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let-it-raines · 4 years

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Walking the Baseline (1/1)

He’s at the top of his game. She’s in the midst of a comeback. The Olympics are just around the corner, and there’s more than gold medals on the line. There’s secrets and personal lives and a lot more at risk than simply losing, but as most know, Killian Jones and Emma Swan hate to lose.

rating: mature (just to err on the safe side)

a/n: Hello, hello, my darlings! I was informed of the @captainswanolympics as I’ve missed so much in my time of only checking messages and posting YWUSS, and I just had to write a tennis AU. If you know me, you know I played tennis back in the day, worked behind the scenes for a professional tennis tournament, and am an avid fan, so the fact that I haven’t written more CS tennis is surprising. lol.

This one is short and sweet, and it’s the first CS I’ve written in months. So I genuinely hope you enjoy it. And no, you don’t have to know tennis to understand 🎾

ao3: | here |

tag list: @qualitycoffeethings @mrtinski @klynn-stormz @scarletslippers @jonirobinson64 @snowbellewells @therealstartraveller776 @thejollyroger-writer @sherifemma�� @galaxyzxstark @galadriel26 @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @teamhook @spartanguard @searchingwardrobes @jamif @shireness-says @ultimiflos @nikkiemms @onepunintendid @bluewildcatfanatic @superchocovian @killianswannn @carpedzem @captainkillianswanjones @mayquita @mariakov81 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @a-faekindagirl @scientificapricot @xellewoods @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @singersdd @tornadoamy @cluttermind @lfh1226-linda @andiirivera @itsfabianadocarmo

-/-

“My legs feel like jelly,” Emma sighs as she sinks into an ice bath. It’s never pleasant, and it may not even help, but it makes her feel better every time. “Like, I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk when I get out of here. I don’t think I can even stand now.”

“You say that after every long match,” David tells her, clicking away at his iPad. There’s no doubt he’s studying her stats and about to pick her apart in a friendly yet incredibly harsh way that is a David trademark. “Is your shoulder okay? Your first serve percentage was up, but your speed was down.”

Yep. He’s so predictable. She knew that was coming the moment she decided to change the speed on her serves.

“I’m fine. I’m tired. I mean, shit, David. It’s like the tour is trying to ruin our bodies. My last two-week break was when? March? It’s almost August, and it’s not going to stop there.”

“You’ve made it before. You can do it again.”

“That’s not encouraging.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me that I don’t have to do this.”

David looks up from his iPad, brow raised, and she knows she’s not going to get the answer she wants. He doesn’t tell her she can quit unless they’re in a heated argument after disagreeing on her service motion or her footwork, which will always be her downfall when she’s exhausted, or any other aspect of her game. That’s what happens when your coach is not only your couch but also your older brother.

“I’m not going to say that. You’re in the quarterfinals. You play against Svitolina, who you have an excellent record against, and then in the semis, it could go either way with French or Stephens. That’s who we’re worried about. We’re not thinking about the finals until we’re in the finals.”

“I’m not thinking about just the finals. I’m thinking about the fact that I played Madrid, Rome, Roland Garros, Eastbourne, Wimbledon, Washington, here. And now I’m supposed to fly to Rio for the Olympics, then fly to Cincinnati, and then New York. And after New York, we almost immediately fly to Beijing, and it doesn’t stop. I get, what? A month and a half off, but it’s not really off time because we spend that time fixing everything for next season. The only way I get a break is if I lose or I get injured, and I don’t want either of those things.”

Emma’s chest heaves as she finishes speaking, the words flying out faster than her mind can come up with them as she runs through her tournament schedule, and David doesn’t blink. He stares at her like he always does, and sometimes she swears it’s like staring at a male version of herself. And she knows what’s coming. She always does. David never got to play past college, the professional circuit too much for his body, and he always pulls the card of how much he would give to be playing right now, to be in her position. She gets it. If she was in his position, she would do the same thing, but right now, all she really wants is to cry.

“You have worked too hard to quit, Emma,” David sighs, giving her a patented big-brother condescending stare. “You are not going to quit. I know this part of the season is rough, but you push through it every year. And imagine how good it’s going to feel when you have a gold medal around your neck or when you have that US Open trophy in your hands. You don’t get to play forever, and you’re the one who said that you weren’t quitting when everyone would have easily expected it. Do you want to prove them right?”

Emma moves in the bath, sinking a little lower, and damn, her sports bra is going to be impossible to get off. Her gaze shifts from David to the TV where ESPN commentators are sitting at a desk, her Nike-approved picture on the screen beside them. They run through the stats of her match and then her overall career stats. She’s twenty-eight, which is apparently at the end of her career according to them, world number seven, which is also abysmal to them somehow, and she is not living up to her potential when she is a former world number one, six-time grand slam champion, and a gold medalist from four years ago in London.

She groans and tries not to think about how much she hates all the people who work for ESPN. They have their favorites and the ones they hate, and since she is not a mediocre American male or one of the all-time greats, she’s somewhere in between. Usually, she doesn’t listen to the comments, to the pundits, to the assholes. She tries to stay away from that because it will drive her into a deep state of negativity, but lately, it’s like she can’t get enough of listening to what people say about her as if it is going to give her some kind of insight to her game.

She doesn’t crave their validation, but maybe, in a twisted way, she does.

“She gave birth sixteen months ago,” Mary Jo sighs. “She came back a year after giving birth. She is not going to be who she was before she had a child. The fact that she’s won enough this year to be in the top ten is amazing when she started with no ranking since there are no tour protections for maternity leave. She’s a champion, and sometimes champions struggle as they get their form back.”

“Sixteen months is a long damn time,” Patrick says, and Emma’s vagina would beg to differ. “She should be back to how she was or she shouldn’t be playing.”

“Have you given birth, Patrick? Because unless you have, I don’t think you get a say.”

“It’s my job to say what I think.”

“Still, I think – ”

The television clicks off, and Emma’s gaze finds its way back to David. “We’re not listening to them. It’ll piss you off. Mary Jo is right. You’re doing amazing, and I don’t want you to forget that.”

Emma doesn’t know if she’s doing amazing, doesn’t feel that way a lot of the time. This job is hard enough, to kill your body while also having the eyes of the world on you, but adding in a baby? It’s nearly impossible. A few other women have done it before her, not all with spectacular returns or returns at all, and she wants to keep getting better and play for long enough that Olivia will be able to see her mom play and remember it.

She’s not just doing it for herself. She’s doing it for her daughter, whose entrance into the world was unplanned, terrifying, and the best damn thing to ever happen to Emma even if she doubts herself in motherhood every day.

“I miss her,” Emma whispers to David, reaching up to play with her necklace, Olivia’s initials engraved in the gold circle. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it two more weeks without seeing her.”

“Do you want me to get Mary Margaret to FaceTime you with her? They’ve been watching your match at home.”

“No, no.” She shakes her head and releases the pendant, her resolve back as she inhales and focuses on her job. “Let’s do the rest of my recovery and talk about the match. I’ll call them when we get back to the hotel. I don’t want to get my mind too much out of the game.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

-/-

She wins her next match. And the next.

She loses in the final.

It stings more than her losses usually do, and there have been a hell of a lot of them, but she wanted to win another premiere event. She’s only been winning small events so far this year and making it to the later stages of the bigger events, but she keeps falling short when it’s time for her to push herself over the limit. Emma knows that her time will come, but she’s exhausted.

-/-

She flies to Rio with the rest of the American team who were playing in Montreal and Toronto, and she sleeps the entire ride down.

It’s the most sleep she’s gotten since she gave birth.

-/-

The 2012 Olympics felt familiar for Emma. The matches happened at Wimbledon, a place she’s known since she was sixteen years old and has watched on TV since she was even younger than that. Tennis players were isolated from the rest of the sports and events, and they all stayed in their usual rented houses and apartments instead of the Village or other hotels. Rio is different and completely unfamiliar. She’s staying in the Village, and while the amenities aren’t the best, the spirit of the Games are everywhere. She’s seeing athletes she’s only ever seen on TV before, meeting dozens of people whose names quickly slip out of her mind no matter how hard she tries to keep them there, and it’s impossible not to get excited to see all of these great athletes gathered together.

When she was a kid sitting in a foster home with David, the two of them wondering if they’d ever have a forever home, they would watch reruns of the Olympics on the TV, just waiting for the live ones to come around. It was an escape to get to watch people only a few years older than them doing these great things, and even after Ruth adopted them and paid for them to play sports, they never could have imagined being here.

Emma, sitting on a park bench outside with prestigious gymnasts walking in front of her, still can’t imagine it, and she’s literally here.

“Am I allowed to sit here or is that considered fraternizing with the enemy?”

Emma glances up and sees Killian Jones already sliding onto the bench in front of her. He’s darker than the last time she saw him in person, his hair longer, teeth possibly whiter, and he definitely hasn’t shaved in a few too many days. But the cocky, almost a little too arrogant, smile is the same, and even if she said no, he would still sit across from her. She knows him well enough to know that now.

“As far as I’m aware, you’re not playing mixed doubles, so I don’t think you count as an enemy.”

“Ah, but, love, Americans and Brits have been enemies since the beginning. That doesn’t change here.”

“Everyone else gets along. You’re just a competitive ass.”

“Indeed I am.” He wiggles his brows and leans forward, smirk stretched across his lips. “So, I was handed a bag full of Olympic-themed condoms when I checked in. Would you like to go try them out?”

“Shut up,” Emma laughs, kicking his leg. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Too many things to count.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest, muscles ever-so-slightly bulging underneath his Team Great Britain t-shirt. She’s wearing a similar one with USA emblazoned in the biggest font she’s ever seen. Not a lot of subtly going on at the moment. “Where’s Ruby? David? Any of the other Americans? Shouldn’t you all be eating or practicing or doing something besides sitting on a bench by the water?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Touché, Swan. Touché. Will and I were on the way to eat, but I saw you and got distracted. I don’t have practice until later. Rob is forcing me to give myself a break so I don’t exhaust myself after Toronto.”

“Well, you do have old bones.”

“Oi, I am thirty-two and at the top of my game. How many people can say that?”

“Anyone who is not an athlete.”

Killian shrugs and tilts his head to the side, rolling his shoulders. He’s right, though. Killian is playing better than he ever has. He’s always been good ever since he was touted to be Great Britain’s next big thing. She watched for years as the British media slagged him off for not having won Wimbledon despite having won the other majors two times around, but six years ago, he won after a five-hour, grueling match and fell onto the ground. The image was everywhere, and now, every time she’s in London or Wimbledon, that image lines the walls. It’s how she felt when she won the US Open. All of the major are special, but winning your home one, if you’re lucky enough to have one, is something else. And now Killian is world number one once more, has won two majors in a row with several premiere events in between, and with his form, she can’t imagine him losing.

But that’s why you lace up the sneakers. You never know what’s going to happen.

She’s been around the game long enough to know that.

Killian too.

Their paths have crossed for years, mostly because they have the same sponsors and do a lot of promotional events together, but the more they both started winning, the more they’d see each other at tournaments and dinners and everything in between. It’s a busy life, and while there’s time to make friends outside of tennis, sometimes it’s easier to find people in the industry.

She’s not entirely sure she would call Killian Jones a friend.

“Have you eaten, love?” he asks.

“Not yet.” On cue, her stomach growls, and he smirks, not that he really stopped.

“Why don’t you come with me? You can sit with us before we take the bus to the courts for training.”

“What happened to fraternizing with the enemy?”

He leans forward and winks. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

Emma laughs but nods and stands with Killian as they walk to the main dining hall. It’s packed, the room echoing with conversation and laughter, and Emma and Killian are stopped several times to take pictures and sign autographs, something she will never get used to, before they sit down with Will, Rob, and several other plays from all around the world. For a minute, it’s like they’re in their usual bubble that they live in for the rest of the year with only tennis players around, but then Emma sees Usain Bolt walk by and she knows they’re not.

This is weird.

This is wonderful.

This is almost everything.

-/-

The Opening Ceremonies are long and sometimes boring, and she hates the outfit she has to wear, but she doesn’t know if she’ll get to do this again in four years so she savors it.

She savors it all, walking side by side with Ruby, Ashley, and Anna, and she takes all of it in before her mind switches to work-mode as she runs through her opponent for her first match. The nerves have been pushed down in favor of the experience, but they’re back and in full-force.

She cannot lose in the first round.

-/-

She doesn’t. -/-

She doesn’t lose her next few matches either.

-/-

Emma’s made it to the quarterfinals in both singles and doubles with Ruby after several days of long matches and struggling to see the ball – whoever thought making a fully green court with green side walls for tennis has obviously never played tennis, and she never wants to play on center court again – and she knows she’s one win away from guaranteeing that she plays in a medal-winning match.

It’s a relief and pressure all at once, something she’ll never grow used to, and as the sun sets and the village begins to get loud, Emma sits on her balcony watching the fountains in the lake light up. Ruby is off with Mulan somewhere Emma would rather not know about and will probably not be back to their room until at least tomorrow morning if the look on Ruby’s face was any indication, so Emma thinks she might get a little time to sit down and breathe for a moment, watching different events on TV. She could go watch them, but she doesn’t think her legs will carry her there.

Until her phone buzzes with a text that she quickly answers, and not three minutes later, there’s a knock at her door.

Emma quickly opens it, pulling him inside, and Killian kicks the door closed behind him as he cups her cheeks and kisses her, long and slow but with enough heat simmering below the surface that Emma knows there could be a promise of more later.

She’s seen him nearly every day for the past week, but she’s missed him.

She’s missed this.

His mouth moves expertly over hers in a rhythm that’s been practiced to perfection, and she feels dizzy with his kiss and holds onto his hair to keep her standing up. The Brazilian summer air wafts through the room, coating it in a thick heat, but Emma doesn’t pay any attention to that as heat curls between her thighs, warming her more than the air ever could. Her legs ache from the match, her arms feel heavy, but Killian makes her forget those things as he lays her down on the bed and kisses every inch of her body, spending time with his dark head of hair buried beneath her thighs until she can no longer speak.

Until she can scarcely breathe as well.

She manages to laugh, though, when he pulls out one of the condoms that has the Olympics logo on it, and she and Killian makes jokes about it as he slides into her, a thick sheath of heat that she never gets used to. It’s slow at first, a gentle rocking that keeps her teetering on the edge, but their bodies are tired and worn, and soon, it’s a race to the finish line.

Emma comes in first, not that it matters.

(But it does feel good to beat him.)

(They’re both competitive asses.)

(Even when they shouldn’t be.)

After, they’re both slick with sweat that doesn’t go away as their bodies press together on the small twin bed. Emma almost wishes she had rented a house outside the village like David and some of the other coaches did, but she doesn’t want to give up the experience. And it’s fine, especially as Killian shifts behind her and lets her settle into him, her hips pressing back into his as his arm wraps around to rest on her stomach, fingers occasionally searching out for her breast.

Emma is exhausted, but this is the best she’s felt in weeks.

(She definitely couldn’t walk to any of the events now, and she did want to see Phelps swim.)

“You played bloody fantastic in your doubles match today.”

“Not my singles?”

“I played at the same time as you. I didn’t get a chance to watch.”

Emma hums and leans further back into him. She’s glad Killian did most of the work because just thinking about how much she’s got to move again tomorrow is making her sore. “I played well there too. Straight sets.”

“Atta girl.” His lips press into her neck, stubble scratching across the skin. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Oh, that’s always dangerous.”

Killian laughs but nudges his knee into her, which really only settles his cock between her ass, but she’s too tired to think of doing anything else. “I’ve been thinking,” he continues, “that I’m going to withdraw from Cincinnati and fly home instead.”

“To London?”

“To Palm Beach. I think it might be nice to have a calm week between tournaments to spend time with my girlfriend.”

“Oh really? You’ll have to tell her your plan. I’m sure she’d like that.”

Killian tickles her stomach, making her squirm, before he lightly pinches her side. “Mhm. I thought we might also like to spend time with our daughter since FaceTime isn’t cutting it for me anymore. I swear she’s grown three feet since I last saw her.”

“Four, I think. She’s basically a full-grown adult now with all that walking and talking she’s doing.”

“Has she said any new words I’m not aware of?”

“Nope. She still can only say the three.”

“Good. I’m glad I didn’t miss anything else.” Killian kisses the side of Emma’s neck again, and she twists around, wrapping her arms around him and pressing their noses together as she stares into blue, blue eyes that aren’t diminished by the darkened room. “I think we should bring her to New York with us. Hopefully at least one of us will be there for three weeks, and that’s just too long to go without her.”

“We’re staying in a hotel in New York. In two separate suites, I might add.”

“But we don’t have to.”

“Killian…”

His hand brushes down her side, warmth permeating from the rough fingertips, before it rests on her hip, thumb moving in soothing circles. “I’ve already called and seen if they could give me the Penthouse. It’s an entire floor with private entrances and a private elevator. Our teams can stay with us or they can stay in the original suites we were designated. I know you bring her with you when you can and that I sneak in visits, but I want to be able to stay with my daughter.”

This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, and if she doesn’t say yes to it, it won’t be the last.

Things between she and Killian are complicated. They’re relationship isn’t, not anymore. At first, she couldn’t stand him, thought he was genuinely this cocky asshole from the way he talked in matches and in off-court interviews, like he was God’s gift to the sport or something. Then they ended up both winning in Australia four years ago, and while doing press together, she saw a different, kinder side to him that she hadn’t previously seen when they worked together in Nike promotions.

Fast forward through a lot of early morning calls, late night rendezvous in their hotel rooms, and a heck of a lot of texts and FaceTime sessions, and somewhere along the way, the impenetrable Emma Swan fell in love with the impossible Killian Jones.

