There was a definite lack of concentration on Fingon’s part the next day at the gym. He gave fewer pointers than he usually did, and instead of paying careful attention to the routines he found his mind wandered more to the events of the previous evening.
His lack of attention did not go unnoticed by the coach, and at the end of the day’s practice he was waved into the office. Wordlessly, he followed and shut the door behind as he entered. He was offered a place to sit, but Fingon knew it was less of a request and more a command, and so he lowered himself slowly into the chair while keeping his gaze upon Ardim.
“Fingon, there is something I would like to talk to you about.” Ardim perched on his desk and gave Fingon one of his serious looks. His hands were folded together before him, but as he started to get further into his speech, he gestured with them often, but gracefully. “You may have noticed that I am not one to give idle praise – if someone works very hard, I am more than willing to acknowledge it, but I find that one should strive to meet their goals without the influence of others in the form of kind yet untruthful words. Criticism, on the other hand, is very necessary.”
The coach stepped down and walked across the room to the display shelves that housed many trophies and awards. “Red Fern is not a very old team, but we are fierce. We do not always make first place, but we do our best.” He looked over his shoulder. “I do not think you have been doing your best, have you, Fingon?”
“I have been doing all that has been asked of me,” answered Fingon. “I come here on time, I stay late when there is a match the next day, and I help the team hone their skills. Are there other tasks which I have been remiss in performing?”
“It is not that you have not completed the tasks, but that you are not putting in your full focus. Other things are clouding your mind. I do not know how the Whitecloud team functioned, but things are different here. I expect everyone’s commitment to be to this team. Only then can our best performance be given. Does that make sense to you?” asked Ardim.
Fingon nodded after a moment. “Is that all, sir?”
“No. I am going to be interviewing a few of your peers over the next week. They were all second choices when we first considered you, but seeing as how you lack a certain... quality that we were hoping for, we may replace you. Then again, we may not,” added the coach. “I guess what I am telling you is that if you are serious about staying here with Red Fern, now would be the time to show that.”
“I understand.” Fingon swallowed hard. “May I be excused?”
The coach waved toward the door, and Fingon slowly rose and left.
Even when he had been scolded by his father, he had never felt so talked down to. He waited until he gathered his gear and walked out of the gym and into the garden to slide down to the ground beside a tree. With his eyes closed, he willed himself not to get emotional over the conversation. A few deep breaths turned his embarrassment to anger. His desire to return home was almost overpowering, but his want to prove his father wrong was strong in him.
He allowed himself a few more minutes to calm down before he returned to his feet and made the short journey back to the house. By the time he was home, he had talked himself into leaving the assistant position, and then back into staying again. When he sat down for dinner with Maglor, he silently plotted to stay until he found another position at some other gym. By the time he had readied for bed, he had convinced himself that he was much too talented to work for someone else anyhow and should open a gym of his own. The next morning, he rose early, bathed, and headed back to the gym to prove how dedicated he was to his craft.
When he arrived, there was no one else at the gymnasium yet. Instead of waiting outside, he pulled on the chain around his neck and brought out the key that he had been given when he first accepted the position. It fit perfectly into the lock, and he entered the dark building. His first task was to climb the high ladder to open the windows. The windows were located high up so that no one passing by could look in and spy on the team to find out what they were going to be performing.
Once that was complete, he checked all of the trays and refilled the ones that were low with the white powder. He swept up the floor to keep things neat, and then, still finding himself alone, he went to the parallel bars and dusted his hands and arms with talc. The coach arrived to find Fingon attempting a rather difficult routine he had not practiced since leaving his former team. He was waved to, and the coach even looked a little surprised, as he entered his office.
The first student to arrive wanted to spend his morning lifting weights; the next walked in with the other assistant, and had already made plans to practice with him. It was not until Lintion jogged in that Fingon had someone to work with. Immediately, they sketched out a plan for the day and set to work. Lintion first worked his way through the routine he planned to execute for the upcoming meet, with Fingon simply watching. Next, they discussed Lintion’s weak points, and then worked on those problems with each individual event.
Lintion easily fixed his flaws with the rings, and had already mastered his routine on the parallel bars. His biggest problem was floor exercises. He agreed with Fingon to skip the event until after lunch, when the afternoon could be devoted to the task.
Once they finished the other events and ate a swift, light lunch, the pair returned to the matted area in the center of the gym. The apparatuses were located around the edges, and the middle reserved for floor. Lintion began his routine well, but halfway into it, lost track of where his boundaries were. Twice he landed out of bounds; more than once he took a step back across or on the line.
“Your elements were good,” said Fingon after seeing the routine for the second time that day. “However, you are reckless when it comes to figuring out where you are and actually hitting your marks. You seem to assume that you will just dazzle the audience and win with applause. The reality is that while your fans are watching your body twist and turn, the judges are keeping careful watch on your feet.”
“I am too tall,” bemoaned Lintion. “They should expand the boundaries for people like me.”
Fingon gave his young student a weary look. “That is the most bullshit excuse I have heard in a long time.”
The comment turned more than a few heads, including the coach. Most of Fingon’s critiques to this point had been praise-filled, even when the mood merited otherwise. Now, it seemed, that had changed.
Before Lintion could dispute this, Fingon left him standing in the middle of the mats. He walked to the bowl of powder and pulled it from its pedestal. He brought it back with him and used it to decrease the area by two metres on either side. “You will now do your routine within these confines. Each time you step out, you will owe me one lap around the gym.”
“Inside or outside?” questioned Lintion.
“I had not thought of the outside,” admitted Fingon, and Lintion groaned. “The outside, then. Now, complete your routine for me again.”
“This is impossible!” argued the younger elf. “There is no way anyone can do my routine in such a small space.”
Fingon stared at the impetuous gymnast for a full minute. No one in the gym seemed to even breathe. It was quite unlike Fingon to make such a demand, and yet, he had. “No one?”
“Seriously, unless they were... four feet tall, I suppose,” said Lintion.
With a snort, Fingon tossed the bowl onto the ground, spilling the talc over Lintion’s feet. He then walked to a stool and removed his shoes. Back to Lintion he returned, to step into the mess on the floor. Once his feet and hands were covered in powder, Fingon walked to the edge of the mat. He took a moment to carefully stretch his limbs and calm his breathing. Once fully focused, he began the routine that Lintion had shown him.
Instead of an imperfect series of elements, Fingon managed to masterfully complete each item with inches to spare. Even a midair double twist, which Fingon managed to turn into a triple, was managed without so much as a stumble or pause. When he finished the complete routine, Fingon walked back to the side and gave Lintion a shove in the direction of the mat. “I am two inches taller than you, and your routine is hardly challenging. Two laps for every miss,” he added before Lintion began.
That night, instead of leaving at the appointed time, Fingon kept working with Lintion past closing. It took sixteen laps before Lintion managed to stay inside the lines, and another four before the routine was executed without any misses. When Fingon swept away the new borders and allowed Lintion the regulation space, the routine was beautiful, and Lintion, for all his complaining, was finally happy with it.
Clapping from across the gym was heard as Lintion landed, and the coach stepped out of his office and crossed the gym to congratulate the youth. “You are shaping up well, Lintion. Keep it up.” He turned to Fingon and patted him on the back. “You, too. Good job.”
“Thank you, sir,” managed Fingon as the coach walked back to his office.
