My name is Theodore Howard Szelnyk. My mother gave it to me. I don't know if those names meant anything to her or not, same as my knowledge of her feelings for me. At the orphanage they nicknamed me Tod, so Tod I am.

I don't remember my first foster home at all, probably just because I was too young. All I know for sure is they brought me back to the orphanage. The next time I was adopted I was seven. My new mom took me to two places I'd never been before: one was public school, the other gymnastics lessons at the YMCA. I hated one and loved the other. I liked this lady who took care of me, but my only real friend was one of the gymnastics instructors, a high-schooler named Matt Warrington. I think it was the fact that I never wanted to leave the gym, combined with the occasional bruise on her face that my foster mother couldn't quite disguise with makeup, that tipped him off that something was wrong. Matt eventually exposed the fact that my foster mother's husband regularly beat both her and me, though I didn't realize until much later how deeply he was involved, or what a true friend I had in him. I don't know what ended up happening to the man and woman to whom I'd been sent, but it was back to the orphanage for me. I was nine then.

Things were slightly different, now. I still went to the public school instead of being taught at the orphanage. Several other orphans who'd also been pulled from their foster homes did the same. I was the youngest in the group, and after school we'd take the bus together to the City Youth Center. The CYC was a nonprofit place begun in an old warehouse out of the goodness of a few peoples' hearts � Randall's and Jill's, who ran it, and a few others'. They had toys, games, discussions, books, even a few computers that had been donated. We'd spend every afternoon and most of our weekends at the CYC. I was one of only a few white kids there, but there was a sense of acceptance about the place that I didn't have at school. I didn't have to hide that I was an orphan, or be embarrassed to write my address on forms or index cards. And the kids actually liked me. For the first time I discovered what self-esteem felt like.

At four-twenty I'd leave the CYC and take the bus by myself to the YMCA for gymnastics. I got to keep taking gymnastics since everyone there knew what had happened to me and decided not to take away the only thing I truly loved. I'll be eternally grateful for that charity, because I did love gymnastics. I loved the way it made me focus, and the flying freedom it gave me. And I was good at it. It was the only thing I was good at. I also loved learning from Matt, who was still my closest friend. Every day I went, joining different classes when they met on different days. And I still never wanted to leave. Between school, gymnastics, and the CYC, I barely spent any waking time at the orphanage at all. I could almost pretend I had my own life. This went on for a year, and it was the happiest year of my life to that point.

There was a boy at school named Jimmy, my age, who'd been adopted from the same orphanage as us, only his new parents were the loving people you see on posters in the adoption office. Jimmy was worse than any of the regular kids with parents � it seemed everything he did was intended to make our lives miserable. He teased us, played nasty pranks, and tried to rally classmates against us. He treated us like we were disgusting to him. I had it worst of all, being in his grade. He made fun of the CYC, sometimes with racial jeers but usually just bashing our financial status � he didn't actually understand racism any more than I did. I think he wanted to prove he wasn't like us orphans; he was something better. But like I said, most of the orphans in public school were older than we were, and though I was small for my age I was in good shape. We used physical force as our weapon against him, and it only took a few solid thrashings before a threat or a raised fist was enough to turn him away. After any argument that we had � whether he ended up with a bloody mouth or he won and humiliated me in front of our whole class � afterwards Jimmy always went to the boys' room and cried. This was why I could never bring myself to hate him. No matter what he did, he was really just a weakling, whose grades were even worse than mine.

For my eleventh birthday I got adopted again. I had mixed feelings about it � my life may not have been great at the time, but it was secure, and I didn't want to lose what little I had. The parents who adopted me at least lived close by, so I could still go to gymnastics and the CYC.

These new parents had a son who was in college, but I never met him. I only stayed with them for three months. Matt had made me promise that if this new family hurt me in any way, I'd tell him immediately, so I could get out. He'd had to make me promise because until very recently I honestly hadn't understood that it was wrong for parents to beat children. I still didn't really understand the reasoning behind it; I just knew it as a fact: it is wrong for parents to beat kids. I'd promised, though.

And in fact, my new father first hit me the night after they took me to their home. And life with them continued like that. And I didn't tell anyone. Actually I didn't mind the beatings much, since at this new home I had much more freedom than I had at the orphanage. I stayed at the gym until it closed at ten every night, or until Matt made me leave. It wasn't hard to hide bruises since I got enough from gymnastics and football games with the CYC kids, but then my foster father taught me a new joy � cigar burns. I still have the scars from that night � one on each arm (not even with each other � the man wasn't that artistic).