They kept it secret, the both of them knowing how vicious the media is to athletes that date each other, especially since Killian was going through a wrist injury that was somehow his fault according to the pundits and that he was getting hounded pretty hard at the time. They didn’t know if it was going to work, neither of them having stellar relationship records, but they figured eventually they would be okay with the world knowing.

Then came the positive pregnancy test, and Emma’s entire world shifted.

She was at the top of her game, at the top of her world, and as hard as it is for her to admit now, she didn’t want Olivia. She wanted to keep living her life the way it was. That was a possibility but not one she was willing to take, so she stopped playing but kept training as she and Killian figured out how they were going to do this.

They’re never home, rarely together, and they were both way out of their leagues. It would have been easier to tell the world they were together, that Killian was the father, but Olivia’s protection is worth more than their ease.

Now, though, looking at the crease between Killian’s brow and the sadness pooled in his eyes, she wonders if they’re doing the right thing.

“I know. I’m sorry. I – ” Emma’s lips quiver, and she nearly cries. She’s exhausted beyond belief and doesn’t know what to do, so she buries her face in Killian’s neck and wraps her arms around him. “Can we talk about this on the plane ride home?”

Emma says home as if they’re going to the same place after this. They’re not. But maybe she should listen to Killian and take the break she’s been craving.

“Aye, love, if that’s what you want.”

She nods and feels his lips ghost over the crown of her hair. “I want to lay here with you and not think about tennis or make hard decisions.”

“You want to talk about how bloody uncomfortable this bed is?”

Emma laughs. “It really makes you miss those awful ones in Paris.”

“You had to ask for a new one.”

“It was so worth it.”

-/-

They FaceTime Olivia in the morning. Mary Margaret has her in a matching outfit to Emma’s uniform, and Killian scoffs that she’s representing America instead of Great Britain.

Emma thinks it’s the best thing in the world, and it reminds her who she’s playing for.

It’s not for her country, not for herself. It’s for her daughter.

Their daughter.

-/-

The next two days drag by and yet she has a difficult time keeping up with them. Her practices are long, recovery longer as her shoulders are massaged and legs are iced, and Ruby has to drag her out onto the court for doubles when all she wants to do is sleep. She’s not used to playing this many matches in such a short period of time, and while having Ruby on court with her helps lessen how much she runs, her legs are still aching.

She’s almost to the finish line. She can make it.

“Those legs are too pretty for you to be dragging them like that,” Ruby jokes as they sit down during a changeover in the third set of their quarterfinal match. Emma reaches for her energy drink and takes a sip before biting into a banana while Ruby shakes her legs.

“I can’t make them move.”

“Yes, you can,” Ruby insists. “You already won your singles today, and we’re four games away from winning this match. I will kick your ass if we don’t win this.”

“Can you kick my ass if it’s already kicked?”

“I can indeed.” Ruby pats Emma’s knees and smiles. “Come on, hot mama. We’ve got this.”

And it’s tough, but they do.

Emma and Ruby go through recovery, and when Emma checks her watch, she sees that Killian’s match is just about to start.

“Do you want to get a bus across the grounds and go watch swimming?” Ruby asks her as David massages her calf. It’s not his job, so he obviously can’t stop complaining about doing it.

“I think I want to watch Killian’s match. Can we get seats in the stadium? Is his box empty?”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” David asks her as her muscle spasms.

“If we all go, it won’t be suspicious. He’s playing Sam, so they might think we’re supporting the Americans.”

“Aren’t we?”

Her eyes roll. “Not in this situation. Come on. Text Rob and see if we can get into Killian’s box.”

David levels her with a stare, and she knows he’s going to say no, that it’s a bad idea. But then he releases her leg and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

They end up going still dressed in their match clothes, and Emma puts on a sweatshirt, a cap, and sunglasses to hide herself as much as possible. She knows it won’t work considering she’s literally wearing the outfit she has worn all week, but she can at least try. It’s been years since she’s gotten to watch one of Killian’s matches from somewhere other than the locker room or her hotel room, and she’s missed the magic of watching him play. He’s fluid with his motions, even if they are slower than they used to be, and his groundstrokes are powerful from the baseline. She knows from the moment that she sits down that he’s winning this match. She can tell by the way he’s carrying himself and the determination in his eyes. She grabs her phone and snaps a picture just as he looks her way, brow raised in question but a smile on his lips.

-/-

Killian wins his match, and she finds him in the tunnel afterward, his team creating a wall around them, and wraps her arms around him, not caring that they are both disgustingly sweaty or around other people.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“And I you.” The corner of his lips brush against her temple. “You’re amazing, Emma. Bloody amazing.”

“You too, my love.”

-/-

Emma wins the semifinals of both of her matches.

Killian wins his.

They’re both playing in gold medal matches – Emma definitely brags about how she’s playing two while Killian is only playing one – and she wants to vomit.

Holy shit.

-/-

“Say hi to your mommy,” Mary Margaret tells Olivia as Olivia keeps smacking her hand on the screen. “Your mom and dad are there trying to talk to you, Livvie.”

Emma leans her head onto Killian’s shoulder as they both stare into the screen waiting for Olivia to move her hand. She does with some help from Mary Margaret, and then bright green eyes show up. She has Emma’s eyes and dirty blonde hair that’s thick and wavy, but everything else about her screams Killian, especially her smile. Emma has missed that smile.

“Hello, little love.” Killian waves and tries to get her attention, but she couldn’t care less. “Don’t you want to talk to us?”

She makes a noise that isn’t a word, and Mary Margaret sighs. “I’m sorry. She’s been asking about you two, but now that you’re there, she doesn’t care. I tried to tell her what a big deal the two of you were, but she doesn’t care.”

“I’ll have to tell her how incredible her mother is later. She’s going to be the first women to win two singles golds in a row as well as the first mum to do it. And she’s going to have two more medals than me. Showing me up in every category.”

“That’s assuming you win, Jones. I could have three more gold medals than you.”

“I do love a challenge.”

Olivia starts giggling, Emma’s favorite noise on the planet, and she tries to memorize it to keep with her always. She knows Killian does too.

-/-

Emma’s gold medal matches are the day before Killian’s, and she’s jealous he gets a day off to rest. He tells her he’s going to spend the entire time training, sneaking in and out of other events, and watching her matches. She rolls her eyes at his texts because she’s sure he won’t have time to do all of that.

And yet he does.

She sees him in the stands during her doubles match. Ruby points him out when they’re in the middle of discussing serving spots, and Emma laughs at her calling him “lover boy” in a horrible British accent. She always calls him a ridiculous name, and of the few people who know of Emma’s private life, she’s glad Ruby is one of them.

Even if she’s still laughing and double faults on an important point.

It doesn’t matter, though, because within an hour and fifteen minutes, their shortest match of the tournament, she’s on the court’s floor with Ruby sobbing because they won a fucking gold medal.

She gets so little time to savor it, however, because the medal ceremony happens so quickly that she can barely take It all in. She also has press to do, and David has to practically force her into the media room where she and Ruby are hounded with more questions than congratulation as they clutch onto their medals. Ruby handles it like the pro she is while Emma’s nerves start to get the best of her as more people start talking about what she has on the line.

To be the first man or woman to win two gold singles medals in consecutive Olympics.

To win another gold medal for her country.

To be the first mother since Clijsters to win a major tournament.

To win her first big tournament since her comeback.

To have the possibility to win another gold medal in Tokyo in four years if she’s still playing.

It’s a lot, and she knows it. She’s been thinking about all of it every day this week, and her track record of choking in finals lately is pushing at the forefront of her mind.

She doesn’t know if she can do it.

And yet she does.

She laces up her sneakers, pulls her hair back, and takes a deep breath as she blocks everything out of her mind except for her game plan. She knows how the game is played. She’s been playing since she was twelve years old, and even though that’s a late start compared to most people, it’s gotten her here.

Emma walks out of the tunnel as her name is announced over the speakers, and even though all she can hear is the cheer of the crowd, she lets her mind go back to Olivia’s laugh, Killian’s smile, David’s pep talk, Ruby’s ridiculous texts. She thinks of all the things that push her when she wants to stop, and she reminds herself that no matter what happens, she’s done her best.

She could have given up the moment the stick said “pregnant.” She could have packed it all in, but she didn’t. She’s here, and she’s better than any excuse she could come up with not to be.

People have tried to tell her who she is her entire life, but she’s pushed back and said, “no, this is who I am.” Emma still has to do that now, no matter how many times she has proven herself.

The ice bath in Montreal where she wanted to quit seems years away when it was only eight days.

-/-

Emma looks to Ruby then David then Killian as she takes a deep breath on match point. Killian smiles and gives her a subtle nod, and then she raises the ball in the air, ready to toss it.

-/-

Game. Set. Gold freaking medal.

-/-

Afterward, she falls to the ground, her knees aching as they hit the asphalt, and her body can’t stop shaking with her sobs. She doesn’t know what she feels or how she feels or even where she is, and she only gets up from the ground when she hears her family calling for her. She slowly rises from the ground, runs across the court to congratulate her opponent on playing a good match, and then she’s running to the stands and climbing up with David’s help. She embraces him first. She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. he’s been her rock for her entire life, and he keeps her steady. Then it’s her physio and her agent and Ruby. Then, over to the side, is Killian, and their conversation from a few nights ago comes back to her.

She loves him. She’s proud to be with him. They shouldn’t have to hide their family anymore.

They haven’t exactly been doing a good job of it this week anyway.

So Emma very literally pounces on him, her legs wrapping around his waist, before she remembers that he has a match tomorrow. She can’t miss his back up. He’d never let it go if she did. Her feet fall to the ground, but her arms stay wrapped around Killian’s neck as he whispers words of encouragement and congratulations that she’s always going to keep close to her heart, right next to the necklace with the initials O-S-J on them.

Two people thousands of miles apart were brought together by chances, a whole myriad of them. If Ruth hadn’t adopted Emma and David, they never would have picked up a racket. If Emma had never picked up a racket, she wouldn’t have found her purpose in this world. She wouldn’t have a job or a daughter or a man who loves her in spite of how hard she is to love. There was so much that could have derailed her, both good and bad, and while she could say none of it matters, in some way, it all does.

Because it led her here.

And she doesn’t want to be anywhere else even if she would give anything to be able to hug Olivia right now.

“You did so good, Swan,” Killian whispers, his voice the only one she hears.

“I know.”

He pulls back, and there are tears in his eyes that mirror her own. “So, I guess I have to win tomorrow so your bragging rights don’t get too big.”

“Oh, Jones, you are never catching up with me now,” she teases, all of the exhaustion melting away. “I’m miles ahead of you, but you better win. Olivia doesn’t need to be embarrassed by her dad.”

“Pretty sure that’s my job.”

“Right now, your only job is to help me back down onto the court and then go win yourself a gold medal.”

“Don’t tell the presses you’re rooting for a Brit.”

Emma shrugs as Killian thumbs away tears underneath her eyes. “I don’t care anymore, and I’m definitely going to be sitting in your box tomorrow, cheering louder than anyone else.”

-/-

When Killian wins the next night after a torturous four hours, his fall is almost identical to Emma’s. Though, when he climbs into the stands to get to the box, he immediately goes for Emma, cupping her cheeks and kissing her for the entire world to see.

“I guess I’ll have to figure out a way to embarrass our daughter in another way.”

“I think her parents making out on international TV might do just that.”

-/-

Two days after they get home – they spent the entire first day sleeping and holding Olivia – Emma puts on her three gold medals, Killian puts on his one, and they hold Olivia in between them, her toothy smile brighter than the gold as the photo is taken.

Olivia Swan-Jones has a pretty cool mom and a dad who has some catching up to do in the gold medal department.

It’s Emma’s most liked picture on Instagram, not that she cares about any of those things, and it’s the biggest news story for three days straight despite the literal Olympics still happening.

All Emma cares about, though, is that she has a week off – she opted out of Cincinnati after all, despite David’s protests – she can spend with her family before she and Killian are off to New York where the pressure will be the highest it’s ever been and the media will most likely be losing their shit over Emma and Killian’s announcements.

Olivia will be with her, Killian too, and in the end, that’s all that matters.

Oh, that, and the fact that Emma Swan is officially back, and it feels damn good.

-/-

Thanks for reading, my friends! Can’t wait for those 2021 Olympics 🤞and learning about sports I’ve still somehow never heard of. And if you want to talk to me about tennis, I’m fully here to talk about Rafael Nadal’s biceps and how his game is underrated despite being one of the most dominant athletes of all time 💚😂

#walking the baseline #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs olympics #captain swan fanfic #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #captain swan #csow

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trashfor-imagines · 4 years

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How I Met Your Mother Father: Haikyū Edition! | 2

Ft. Oikawa / Iwaizumi / Ushijima / Tendo / Semi

Summary: How you met your husband-o! Warnings: I took creative liberties regarding Ushijima’s story and how the Olympics work. Also I’m sleepy and going back in and editing my mistakes. :)

Part 1: Ft. Kuroo / Bokuto / Akaashi / Yaku Part 3: Ft. Daichi / Sugawara / Asahi / K. Ukai

Oikawa Toru

You and Oikawa met in university. You were studying for a degree in Kinesiology & Sport Science and your goal was to get into Sports Medicine and work for one of the National or Olympic teams.

It was by chance you joined the men’s volleyball team as their manager. You originally gunned for track and field, but a mishap with your train pass at the station made you late for sign ups.

On your first day of practice you arrived early to get a head start on things - ordering uniforms, getting sports drinks ready, gathering clean towels. You were coming back from the laundry room when a ball was headed straight for you. Fear reached your knees decided to lock them in place so your first instinct was to block, holding your palms out, but the sheer force and velocity caused your hands and the ball to be thrown back, still smacking you in the face and quite literally knocking you off your feet.

Lying there, you wanted the gym floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“Are you ok?! I’m so sorry!” Eyes fluttering open, you looked up into brown eyes, wide with worry.

“Well boys, this is your first year team manager. Oikawa! I thought I told you first years to stop showing off! Take responsibility and help her to the nurse’s office. When you come back you’ll be doing flying laps until I say stop,” the coach yelled, blowing a whistle and signaling the start of practice.

He picked you up easily in his arms, some of the boys who were out of earshot of the coach whistling at him. Now that you weren’t lying on the ground and he wasn’t so close in your face, you could really take in his features and god was he handsome. You really did wish the ground had swallowed you whole.

The nurse flashed a light in your eyes. “Well, you’re definitely going to have a bruise.”

“You don’t have to stay with me,” you told told Oikawa as the nurse looked you over for signs of concussion.

“I feel bad; I just want to make sure you’re ok,” he reasoned, giving you his most charming smile.

“If you feel bad, then you can make it up to me later instead of using me to stall facing your punishment.”

“It’s a deal. No take backs, my cute manager,” he sang, quickly escaping before you could rebut.

And that’s how you ended up going on a date with Oikawa Toru and marrying a year after he went pro.

Iwaizumi Hajime

You sighed, resting your chin in your hand as you watched Iwaizumi from across the library. While most girls at school fawned over Oikawa, you were absolutely smitten with his best friend.

Letting your shoulders drop, you turned back to your textbook, tapping your pencil eraser to the tip of your nose as you bit down on your lower lip, clueless that the boy who’d invaded your thoughts had noticed you.

Months later and graduation was today and it was official. You’d spent the whole year pining for a boy you’d never ever spoken to. In a month you’d be starting college and hopefully someone new would catch your eye.

The summer wasn’t exciting. You spent your time packing for Tokyo and wandering around town, hoping to catch even a glimpse of Iwaizumi in passing; no luck.

You were starting classes at UTokyo in a few weeks for two degrees in Creative Writing and Publishing. You wanted to write stories and if you couldn’t do that then you wanted to help people get their stories out there.

First day of classes were incredible. Everything was interesting and you were reignited with a new sense of excitement. You’d almost forgotten about why you were so mopey before.

It was Wednesday and you were on your way off campus to find lunch when you felt your heart skip. There he was just across the courtyard; Iwaizumi.

Was he seriously here too? Gripping your hands tightly around your book bag, you considered your options.

New school.

New city.

New you.

Right?

Breathing steady, you quickly crossed the courtyard. The closer you got the stiffer your body felt and the more your hands shook until you couldn’t walk anymore. Your feet were glued in place and you watched as Iwaizumi walked right past you.

Dammit.

As weeks passed it was like high school all over again. Now that you’d seen him once, he seemed to be popping up everywhere and it was driving you mad. You even saw him at a coffee shop off campus the other day.

You sat in the library, studying for your first exam. Nervously, you bounced your restless leg as you tapped your pencil’s eraser against your forehead, frustrated.

Things were supposed to be different.

You barely registered when someone sat next to you.

“If you aren’t careful, you’ll leave a mark on your face.”

Your face flushed and you dropped your pencil; that’s Iwaizumi’s voice. Almost mechanically, you turned your head and met his gaze.

He sat with his body turned toward you, arm propped up at the elbow with his cheek resting on his fist.

“I wasn’t sure it was you, but now I’m positive,” he said, smiling at you. Smiling at you. You’d only ever dreamed.

“You know... who I am?”

“Well yeah, we went high school for three years together.” His voice was teasing and everything you ever wished for. “I was always busy with school and volleyball, I never gave myself a chance to talk to you.”

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“I might have seen you looking at me a few times.” There it goes. Called out. You were a stuttering mess. There was no way you could play it off now.

Letting you flounder a bit more, he rested his hand on your bouncing knee, sending a jolt of electricity through you, and that expression on his face told you he might have felt it too.

“(Y/N) why don’t we go out and we can catch up for lost time?”

And that was how you and Iwaizumi Hajime became inseparable ever since, marrying a few years after starting your careers after college.

Ushijima Wakatoshi

The Olympics were almost every athlete’s dream.

You were raised to play, eat, breathe, and dream gold.

Gold medals that is.

