.
"I understand from the other judges that your family would like you to be an engineer. That you show some promise." The director blew a puff of smoke. "Czechoslovakia could use more engineers. Building roads, bridges. It's a noble profession."
"Yes." Radek nodded, blinking behind his round glasses, not even trying to hide his nervousness.
"My son is an engineer." The director pointed with his cigarette. "Quite a good one. He could take you under his wing in the future. Help guide you in your career."
Radek could not think of anything he wanted less. "Thank you, that's... very kind."
"We help those who help us, in my family."
The director regarded him with a sharp eye now, and Radek shrank where he sat. Here it came. He listened with every pore for what was not being said.
"We could use your help," the director added.
"Mine?" Radek squeaked. He elected to play innocent. Ignorant on the other hand, was nothing less than the truth. The director was not prodding in the direction he had expected – and feared – with questions about his loyalty and hints regarding certain Canadian figure skaters. Consorting with Rodney could get him branded a dissident, though he was sure he'd been careful enough. Almost certain. "What for?"
The director sighed, world-weary and well acted. "With your brother.''
Radek's throat closed up in alarm. "Is he in any trouble?"
His mind flashed through dozens of possibilities, all of them entirely too likely. It was not without reason his father had sent Radek to watch his brother Jiri. He was too enthusiastic about the west and Glasnost.
"No, he isn't in any trouble. Although a sixteen year old boy, far from home? That is simply asking for problems. Wise of your father to send along his responsible engineer," the director patted Radek's knee twice at the word 'responsible,' hard enough to make Radek wince, "to keep an eye on his little brother."
This engineer talk was getting to be a little much for Radek. "I'm still in school, not in university yet. If I'm even a candidate next year."
"That will not be a problem," the director assured him, with a firm confidence that told Radek all he needed to know.
Whatever the director wanted, he wanted it badly enough to offer a bribe. Which meant that he would not accept a no. This was no mere favor. Now Radek was really nervous.
"Er, I do not understand," Radek said, dodging any agreement to the bribe. Especially when he did not know what it was for.
"I need you to convince your brother not to throw away his entire future for just one ski jump," the director said.
Radek asked, with growing trepidation, "Which jump do you mean?" This was much worse than he imagined.
"The large hill."
Radek dropped his face to his hands. He couldn't help it, he knew it was dangerous not to appear cooperative, but that was his brother's main event. Without it, he had no Olympics. They were taking it all away.
The director continued, his voice rising and obviously irritated, "He is just sixteen, with a long Olympic career ahead of him if he remains eligible. In four years he'll be twenty. There will be another Olympics. He should not jeopardize that for nothing." The director's eyes had darkened with alarm over Radek's reaction. "He's such a young boy, of course he lives just in the moment, for this one jump. He does not consider the future. But he needs to think of the wider implications." And that phrasing alone convinced Radek the Soviets were involved somehow; why, he didn't know. His brother had jeopardized their medal count? A Soviet jumper had powerful friends? "As his older brother you must have a better understanding. Someday he'll need to work, he'll want to be married – maybe even go to university like yourself. He needs to not ruin all this for himself, for you, and for your family, when just a little patience will make all the difference."
Radek pulled himself together, to ask, the words strangled, "You've spoken with him?"
He prayed his brother had not said no.
The director smiled, his voice tinged with relief. "We need you to talk to him." He spread his hands, the shadow of anger still on his face, but calmer now. "He does not know us. But he'll listen to his older brother."
Radek bowed his head. There was nothing to be done about it. "I'll do what I can."
He made no promises. Because he knew what his brother would have to say.
Monday morning, Rodney was at the door before John could even knock, pushing past John onto the porch. He turned and grabbed John's arm, pulling and shoving him towards the Chevy.
"In, in! Get in the car. We've already lost two days and the only reason I didn't make you skate yesterday is that my Sundays are sacred as the only day of the week I get off." He yanked open the car door.
"You've been getting off pretty much every night from what I've seen." John smirked, his eyes glittering with humor as he slid behind the steering wheel. Rodney slammed the passenger side door and snuggled his shoulders into the seat at the reminder.
"Driving! I don't see you driving! Cheap jokes aren't going to get us to the rink any faster." He checked his watch, sitting forward and tapping his foot. "We're going to be three minutes late because of this time-wasting conversation alone."
"No, we won't." John looked over at him suspiciously as he stepped on the gas, speeding up. "Have you slept?"
"You have a mere eight days to get ready for a major competition – no, make that seven days and twelve hours – you haven't performed a single one of your jumps in over a month, and you're worried about whether or not I've slept?" Rodney took a deep sip from his coffee mug.
"Okay. That's a no." John crouched over the steering wheel, shifty-eyed and looking anywhere but at Rodney. "I think we're gonna be fine."
"Well, pardon me if I don't find your utterly baseless confidence all that reassuring!"
At the rink, John discovered that his playful, relaxed, and imaginative coach of the last six weeks had vanished, to be replaced by Josef Stalin. Rodney was already giving orders while they dressed, rink-side.
"When you wake up in the morning, what is your first thought?" Rodney snapped his fingers when John didn't answer right away.