I left the next morning, and for a while I didn't live anywhere. I didn't go to school, and I slept at the end of a hallway in a run-down apartment building that was never locked. One night I watched three men break into an apartment in the hallway. I didn't say anything, just huddled perfectly still and hoped they wouldn't see me, which they didn't. I had no money, since the little I'd always managed to make doing odd jobs for people went toward bus fares, and had only a few changes of clothes that I'd stuffed into my new backpack instead of books the morning I'd run away. I got food at the CYC, and sneaked downstairs and used the shower and washing machine there with no one the wiser. I got sick with some kind of lung infection that didn't go away. Matt asked if my mom had brought me to the doctor, and I mumbled that she would tomorrow. I think he doubted me. I didn't go to gymnastics either, after that, nor to the CYC.

I got on a bus and went farther away than I'd ever been before, to a part of the city where I hoped no one I knew would see me. I spent four days just trying to scrounge up enough money for food. I managed okay and found a better place to sleep, and my persistent cough started to abate, too. I was doing all right on my own. But somehow I was miserable anyway, and I'm amazed that it took me so long to figure out why: freedom without gymnastics was not worth it.

I went back to the section of the city where I'd grown up that very night. Loathe as I was to do so, I returned to my latest foster home, from which I'd run two weeks ago. I felt powerful and defiant � they could beat me all they wanted, but as long as I had gymnastics, they couldn't truly hurt me.

When I knocked on the door, I got a brutal reality check. The man opened it, drunk as ever, and as soon as he recognized me he flew into a rage. He grabbed me by one arm and dragged me around to the backyard, where he gave me the beating of my life. I foolishly remembered I wasn't powerful � I was sick and weak and small and stupid. It never even occurred to me to scream, never occurred that people who heard would help me. His wife certainly wouldn't, for one; she was watching the whole spectacle from a window. By the time the man was satisfied I was covered in my blood. My nose was broken, and it hurt to open my eyes. My body felt crushed, but I got up and walked away. Grass stuck to me. I walked aimlessly, wishing from the bottom of my heart that the bastard had killed me and gotten it finished with, once and for all. The little pride I'd grown living on my own had been smashed flat.

I found myself near my old school and realized that that was the last place I wanted to be. So I followed the path the bus took to the CYC. I probably walked about an hour, but by then I'd forgotten the concept of time. The warehouse was locked, as should be expected for the middle of the night. So I laid my broken self down on the concrete in front of the door, figuring I'd go to sleep and they'd find me in the morning or I'd die, and I didn't hope or care either way.

Obviously, I didn't die. I don't remember much of what happened, though. My first clear memories after that are of the hospital. I was there for a week, though I didn't know it until later. Matt came every day to visit me, and one day Jill and Randall came, and another day some kids from the CYC, which surprised me.

After that I was taken back into the orphanage. I was humiliated by my whole experience, but changed in some other way as well, and the humility was not a bad thing. Somehow all the trouble into which I'd got myself generated respect for me. I was overjoyed to return to gymnastics, and once again stayed at the gym until it closed. The orphanage staff grumbled about my returning so late but didn't try to stop me. I was practicing gymnastics up to five hours a day, and when no one remained to spot me I learned how to use the weights in the weight room, or sometimes even went swimming if a lifeguard was on duty. I was amazed that I'd spent so much time in the YMCA, which always smelled of chlorine to the point of choking you, and had never swum. But I taught myself quickly, and discovered I liked it.

I continued on this way until I was thirteen. I no longer hoped for a pair of loving parents who'd adopt me, but the CYC had put dreams of college into my head, however bad my grades were. Then something unexpected happened: I got so good at gymnastics that Matt said he couldn't coach me anymore. There was nothing else he could teach me. I was shocked, but then he told me of a school he'd heard about. It was far away, in New York, but it was a high school specifically for male gymnasts. The students lived at the school and trained in all their spare time.

It sounded like a dream come true for me, but I was skeptical. I had a feeling it would be expensive, and I had no money. But Matt said that the school gave out scholarships, like colleges do, for students with special talent or need. The other problem was academic. I was thirteen years old and still hadn't passed sixth grade. Matt said he thought my skill as a gymnast would be enough to carry me in. I had doubts, but for the first time in my life, I also had a goal.

