call, but she took the win over me and went on to take the silver medal. I was not yet good enough to win twice on a bad day.
Then I had to wait. In international judo competition, if you lose to someone who makes the semifinal, you are entered into repechage, a consolation bracket with a chance to fight for the bronze medal. Because Heill made it to the semifinals, I was entered into the repechage bracket. I tried to refocus and pull myself together. You still have to fight , I reminded myself. Your day is not over . But my heart felt broken.
I won my first repechage match against Great Britainâs Sarah Clark, the same girl who beat me at the US Open. I was one step closer to an Olympic medal. It wouldnât be gold, but a bronze would still be a pretty impressive finish for a seventeen-year-old kid. Youâll be OK with that , I tried to convince myself. Then I lost to Hong Ok-song of Korea the next round. It wasnât a dramatic defeat. She didnât even do anything. She won by a minor score against me on a penalty. I kept attacking until the very end, but time ran out. I was out of the tournament.
I felt numb at the sound of the buzzer. I waited for the emotion to wash over me, for the tears to fall, for my knees to give out. But I realized that I couldnât feel any more pain. I had lost the Olympics, but it wasnât in that match. I had lost them when the officials called my win for Claudia Heill. I had fought two more matches since that one, but I never came back.
Overall, I finished ninth, the best finish of any woman on the US judo team. But it wasnât good enough for me.
After I was eliminated, I gathered my things. The teamâs media relations manager led me back through the maze of hallways. We passed athletes, coaches, cameramen, security guards, event volunteers in electric blue polo shirts, and various Olympic officials. We headed up two flights of concrete stairs, our footsteps echoing as we ascended the empty, dimly lit stairwell. We reached the second landing and a security guard pushed open the door. The light of the arena made me squint. My mom and Maria were standing on the other side of the door.
My mom had the look of genuine concern she only reserves for when youâre really sick. Her sympathy was unbearable. I wanted disappointment. I wanted anger. I wanted her to tell me I could have done more. Sympathy meant she believed I had lost despite giving it everything I had. I lowered my eyes.
âIâm so sorry,â I said. As the words tumbled out, the reality set in. I had lost.
Huge sobs racked my body. I fell into my momâs arms and cried harder than Iâve ever cried. My mom held me tight, and I buried my face in her shoulder.
âYou donât have to apologize,â my mom said, stroking my hair.
âBut I let everyone down,â I choked out between sobs. âI let you down.â
âYou didnât let me down,â my mom said. âYou just had a bad day.â
As an athlete, you go through your career thinking the Olympics are going to be the pinnacle of your entire life. Olympian is a title that you have forever. Even when you die, you are an Olympian. But sometimes the moments you are led to expect will be the most life changing arenât.
The Olympic coach told me I should be proud of myself. My teammates congratulated me. Big Jim told me he saw some things we had to work on. I surpassed everyoneâs expectations, but fell short of my own. People had expected me to take part, but I had expected to take over.
I just wanted to get the hell out of Athens, away from my failure.
I caught the first flight home, leaving a week before the Games ended. I had wanted to fly with Mom but everything out of Athens was completely booked. Instead, I flew back to the States alone, staring at the seatback in front of me and replaying my losses in my head over and over, breaking them down, rewinding the missed opportunities. Each time
Then I had to wait. In international judo competition, if you lose to someone who makes the semifinal, you are entered into repechage, a consolation bracket with a chance to fight for the bronze medal. Because Heill made it to the semifinals, I was entered into the repechage bracket. I tried to refocus and pull myself together. You still have to fight , I reminded myself. Your day is not over . But my heart felt broken.
I won my first repechage match against Great Britainâs Sarah Clark, the same girl who beat me at the US Open. I was one step closer to an Olympic medal. It wouldnât be gold, but a bronze would still be a pretty impressive finish for a seventeen-year-old kid. Youâll be OK with that , I tried to convince myself. Then I lost to Hong Ok-song of Korea the next round. It wasnât a dramatic defeat. She didnât even do anything. She won by a minor score against me on a penalty. I kept attacking until the very end, but time ran out. I was out of the tournament.
I felt numb at the sound of the buzzer. I waited for the emotion to wash over me, for the tears to fall, for my knees to give out. But I realized that I couldnât feel any more pain. I had lost the Olympics, but it wasnât in that match. I had lost them when the officials called my win for Claudia Heill. I had fought two more matches since that one, but I never came back.
Overall, I finished ninth, the best finish of any woman on the US judo team. But it wasnât good enough for me.
After I was eliminated, I gathered my things. The teamâs media relations manager led me back through the maze of hallways. We passed athletes, coaches, cameramen, security guards, event volunteers in electric blue polo shirts, and various Olympic officials. We headed up two flights of concrete stairs, our footsteps echoing as we ascended the empty, dimly lit stairwell. We reached the second landing and a security guard pushed open the door. The light of the arena made me squint. My mom and Maria were standing on the other side of the door.
My mom had the look of genuine concern she only reserves for when youâre really sick. Her sympathy was unbearable. I wanted disappointment. I wanted anger. I wanted her to tell me I could have done more. Sympathy meant she believed I had lost despite giving it everything I had. I lowered my eyes.
âIâm so sorry,â I said. As the words tumbled out, the reality set in. I had lost.
Huge sobs racked my body. I fell into my momâs arms and cried harder than Iâve ever cried. My mom held me tight, and I buried my face in her shoulder.
âYou donât have to apologize,â my mom said, stroking my hair.
âBut I let everyone down,â I choked out between sobs. âI let you down.â
âYou didnât let me down,â my mom said. âYou just had a bad day.â
As an athlete, you go through your career thinking the Olympics are going to be the pinnacle of your entire life. Olympian is a title that you have forever. Even when you die, you are an Olympian. But sometimes the moments you are led to expect will be the most life changing arenât.
The Olympic coach told me I should be proud of myself. My teammates congratulated me. Big Jim told me he saw some things we had to work on. I surpassed everyoneâs expectations, but fell short of my own. People had expected me to take part, but I had expected to take over.
I just wanted to get the hell out of Athens, away from my failure.
I caught the first flight home, leaving a week before the Games ended. I had wanted to fly with Mom but everything out of Athens was completely booked. Instead, I flew back to the States alone, staring at the seatback in front of me and replaying my losses in my head over and over, breaking them down, rewinding the missed opportunities. Each time
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