All your life you’d been on national teams and qualified for the Youth Olympics in Track and Field at 14.

Now, four years later, you were off to the actual Olympics. You were boarding the plane to London for athletes who were heading over early. It was a long flight with a layover in Turkey.

Dressed in leggings, your Team Japan Olympic sweatshirt, and slipping on a pair of comfy house shoes you wore specifically on planes, you snuggled into your window seat, gazing through the small frame of glass.

You snapped out of it when you felt someone sit in the seat beside you. Turning, you felt your jaw slack slightly at the large and fit build seated right next to you.

Okay, full disclosure, you were boy crazy deep inside. Your parents didn’t allow dating and drilled into you that boys were just a distraction from your dreams.

“Go for gold. Boys come later.”

But holy shit. He was looking right at you too. Oh my god, was he talking to you? What was he saying?!

Oh right.

Smiling, you reached up and removed your earbuds. “Sorry, what was that?”

“My seatbelt.”

You felt your mouth run dry. His voice. Was life serious right now?!

“Sorry,” you laughed lightly, reaching under your thigh for the belt strap, handing it to him. You might have handed it to him in a way so that your hands touched on purpose. Maybe you didn’t. All you knew was that you wanted to keep talking to him and you definitely wanted to touch him.

“Thanks,” he spoke simply, buckling in before facing forward.

Okay, you mouthed silently, straightening up in your seat. Tucking a stray hair behind your ear, you turned to him again. “I’m (Y/F/N), Olympic Track and Field.”

He turned to look at you. “Ushijima Wakatoshi. Volleyball.”

A man of few words? “You know, I think I recognize you now.”

“We were featured in the same article in Number last month.” His voice was blunt.

Your eyes widened. “Wow! You remembered what article we were both in?”

He didn’t respond, but by god, he just said more than just three words to you and it was a full sentence. You gave a few more tries at making conversation, but he had no response. With a sigh, you shrunk into your seat and put your earbuds in.

You weren’t sure when you’d fallen asleep, but you were awakened by a jerking and shaking motion. An arm was wrapped tightly around you as the cabin continued to shake and rattle.

A ding sounded and the captain made an announcement: “Sorry passengers, but we’re currently experiencing some turbulence. We’ll be adjusting our flight pattern. Please stay seated with seatbelts fastened.”

The hand on your arm tightened, but you were tucked tightly into his side to where you couldn’t adjust your head to look at Ushijima’s face. Reaching over, you placed one of your hands on top of his and he adjusted to hold your hand tightly, as your other arm stretched across his torso, holding onto him.

Even when the plane moved into less turbulent air space, he continued to hold onto you and eventually you slept again.

He woke you up when you landed in Turkey and asked if you’d spend the layover with him in the airport while some of the other athletes left to explore. Though most of the conversation was one sided with you talking and him listening, there was a connection and when you finally made him laugh, you knew you wanted to always be the reason for his smiles.

When you finally reached London, you spent as much time as possible with one another before the events began; morning runs in the city, sightseeing, eating meals together, taking tons of photos together.

You’d won gold in the 500 meter. The volleyball team won bronze.

When the both of you finally returned home to Japan, the two of you stayed in contact as more than just friends, but he’d never label your relationship out loud.

That’s how you and Ushijima Wakatoshi, medal winning Olympians, ended up together, keeping your relationship on the down low and out of the press for two years and marrying just before the next Olympic Games.

Tendo Satori

As far as you were concerned, Tendo was an insensitive goof.

You had known him since you were babies, your mothers were best friends, and by god he was the most annoying force to ever appear in your life. Your childhood was filled with plenty of hair pulling and teasing.

It was embarrassing when girls started growing breasts and you were still flat as a board. His teasing was unrelenting. And when you finally grew some semblance of breasts? You didn’t even want to get started on that nightmarish period of life.

When high school came around, he was like a second shadow to you, never far. It was irritating, but you tolerated it.

He wasn’t an idiot, managing to also get into Shiratorizawa. He also knew when you were reaching your limit with him and he’d instantly change his behavior, turning into the sweet and gentle boy you first knew.

Hell, you even welcomed his attention at this point. There weren’t any other boys looking your way. As soon as you’d start talking to a guy, the next day they’d avoid you like the plague.

He was your best friend.

You hated him.

You loved him.

Second year didn’t seem to be any different from first year. Valentines Day came around and a boy you’d been crushing on rejected your chocolates. It was absolutely embarrassing.

You studied in the library, keeping yourself mentally preoccupied, while waiting patiently for Tendo to walk you home after school, you only hoped his practice didn’t run late like normal.

You heard girls whispering about your rejection earlier. It was so hard to not just break into tears. You’d been holding them in all day.

After a couple hours, you slammed your book shut, temporarily stopping the whispers while you packed and left, waiting for Tendo outside of the school gates.

“Hey washboard!” came his cheery voice.

Biting your lip, you kept your head down as you walked with him down the street. You hadn’t made it ten steps before stopping, trying to hold in your sobs. Reaching into your bag, you pulled out your thoughtfully wrapped rejected box of sweets and held it out to him.

“Weren’t you going to give these to that Suzukita guy on the swim team? Chicken out?” He turned the box over in his hands.

Balling your hands into fists, you snatched the box back from him. “Look Sato, if you don’t want them then just say so!”

He took a better look at your face, noticing streaks of tears down your face. With a small growl, he snatched them back before tearing into the box, eating a couple of pieces. “I didn’t say I didn’t want them!”

Shoulders trembling, you let yourself cry freely.

Tendo frowned, brows furrowed in worry. Stuffing the chocolates into his bag, he held your hand, pulling you along with him and walking you home silently. No jokes. No teasing. Just the sweet boy who always made you hold his hand when you were toddlers.

Your troubles weren’t over just yet though. White Day came along and you weren’t ready for the horror show of feeling alone again.

The day was uneventful. You hardly spoke to anyone. Even your girl friends avoided you so they didn’t accidentally make you feel bad.

White Day was lonely and it sucked.

Thankfully, the day didn’t drag out and Tendo didn’t have practice, just a quick team meeting, so you waited at the front gates like normal.

“(Y/N)! Ready to go home?” he asked, ruffling your hair.

You shrugged, running your fingers through your hair in an attempt to fix it.

“Hey.” He caught your wrist, gaining your full attention. Holding out his hand, he offered you a small white box with a white ribbon. “Here.”

Carefully, you accepted, removing the ribbon and handing it to him. You opened the box and a small smile made its way onto your face. Marshmallow chocolates. You got them once when you were little from your dad. You shared them with Tendo and hadn’t had them again since.

“Thanks, Satori,” you whispered, unable to meet his eyes.

He reached forward and grabbed a lock of your hair, clumsily braiding it before tying the end with the white ribbon from the box.

Reaching down, he took your hand, walking you home. As the two of you walked, the hand holding yours began to fidget. Glancing over you watched as he slipped a white beaded bracelet from his wrist onto yours.

Stopping, you let go of his hand to look at it. Peeking up at him, you caught the faint blush on his cheeks before looking at the hand made kid’s bracelet carefully.

SATORI <3 (Y/N)

“Sato...”

“It’s true. I... I love you, (Y/N).”

And that’s how you and Tendo Satori ended up attached to each other for life, getting engaged after high school and marrying after college.

Semi Eita

“What can I get you?”

Those were the first words you ever spoke to him. He was dressed casually and brooding at the bar you worked.

At night, you worked at one of the many tiny bars in Shinjuku’s Golden Gai, a huge tourist trap, and during the day you were a student at Bunka Fashion College.

He wasn’t much of a talker and wore an unmovable scowl, but he bought drinks all night and didn’t bother you unlike the other customers.

You were surprised when he showed up again the next night, and the night after that, and again after that.

When he stepped into your tiny bar for the sixth day in a row, on a Monday night, it was almost automatic the way you moved, pouring him a whiskey before setting the glass and bottle down in front of him.

It was pretty quiet tonight. And late. There wasn’t a ton of activity. In fact, your only other customer left within the next thirty minutes, leaving you and Mr. Serious alone.

“Let me know if you want something different for a change,” you said, laying out some books on the counter before hopping over the bar and taking a seat at one of the eight stools - the only seating in the whole place.

“What are you reading?” His voice surprised you. Honestly, you almost forgot he was there.

“Ah, it’s for one of my classes. History of sewing, basically. Kind of boring, but they say I have to learn it,” you shrugged, laughing a little.

“Where do you go?”

You smiled at him in a teasing matter, holding a finger up to your lips. “Can you keep a secret?”

He quirked a brow. “Promise.”

“Hmm... I guess I can trust you,” you teased, “I go to Bunka. Students aren’t supposed to have jobs so my life’s in your hands, okay?”

He scoffed, masking a laugh that almost escaped him. “Sure.”

From that night forward this was a common theme. He’d stay late and when it was just the two of you left, you’d have deep conversations and talk about anything and everything either of you could think of.

You learned quite a bit about him.

He was a musician in a band and a civil servant.

He was stressed about some projects he was working on, which was why he started coming to the bar.

He liked “your calm energy” and how you didn’t bother him; that’s why he kept coming back.

He played volleyball in school and was a setter.

His favorite food was tekka maki.

He was a Scorpio.

His friend used to tease him a lot in high school about how he looked in clothes so now he tried to be more conscious of how he dressed.

Soon your relationship evolved from just bartender-patron. He was inviting you to his concerts and asking to see you during your time between school and work.

You recalled him mentioning wanting to find a new casual jacket that didn’t make him look weird, so you spent a few days in your design class making him a jean jacket you thought would flatter him.

He met you outside of the school building one evening - the two of you had plans to go to a night market for dinner and try the different stalls. It was supposed to be chilly so it was the perfect time for you to give it to him.

“Semi! Here, this is for you,” you said, holding out a simple gift bag to him. You literally finished today, applying some patches and last minute details. “Go ahead and open it.”

“(Y/N)... This is exactly what I was looking for.” His normally grumpy expression was softer as he held it up, examining it. He noted there wasn’t a tag and he was pretty sure there was the tiniest bit of blood on the collar. “Did you really make this for me?”

You stuttered, “I-I know y-you were having a hard time finding something you liked so I thought you deserved something you wanted.”

“I... deserve what I want?” he repeated, looking you in the eye.

A blush flared across your cheeks. “Well... Yeah.”

He paused, taking in your face and how different you looked when you were flustered. “I want to date you, exclusively.”

And that’s how you became the musician Semi Eita’s girlfriend, marrying a year later.

#oikawa toru #oikawa x reader #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima x reader #tendo satori #tendo x reader #semi eita #semi x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#haikyu #volleyboys #how i met your father #fanfic #reader insert #aoba johsai #shiratorizawa

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africanamericanpeople · 3 years

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29 notable African Americans who helped change the world

From activists to entertainers to record-breaking athletes to a postal worker, 6abc shines a spotlight on the contributions of 29 influential African Americans in Philadelphia and beyond as we celebrate Black History Month.

Sadie Tanner Mossell Alexander | Writer | 1898-1989

A native Philadelphian, Alexander was the first black woman to receive a Ph.D. in economics in the United States, the first black woman student to graduate with a law degree from Penn Law School, and the first African-American woman to practice law in Pennsylvania. Alexander's work and views are recorded in speeches kept in the Penn archives. The Sadie Tanner Mossell Alexander University of Pennsylvania Partnership School ("Penn Alexander") in West Philly is named after her.

Richard Allen | Minister | 1760-1831

A minister, educator and writer, this Philadelphia native founded the African Methodist Episcopal Church, the first independent black denomination in the United States. He opened the first AME church in Philly in 1794. Born into slavery, he bought his freedom in the 1780s and joined St. George's Church. Because of seating restrictions placed on blacks to be confined to the gallery, he left to form his own church. In 1787 he turned an old blacksmith shop into the first church for blacks in the United States.

Maya Angelou received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from former President Barack Obama in 2010.

Maya Angelou | Poet | 1928-2014

Angelou was an American poet, singer, memoirist, and civil rights activist with a colorful and troubling past highlighted in her most famous autobiography, "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings". She published seven autobiographies, three books of essays, several books of poetry, and is credited with a list of plays, movies and television shows spanning over 50 years. Her works have been considered a defense and celebration of black culture.

Arthur Ashe | Tennis Player | 1943-1993

Ashe's resume includes three Grand Slam titles and the title of the first black player selected to the United States Davis Cup team and the only black man ever to win the singles title at Wimbledon, the US Open, and the Australian Open. In July 1979, Ashe suffered a heart attack while holding a tennis clinic in New York. His high profile drew attention to his condition, specifically to the hereditary aspect of heart disease. In 1992, Ashe was diagnosed with HIV; he and his doctors believed he contracted the virus from blood transfusions he received during his second heart surgery. After Ashe went public with his illness, he founded the Arthur Ashe Foundation for the Defeat of AIDS, working to raise awareness about the disease and advocated teaching safe sex education. On June 20, 1993, Ashe was posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Bill Clinton.

James Baldwin | American novelist | 1924-1987

Baldwin was an American novelist, playwright and activist, most notably known for "Notes of a Native Son", "The Fire Next Time" and "The Devil Find's Work". One of his novels, If Beale Street Could Talk, was adapted into an Academy Award-winning dramatic film in 2018.

"It is certain, in any case, that ignorance, allied with power, is the most ferocious enemy justice can have."

U.S. Deputy Marshals escort Ruby Bridges from William Frantz Elementary School in New Orleans, La.

Ruby Bridges | Civil Rights Activist | 1954-present

At age 6, Bridges embarked on a historic walk to school as the first African American student to integrate the all-white William Frantz Elementary School in Louisiana. She ate lunch alone and sometimes played with her teacher at recess, but she never missed a day of school that year. In 1999, she established The Ruby Bridges Foundation to promote tolerance and create change through education. In 2000, she was made an honorary deputy marshal in a ceremony in Washington, DC.

Kobe Bryant | NBA star, humanitarian| 1978-2020

Drafted right out of Lower Merion High School at the age of 17, Bryant won five titles as one of the marquee players in the Los Angeles Lakers franchise. He was a member of the gold medal-winning U.S. men's basketball teams at the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games and the 2012 London Olympic Games. In 2015 Bryant wrote the poem "Dear Basketball," which served as the basis for a short film of the same name he narrated. The work won an Academy Award for best animated short film. A vocal advocate for the homeless Bryant and his wife, Vanessa started the Kobe and Vanessa Bryant Family Foundation aimed to reduce the number of homeless in Los Angeles. Bryant, his daughter Gigi, and seven other passengers died in a helicopter crash in late January.

Kobe Bryant inspired a generation of basketball players worldwide with sublime skills and an unquenchable competitive fire.

Octavius V. Catto | Civil Rights Activist | 1839-1871

Known as one of the most influential civil rights' activists in Philadelphia during the 19th century, Catto fought for the abolition of slavery and the implementation of civil rights for all. He was prominent in the actions that successfully desegregated Philadelphia's public trolleys and played a major role in the ratification of the 15th amendment, baring voter discrimination on the basis of race. Catto was only 32 when he was shot and killed outside of his home on South Street in1871, the first Election Day that African Americans were allowed to vote. In 2017, a monument to Catto was unveiled at Philadelphia's City Hall.

Philly unveils first statue dedicated to African-American. Vernon Odom reports during Action News at Noon on September 26, 2017.

Bessie Coleman | Civil Aviator | 1892-1926

Coleman was the first black woman to fly an airplane. When American flying schools denied her entrance due to her race, she taught herself French and moved to France, earning her license from Caudron Brother's School in just seven months. She specialized in stunt flying and performing aerial tricks. Reading stories of World War I pilots sparked her interest in aviation.

Claudette Colvin | Civil Rights Pioneer | 1939-present

Colvin was arrested at the age of 15 for refusing to give up her seat to a white woman, nine months before Rosa Parks' more famous protest. Because of her age, the NAACP chose not to use her case to challenge segregation laws. Despite a number of personal challenges, Colvin became one of the four plaintiffs in the Browder v. Gayle case. The decision in the 1956 case ruled that Montgomery's segregated bus system was unconstitutional.

Medgar Evers | Civil Rights Activist | 1925-1963

Evers was an American civil rights activist in Mississippi, the state's field secretary for the NAACP, and a World War II veteran serving in the United States Army. After graduating from college with a BA in business administration, he worked to overturn segregation at the University of Mississippi after Brown v. Board ruled public school segregation was unconstitutional. Evers was assassinated by a white supremacist in 1963, inspiring numerous civil rights protests which sprouted countless works of art, music and film. Because of his veteran status, he was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery.

Mary Fields | Mail carrier |1832-1914

Known as "Stagecoach Mary", Fields was the first African-American to work for the U.S. postal service. Born a slave, she was freed when slavery was outlawed in 1865. At age 63, Fields was hired as a mail carrier because she was the fastest applicant to hitch a team of six horses. She never missed a day, and her reliability earned her the nickname "Stagecoach". If the snow was too deep for her horses, Fields delivered the mail on snowshoes, carrying the sacks on her shoulders.

Rudolph Fisher | Physician | 1897-1934

Fisher was an African-American physician, radiologist, novelist, short story writer, dramatist, musician, and orator. In addition to publishing scientific articles, he had a love of music. He played piano, wrote musical scores and toured with Paul Robeson, playing jazz. He wrote multiple short stories, two novels and contributed his articles to the NAACP all before his death at the age of 37.

James Forten | Abolitionist |1766-1842

Forten was an African-American abolitionist and wealthy businessman in Philadelphia. Born free in the city, he became a sailmaker after the American Revolutionary War. Following an apprenticeship, he became the foreman and bought the sail loft when his boss retired. Based on equipment he developed, he established a highly profitable business on the busy waterfront of the Delaware River, in what's now Penn's Landing. Having become well established, in his 40s Forten devoted both time and money to working for the national abolition of slavery and gaining civil rights for blacks. By the 1830s, his was one of the most powerful African-American voices in the city.