I worked harder in school and was mildly surprised at how my grades skyrocketed once I started doing my homework and trying to pay attention in class. I tried to apply the focus I felt when doing gymnastics to the classroom. My teachers were surprised, too, and they skipped me into seventh grade, which thrilled me. Mostly I worked at gymnastics, though. I stopped going to the CYC except on weekends, and practiced for seven hours every day, with a break in the middle only because I was forced to take it. I didn't find out until later that these were the same types of hours Olympic gymnasts keep, and was mildly amused when I learned it.

One day Matt told me he wanted to drive me up to the school so they could see me perform � otherwise they wouldn't even consider a person with my academic record. The day before we went, I started to have doubts. I imagined they'd laugh at me and I'd be humiliated yet again. It was impossible. Matt was looking for a way to get rid of me. I was a burden to him � why else would he try to send me off to New York? I was so edgy with nerves that I accused him of this, while we were practicing.

Matt looked completely taken aback. I think I really hurt him when I said that. He pushed me down on the mat by my shoulders and sat down next to me. Then he told me everything he'd never told me before: how he'd fought to the point of my adoptive father's attempting to strangle him to get me out of my second foster home, and how he'd been worried out of his mind when I'd disappeared, and how he'd forgone going to a better college out of state and elected to commute to a local school instead, so he could stay here and coach me. There had been several reasons, he said, but the main one wasn't money, it wasn't his family, it was me! "Tod, you're my little brother," he said.

I cried when he said that. It was the only time in my life that I'd cried, as far back as I could remember. I was so shamed at what I'd said to him that I couldn't even look up, but I impulsively wrapped my arms around his neck anyway, and hugged him for a long time. I honestly hadn't known, or I'd been too scared to believe it. The feeling was overwhelming: someone loved me.

The next day, Saturday, we drove to upstate New York � Matt and me and also Steve, the head gymnastics instructor at the YMCA. I felt important, but also felt an enormous load of pressure on my shoulders. Gymnastics was the one area of my life in which I had not yet failed.

Driving through the countryside was a new experience that took my thoughts off my nerves. I'd never before been out of my old New Jersey city, and what I was seeing now blew my mind. I had never seen grass before. I'd thought I had, but now I knew I hadn't. Same for hills. I wanted to get out and run through the meadows and sing, or maybe scream, for joy.

We got to the school on time and met the representative/scout and shook hands and got a little tour, but I just wanted to perform and get it done with. Finally, we arrived at the gym.

It wasn't so huge as I'd imagined it, but all the equipment was of the highest quality, and there was a raised floor as well as one on the ground. I hoped I'd be able to use the ground one, since I'd never been on a raised one with springs underneath. I was also nervous about the vault, since I'd never vaulted onto a mat with lines marked for judging before. I'd done my routines in front of Matt and some of the other instructors to get the feel of performing, but I knew already that this would be very different.

I focused though, the way gymnastics makes you focus every nerve and muscle of your body and mind. And I did my routines flawlessly, mostly better than I ever had before. Maybe it was the equipment, maybe the adrenaline, maybe even the pressure; I'll probably never know.

I just had to hope what I'd done was good enough. The scout made no comments to me between routines, so I had no idea what his thoughts were. When I finished on the floor, my last apparatus, and walked over breathlessly, he smiled and told me I was quite a performer. And that they'd certainly consider me for a scholarship. He gave me a bunch of papers and said to work on my grades, and actually ruffled my sweaty hair before he left!

Matt was the one to hug me then, and he and Steve laughed over how the scout's jaw had dropped watching me. It was the happiest moment of my life, and I wasn't even into the school yet.

I got in, though, and got a full scholarship despite my poor academic record. Because of the importance of youth in gymnastics, I was allowed in without attending eighth grade. In fact, just passing seventh was a struggle, but I did it.

Considering how little I had there it was surprisingly hard for me to leave the small section of city that had always been my home. I was afraid of being on my own. Matt drove me up to the school again, but the ride wasn't nearly so magical this time. I was given my own room there, a luxury that felt slightly creepy. Matt helped me unpack, not that I had much, and then I was alone.

