As kids, Kerri Sackville and her sister were head over heels for gymnastics: a shared language and love that helped them through the somersaults of life.

Growing up in the 70s and 80s in suburban Sydney, my sister and I shared two passionate interests. The first was Young Talent Time, a variety show featuring singing and dancing kids. The second was women’s gymnastics.

Neither of us could sing, and we were both average dancers, so being a member of Young Talent Time was out of the question. Gymnastics classes were our best shot at living our dreams.

So off we trotted, once a week for years, in polyester leotards that smelled unpleasantly of chemicals. And yet, despite our enthusiasm, neither of us ever made it past the basics. Tanya stalled at a back walkover, I fractured my arm during my first attempt at a backflip, and we both gave it up as a lost cause.

Still, we remained fascinated with the sport. We read about Nadia Comaneci and Olga Korbut, and tried to imagine their lives, so different from ours. My parents bought us a glossy coffee-table book about gymnastics, and we pored over the photos, marvelling at the feats.

As young adults, we continued to bond over our childhood passions. We would call each other excitedly whenever some tidbit of news dropped about a former Talent Time member, and when the Olympic Games were broadcast, we would watch the gymnastics together. We would sit on the couch, our shoulders touching, our mouths hanging open in wonder.

When the Olympics were held in Sydney in 2000, we agreed we would spend any amount of money, sit in any seat, to see the women’s gymnastics. By then, Tanya was 29 and I was 31, married with my first baby. I managed to score tickets to one of the team events out in Homebush. We were both thrilled. I left my son with my mum, and Tanya and I trekked there on the train, dizzy with anticipation.

Tanya had some health problems, but on that day she was really well. As we exited the station, our first glimpse of the Sydney SuperDome felt surreal. We were entering the world of elite gymnastics, a world we had studied, fantasised about and discussed endlessly since we were kids.

As we walked inside the arena, I gasped. It was staggeringly huge. And as I checked our tickets, my heart sank. I had known we were in the back row – but I had no idea just how high and remote that back row was. The incline was so steep I had to hold Tanya’s hand to keep me steady. The stairs felt endless. We were climbing to the moon!

We found our row and squeezed into our seats. We were so far from the floor, I got dizzy when I looked down and had to close my eyes to recalibrate. Still, we were there, at the Olympic Games, watching the women’s gymnastics, in our home town! Or, at least, we were there, at the Olympic Games. From our great height and distance, the athletes were mere specks in the distance, like tiny bouncing insects moving across the mat. We couldn’t make out the colour of their leotards, let alone what countries they represented. If it weren’t for the giant video screens, we wouldn’t have seen a thing. It still felt magical. We cheered wildly for the little specks. It felt like a return to our youth. It felt like living inside of that coffee-table book. It was my sister and I, inside our childhood dream.

Seven years after the Games came to Sydney, Tanya died. She was 37 years old and had been sick for many years. It was a terrible loss, made worse by the fact that I struggled to recall many good times together. Much of my time with my sister in her final years was tainted by her being unwell or in pain. There were many hospital stays, much time recuperating at home, and a terrible burden of worry.

But that excursion to the SuperDome was a beautiful, joyful memory. Tanya was happy and well. We were two sisters together, sharing a special moment in history. I remember us laughing, up there in the nosebleed section. I remember us eating the snacks we’d smuggled into the arena. I remember asking a stranger to take a photo of us, and the two of us putting our heads together and grinning for the camera. It was a perfect day.

Even now, gymnastics reminds me of my sister. When Simone Biles recused herself at the Tokyo Olympics, I wanted to call Tanya to debrief. When I saw the documentary Athlete A, about abuse in the sport, I longed to hear my sister’s take.

When I watch the gymnastics events broadcast from the Paris Olympics, I’ll be thinking of Tanya. I’ll be thinking of our leotards, and of that coffee-table book, and of us practising our (very poor) handstands against the wall. And I’ll be thinking of that day in Sydney, when we sat together in the SuperDome, dizzy and laughing, in the very back row.

By Kerri Sackville @kerrisackville.com.au

Kerri Sackville is a columnist and the author of five books. She lives in Sydney’s eastern suburbs with her kids and cat.

 Published in Ed#717