Robert Guillaume claimed the 1979 Emmy for Best Supporting Actor for his role in "Soap".

Robert Guillaume | Actor | 1927-2017

Robert was raised by his grandmother in the segregated south but moved to New York to escape racial injustice. There, he performed in theatre for 19 years, gaining momentum and a Tony nomination for his portrayal of Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls. In 1976, he landed his infamous role as Benson on Soap which won him an Emmy and his spin-off, Benson for which he won another Emmy. He returned to the stage in 1990, playing the role of the Phantom in Phantom of the Opera at the infamous Ahmanson Theatre. He voiced one of Disney's most beloved animated characters, Rafiki, and can still be heard as the narrator for the animated series, Happily Ever After: Fairy Tales For Every Child.

Francis Harper | poet | 1825-1911 (died in Philadelphia)

Born free in Baltimore, Harper was an abolitionist, suffragist, poet, teacher, public speaker, and writer. She helped slaves make their way along the Underground Railroad to Canada. In 1894, she co-founded the National Associated of Colored Women, an organization dedicated to highlighting extraordinary efforts and progress made by black women. She served as vice president.

Langston Hughes was instrumental figure in the Harlem Renaissance and jazz poetry.

Langston Hughes | Poet | 1902-1967

Hughes was an American poet, social activist, novelist, playwright, and columnist. Born in Missouri, he moved to New York at an early age becoming one of the earliest innovators of a new art form, jazz poetry. In the early 1920's, his first book of poetry was published and he wrote an in-depth weekly column for The Chicago Defender, highlighting the civil rights movement. His ashes are interred beneath a floor medallion in the middle of the foyer in the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in Harlem, the entrance to an auditorium named for him.

Zora Neale Hurston | American author | 1891-1960

Hurston became an American author, anthropologist, and filmmaker but as a child she was unable to attend school after her father stopped paying her school fees. In 1917 she opted to attend a public school but had to lie about her age in order to qualify for a free education. She studied hoodoo, the American version of voodoo, and found her way to Hollywood by working as a story consultant. One of her most notable works, Their Eyes Were Watching God was turned into a film in 2005.

Nipsey Hussle | Rapper, entrepreneur | 1985-2019

Born Ermias Joseph Asghedom, Hussle, was an American activist, entrepreneur, and Grammy Award winning rapper. Raised in South Central, he joined gangs to survive before eventually attaining success in the music industry. Hussle focused on "giving solutions and inspiration" to young black men like him, denouncing gun violence through his music, influence and community work, while speaking openly about his experiences with gang culture. Hussle was shot and killed a day before he was to meet with LAPD officials to address gang violence in South Los Angeles.

If you stop and look around near the intersection of Grand and Ellita Avenues, a brightly-colored mural of Grammy-nominated rapper Nipsey Hussle is sure to catch your eye.

Harriet Jacobs | Writer | 1813-1897

Born a slave, her mother died when she was 6. She moved in with her late mother's slave owner who taught her to sew and read. In 1842 she got a chance to escape to Philadelphia, aided by activists of the Philadelphia Vigilance Committee. She took it and worked as a nanny in New York. Her former owners hunted for her until her freedom was finally bought in 1852. She secretly began to write an autobiography which was published in the U.S. in 1860 and England in 1861. She lived the rest of her life as an abolitionist, dedicated to helping escaped slaves and eventually freedmen.

Cecil B. Moore | Lawyer |1915-1979

Moore was a Philadelphia lawyer and civil rights activist who led the fight to and successfully integrate Girard College. He served as a marine in WWII and after his honorary discharge, he moved to Philadelphia to study law at Temple University. He quickly earned a reputation as a no-nonsense lawyer who fought on behalf of his mostly poor, African-American clients concentrated in North Philadelphia. From 1963 to 1967, he served as president of the Philadelphia chapter of the NAACP and served on the Philadelphia City Council. Moore is cited as a pivotal figure in the fields of social justice and race relations. He has an entire neighborhood named after him in the North Philadelphia area.

Bayard Rustin | Civil Rights Activist | 1912-1987 (Born in West Chester, PA)

Bayard Rustin was an American leader in social movements for civil rights, socialism, nonviolence, and gay rights. He was a key adviser to Martin Luther King Jr. in the 1960s and was posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2013. Rustin has local ties as he was born in West Chester and attended Cheney University of Pennsylvania, a historically black college. A gay man, he adopted his partner to protect their rights and legacy.

Nina Simone | Musician | 1933-2003

Born Eunice Waymon in Troy North Carolina, Simone was an American singer, songwriter, musician, arranger, and civil rights activist. Her music crossed all genres from classical, jazz, blues and folk to R&B, gospel, and pop. She learned to play the piano as a toddler and played in church where her father was a preacher. She would cross tracks to the white side of town to study classical piano with a German teacher and was later accepted into The Juilliard School. She went on to record more than 40 albums and in 2003 just days before her death, the Curtis Institute awarded her an honorary degree.

Big Mama Thornton | Singer | 1926-1984

Thornton is best known for her gutsy 1952 R&B recording of "Hound Dog," later covered by Elvis Presley, and her original song "Ball and Chain," made famous by Janis Joplin. Affectionately called "Big Mama" for both her size and her powerful voice, she grew up singing in church and eventually caught the ear of an Atlanta music promoter while cleaning and subbing for the regular singer at a saloon. An openly gay woman, she joined the Hot Harlem Revue and danced and sang her way through the southeastern United States. She played at the Cotton Club and the Apollo Theatre and continued performing sporadically into the late 70's.

Sojourner Truth | Abolitionist |1797-1883

Truth was born into slavery but escaped with her infant daughter to freedom in 1826. She then sued and won the return of her 5-year-old son who was illegally sold into slavery. In 1851, Truth began a lecture tour that included a women's rights conference where she delivered her famous "Ain't I a Woman?" speech, challenging prevailing notions of racial and gender inferiority and inequality. She collected thousands of signatures petitioning to provide former slaves with land.

Denmark Vesey | Carpenter | 1767-1822

Vesey was born a slave but won a lottery which allowed him to purchase his freedom. Unable to buy his wife and children their freedom, he became active in the church. In 1816, he became one of the founders of an independent African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church and recruited more 1,800 members to become the second largest "Bethel Circuit" church in the country after Mother Bethel in Philadelphia. In 1822, Vesey was alleged to be the leader of a planned slave revolt. He and five others were rapidly found guilty and executed.

Muddy Waters | Singer | 1913-1983

An American blues singer-songwriter and musician who is often lauded as the "father of modern Chicago blues", Waters grew up on a plantation in Mississippi and by the age of 17 was playing the guitar and the harmonica. In 1941, he moved to Chicago to become a fulltime musician, working in a factory by day and performing at night. In 1958, he toured in England, reviving the interest of Blues and introducing the sound of the electric slide guitar playing there. His performance at the Newport Jazz Festival in 1960 was recorded and released as his first live album, At Newport 1960. In 1972, he won his first Grammy Award for "They Call Me Muddy Waters", and another in 1975 for "The Muddy Waters Woodstock Album".

Phillis Wheatley| Poet |1753-1784

Born in West Africa and sold into slavery, she learned to read and write by the age of 9 and became the first African American woman to publish a book of poetry. In addition to having to prove she had indeed written the poetry, no one in America would publish her work. She was forced to go to England where the pieces were published in London in 1773. Years later, she sent one of her poems to George Washington who requested and received a meeting with her at his headquarters in Cambridge in 1776.

Serena Williams is arguably the greatest women's tennis player of all time, with 73 singles titles and an overall record of 831-142.

Serena Jameka Williams |Tennis Player |1981-present

Williams emerged straight outta the streets of Compton to become the world's No. 1 player. She has won 23 major singles titles, the most by any man or woman in the Open Era. The Women's Tennis Association ranked her world No. 1 in singles on eight separate occasions between 2002 and 2017. She has competed at three Olympics and won four gold medals.

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gtccollectionstories · 3 years

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Olympic Connections!

With the Olympics from Tokyo dominating the news at present, it may be a surprise to learn that there was an Olympian in the Kay-Shuttleworth family – he was Charles Symonds Leaf (1895-1947), the only son of Walter and Charlotte Leaf.

This photograph was taken at the front door of Barbon Manor on 22nd August 1917, when Catherine Kay Shuttleworth (Rachel’s youngest sister) was married to Charles Leaf. All three daughters were married at St Bartholomew’s, in Barbon.

L-R (back) Eustace Hills; Lady Blanche; Sir Ughtred; Charlotte Leaf (face hidden); Walter Leaf; Ughtred James; unknown man; Nina James

L-R (front) Elizabeth & Catherine Hills (Eustace’s daughters from his first marriage); Coleridge Hills; Catherine and Charles; Janet James; Kitty Leaf; Peggy Fort; Angela James; Col B R James, Rachel KS

(Photograph courtesy of the Newbery family.)

The Burnley Express reported on 25th August, 1917:-

“Owing to the death of both of Lord Shuttleworth’s sons in the service of their country within the past six months, the marriage was a quiet one…. The bride, who was given away by her father, wore a gold and white brocade mediaeval dress and pearl girdle, and a beautiful Brussels lace veil lent by her mother. Her jewels were a watch given by the bridegroom, and pearl and diamond ornaments given by her mother. She had no bridesmaids, but was attended by her sister the Hon. Rachel Kay-Shuttleworth, who was dressed in pale mauve satin and silver, with a large grey velvet hat. Lady Shuttleworth was handsomely dressed in purple, and the bride’s sisters, the Hon. Mrs. James and the Hon. Mrs. Hills wore grey. The Girl Guides from the Lunesdale district, for which the bride had been Commissioner, formed a guard of honour outside the church. The best man was Cadet Ughtred H. R. James (cousin of the bride)”

Another family photograph of the day (below) shows Nina Hills (the second Kay-Shuttleworth sister) with her camera. She was a very keen photographer, and as she does not appear on the first one, it is probably safe to assume that Nina was behind the camera! On her left, Kitty Leaf (Charles Leaf’s sister) and Nina James and Ughtred James (Angela’s oldest children) also have their Box Brownies at the ready to record the event.

L-R: Kitty Leaf; Nina James; Ughtred James; Nina Hills; Coleridge Hills; Catherine Hills

(Photograph courtesy of the Newbery family.)

1917 had been a tragic year for the Shuttleworth family, with the deaths of both sons. Lawrence, the eldest and the heir, was killed in action on Vimy Ridge on 30th March and Edward (Ted) died in a motorcycle accident on July 1st , when returning to camp after visiting his wife and newborn son. This double bereavement obviously had a major impact on all the family, including Catherine, who must have decided (like many wartime brides) that a short engagement was best. She recorded in her Year Book, just twelve days after Ted’s death:-

July 13th I am engaged to be married to Charles Symonds Leaf at Heatherside house near Camberley. He comes with me to Ted’s funeral at Barbon.

July 20th Shop London. Meet C.S.L. Barbon 26th

Aug 22nd We are married in the Barbon church & have 3 days honeymoon in the Lakes before he is recalled to Clipstone Camp.

However, Charles was not a complete stranger - his mother, Charlotte (née Symonds) was the daughter of John Addington Symonds and Catherine North, who was the half sister of Catherine’s paternal grandmother, Janet Kay Shuttleworth, the heiress to Gawthorpe. Charlotte Leaf and Sir Ughtred considered themselves to be cousins.

Unlike Catherine’s brothers, Charles did survive WW1, but not unscathed.

He was a Lieutenant in the Buffs and served in Mesopotamia in 1916, where he became very ill with dysentery and malaria. Whilst he was at home on convalescent leave, he visited the Kay- Shuttleworths at Barbon with his mother, and obviously made an impression on Catherine, as the visit is duly recorded in her Year Book and they became engaged the following summer.

In 1917, Charles left his regiment and joined the Machine Gun Corps. According to his father, he was in the trenches at Passchendale. Then in March 1918, Catherine recorded that he was in hospital in Manchester with shell shock, and again in June for “electric treatment”. His father wrote in a letter dated 6 October, 1918: “My son is practically out of the War; he is still in hospital, but has been offered a course of forestry – 6 months at Cambridge, and another 6 months practical work. It will, I believe, be the best remedy for his shattered nerves”

Charles also started sailing, as part of his recovery, at first on the Norfolk Broads in 1919. The first boat he owned in 1922, was called “Kitten”, which surely must have been because Catherine was known as “Kitty” within the family? Another of his later boats was also called “Catherine”. Catherine’s Year Book in the 1920s and 30s is full of regattas and sailing trips, and Charles became a very skilled and experienced sailor.

Then in 1936, he represented Britain in the Olympic Games, and won the gold medal in his boat “Lalage” in the 6 metre class at Kiel.

References:

Catherine Kay-Shuttleworth’s Year Book (courtesy of V Harkin)

“Walter Leaf (1852-1927): Some Chapters of Autobiography.” With a Memoir by Charlotte M Leaf; John Murray, 1932.

Jane H

#shuttleworth #olympics #gawthorpe hall

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virtchandmoir · 4 years

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Tessa Virtue: "A magnificent new chapter"

On Saturday, Tessa Virtue was in Vancouver with dozens of athletes to celebrate the 10 th anniversary of the Olympic Games. The lighting of the cauldron reminded her of the time when 14,000 people accompanied her to sing O Canada after the presentation of her gold medal. She was 20 years old, her partner Scott Moir, 22.

February 26, 2020

PHOTO FRANÇOIS ROY, LA PRESSE

"We were so naive and so innocent," remembered the figure skater on Wednesday. She was in Montreal to host a chat organized by the Canadian Olympic Committee and Classroom Champions.

“This taste for success really whet our appetite. We spent the next eight years chasing that feeling we had in Vancouver. We finally experienced it again at PyeongChang. "

Double gold medalist in South Korea, in dance and in team, Tessa Virtue experienced a "crash" in the aftermath of her third Olympics in 2018. Nothing exceptional, but she struggled to reconcile her own emotions and triumphant welcome received in the country.

“After the Games, I struggled. I was navigating through this difficult period knowing the expectations of others, who had their idea of how I should feel and act! Suddenly, we were thrown a little more in the spotlight. At least in Canada. We had won, it was a fairy tale. But we had trouble reconciling all of this. I felt that we were caught between the tree and the bark. It takes time."

PHOTO CHARLIE RIEDEL, CANADIAN PRESS ARCHIVE

At the same time, overnight, she had lost her "safety net". The one woven by the fifteen coaches and specialists who surrounded her and guided her towards the sole goal of winning the gold medal.

“It was hard because for a long time, all my decisions were filtered by this single prism: will it help me become an Olympic champion? Now I wear several hats and try new things. I divide my time and my energy between 100 different projects without having this gratification to invest each of the plots of my person on a thing. "

This return to Montreal caused another nip. For the last two years of her career, she lived in the metropolis for training.

“Part of the post-Olympic transition was that I was bored of this city. I felt at home there. This is where we grew the most as athletes and probably as people. We were so lucky. We lived in Little Burgundy, we trained in Saint-Henri [at the Gadbois center]. […] I feel grounded and inspired here in Montreal. Having been able to come back to train in Canada and experience Quebec culture is what made our return so special. "

After PyeongChang, Virtue and Moir took part in shows around the world. They could have monetized their fame for years, even decades. But it was clear from the start that they would stop after two years. Last fall, they organized a farewell tour that took them from one end of Canada to the other, including stops in Laval and Quebec. “We checked all of the skating boxes, at least the ones we deemed essential. "

From the age of eight to 30, with the exception of a break after the Olympics in Sochi, Virtue skated alongside Moir. He whispered to her "I'm with you" before the start of each routine. This professional separation forces reflection, but also arouses "recognition" on the part of the skater.

PHOTO BERNARD BRAULT, PRESS ARCHIVE

"It's different now, but I have to say that when it came to our projects outside the ice, our preferences and passions were so different that it was only natural to pursue our avenues on our own. We both support each other incredibly. It is really the moment to follow each other and to see each other bloom on the sidelines. It's a wonderful new chapter. "

The retiree is not bored. On average, she calculates spending only one day a month in her home in London, her hometown. “I always kept a foot in school [Editor's note: she plans to do an MBA] and I am quite lucky in my partnerships with brands, conferences and engagements with the media. I have several exciting collaborations coming up in the coming months. I also have the chance to lend my support to charities that allow me to use my platform to give back. "

The one who has probably been the most famous Olympic athlete in the country for the past decade is still popular. In 2018, ESPN included it in its list of the 25 most famous female athletes in the world, based on interest on Google, the value of advertising contracts and attractiveness on social networks. Virtue has 380,000 subscribers to her Instagram page where she sometimes poses with a tube of toothpaste from a well-known brand and in the clothes of her sponsors.

She misses the competition, but not the shows. On occasion, she puts on skates to give advice to two British couples of Canadian origin who train in Montreal.

Virtue will also be on site at the World Championships held at the Bell Center from March 16 to 22.

“I can't wait to cheer for the next generation. There is so much depth and talent. I can't wait to see the changing of the guard. The crowd will be electric, no doubt about it. Part of me will want to be on the ice - what an experience for a Canadian - but I will be very happy to sit down and realize that it is time to pass the torch."