We got into the gymnastics right away, which was great. Much as I loved Matt and the YMCA it was exciting and fun to be instructed by someone new and extremely knowledgeable about what he was teaching. Things weren't so rosy once class started, though. The schooling here was much more difficult than it was at my old school, and I hadn't been good at it then. After our first set of tests, a month in, I was narrowly passing every class except math. If I were still at home I'd have been proud of myself. Here, expectations were higher. I learned to adjust, though; slowly, but I learned. By the end of my freshman year anyone looking at my grades wouldn't have guessed they'd ever been a problem. My report card held C's, B's, and my first A ever, in English. I discovered that maybe I wasn't so stupid as I'd always thought myself.

A much bigger problem was the other students. As far as my being a misfit went, this place was worse than the public school. Besides all having parents, most of the boys here had rich parents, a fact which they made painstakingly clear. Despite this, they seemed offended that I'd received a free ride. They also hated me because I was better at gymnastics than any of them were, by a long shot. Now I saw why Matt had thought my gymnastics alone could get me in. And the others were jealous, and made me pay for it. They made fun of my academic failures, my lack of money, lack of culture, lack of experience with girls (that was the worst), even of the way I talked. Apparently some people from New Jersey talk with an accent that some people not from New Jersey find funny. Also, I had to adjust to not cursing � it was a regular part of language at home, but here it was met with stiff disapproval, mainly from teachers. Until I came here I hadn't even been sure exactly which words were swear words. What I found, though, was that the other boys could curse and did so profusely, just not in front of certain adults. The logic of this was too much for me to understand.

Sometimes I fought with my fists, falling back on physical force as my reliable weapon. Though I was one of the smaller guys there I could take any one of them in a fair fight, but the trouble was there were thirty of them. I learned, eventually, that it was more satisfying to beat them in the gym.

Far worse than the sneering and taunting was the way I was left out. The others would do everything from study together to warm up and practice to go out at night � most of them had cars. I never asked to be included, but I was lonely anyway. I've never been quick to make friends, but I suddenly wanted them � I wanted a social life. Instead I did what I'd always done � spent long hours in the gym, practicing. And read, in my room. Maybe that was why I was doing well in school. I even read some books on my own, that I picked out from the library.

When I'd left I'd promised a few friends from the CYC and the orphanage that I'd write. I didn't though � I didn't think they'd really want to hear from me. I'd never been especially close with any of them, and they'd probably just be mad that I was out in such a wonderful place and was totally ungrateful for it. I'd also promised Matt I'd write, and if we hadn't had that conversation the night before we drove up for the first time I wouldn't have written to him, either. I wrote the letters to Matt, but I lied. I wanted him to think I was completely happy, because that would make him happy, too, especially since this school had been his idea. So I told him the place was a dream come true.

A big change was having competition as a part of gymnastics. Instructors and students alike were incredulous when I told them I'd never competed before � gymnastics purely for recreation was unheard of at this level. They couldn't believe that anyone would work as hard as I'd worked and get as good as I'd gotten without any medals or trophies, just because they loved it. It took a few meets for me to get used to competing, but I found I liked it. And soon I did have medals and trophies, though not the slightest idea what to do with them.

Over the summers there was no school (another new feeling � I'd always been at remedial school during summers at home), but I stayed up there anyway, training and paying for it by working at cleaning or other odd jobs. I also worked as an instructor at camps the school ran, which was absolutely awesome. I'd never been a role model before. And the kids didn't care who I was or if I had parents or at what I was good or bad, beyond that I was better at the rings than the pommel horse. Quite a contrast from when I'd been their age and in school, I reflected. Right now these kids just wanted to have fun, and they liked me because I gave it to them.

Once or twice each year, when I could find a ride to the nearest bus stop, I went home. I visited the orphanage and of course, the CYC (where, strangely, I now seemed to be a leader), and the gym. During these trips I stayed with Matt, in the apartment he rented with two of his friends. That little apartment was, and still is to this day, my favorite place in the world. It was great to see Matt, and besides that, I felt like I belonged here. Matt had made his own home and welcomed me in.

All in all, the New York school was a pretty nice place to spend four years. Though several times I nearly got myself expelled for misconduct, I became a very intense and very good gymnast, succeeded in school, managed to make a couple of friends along the way, and even met a few girls. And I earned a high school diploma.