"That I need to go to the bathroom."
"No! Wrong. Your first thought is to run through your short program, visualizing every aspect of your choreography. I want you to imagine your program as if you were really there."
"While I'm going to the bathroom." John gave him a tired look.
Rodney huffed, almost whining. "If you must."
John was on the nearly empty ice before Rodney, beginning his warm up. Rodney shouted to him as he returned, rounding the first lap, "We won't have any time to work on the dance aspects so I want you to walk those out at home – with music! Never mind how it looks to the neighbors, in fact, it's better if the neighbors see you so you get a little practice performing."
John whizzed by him, thinking of the kind of speed Yong Suk had managed. He wondered if he could do it.
"But right now we'll need to focus on your more difficult elements, try to get you back up to speed. Sadly, we'll have to eschew music for this morning -- though tomorrow I want to see your entire long program, straight through."
Rodney stepped out onto the ice, straightening his orange warm-up jacket with a tug. John turned and stroked backwards, losing a little momentum. Yong Suk did favor forward jumps. He was beginning to see why.
"Now. We'll start with single jumps and work our way up. Don't be upset if it doesn't go as well as you remember. It's just like riding a bicycle—"
John swung his inside leg back, arms flung out in a slicing gesture as he nicked the ice with his toe pick, spinning tight into an effortless triple Lutz, landing backward again. It really was his favorite jump. Something about starting and ending backward, not knowing where you were headed and flying blind....
Rodney made a strangled sound off to his right. John glanced his direction to see if he was okay.
"Okay, okay, that's, uh, not bad for a first time out...." Rodney said, his voice a little high, gliding onto the ice behind him with a sharp clap as he rubbed his hands together. "Okay, then. Um. Let this be a lesson to you: if you ever have to stop the jumps for a while, always keep up with your spins. Then they'll return to you as natural as breathing." He frowned. "Apparently."
John returned, hands on his hips as he finished the curve of his momentum. He nodded, pursed his lips and said in a dry voice, "I'll try to remember that."
[Previous][Next]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 03:40 pm (UTC)"Welcome to the 1986 Winter Olympics! The excitement is building for the crown jewel of these Olympic games: women's figure skating. But first we have the men's event."
Because that is just. so. true.
---
John is such a shit. "I'll try to remember that," indeed.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 03:46 pm (UTC)Oh, and you have a typo: "You have a ere eight days... That should be 'mere', I believe.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 04:36 pm (UTC)That's just me...really glad that there was more. I'm just waiting, here in the shadows, for more. Just quietly waiting....
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 04:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 04:51 pm (UTC)Oh, John! Oh, Rodney! *loves*
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 05:19 pm (UTC)this is wonderful.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 05:23 pm (UTC)You have me on tenterhooks, dying to find out how Rodney crashed and burned in '86. I would not be surprised if it had something to do with Radek & his little brother.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 07:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 10:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 10:11 pm (UTC)Hee. I could so HEAR Rodney here.
& :-)
Rock on.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 10:56 pm (UTC)I can't believe you left us hanging so badly with the first half of this post though - not fair.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-07 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-08 12:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-08 01:43 am (UTC)And who needs to go to the bathroom, really John ... ;)
Poor Radek though. That kind of sucks.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-08 04:37 am (UTC)Oh, poor Radek. Wily, though. And the little ones can get through some pretty small holes. *crosses fingers* (I was at the Calgary Olympics, and remember the fierce cold lit up by red outfits - either beloved Canadians or exotic communists. It was this classic cold war event, right before the shock of 1989. So, I'm really glad you've got Radek and the other side of things here, because it's necessary.)
I love that you end with the curve of John's motion, because, I mean, finally. Curves! Hips! Sex!
Rodney's whining Stalin. Classic. High voice, clapping, frowning. Rodney's getting it back, too!
no subject
Date: 2007-08-08 04:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-08 05:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-08 05:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-08 10:47 pm (UTC)Never mind how it looks to the neighbors, in fact, it's better if the neighbors see you so you get a little practice performing.
::snort:: Oh Rodney! He does become rather Stalin-esque at crunch time, doesn't he?
John returned, hands on his hips as he finished the curve of his momentum. He nodded, pursed his lips and said in a dry voice, "I'll try to remember that."
This visual officially made my day.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-09 12:32 am (UTC)We were talking in another journal about figure skaters and the Brians. Found an interesting overview of the 88 games - you can see it here (http://youtube.com/watch?v=383RoLN-j9E). Includes several instances of, well, touching, including, at the end, a *very* interesting armstroke by Boitano. :) But overall, there's a great bit with Boitano where he tries to describe everything that was going through his head - and I thought it might be interesting to you, for this among other things.
Hope you enjoy.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-11 03:15 am (UTC)John is such a naughty boy. I cannot believe Rodney buys his shit.
"When you wake up in the morning, what is your first thought?"
"That I need to go to the bathroom."
*snerk*
no subject
Date: 2007-08-11 03:55 am (UTC)I'll never forget watching ESPN's World Championships. It was like the men's event was an afterthought.
And yes, John is.
Icarus
no subject
Date: 2007-08-11 04:06 am (UTC)