Tessa Virtue in brief

• Hometown: London (Ontario) • Age: 30 years • 1m65 50 kg • Specialty: ice dancing • Partner: Scott Moir • 3 Olympic Games: 3 gold medals, 2 silver (most decorated skater of the 'history) • World Championships: 3 gold, 3 silver, 1 bronze • 8 national titles • 1 world junior title*

—La Presse

*Google translation

#tessa #off ice #ambassadorship #team canada champion chats #interview: la presse #i miss competitions too

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years

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Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 5: Paradise City]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language, some sexual content (not smutty).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @xox-talia-xox @killer-queen-xo @caborhapch @kimmietea @asquiresofftime @hardzzellos @sleepretreat @ramibaby @jonesyaddiction @ixchel-9275 @omgitsearly @lovepizza-cake11 @deacy-dearest @shishterfackisback @mrbenhardys @deaky-with-a-c If I forgot anyone, please yell at me :)

The blue chalk moves swiftly with shrill little squeaks over the board. You’re dressed in a floral red dress, leggings, sensible sable flats, and fuzzy woolly mammoth earrings. The kids love to see what sort of eccentric accessories you wear each day; there’s even a space on the board reserved for it. Today’s flair is: woolly mammoth earrings! (Please don’t touch unless you ask first!!)

“Okay my lovely children, let’s practice using each of this week’s spelling words in a sentence. Who can remind me what the first word on our spelling list is?”

“Oh! Oh!” Brendyn—who you mentally mix up with Brayden or Kayden at least twice a day—leans out of his chair and waves his arm hysterically. Dear god, please send a plague to wipe the unnecessary Y baby name trend off the face of the planet. “I can!”

“Go ahead, Brendyn.”

“Throw,” he announces proudly, as if he’s just won the Olympic medal for elementary-school writing.

“Awesome job! That’s right!” You transcribe it on the board: 1. Throw. “And who thinks they can come up with a sentence using the word throw?”

Eli, as he’s doodling all over his worksheet, says: “If you don’t like someone, you can throw them out of a window.”

You swallow noisily as you collect your thoughts. The other students are alternately giggling cautiously or gasping, scandalized. “Now, Eli...”

“Yes, Miss Teacher?” he prompts.

“It’s nice to raise our hands and wait to be called on when we have something to share.”

“Oops.” He raises his hand.

You sigh heavily. “Could you come up with a different sentence, please? One that is more school-appropriate? Remember we had a whole talk last week about school-appropriate topics. Right class?”

“Yes, Miss Y/L/N!” they agree in unison. That conversation hadn’t, perhaps shockingly, been inspired by Eli. A chatty, beach-blond, future surfer bro named Dexter had discovered his father, a prominent cinematographer, in a compromising position with the nanny—in the jacuzzi tub, no less—and felt the need to divulge that during Story Sharing Time. Worst parent phone call ever.

“Give it another try, Eli,” you say encouragingly.

“Taking spelling tests makes me want to throw up.”

You drop your face into your hands as the class howls in laughter. “Okay, very funny, but I still think we can come up with something more appropriate. Does anyone else have an idea?”

Maisy raises her hand timidly. Oh, hallelujah.

“Yes, Maisy!”

“Always remember to throw away your trash.”

“Wonderful!” You write the sentence on the board. “No littering. I like it. Save the sea turtles. Maisy, as a reward, you may give Creampuff one pumpkin seed.”

“Yay!” Maisy leaps out of her seat and sprints to Creampuff’s cage behind your desk. It’s your third year teaching with Creampuff, and the poor hamster is decisively in geriatric territory; she’s morbidly obese and her eyes are bluish with cataracts. But the children adore her, and Creampuff has always been wonderfully sweet and never bites. You just hope that when the time comes, she has the decency to kick the bucket over a long weekend so you can dispose of the body in secret and whip up a cheery story to tell the kids about how Creampuff went to live in an organic vegan farm or a hamster sanctuary or a retirement community in sunny Tampa Bay, Florida.

“Okay friends,” you announce. “Go ahead and practice coming up with sentences on your worksheet. Then we’ll chat in five or ten minutes and see what we’ve got. Ready, set, go!”

As students’ heads bow and pencils begin scratching against paper, you circle the room peeking over shoulders and making suggestions here and there. When you reach Eli’s desk, you crouch down so your gaze is level with his.

“Hey, Eli.”

“Hi,” he replies mistrustfully, his blue eyes narrow under dark curls.

“I just wanted to let you know that I thought your sentence ideas were very funny and very, very clever. But they just weren’t the best choices to use in class. Do you understand why?”

“Yeah,” he says, smirking a little. Of course you do, you’re the smartest kid in here.

“And I really appreciated you raising your hand to speak once you were reminded.”

“Thanks.” He’s actually bashful now, his high olive-skinned cheeks flushing.

“Are you still going to help me clap the erasers after class today?”

His eyes light up like wildfire. “Can I?”

The trap’s been sprung. Clapping erasers is like cocaine for first graders. “You betcha. If the rest of our spelling lesson goes smoothly.”

“Okay!” He immediately picks up his pencil and begins jotting down sentences. The handwriting is definitely a work in progress, but Eli’s spelling and grammar are immaculate. You can’t help but smile to yourself as you walk away; you’re feeling triumphant, of course, but there’s something else as well.

I’m proud of you, demon kid.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ben is standing on your doorstep, dressed in black, a potted calla lily in his hands. And at first he’s got that unnerving veneer, he’s serious and intimidating and smoldering; but then you find his eyes and his smile breaks open like cracked glass.

“Hi,” he says meekly.

“Hi.” You point to the calla lily. It’s a vivid green, like his eyes, like the serrated continents of the Earth from space. “Is that for me?”

“Yes, actually. It’s a gift, but it’s kind of a joke too.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s fake.” He grins. “So you can’t kill it.”

You laugh and take the pot, leaning back so the silk calla lily doesn’t tickle your nose, doesn’t rub against your makeup. “Come on in, Mr. Hardy.” Ben follows you, his hands in his jacket pockets, peering around watchfully. You find a temporary home for your new plant on the kitchen counter, right next to your latest purchase; you rest your hand, not-so-subtly, on the brand new, mint green, vintage record player. “Check this bad boy out.”

“Wow!” Ben leans down to examine it, running his fingertips over the turntable. Then his eyes flick to the box of vinyl records. “And you’ve already got listening material!”

“Lots of Queen, you’d totally approve.”

“Zeppelin?”

“Naturally.”

He flips through the records quickly: The Eagles, The Stones, Guns N’ Roses, The Beatles, The Cars, Aerosmith, Cheap Trick, Fleetwood Mac, U2, Hendrix, Elton, Nirvana. “Love it. I’m pumped. How much did all of this cost you?”

You crinkle your nose in lighthearted defiance. “It’s rude to talk about money, Mr. Hardy. Not a lot. Amazon is an amazing thing. And I’ve been collecting records for years. Yard sales, thrift shops, wherever. Some of them were my parents’ before I commandeered them.”

“I’ll ask again.” He takes out his wallet and starts counting bills, the paper shuffling in his hands. “How much for the record player? Estimate the rest.”

“Ben,” you protest, dismayed.

“Y/N,” he teases.

“You can’t buy everything for me,” you say gently.

“I’m not buying. I’m renting. I get to choose what to play whenever I’m here.” He unfolds $300 and lays it on top of the record player. “Will that cover it?”

You gape at the money. Yes, that’s about right. “Ben...I’d let you request music for free.”

“I don’t want requests. I want everything.” And then he grins, and it almost rips the floor out from under you. Oh god, I love this man.

You’ve never said those words aloud. You’ve never talked about his refrigerator magnet confession. But it’s somewhere in the space between you like a circling ghost, like a promise, like shared blood singeing under flesh.

“But,” Ben says, bringing you back into focus. “For now we should probably get going.”

“Right.” You grab your purse and jacket as Ben calls an Uber. “Where are we meeting them, anyway?”

He winks at you, his face illuminated by the glow of his cellphone screen. “Not the fucking Olive Garden.”

The Uber is a BMW with leather seats and a minibar installed in the backseat. As it cruises through downtown L.A., Ben tells you about how Joe has an apartment in the city, how Rami splits his time between his loft here and another in New York, how devout Londoner Gwilym is in town for work. You down a tiny Absolut Vodka to ease your nerves. “And when do I get to see your place, Mr. Hardy?”

He chuckles noncommittally. “We’re here,” he declares, glancing up through the BMW’s tinted windows. Outside is an upscale nightclub called The Edison. Then he turns to you. “Two things,” he says, holding up his index and middle fingers. There’s a gold ring on each. “First, don’t forget about the low profile.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult since we’re...” Air quotes. “Not dating.”

“Good. And secondly, don’t be anxious. They’re going to love you. You’re...”

“Charming?” you suggest, batting your eyelashes. “Blessed with impeccable music taste? Awesome at taming demons?”

He smiles. “I was going to say perfect.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re three shots deep and belting out Sweet Caroline with the electric-fence kid from Jurassic Park. There’s a sentence you never thought would cross your mind.

Joe’s trim left arm is draped over your shoulders, his head leaning into yours, a lager swooping precariously in his right hand as he gestures with it like a microphone. Ben is looking on, grinning as he sips his Sazerac, his eyes flickering in the dim, rusty light. When you first arrived, Ben introduced you as a friend; Joe had quickly shimmied over and started dropping lines.

“Joe,” Ben flared, like it was a warning. “I’m not trying to set you two up. That’s not what this is.”

“Whoops, my bad,” Joe had replied, and dialed down the saccharine charm. Yet you like Joe, you like him a lot, and within thirty minutes you’ve already exchanged numbers and compared astrological signs and agreed that he’s going to teach you how to play baseball next week.

“She’s got a thing for Jeff Goldblum, you know,” Ben says now.

“Stop!” you cry, blushing furiously.

“Do you?!” Joe asks and gulps half his lager. “I can make that happen. I can introduce you.”

“He’s a lot older than he was in his Jurassic Park days,” you sigh, lamenting.

“But also wayyyyy richer!” Joe pitches, waggling his eyebrows.

“She’s a schoolteacher,” Ben notes. “She could use a sugar daddy.”

“Girl, I am going to hook you up!”

Rami and Lucy return to the circular booth from the dancefloor, their fingers interlaced. Lucy is incredibly delicate, even tinier and more youthful than she appears onscreen, and always smiling; Rami speaks slowly and thoughtfully and with a captivating meticulousness, and when he fixes his pale eyes on yours you feel like you’re the only person in the room, in the city, in the world, as if whatever you have to say is the most profound thing he’s ever heard. Rami shouts something to Ben over the blaring music as Ben takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one.

“Oh my god!” you exclaim, and Joe jumps beside you, startled. “You smoke?”

Ben takes a draw, exhales smoke through full pink lips, and smirks guiltily.

“What year is this?!”

“2019,” Joe offers.

“Who the fuck smokes in 2019?!” you hurl at Ben. “Do you like breathing? Do you enjoy your internal organs? Do you want to live to spend all your BoRhap money?”

“You tell him!” Joe whoops, clapping. “Yeah baby! Tell him, Y/N!”

You ask incredulously: “They let people smoke in here?!”

“They do in the VIP section,” Joe chimes.

“He’s quite the delinquent, isn’t he?” Gwil says, appearing from the dancefloor and resting his hands on Ben’s shoulders. Gwilym is gentlemanly and eruditions, classically handsome, one of those people whose sincerity reads all over their face. His voice is different than Ben’s, lighter, sharper, less husky; he’s tall and slim and polished. In a phrase, he’s outlandishly lovely.

“I didn’t come here for an intervention, mate,” Ben responds, but his tone is pleasant and at-ease.

“Sorry for loving you, Ben!” Joe yells. “Sorry for caring about your longevity!”

“Sorry for wanting to grow old with you and retire together!” Gwil wails theatrically.

“Oh wow wow wow,” Rami says, shaking his head and smiling. Lucy is clutching a Malibu Sunset and trying to drag him back to the dancefloor, her polka dot dress swirling dreamily around her ankles.

“Wait,” Joe begins, “this is awkward, I definitely already purchased adjacent burial plots for me and Ben and the cemetery has a strict no-Welshmen policy, so...”

Laughing, you turn to Ben, and all at once the two of you are alone in this deafening and pulsing space. He takes another draw, the lit end of his cigarette glowing like embers, his eyes—green like envy, like a snake’s skin, like insatiable greed—all over you: your lips, your neck, your chest, lower. Something deep and shapeless ripples through you, déjà vu or recognition or desire or all of that and more; you want to reach out and touch his flushed flawless skin with your fingertips, you want to make sure he’s real. Gwil and Rami and Lucy are engrossed in some conversation about the best neighborhoods for apartment hunting in London, but Joe’s squinting suspiciously at you and Ben through the veil of smoke. You can’t fool him.

“Right,” Ben says suddenly, crushing the rest of his cigarette in an ashtray. “I’ve got to run. Y/N, do you want a lift home?”

This is just for show, just for the low-profile arrangement; of course you want to leave with him. You’ll follow him anywhere. “That’d be greatly appreciated.” As you climb out of the booth, Ben slips his phone from his pocket to call an Uber.

Joe waves, still thoughtful. “See you soon, Sweet Caroline!”

“Oh god, let’s never talk about that again.”

Rami gives you a sophisticated peck on each cheek, Lucy a spirited hug and a delighted little squeal; her oversized dangling earrings drag along your cheek as you pull away. Gwil takes your hands firmly in his own. “It was wonderful to meet you, love,” he says. “Come along anytime.”

“You’ve all been so kind!” you gush tipsily, and that’s the truth; they’ve been almost preposterously welcoming.

“Yeah yeah, you’ve stolen the show,” Ben says affectionately, maybe even proudly, guiding you towards the front of the club with his palm pressed lightly against the small of your back. “Cheers! We’ll do this again soon,” he calls back to the others. Joe and Gwil dramatically blow kisses after him as you push through the crowds and out into the windswept, luminescent Los Angeles night.

“What’s the hurry—?”

“Can I take you home now?” His voice is rushed and breathless; he’s doing that nervous thing he does where he glances around distractedly and bites his lips and shifts his weight from one foot to the other and runs his thumb over his chin.

“Of course,” you answer, your words hushed like clouds muting the moonshine.

A red Porsche rolls up along the sidewalk and Ben opens the door for you.

“I need you to do something for me,” you say when you’re both in the car and zooming through traffic towards the suburbs.

“Anything.”

Your gaze is devouring his high cheekbones—Eli’s, just like Eli’s—as the streetlights pass overhead, his messy hair and barely-there smile and all that lives under his fierce exterior, kindness and strength and wit and love. Love. “I need you to quit smoking.”

He laughs at you; that’s not what he expected. “Seriously?”

“I don’t want you to die young. I don’t want to lose you.” You can’t stand that thought. You’ve known him for three weeks and you’re hooked like a fucking swordfish; he’s in your bones, your blood, your lungs, he’s dragging you up from the depths and into blinding, open air.

This is too soon. This is way too soon. You don’t know this guy at all.

And yet somehow you do, somehow it feels like you always have.

Ben reaches over and weaves his fingers through yours. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He follows you inside when the Uber pulls into your driveway; he’s not speaking, he doesn’t remove his jacket or his shoes. He begins flipping through your box of records as you lean against the kitchen counter, your arms crossed.

“This is a test,” you say with a smile.

Ben makes a selection at last, drops the record onto the turntable, and places the needle. The music begins, filling your tiny one-bedroom house, reverberating off the walls that you’ve painted mint green and lilac and teal and pastel rosy pink. He still isn’t looking at me.

“Interesting choice.” The song is Save Tonight by a Swedish artist called Eagle-Eye Cherry; it’s acoustic and simple and soulful. “That’s not very classic rock of you.”

“Go on and close the curtains

'Cause all we need is candlelight

You and me, and a bottle of wine

To hold you tonight.”

“The Nineties weren’t all bad.” Ben shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the kitchen table, kicks aside his shoes, lays his phone face-down on the counter as if he’s just decided to stay. Then he comes to you.

“Well we know I'm going away

And how I wish, I wish it weren't so

So take this wine and drink with me

And let's delay our misery.”

There’s no questioning whether you’re going to let him touch you; there’s no question at all. The thought of not being with him is agonizing, cavernous, unbearable. You’ve never wanted someone like this. You’ve never wanted anything like this.

Ben cups your face in his hands and kisses you like he’s coming up for air, like you’re a high he’ll never get enough of. He tastes like cognac and whiskey and cigarettes and lust. Your back hits the refrigerator, and your magnets pop off and clatter against the tile floor; your fingers are knotting through his hair as his trace a path beneath your blouse. He asks if you’re okay—not with his voice but with his searching eyes—and you nod a desperate yes, yes, yes. Outside the stars are raging through the blackness, those same stars that lit up the sky above the dinosaurs just a few blinks of their immortal lifespans ago.

“Save tonight and fight the break of dawn,

Come tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be gone...”

“Oh shit...” Ben’s patting his pockets, flipping through his wallet. His eyes are wide and frantic. “I don’t have a condom.”

“I’m on the pill,” you tell him. “Wait, I’m sorry, you’re an actor, you probably get psychos trying to have your babies all the time, I totally understand if you don’t trust me—”

“I trust you,” he breathes, as if he’s just realizing it.

“I trust you too, Ben.”

“Don’t say it,” he whispers, almost pleads. “You don’t know me.”

“I do,” you insist, unbuttoning his shirt, lifting all that separates you away, peeling back secrets like layers of the earth.

#ben jones #ben hardy #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy fic #borhap imagine #borhap fic #bohemian rhapsody #bywmpf #baby you were my picket fence #gwilym lee #joe mazzello

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jynappreciationsquad · 4 years

Text

[part of the Winter Olympics AU, for reasons]

“Jyn!”

The booming voice that rings across the waiting room makes her flinch before her brain has placed it. Muscle memory, she supposes. For a moment, she considers just grabbing her coat and making a beeline for the door – she’s always been impeccable at shaking off people in central London, and physically, she would have always been able to outrun this man with shackled feet. His athletic days had been far behind him even when he’d started training her.

After everything he’s done for you, Jyn –

(Cassian would hate her for caving, wouldn’t he.)

