Read why Kristi Yamaguchi, a special Olympic correspondent for TODAY, doesn't consider winning gold at Albertville in 1992 her biggest achievement.
It was the men’s figureskating finals of the 1988 Winter Olympics. I was 16 and already had racked up my share of skating titles. Someday I’d be in the Olympics. In fact, it was my dream.
That night I lay on our living room floor excitedly watching the battle of the Brians in Calgary: American Brian Boitano facing Brian Orser in his home territory of Canada. Both of them had been world champions. Both of them deserved to win.
Naturally I was rooting for Brian Boitano, a northern Californian like me. We’d skated on the same ice. I held my breath in amazement. Boitano pulled off an amazing eight triple jumps, almost flawless. The gold medal! I jumped in the air when his score went up.
But what happened next is what I’ll never forget. Brian sat in front of the camera with his coach, surrounded by a crush of journalists scribbling in notebooks, lights flashing, the TV interviewer holding a microphone up to him.
Brian was talking about his career and his medal, talking to the whole world. A tremor went through me, then a terrible sinking feeling. I could never be in the Olympics, I thought. No way could I talk in public like that. I’d freeze. Just the idea of a press conference terrified me.
You see, I loved skating partly because I didn’t have to talk. I could express myself with camel spins, split jumps and spirals. I didn’t have to stand up and give a speech like some teachers expected.
Public speaking was one class in high school I would never take. I could feel the blood rush to my face if I thought a teacher was going to call on me. I stared at my shoes. Please, please, let someone else talk, I’d pray. I was sure I’d get my words jumbled up and make a fool of myself.
What if journalists asked me questions like they asked Brian: “When did you first learn to skate?” “Where did you grow up?” “Tell us about your family.” I’d freeze up like the ice beneath my skates!
And yet, there was so much I would love to say, about my family and all the support they’d given me. About following my dream of being a figure-skating champion.
Why should a dream have some part of it that was so scary? Why would I have to do something I feared in pursuing something I loved?
Then I would fantasize: Maybe if they did a profile of me I could let the pictures speak for themselves, like a slide show.
I could find a snapshot of my maternal grandfather in his Army uniform, the only non-Caucasian in his platoon during World War II. A second-generation Japanese-American, he fought against the Nazis in Europe.
His wife, my grandmother, stayed in an internment camp in Colorado, barracks of rough cabins, families crowded on top of each other. Even with her husband a soldier in the U.S. Army, she didn’t feel safe in the outside world. Anti-Japanese sentiment ran too deep.
“Where was your mother born?” a journalist could ask.
“My mother was born in an internment camp,” I would have to say, “on January 1, 1945.” A New Year’s gift, they called her. I had a picture of the camp.
I would also look for a picture of me as a child: dark-haired, round-faced and my tiny legs and feet in casts. I was born with club feet, pointing inward and curled under. For the first 18 months of my life they were in plaster casts. Then I had to be fitted with special corrective shoes with a metal bar connecting them. I remember the bar clanking on the hardwood floors when I tried to walk. I was quite a sight.
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