My senior year at the All-Northeast tournament I was favored to contend for the championship, especially since the gymnast who was clearly the top competitor � a kid from New Hampshire named Colin Nicholson, who is now one of my best friends � was petitioning in with an injured shoulder, and therefore could not medal. Winning wasn't the main issue in this tournament, though. The important feature was that the top six competitors would form a team that would represent the Northeast in the All-America high school gymnastics competition.

I did something surprising at the meet � instead of competing from the school in New York, I competed from my home city. There was no team competition, so it didn't change anything � it was just a personal decision. I didn't do it because I disliked the school or because I felt I owed my city something for raising me. I did it because there was a vague chance that this could give me the extra dash of inspiration I'd need to make it into one of those six slots. Five, since Colin was basically in already.

It was the greatest meet of my life, in terms of intensity. To date, that is, I may have to amend that once Nationals start. And with that statement, I give away the ending: I made it. I didn't win the competition � the winner was a surprise underdog named Gavin Joseph, who'd come in third in the Connecticut State Championship. The guy who'd beat me out to be New York Champion, Ron Alcabera, the most consistent gymnast I know, came in second. And I came in third.

When they read off the list of the names of the people who were going to the National Tournament, I almost cried for the second time in my life. From New York, Ron Alcabera; from Pennsylvania, Aaron Caro; from Connecticut, Jack DeMarnes; from Connecticut, Gavin Joseph; from New Hampshire, Colin Nicholson, and from New Jersey, Tod Szelnyk. That was the list. Later I found out that Jill and Randall had cried as they'd watched it on TV (TV, imagine! When they'd learned the tournament would be televised they'd rented a TV for the CYC, just so they could watch me.), and some of the orphanage staff had cried, too. And so did Matt, though he was there in person.

For the next two months the six of us trained as a team. It's been the best two months of my life. It really has been a dream come true. I've found true friends, my own age. These five guys like me as I am, and don't care about all the crap in the background. They even put up with me when I took a long time to trust them, and didn't mind my being slow to open up. Colin deserves the most credit � he's my roommate, and the first few days when I was stone silent, I was a pill to live with. But he refused to let me refuse to let him be my friend. Now I'm totally opened and totally relaxed with the whole team. I even join Ron and Jack in being pretty goofy sometimes. I trust these guys. I'd die for any of them.

At first I worried about where Matt would now fit in my life. He's no longer my only friend. I'm not worried anymore; I can see that my relationship with my teammates will be different from my relationship with him. These guys are my friends. Matt is truly my brother.

This summer has been such a dream that sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep for fear that when I wake up it'll all be gone. Growing up I never would have imagined that at age 17, I, Tod, unwanted orphan from New Jersey, would be an All-American gymnast representing the Northeast to the whole country. Or that, possibly even more amazing, a week after the National Tournament I'd be going to college.

Over the weekend I went home to see everyone from my childhood one last time before leaving for the tournament. It wasn't all peaches and cream � there were definitely some bitter and resentful feelings from a few of my old friends, since I'd gotten out and could now come back and happily visit this place where they'd be trapped their entire lives, as far as anyone could see. But for some old friends, I also represented hope.

Matt said I've changed so much in the last two months he almost didn't recognize me. He meant it as a good thing, I know. I had come home with self-confidence and self-respect, two traits I'd never had before, no matter how good I got at gymnastics. I don't think I'll ever be able to thank him for everything he's done for me � I don't know how it would be possible. Only just now, after meeting Colin and the rest, do I even understand why he did it.

I'm now in Houston, Texas, and tomorrow begins the big tournament. Someone who'd found out about my childhood situation asked me to write about it, hoping to come out with an inspirational story to tell. I hope this inspires someone. I hope my story inspires some poor, stupid kid to realize that he is not poor and he is not stupid, and leads him to find himself. After all, that took me seventeen years. Seventeen years before I honestly understood that I had suffered, and that it wasn't my fault. So if I can help someone else along, I'm thrilled. Maybe that's the way for me to repay Matt � by becoming for other kids what he is for me.

I can plan for the future on the plane ride home, though. For now, I've got a competition to think about. I'll be competing on the floor, vault, high bar, parallel bars, and rings; not the pommel horse � it's my weakest event, and only five gymnasts from a team perform on each apparatus. I'm excited. And, surprisingly, not very nervous. It's a miracle just to be here, doing gymnastics with my team, in this meet; it doesn't really matter where I finish in the standings. I've already won.

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