She closes her eyes. Deep breath. Five minutes. You’ll be fine.

“Who told you I’d be here?”

She knows it’s petty to force a severely disabled, elderly man to catch up to her, but hey. She didn’t ask him to be here.

“Come now, Jyn,” Saw says, stomping into her field of vision with what passed for a genial smile with him. “Stop acting like I’m stalking you.”

“Was it Justin?”

“If I called your trainer,” he says bitterly, “I would have told him to scrap that very basic combo, that he wouldn’t know a well-executed landing if it punched him in the face and that he needs to get his athlete in goddamn check.”

“Well,” Jyn bites back, “the very basic combo, my shitty landings and my overall bad attitude won me an Olympic medal, so… sorry if I don’t feel too bad.”

“I’m aware,” he replies gruffly. “I tried calling to congratulate you, you know.”

“Yeah. And I tried to make clear I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Jyn gives back bristly, then takes a deep breath. Come one, Jyn. You could have walked away. Pick a lane. “Thanks.”

He nods, eyeing her with those intense eyes of his that she used to love and hate all at once most of her teenage years, then says mournfully: “It’s a shame, my girl.”

“What is? The medal? Or that I stopped picking up your calls?” Okay, she’s clearly not as calm as she would like to be.

“I held you when you were a day old, Jyn.”

And you’ve made me cry more than anybody else in the world. “Well, you’re here now.”

Saw scoffs, still with that look of disappointment on his head that she isn’t sure is real. “A shame about the medal, too, though.”

She feels her jaw set. God damn it, she should have just left. “Right.”

He leans on his crutches and shakes his head. “You should have been a sure bet for silver. And you could have had gold, if you hadn’t manage to get distracted over some man in your bed at the last minute –“

Right. There it is. “I don’t need this, Saw. Thanks for stopping by.”

“All I mean, Jyn,” he says quietly, “all of your time and effort and all those broken bones,” he gives an impatient nod towards her splinted wrist, “and all of mine, too. And everything that your parents sacrificed –“

There’s a quiet ringing in her ears now, and she has to remind herself that she can’t make a fist with her right hand, not unless she wants to go right back into the surgery, anyway. This is not fair. It’s not.

(Her mother had always wanted to go to Hawaii, and they’d cancelled the trip two times because she’d had a competition, and then her mother had been too sick to go, and she’s lived with that knowledge for the last eight years -)

“- and everything Bodhi probably had to give up so you could –“

(Bodhi, sweet Bodhi, who’s missed several dates and job interviews because she’d landed herself in hospital again, or because Saw had pushed her too far again, or -)

Her eyes are burning but she won’t, she won’t, not again. No.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she finally manages; it sounds feeble but she’ll let it count. “Don’t you dare use them against me.”

He has the nerve to look insulted at that. “Your parents were like family to me, Jyn. I’m not using them, I was there. We didn’t all give so much just so you could stop caring at the last minute? In favour of some obscure biathlete who is… still happily living off your money, I gather?”

She’s almost glad for that. Because there it is. This is like kickboxing, his hit didn’t land and that gives her an opening. (He is losing his edge, then. It’s not just one of those things he says on her answerphone. He wouldn’t have been so sloppy, back in the day.)

She nods. “Yeah. Happily. Very happy, actually.”

He sighs. “So you plan on blowing your last chance for the same guy, then. Going by that,” he adds sourly, eyes fixed on the ring on her left hand.

“Far as I gathered, they will actually let me compete with that, you know. Even if I marry him, turns out. And you know what?” She heaves her bag up on her shoulder and forces a sardonic smile. “I’ve won gold so many times and still felt like a fucking failure, no thanks to you. And I finished that comp and I didn’t even care where they’d place me. You’ll never understand what that meant to me, and you don’t have to. Because I chose to believe my parents would have wanted me to be happy for fucking once in the last five years more than they would’ve cared what colour medal they hang around my neck. And I don’t owe you shit.”

“I’m not saying you owe me anything –“

“Good,” she snaps, turns to leave, then turns back. “Also, talk like that about Cassian again and I’ll gladly sprain my other wrist.”

He looks slightly pained now. “Jyn. I wasn’t -“

“Bye.”

His heavy steps follow her down the hall. “I’m glad you’re happy, Jyn.”

She can’t hold back the little scoff that escapes her at that. “Right.”

“I am.”

“Clearly.”

“When’s the wedding?”

That makes her stop. She can’t believe this man. “Jeez,” she snaps, spinning back around at him and shaking her head. “Don’t bother. It’ll either be in Mexico or it’ll be the fucking registry office three blocks down from our flat. You’d hate it, either way. Since I’m not, you know, marrying my fucking snowboard.”

To her surprise and annoyance, Saw almost smiles. “Then I won’t wait for an invitation.”

“Good,” she says flatly, then adds, despite herself: “I almost wanted to send you one, you know.” Her eyes sting again, and she angrily tries to rub them dry. “Actually did. Thanks for reminding me why I shouldn’t bother.”

He nods. “I doubt your brother would welcome me. Or your… fiancé.” To his credit, he only sounds a little pained.

“Yeah. Doubtful.” Jyn adjusts the strap of her bag and takes another deep breath. “Don’t bother, honestly.”

“I lost them too, Jyn,” he says softly. “I did what I could for you.”

Deep breaths. “Okay, yeah. So if you care about me, stop calling. I had a hard enough time getting you out of my head as it was.”

Saw eyes her, very still, then repeats softly: “I’m glad you’re happy, Jyn.”

She feels a little shaky, but oh, this is lightyears away from when he dropped her with no warning, by the side of the slope. Like she wasn’t good enough. Like she wasn’t worth sticking around for. It has haunted her for so long. Sometimes, it still does. This is nothing.

“I am,” she says softly, and this one reply doesn’t taste like bile. It’s true. She is happy, and she’ll be fine without him. “Goodbye, Saw.”

She walks away from him again, and this time, he doesn’t try to follow.

She marches straight past two tube stations, just to clear her head, then finally stops to find a quiet corner and digs out her phone.

“Hi, Cass.” Her voice only wobbles very slightly. She sounds fine. Perfectly fine.

“Are you okay?”

Damn it. So much for that. “Yeah. Yeah, I am, I just –“ He can’t see the smile she’s faking, but she thinks it helps. She just needs to remember to speak slowly. “My appointment took longer than I thought, so I could get dinner on the way back. If you can make it by eight, it’ll still be hot.”

The slight pause that follows tells her he’s not convinced. “Uh… yes, yes, I can make eight. I think. I’ll try.”

“Okay. Good.”

“No tacos. They were disgusting.”

She hears herself laugh a bit, and realises her breath is completely steady, and she feels much warmer. She is fine. “Yeah. Should we try the place Bodhi talked about?”

“Sure. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” She closes her eyes and lets herself savour the next words. “See you at home.”

He’s home at five minutes to eight, of course. And he still looks worried. Of course.

She reserves herself the right of a mental eye roll. “Hope you’re hungry. It smells really good.”

He smiles faintly and rids himself of the ridiculous amount of outerwear he insists is necessary for London in November. “I am.” He catches her by her good wrist and eyes her closely. “Bad news?”

“No. Almost healed up.” His expression doesn’t change, and she sighs. “I ran into Saw, that’s all, but –“

“You ran into him? He came looking for you,” he corrects darkly, then steps, hand still half-raised. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No, Cassian, he never –“ Well. She breaks off. “No. He didn’t.”

“Look, whatever he said –“

“Cassian,” she says slowly, trying for a smile. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m fine. Alright?”

He bites his lip, nodding. “Good, I just… it’s okay if you’re not.”

She reaches for his hand and says firmly: “You don’t have to worry, seriously. I’m not twenty anymore, and… look, back then I thought all I had was the slopes, and that… without him, I’d never be good enough even for that. He… he let me think that, and that’s how he got into my head so much.” She smiles a little and links his fingers with hers. “But he was wrong. And I’m okay.”

His eyes are very warm, and she’s glad he heard what she kind of just said.

He nods again. “Okay. Good.”

“I’m also starving. Come on. Let’s eat.” She tugs at his hand. “I have beer, too.”

He smiles. “Totally not on your meal plan. Not even Justin’s.”

She shrugs and drags him into the small kitchen, grinning. “And when did I give you the impression I would let some meal plan hold me back, exactly?”

#rogue one #other: saw gerrera #other: cassian andor #by: ruby red inky blue #fanfiction #au #ours #text

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whitetomatoes · 4 years

Text

9 Professional Athletes Share The Workout and Fitness Tips That Got Them to the Top

As a reader of Men's Health, it would seem a fair assumption that you know what's required to stay healthy, both in body and mind. Less known, however, is how the men and women at an elite level keep themselves at the top of their game for years — sometimes decades — on end, surpassing feats that previously weren't thought possible.

Below, we've compiled nine case studies from our annual Body Issue, an edition of Men's Health that celebrates a tapestry of world-beating champions, each with a body that's built for purpose — whether that's running 26.2 miles in under two hours, hoarding gold medals at the Olympics or being crowned The Fittest Man on Earth consecutively for four years. This is what it takes to reach the top.

Eliud Kipchoge The Greatest Marathon Runner of All Time: 35-Years-Old, 170cm, 56kg

In most sports, the issue of who is the GOAT is a matter of endless contention. In the world of long-distance running, however, there is simply no dispute: Eliud Kipchoge is the most extraordinary athlete over a distance of 26.2 miles that the world has ever seen.

In 2012, the remarkable Kenyan finished his first half-marathon in under an hour, the third-fastest debut ever. A year later, he won his first marathon in Hamburg, beating the field by more than two minutes and setting a course record.

For his first major in Berlin, just a few months on, he came second behind former world-record holder Wilson Kipsang. Even then, he still posted the fifth-fastest time in history. Since that relative disappointment, he has won every marathon he’s run on the world stage, including the gold medal at the Rio Olympics. That’s 11 in a row, including Berlin and London four times.

Then, last October in Vienna, Kipchoge set out to achieve the impossible. The sub-two-hour marathon had been mythologised possibly even more than the four-minute mile. He had trained relentlessly, clocking 140 miles per week, combining punishing speed sessions and strength training, all at high altitudes. But it was perhaps Kipchoge’s mental strength that proved decisive in Austria.“Some people believe it is impossible,” he said before the event. “My team and I believe it is possible. We will prove them wrong.” When Kipchoge broke the tape in Vienna, one hour, 59 minutes and 40 seconds after he started, he not only proved his doubters wrong – he turned a collective dream into reality.

"I believe in a calm, simple and low-profile life. You live simply, you train hard"

“It’s not just the speed at which he runs and the incredible endurance that sustains him,” says Rick Pearson, senior editor of Runner’s World. “It’s the way he does it. Kipchoge’s running style is a thing of beauty – pure poetry in motion. It’s smooth, it’s serene, there’s no wasted effort. And somehow, he tops it all off with a megawatt smile.”

Indeed, what makes Kipchoge’s achievements all the more astounding is his humility. In between running, he works on the family farm, collecting and chopping vegetables. “In life, the idea is to be happy,” he says. “So, I believe in a calm, simple and low-profile life. You live simply, you train hard, and you live an honest life. Then you are free.”

Peaty harnessed his competitiveness to push himself to new lengths

Tom Watkins

Adam Peaty The Leviathan of the Olympic Pool: 25-Years_old, 191cm, 93kg

By Ted Lane

Hitting the pool is a tranquil way to boost fitness and sink stress – at least, it is for ordinary men. Olympic gold medallist Adam Peaty takes a more combative approach. “I love the aggression of racing,” he says. “You have to be very composed when you’re swimming, but I use that composure in an angry way.” If you’ve been following Peaty on Instagram during the lockdown, you will have seen him repping out parallette press-ups in a weighted vest, wearing all black and sporting a quarantine buzz cut. This militant aesthetic only serves to reinforce the brutality of his workouts.

This focused aggression has yielded exceptional results. As well as becoming the first male British swimmer to win the gold medal in the 100m breaststroke for 24 years at the 2016 Olympics in Rio, Peaty has set 11 swimming world records. He became the first man to break the hallowed 58-second mark in the same event. Then he broke the 57-second mark.

“In the water, all of this comes from your core – it powers every stroke.”

“Adam has got reality distortion,” says coach and 2004 Olympian Mel Marshall. “He doesn’t see limits – he just sees opportunities.” Which comes in handy when Marshall floods his week with a staggering workload, both in the pool and on dry land. Peaty swims a breathtaking 50km each week; 5km in the morning, 5km in the afternoon, Monday to Friday. But it’s far from a mind-numbing slog. “Tuesday afternoon is intense,” says Marshall. “He does 40 25m reps – each one in 60 seconds. That’s 12 seconds of sprinting, 50-ish seconds of recovery, 40 times.”

It may lack a barbell, but it’s an EMOM workout to make you wince. “His other high-intensity session is 20 100m reps: four reps at lactate threshold [30bpm below his maximum heart rate], with one recovery, then three reps at his VO max [10bpm below his maximum heart rate], with two recovery, and repeat.” And that’s just his pool work.

Peaty’s gym sessions dovetail with his water-based workouts. On Mondays, he follows up a kick-based pool session with an upper-body shift pumping iron. There’s a lot of core work, too. “On dry land, you have the ground to offer stability and provide leverage for movement,” says Marshall. “In the water, all of this comes from your core – it powers every stroke.”

By his own admission, Peaty is intensely competitive – fiercely, even. But it’s his ability to absorb the workload that sets him apart. “He recovers incredibly quickly and he adapts incredibly quickly,” says Marshall. Curiously, his coach feels that it’s the foundations laid in the gym early on that are ultimately responsible for his success.

“Starting young means he can take advantage of all of those hormones coursing through his body,” says Marshall. “And those benefits then continue. The man is a workhorse.” Which is bad news for those playing catch-up before the next Olympics.

Joshua reclaimed all he had lost by learning to play to his strengths

David Venni

Anthony Joshua Unified Heavyweight Boxing Champion: 30-Years-Old, 198cm, 108kg

By David Morton

Men's Health: Last December, you went into your second fight with Andy Ruiz with a noticeably different game plan to when you lost your titles – WBA, IBF, WBO and IBO – to him earlier in 2019. Was that the key to winning your belts back?

AJ: I think it’s all about adapting. Different circumstances require different preparation. It was the same war, but I had learned a lot from the first battle. Ruiz isn’t the type of fighter that you go head to head with. For the first fight, I was planning on going in there and trading with him. But there’s an old boxing saying: “You don’t hook with a hooker!” So, what did I do? I went in there and hooked with a hooker and the actual hooker came out on top.In the second fight, I went in there and he tried to box with a boxer. And I came out on top. I had to learn what my strengths were and what his weaknesses were, and then I just boxed to those. That’s your basic foundation: never play to someone else’s strengths. In anything you do, everyone has their own strengths. If you play to theirs rather than yours, they are always going to come off better than you in the long run.

This content is imported from YouTube. You may be able to find the same content in another format, or you may be able to find more information, at their web site.

MH: You weighed in almost 5kg lighter for the second fight and were under 108kg for the first time since 2014. How did you adapt your training to come in so visibly leaner?

AJ: Ha, ha! You want me to give away my secrets? You’ve just got to be specific. Training is all about what you’re trying to achieve. To prepare for 12 rounds of boxing, it sounds obvious, but you’ve got to box, box, box. And that’s what we did.

There’s not much point boxing and then spending time in the swimming pool to build endurance, because all you’re doing is building swimming endurance. The same goes for boxing a little bit and then spending hours lifting weights, because that’s for weightlifters. The best boxing stamina work you can do is to hit the heavy bag or shadow box. Everything that involves boxing without getting injured is the best form of training.

It’s a simple thing that’s easy to overlook. If you want to get good at something, do that thing. Focus on it. We try to add this and that, strip it back. But you need to box more if you want to be in shape for boxing.

Joshua found success in stripping back his approach

David Venni

MH: In what way did you change your nutrition? Is it true that Wladimir Klitschko advised you to reduce your salt intake?

AJ: I did cut out salt leading up to that fight. But the food was so bland! You don’t realise how much we depend on salts and sugars. When you remove them, you realise what the true taste of food is like. It had a real benefit, though, because it stripped my body of all the excess sugar and salt I didn’t need, and I managed to lose a shedload of weight.

Chicken and broccoli are tough when you can’t put any spice on them. Someone said to me that it’s not the chicken we like – it’s the spice and the sauces. That’s why I think vegetarians and vegans are onto something. We’re not meant to like chicken. They put the same sauces and spices on vegetables and get that taste and texture.

MH: What’s your diet like coming up to a weigh-in for a fight?

AJ: It’s pretty spot on. Weigh-in is usually about 2pm, so I will have had breakfast and lunch by then. Luckily, I don’t have to “make” weight, so I just continue my preparations like it’s another day. I don’t prepare for the scales; I just use it as an opportunity to showcase my work ethic and how hard I’ve been training.

MH: All boxers come in for criticism on social media. How do you handle negative comments or haters?

AJ: I think that it’s hard to ignore it. I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t pay attention to any of that, because it’s impossible not to see it. I started my social media on my own and, even though it has turned into a business page, I still handle a lot of it myself. I think that it’s fine to have doubters, as long as you don’t believe what they’re saying the whole time. You have to prove your doubters wrong. When they don’t believe, you should always believe.

"You’ve got to be specific: training is all about what you are trying to achieve"

The doubters aren’t always bad, either. You just have to try to find something positive out of it. They might say, “You’re shit, and you’re going to get knocked out because your hands are too low” – and I would think, “That’s a good indication I’ve got to keep my left hand up.” I use the doubters as a positive factor, not as a negative one.

MH: You’ve occasionally been called out for being more of an aesthete than an athlete. What do you think is the most underrated part of a boxer’s physique?

AJ: Their head! That’s where you take the most punishment. Everyone says it’s all about a good chin, but it’s actually your whole head. You get battered: left and right temples, forehead, nose, mouth, ears. The ears always hurt. Everyone looks at my biceps and the abs. But it’s your head that gets forgotten. What’s the best piece of advice that you would give to somebody who is trying to make it in boxing? I would tell them to talk to themselves and mentally prepare themselves.

You can always try to see a meditation specialist or a psychologist, but I think that the only way to test your greatness is to truly be in a position of adversity. You’re never going to find out how great you are by sitting on a beach. Boxers should talk to themselves more in the gym – build up those mental callouses. You’ve got to know that you are tough enough to get through this.

Murray returned to glory by channelling his will to achieve

David Clerihew

Andy Murray The Comeback Kid from Dunblane: 33-Years-Old, 190cm, 84kg

By Paul Wilson

At 5.09am on Saturday 4 August 2018, alone in a hotel bed in Washington, DC, two hours after he sobbed into his towel at the end of his first third-round win for a year, Andy Murray took a long, hard look into the black mirror of his iPhone and pressed record.

“It was a really emotional night for me, because I felt like I’m coming to the end and I’m really sad about that, because…” – his voice breaks, as he wipes tears from his eyes. “I really want to keep going but my body is telling me, ‘No.’ So… It hurts. And, yeah, I’m sorry that I can’t keep going.”

At the end of the 2016 tennis season, Murray was the world’s number one, the reigning Wimbledon champion and entering the imperial phase of his career. The following summer, a chronic hip problem got so bad that he couldn’t put on his shoes and socks. From there, he endured a two-year period during which he barely played, with two major surgeries, in January 2018 and January 2019 – the latter leaving him with a metal cap in his right hip socket.

“I think you look for miracles”

A week before that second op, there were more tears, this time in front of other people’s cameras at a press conference at the Australian Open, as he realised that the Grand Slam might be his last. (He lost his first-round match in five sets.) Tennis experts outside Murray’s circle thought he would never play again. Those inside knew that “never” is not in their man’s vocabulary.

“I think you look for miracles,” said Mark Bender, Murray’s physiotherapist, of competing at the top level with a metal hip. “But when you’ve got somebody who really wants to achieve and is going all-in, everybody buys into the hope that something magical can happen.” And, of course, it did.

Ten months after the DC dawn confessional, five after his second hip operation, Murray won the doubles at Queens in June 2019 and then the European Open in Antwerp in October – his first singles title for 30 months. After that, pelvic injury cut his year short. He hasn’t played in 2020.

Murray’s commitment to not merely return from setbacks but to excel makes him exceptional. He might well be enjoying (if that’s the right word) the current enforced lockdown – after all, there’s no pressure to be match-fit when there are no matches to play. But you can be sure that no one will be more determined to come back ready to play at the absolute best of his abilities.

Lewis Hamilton The Formula 1 Driver in Top Gear: 35-Years-Old, 174cm, 69kg

By Giuliano Donati

MH: Next season, you have the chance to match Michael Schumacher’s record of seven Formula 1 world championships. Nervous?

LH: I honestly don’t think about it much. I don’t want it to be a distraction. I’m currently the world champion but, every year, I start from scratch. I just want to be at the top of my game in a physical sense, just as I want my car to be the best in terms of engineering. How can I make sure I’m ahead of everyone else? How can I be more consistent, meticulous and precise? How can I better understand the technology? That’s what I focus on.

MH: What do you do to stay at the top, physically speaking?

LH: I like lifting weights, but I have to make sure that I don’t overdo it. Formula 1 drivers can’t be too heavy: more muscle means more kilos. It’s also disadvantageous to put too much muscle on your shoulders and arms, because you need to have a low centre of gravity in the car.

It’s important to have a good cardiovascular system as a driver. Over the course of a two-hour race, you might have an average heartbeat of 160-170bpm. During qualifying, it can go up to 190bpm. That’s why I do a lot of running. Sprints are a part of every workout.

MH: How has your training evolved since you started out in F1 almost 15 years ago?

LH: When I was young, I had a lot of energy and felt I could do anything. I didn’t have a strategy, and I didn’t stretch: I just got in the car and drove to win. But over the years, I’ve experimented with a number of different disciplines, like boxing and muay Thai. These days, I do lots of pilates, focusing on the core – the muscles beneath the muscles.

"I’m more mobile and in better shape than I was at 25"

MH: What’s your approach to nutrition?

LH: Three years ago, I decided to follow a plant-based diet. The only thing I regret is not having done it before. My taste buds have learned about things that I never thought I would eat and that I now love: falafel, avocado, beetroot, fresh and dried fruit. I’ve also noticed a marked improvement in my fitness level since I switched, which is motivating.

MH: So, you credit your plant-based diet with helping you stay at your peak?

LH: I was already at the top before changing my approach to food, but I was definitely struggling more and my energy was inconsistent. I had days when I felt strong and others when I was just sapped. When I switched to a plant-based diet, those highs and lows decreased significantly.

I’ve also noticed positive effects on my sleep and on my health in general. The benefits keep coming, and I’ve honestly never felt better. I’m 35 now, and though theoretically I should be less fit than before, I’m more mobile and in better shape than I was at 25.

Smart tweaks to nutrition and training have kept Hamilton in the fast lane

David Clerihew

MH: F1 is high octane, high adrenalin. How do you rest and recharge?

LH: Unplugging is a fundamental part of my routine. It’s so important to decompress after a race, so you can face the next one with a clear mind. I love spending time with my friends and family. Being with them helps me relax and focus my energy. But I can’t live without adrenalin. I love anything that makes my heart beat faster, whether that’s skiing, sky-diving, surfing or training.

MH: What are you most proud of achieving in your career?

LH: I was the first working-class Black F1 champion. I’m proud to have paved the way for others. One of my favourite phrases is: “You can’t be what you don’t see.” Anyone who sees me on the podium, even if it’s a child, can be inspired to follow their dreams. If that happens, I’ll have done my job well. Diversity is a problem that Formula 1 has to face up to. I want to do my part in helping the sport make progress, not only by inspiring others but also by collaborating to create more opportunities for people from different communities.

Mental discipline made Fraser the undisputed king of fitness

Hamish Brown

Mat Fraser Reigning CrossFit Games Champion: 30-Years-Old, 170cm, 88kg

By David Morton

MH: How are you managing to keep up with your training in lockdown?

MF: I’m in Kentucky right now with my friend and training partner [female CrossFit Games champion] Tia-Clair Toomey. With all of the gyms shut down, we thought we’d make the best of it and came out to a buddy’s lodge, which is usually used by rock climbers. We kinda just moved in and brought all our equipment with us. Our partners are here, too, so we’re just congregating as a big unit.

MH: You clearly have a tight network. You share the same agent, and Tia’s husband, Shane Orr, is your coach. How important is that set-up for you?

MF: It’s crucial. You’ve got to be surrounded by good people – people you belong with, who are like-minded. We’re in a unique situation, because we’ve been able to come together during this pandemic and train and hang out and go through this rollercoaster of emotions as a group. But current events aside, I know that I perform better when I’m happy and life is good.

Training with Tia didn’t just come about because we were located in the same place. I’ve been located in the same place as other training partners before, and it didn’t work out quite as well. I started working with Shane not because it was convenient, but because I liked what he was doing. Regardless of the fact that I was around him every day, I saw what he was doing, liked his demeanour, liked his attitude to everything. And most of all, I liked his programming.

The fact that we get along well as friends is just a bonus. The four of us all lived together before the Games last summer. That was a rare situation but it worked, and we had a great time doing it. We woke up every morning excited to put ourselves through what we had to go through. That’s always been the most important thing for me – keeping that good headspace while in training.

MH: Here in the UK, most people are having to train at home without the sort of kit you guys have. What would you do if you only had your bodyweight and a dumbbell or kettlebell?

MF: We actually try to use minimal equipment quite often, because it keeps you thinking outside the box. Yes, we have access to a lot of equipment, but we’ve been making sure that we keep changing it up with burpees, press-ups, air squats.

Whenever I train with bodyweight, I try to set it up as an EMOM [every minute, on the minute]. For me, those longer workouts are more of a mental barrier than a physical one. I know that I’m physically capable of it, but it’s whether it can keep my attention and keep me engaged for long enough to get a good workout in. So, I always put it into an EMOM, where you’re only looking at 40 seconds of work and 20 seconds’ rest before moving onto the next station. I’m only looking 40 seconds ahead, instead of being two or three rounds into a regular workout and thinking, “Oh, my gosh! I’ve still got 30 minutes left. I’m not even halfway!” With an EMOM, the light at the end of the tunnel is only 40 seconds away, and then you can have a sip of water or sit in front of a fan.

"Lifestyle stuff came to the fore: terrible diet, terrible sleep schedule, terrible attitude"

MH: You alluded to mental strength there. You finished second twice at the CrossFit Games, before going on your dominant run. What was it that changed? Do you think it was your mental game?

MF: I’d say it was half-mental and half-lifestyle. The first time I came second at the Games, I had no real idea what I was doing. You know, I was brand new to CrossFit and showing up at the gym when I could. I was a happy-go-lucky youngster, that first year.

The second year was when all of my lifestyle stuff came to the fore: terrible diet, terrible sleep schedule, terrible attitude mentally. I can’t say that my time in the gym wasn’t great. I hit huge PBs that year, but they were spontaneous, sporadic. I would show up at the gym and not know what deck of cards I was dealing with, whether I’d have enough energy to train, whether I’d be too tired, or whatever.

On top of that, I had a terrible attitude at the Games. If something didn’t go well, I would throttle back and just say, ‘This one’s not for me.’ After that, I took some steps. I started eating better; I committed myself to a good sleep schedule; I began doing some recovery work and warm-ups. Basically, everything I was supposed to be doing, I actually started doing.

And in competition, my attitude completely changed – seeing the benefit of a bad situation and managing to find a silver lining in it, instead of just being miserable and stewing.

MH: Now that you’ve won multiple times, you exude a sense of confidence when you compete. Do you still get nervous?

MF: If I wasn’t nervous, I’d be questioning whether I cared about what I was doing. I hate the way it feels, the immediate effect. Before most events, I dry-heave or throw up, because I’m so nervous. It’s not enjoyable. But at the same time, I know that I care and I still have that excitement. Backstage, people will see me dry-heaving and they look at my manager and say, “God, is Mat OK?” And he’s like, “Oh, yeah, he’s good. This is good.”

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For Fraser, maintaining “a good headspace” is paramount – so he keeps his training varied with intense EMOM workouts

MH: Tia says that the reason you’re the world’s fittest man is your work ethic. She says that she’s never seen determination like it and that, in turn, it challenges her to get better every day.

MF: Well, the feeling is mutual. When I started training with Tia, it was immediately apparent that it was going to be different from any partnership I’d had before. She’s incredibly polished when she knows that people are watching, but she also has this aggressiveness that I’ve never seen in a female athlete.

We’re true training partners – gender never comes up. It’s almost like a mirror. I’ve never trained with anyone who has the same aggressiveness going into each and every workout, when it’s time to grind and you’re miserable and you’re not getting a pat on the back. You get to see someone’s true character when the conditions are less than ideal. You see this fight come out of her that you don’t see in many people.

MH: The Games season, as with all sports, is up in the air. At the moment, it seems that there will be a form of CrossFit Games, but on a smaller scale without fans. How do you feel about that?

MF: As long as the top people are there to compete against, it doesn’t matter. I have a soft spot for spectators who look forward to the event, and for sponsors and vendors, it’s their big opportunity, so it’s unfortunate. In the same breath, the whole world is dealing with a situation that we’ve never been in before. Everyone is understanding and everyone is dealing with the same problems. But as far as training goes, it’s business as usual.

Like all great sportsmen, Itoje has a powerful curiosity of mind

Hamish Brown

Maro Itoje The Thinking Man's Battering Ram: 25-Years-Old, 193cm, 155kg

By Ted Lane

Maro Itoje is not your average rugby player. This is the standard way profiles of the Saracens and England lock and flanker begin. Despite his size and talent, the reader is asked to marvel at his brain more than his biceps. It’s well known that his burgeoning rugby career dovetailed with a politics degree. He is revered as a gentle giant with a penchant for poetry. Hell, it’s even a trope we ran with ourselves after he arrived for a previous Men’s Health shoot carrying a book about the Nigerian civil war.

"He ended up having 74kg around his waist and doing a chin-up with ease"

But to gloss over his physique is to miss half the picture – half of what makes him a sporting powerhouse. Talking to the website Rugby Pass last year, Itoje’s Sarries colleague Alex Goode recounted a one-rep max test for chin-ups during one training session: “He came in, first day, and started on 20kg. He proceeded to go up and up and up. He was so unaware. He ended up having 74kg around his waist and doing a chin-up with ease. This is a guy a couple of days out of school.” Goode neglected to mention his own score.

Left to his own devices, Itoje likes beach weights. Training for fun means abs exercises and 21s, the quintessential biceps-building protocol. But disco muscles alone have not propelled him to the top of his sport. At Saracens, Itoje lifts three times a week. Monday is lower body, Tuesday is upper body, while Thursday is total body.

Mondays are most interesting because Andy Edwards, Saracens’ head of strength and conditioning, tweaks Itoje’s routine depending on where they are in the season. “His two main lifts are the trap bar deadlift for strength and the concentric squat for explosive strength,” he says. Low rep ranges are key. “If the priority is building strength, we’ll start with deadlifts. If the priority is being more explosive, it’s the concentric squat.”

Alternatively, if Edwards needs to maintain intensity at the business end of the season but reduce neural fatigue to avoid burnout, “We swap heavy deadlifts for weighted CMJs [counter-movement jumps], where Maro is jumping with a barbell on his back.”

Still, eventually, it’s Itoje’s mind that returns to the fore. “I’ve been at Saracens for 13 seasons and watched Maro develop from a kid,” says Edwards. “He’s always been the one to challenge me and ask: why? That craving for knowledge is unique to top sportsmen, and he’s got it.”

Chris Froome The Fastest (and Hardest) Man on Two Wheels: 35-Years-Old, 186cm, 66kg

By Paul Wilson

Chris Froome makes long-term and short-term targets central to his success. “I’m a forward thinker, always planning, sometimes way too far in advance,” he told Men’s Health in 2015, shortly before the second of his four Tour de France victories. “So, I enjoy reaching the smaller goals, which are motivating to reach the larger goals.” He could not have imagined that such targets would include “learn to walk again”, as they did after a horrific freak crash in June 2019.

On a recon of the time trial course at the Criterium du Dauphiné race in Roanne, France, gusty wind funnelled between buildings and took his front wheel just as he lifted a hand to clear his nostrils. Attempting to recover control, he veered off the road and into a wall, breaking his ribs, right femur, elbow, hip and sternum and the lowest vertebra in his neck. His team had clocked him at 54km per hour.

Such a calamitous accident was atypical in the extreme, and Froome’s rehabilitation came with many uncertainties. “It was progressive, really, because we just didn’t know how long it would take in terms of recovery,” said Froome’s coach, Tim Kerrison. “We had some different plans right at the beginning, but it’s been an ongoing review.” Not least because, despite the extent of his injuries, very quickly Froome began surpassing smaller comeback goals.

Seven weeks after the crash, it was said that he was “ahead of all predictions that were made initially of how long it would take to get to even this point”. In early August 2019, he was having three to four hours of physio every morning, then two hours of exercise after lunch. Afternoon shifts involved pedalling a stationary bike using only his left leg as his right leg healed, propped on a platform.

At the end of August, 10 weeks after the crash, he was doing track sessions on a bike; by the end of October, a team time trial at an exhibition race. In November, he had his final operation, which included removing from his right hip a 10-inch plate with screws as long as his thumb. In January this year, he joined a training camp with his beloved TeamINEOS. By February, he was performing on the UAE Tour –one that was unfortunately cut short by the pandemic – at which his stats were close to top-level.

“From that point on, it felt like everything was so positive.”

Upon reviving in intensive care in France, Froome was told by the surgeon that there was nothing to stop him making a 100% recovery. “That’s all I wanted to hear at that point,” he said later. “From that point on, it felt like everything was so positive.”

He immediately set a larger goal: to win the next Tour de France. At the time of writing this, despite some scepticism, that was scheduled to begin on 29 August. If it isn’t postponed, Froome will be 35 and very possibly in yellow-jersey form, having come back from – no hype, this – one of the worst injuries in his sport.

For Whitlock, playing the long game has meant becoming more strategic

Tom Watkins

Max Whitlock The Most Decorated Gymnast in Britain: 27-Years-Old, 167cm, 62.5kg

By Scarlett Wrench

Despite almost qualifying as a member of Generation Z, Max Whitlock is already a veteran of his sport. “Gymnastics is really demanding,” he says, by way of understatement. “A lot of people are already thinking about retiring by my age, because that’s when they start to struggle.” The lifespan of an Olympic gymnast is short, but while most burn out in their early-to-mid-twenties, Whitlock has no plans to fade away. Already the most decorated athlete in British gymnastics history, he has his sights set on Gold at the delayed Tokyo Games – then Paris 2024, too.

For Whitlock, playing the long game has meant tuning into his body’s signals. As a teenage prodigy, he could handle 35 hours of training per week; now, he has dropped it to a more “moderate” 20 hours of graft, split over six days. Whitlock has observed older gymnasts training like juniors and wearing themselves down. “I’m hoping I’ll never burn out, because I’m careful not to push myself too far,” he says. “I do what I need to – and what I know I can recover from – so the next day is always productive.”

His training is very specific to his sport. What most people consider “cardio” is of little use. He might run once a week in the build-up to a competition, “but it’s just a mile done as quickly as possible. We’re only on the apparatus for a minute and a half to two minutes. So, it’s still targeted.”

He doesn’t lift weights, either – it doesn’t build the sort of strength he needs. Conditioning workouts are purely bodyweight-based, incorporating handstand variations, ring work, triceps dips, wide-arm press-ups and leg lifts. “I also do a lot of joint-strengthening exercises to make sure my wrists and ankles are ready for my session,” he says. “As I’m getting older, my joints need more attention.” Staying leaner and lighter also helps with longevity. Excess muscle mass would hinder his flexibility.

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Sacrifice pays gold dividends for Moirs, Virtues

by Gary Mason, The Globe and Mail, February 24, 2010

Jim Virtue is trying to talk but he can't. He's just been asked what his favourite moment of the last 12 hours has been, since his daughter Tessa Virtue and her ice-dance partner, Scott Moir, won gold in a performance for the ages.

"I think..." he begins. That's as far as he gets. His eyes well up. He puts his hand to his face. He says in a whisper, "Being here with everyone." Now his wife, Kate, sitting beside him, is also tearing up. And across the table in a waterfront restaurant in Vancouver on Tuesday, Scott's mother, Alma Moir, is wiping tears from her cheeks. The only one who isn't crying is her husband, Joe.

"For me, it was seeing them on the podium," Kate Virtue says weakly.

"They were holding hands," adds Alma.

"I loved it when they started singing O Canada," Joe pipes in. "That was just the best."

For the last half hour, the Virtues and the Moirs - who live in London, Ont., and the nearby town of Ilderton, respectively - have been talking about sacrifice. That would be the enormous sacrifice the skaters made on the way to becoming Olympic champions, but also the sacrifices their parents and brothers and sisters made. You don't become an Olympian period without the support, commitment and love of those around you

Scott Moir had said earlier in the day that in the moments before he and Tessa took to the ice for their gold-medal performance, he was a lone with his thoughts. He said he spent a lot of that time thinking about his parents and everything they had done to get him to this point.

Almost every family vacation we took in the last 10 years was to a figure skating competition,""" he said. "I though of my parents driving us to Waterloo at 430 in the morning to practise. It goes on and on.""

The two families almost seemed uncomfortable talking about all that they had done in the name of their remarkable ice dancers. It wasn't about them, they insisted. what their children gave up to achieve their dreams was even greater, they wanted everyone to know. Maybe. But figure skating isn't cheap. In fact, as sports go, only horseback riding may be more expensive.

Parents of figure skaters fork out money for competitions, coaches, equipment, training, travel. Almost every time Tessa and Scott skated while growing up, a member of their families went along. So there was airfare and accommodations. They would have to pay for the accommodations of coaches, too. Tessa's costumes are $2000 or more apiece. She goes through eight a year. Five years ago, the pair decided to switch coaches and train in Michigan. so the Virtues bought a home there and Kate moved down to watch over her then-15year-old daughter. She had to quit her job with the Law Society of Upper Canada to do it. At that point, the Virtues' three older children were mostly gown up and off to university. Jim, a lawyer, stayed behind in London to make the money to help finance everything.

The Moirs, meantime, were forced to remortgage their home in Ilderton to help cover the bills that began piling up 13 years ago when Scott and Tessa were brought together by Scott's aunt Carol. Alma is a figure-skating instructor and Joe works for a drug company. Alma says they are an average family who make an average income. So the skating did put a tremendous strain on the family finances.

"The skating life is like a moving house," says Jim Virtue. "Except you already own a house at home. But with the moving house, you pay for all the accoutrements on top of it."

It's never a good idea to add up the bills each year," adds Kate. "Any time Jim would ask me, I'd say, 'You don't want to know.'"

"You can easily hit six figures a year," Jim interjects.

And it will surprise exactly no one to hear they'd do it all over again, and not just because it paid of big-time, with their children now Olympic champions and likely on the road to riches. They'd do it again because they love their children.

Now, there were times along that journey when the two families would get the kids together and ask them the most important question there is: Do you still want to do this? Because it wasn't always bright lights and top finishes. There were enough falls in practice and competition to make even the most iron-willed waver, let alone teenagers who were giving up so much.

Anyway, the answer was always yes, we love what we're doing. And that was good enough for their folks.

"I'd say the only time I really questioned it all is when Tessa got chronic exertion compression syndrome - an injury suffered through overtraining," says Kate.

The doctors told Tessa she had two choices: quit skating or endure an operation that would leave her leg permanently scarred in four places.

"She thought about it for about two seconds," Kate recalls. "And then said, 'What time can we do it' She was 18 and a half at the time and I remember it really bothering me because she had already sacrificed so much by then. I said to her, 'You don't have to do this, Tessa.' And she said: 'I do if I want t get to the Olympics.'"

Alma and Joe and Kate and Jim have become as close as two couples can, bonded by endless hours in cold rinks and the shared emotions that flow from having two children who compete as one. So when Jim Virtue said his favourite moment was enjoying time with Kate, Alma and Joe, and basking in the glow of their children's achievements together, it was completely understandable. They had been through so much together. The highs and the lows - because there are always more lows than highs along the way to something as great as Olympic gold. They all still seemed to be in a big of shock over it all.

"What are the odds of all the planets aligning at the moment they needed to peak in their sport at such a young age, in front of a Canadian crowd, at their first Olympics, and they nail it?"? says Jim. "They just nail it. That is a dream. I have dreamed that dream and it came true."

#for my anon who asked #but also because otherwise it's just gone #so please excuse any typos as I had to type this out LOL #article #2010 #not the world's best written article and the beginning is still the best #but one of the few articles that focused on their parents #their point of view #and at the time it was written #had a lot of bits of information that we otherwise didn't know

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eraisme · 5 years

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To Be a Redgrave: Part 2

Jesus, this book is magical. What started as Dierdre being almost jealous of Vanessa, they’ve grown to be really good friends. They both find out they’re pregnant at the same time (Dierdre with Jemma, Vanessa with her second child, Joley Richardson), due weeks apart from one another.

Dierdre goes into labor, then to hospital, as one does. Corin goes to his matinee (he was in The Right Honorable Gentleman) and leaves his wife alone. He had a habit of just leaving when he didn’t want to deal, not that there was much he could do in a hospital in 1965 for his pregnant wife. To his credit, though, he treated her like a queen throughout her entire pregnancy.

When he returns back to her around midnight, Dierde tries to deflect attention from herself, asking him about how his show went. and asking the nurses to bring him coffee. He’s like, “TF, bae, you havin’ the baby, not me.”

There’s a lovely line in this, but we’re going to skip ahead of it under the cut. Again, italics is straight from the book, regular type is my little notes...as needed.

My daughter was born on the night of January 14, 1965, in the middle of a tempest.

It terrified me to be so out of control. I had been brought up not to give in to feelings and now I was overwhelmed. I didn’t want anyone to see my struggle, to know I was crying and that I couldn’t cope. But of course I did cope. The miracle is that you do.

When I was wheeled back into my room, Corin was there, looking as dazed as I felt. I took in Rachel’s (Kempson, Corin’s mother) bright bowl of flowers and heard again the wind howling at the windows. It felt as thought we were in Wuthering Heights, or a ship at sea. I’d never known a storm like it in London, not weathered an internal one before.

“You’ve just come through with flying colors,” said my husband, as though I had won an Olympics gold medal. And Corin held my hand as the brought in our daughter. I’ve never seen him so overwhelmed before or since. At once shy and proud, nervous and confident, he seemed to jump from boy to man in front of my eyes, all due to this fragile little creature he held bundled in his arms.

My pregnancy had been spent in a state of expectation. Suddenly, within seconds, it seemed, we were a family. Corin and I smiled at each other.

Elation colored the whole of the next day. I received flowers and telegrams and visitors, and Corin spent all the time with us that he could when he was not on stage. Our peaches-and-cream baby we called Jemima. Slowly and carefully I learned how to hold her, cuddle her, put her on my breast.

But by the second day, a wash of depression swept over me. I felt terrible. My breasts were hard as rocks before the milk came through properly, and every bone in my body ached with exhaustion.

As if to spite my girlish dreams, motherhood did not come as easily as all the books and discussions had suggested.

Once I returned home I found I would lie awake at night, nervous stretched to the point where sleep was impossible, waiting for the moment my baby would wake up demanding more of me. Even though she might be quiet, she would wake at any time. So I’d stay alert, forcing my eyes open. Hour after hour, I listened to her quiet murmured breaths, waiting for the restless stirring, the little cry, the signal that she needed me.

When Jemma did wake, I fed her. I held her in my arms, placing her mouth on my nipple and feeling her pliant, sweet smelling warmth. The best times were when Corin would wake too, bring me tea and talk to me while I was feeding her, and his goodness and love made made me feel better about everything. I couldn’t tell him about my ghostly doubts and vexations; in the bright electric light of 6 A.M. they evaporated.

By the time the ritual was over, Jemma asleep again, nourished by me, burped by Corin, quiet, and I was slipping half conscious into the womb of our bed, I would feel only that it was my fault---all the doubts, the anger, the fear---that it was only my nature that was complicating everything. If there was something missing, then it was missing from me. My fears had no right to be voiced, to be heard. I loved my husband. I loved my baby.

As the cold winter months passed and spring blossomed into life, so did I. I adjusted to motherhood, and the doubts melted with the snows. Both Corin and I were determined that Jemma would not lead a confined nursery life, so she came everywhere with us. I had decided against a rigid regime. She fed when she wanted, slept when she wanted and was cuddled when she wanted. It seemed to work.

Through it all, I was aware of a new sense of relief, a justification for my life. Now I had a reason for being in the home; not wasting my time on a boring job; for getting up in the morning and going to sleep at night.

A pattern that pleased me was emerging. I was nurturing, so I was worthy of love. I had not realized just how useless marrying into a family of superachievers had made me feel.

#To Be a Redgrave #Dierdre Redgrave #Corin Redgrave #Jemma Redgrave #wee baby Jemima #still on the horn with Ms. Netflix the President of Netflix #no one there seems to know what the hell I'm talking about #I'm going to need to march down there #Joan Crawford style

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afrikanza · 5 years

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10 Most Influential African Women

Africa has many influential women who have greatly aided in putting Africa on the globe in leadership, business, sports, arts, and other spheres and domains.

Discover more: 10 Richest Black Women in the World

We are going to look at those self-made women who rose to influential position mainly through their own efforts rather than being heirs or beneficiaries of undue favors. Here we go!

10. Lupita Nyog’o – Kenya

Lupita Nyong’o is an Oscar-winning actress who came to fame due to her role in the “12 Years A Slave”. She is the first Kenyan actress to have won an Oscar Academy Award in Film and Theater.

She won an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress, in this film in 2013. She has also acted in several films, including East River, My Genes, Steve McQueen’s, Star Wars, The Jungle Book, and lately, Black Panthers.

She has been an inspiration for African women interested in entering the entertainment industry. Apart from acting, she has been an inspiration to women who would like to keep their appearance as natural as possible.

Unlike most African female stars in the entertainment industry, she has not had the urge to bleach her skin. This has led her to appear in several international magazines as an “authentic African woman.” We know, sad but true.

9. Salwa Akhannouch – Morocco

Salwa Akhannouch is a leading Moroccan female entrepreneur. She is not only one of the most influential African women but also one of the most influential Arabic women.

Her great influence emanates from her entrepreneurial prowess. She is the head of Akwa Group which specializes in fashion brands. She owns the exclusive franchise rights in Morocco for brands such as Zara, Gap, and Banana Republic.

She is also into real estate with an impressive portfolio. Through her enterprises, she has a 50% holding stakes in Morocco Mall – a prestigious mall that is Africa’s largest. The mall attracts over 50 million visitors from across the globe with key clientele coming from Africa, Europe and Asia.

8. Bethlehem Tilahun Alemu – Ethiopia

Founder of soulRebels, Bethlehem Alemu is a household name in Ethiopia. She cut out her niche in the soles of the African shoes – making shoes out of recycled materials.

soulRebels is largely a social enterprise that not only generates profits but also helps to sustain a clean environment through recycling of materials that would have otherwise added to the increasing mountain of garbage in Addis Ababa and characteristic of most African cities.

Further, than that, soulRebels has helped relieve the acute unemployment crisis is Ethiopia by providing income opportunities to those living in poor slums of Addis Ababa. Thus, through her enterprise, she has profitably participated in alleviating poverty.

As Ethiopia’s un-announced cultural ambassador, Bethlehem Alemu, she has promoted Ethiopia’s traditional shoes, namely, “selate” and “barabasso” to international fame by adding to them a stylish dose of modern appeal.

Her ingenious entrepreneurship has led her to establish international stores in many parts of the world, including Switzerland, Taiwan, and Singapore.

7. Caster Semenya – South Africa

Born in 1991, in South Africa, Caster Semenya is a world-renowned athlete. She has won several international medals in athletics, including the most prestigious one – 800m Olympic Gold Medal.

Semenya began her international athletics career in 2008 by participating in 2008 World Junior Championship which she successfully won a gold medal in the 800m race.

In 2009 African Junior Championships, she won a double – 800m gold medal, and 1500m gold medal. She participated in several other international races, capping it up with 2012 Olympic Gold Medal. Her latest great win was in 2017 World Championships in London where she won gold in 800m race.

Caster Semenya has survived all odds when it comes to controversies surrounding her rather successful and exemplary performance in athletics. Some have questioned her gender and even damaging rumors on her personal life which would have otherwise caused great mental, emotional and psychological anguish to many haven’t deterred her.

6. Divine Ndhlukula – Zimbabwe

Divine Ndhlukula was born in Gatu, Zimbabwe. She is one of Zimbabwe’s most celebrated women entrepreneurs. She is the founder and CEO of Securico Security Services.

She entered this male-dominated field by offering customized security services. Due to her exemplary corporate and social leadership, she stands as one of Zimbabwe’s the most decorated women leaders, if not the most.

She has won over 18 Awards both local and international with regard to leadership, entrepreneurship, mentoring, and philanthropy.

5. Ama Ata Aidoo – Ghana

Ama Ata Aidoo has had an influence on Africa spanning over 50 years. She was born in 1942 in Ghana. As a playwright, author, and academician, Aidoo has inspired not only African women but also men in the world of literature, drama, and poetry.

Apart from being an accomplished author, poet, playwright, and academician, Aidoo has also participated in public service as a Minister for Education under the fourth government of Jerry Rawlings.

As an academician, Aidoo has served in many universities straddling Africa, America, and Europe. She has written many pieces of literary works that have continued to impart knowledge to millions across Africa.

She has over a dozen pieces of such works in her name. The Dilemma of A Ghost being her debut piece and Diplomatic Pounds & Other Stories, being her latest. At, 76 years of age, she still finds the energy to continue mentoring young African women through her Mbaasem Foundation.

4. Folorunsho Alakija – Nigeria

Billed as Nigeria’s richest woman, Folorunsho Alakija was born in 1951 in Nigeria. She worked in many companies before beginning her entrepreneurial journey. Her entrepreneurial debut was Supreme Stitches, a tailoring company. Later on, it became Roses of Sharon House of Fashion, which became a national brand.

Later on, Folorunsho ventured into the lucrative oil industry by applying for prospecting license in 1993. She carried oil prospecting under the flagship company, Famfa Limited. Later on, after oil discoveries, she converted from prospecting into mining.

Apart from entrepreneurship, she has also participated in the academic field having become the first Nigerian woman to be a Chancellor of a university. She achieved this by becoming the Chancellor of Osun State University.

She is one of Nigeria’s leading women philanthropists as well as the Chief Matron of Africa’s Young Entrepreneurs.

3. Sahle-Work Zewde – Ethiopia

Sahle-Work Zewde has broken history to become Ethiopia’s first female president. This is a big fete considering that Ethiopia is a predominantly patriarchal society. She has thus broken the ceiling to inspire not only Ethiopian women, but African women at large.

Sahle-Work was unanimously elected by Ethiopia’s Federal Parliamentary Assembly to take up this coveted position. She had previously worked in diplomatic circles as UN Special Representative to the African Union (AU).

She has also served in various other ambassadorial positions including Djibouti, IGAD, UNESCO, and ECA (Economic Commission for Africa).

2. Fatou Bom Bensouda – Gambia

Born in 1961 in the Gambia, Fatou Bom Bensouda is the most influential woman from this tiny West African country.

Bensouda has served in various public capacities both locally, regionally and internationally. Currently, she is the second Prosecutor General of the International Criminal Court (ICC), and the first and only woman to have held that position.

She also served as Gambia’s first female Attorney General and Minister for Justice and Constitutional Affairs. Prior to her appointment at ICC, she worked as Legal Adviser and Prosecutor at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR).

1. Dr. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – Nigeria

Dr. Adichie is a writer and novelist. She was born in Nigeria, in 1977.

She is an acclaimed feminist renowned for her speech “We Should All Be Feminists”, delivered on TED program. She has won about a dozen prized Awards in by various literary organizations including Caine, Booker, PEN, Orange, among others.

Some of her great literary works include Purple Hibiscus, Half of A Yellow Sun, The Thing Around Your Kneck, among others.

She was inspired by Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and considers him her literary mentor. She hasn’t disappointed her mentor. She too has become a mentor not only to young and upcoming female talents but also to male talents.

Conclusion

When it comes to the most influential women, Africa shines on the global scene. It has powerful influential women across various professional, entrepreneurial, artistic, sports, political, and leadership domains.

They compete effectively with women across the world. They have contributed to raising Africa’s profile, even in domains that their male counterparts have been dwarfed. They are the true spirit of Africa’s 21st Century renaissance.

Discover more: 10 African Social Entrepreneurs – Proudly Leading Africa’s Transformation

The post 10 Most Influential African Women appeared first on Afrikanza.

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