More Tragedy Than Triumph -- But Things Looking Up For Skater Rudy Galindo

Rudy Galindo is trying his best to be accommodating. Really, he is. But when you've pried yourself from bed at 6:30 a.m. on your only day off, when you're cold and tired, when your stomach aches and your ankle hurts, and when you've performed the same damn routine for the TV cameras six times already, a guy can get a little testy.

"They want me to do it AGAIN," Galindo mutters to Laura, his sister and coach, during a brief break at the frigid San Jose Ice Centre.

She shakes her head.

He rolls his eyes.

But every good figure skater knows how to smile when things aren't going well. Galindo has made a career of it. So with a wax grin fastened to his face, he glides back to his assigned spot and takes the cue from the ABC Prime-Time Live director.

Roll 'em.

And once more, Galindo starts to spin faster and faster and faster until his blurred body becomes a whirling corkscrew seemingly determined to burrow below the ice and slip away from it all.

Not long ago, Galindo's career appeared to be spinning into oblivion. But with a spellbinding performance on Jan. 20, he captured his first U.S. title in front of 11,000 raucous hometown fans and a national TV audience. It was a storybook moment for Galindo, whose life has known much more turmoil than triumph. His father, Jess, older brother George and two coaches all died in the past seven years. There was a demoralizing breakup with pairs partner Kristi Yamaguchi. And Galindo, who is openly gay, has also had to endure the disdain of the sport's judges.

Many figure skaters spend their youth bottled up in an ice rink, shielded from life's turbulence. Not Galindo. He struggled off the ice to keep his career afloat while absorbing some wicked blows and toiling to make ends meet. Then, in a span of 4 minutes, his world turned a great big somersault.

With the U.S. crown and the attached perks his bank account has gone from zero to solvent. For the first time, he competed in the men's event at the World Championships in Edmonton, Alberta.

"His life is about to change drastically," says Galindo's new agent, Michael Rosenberg. "He's not going to have to sweat blood to keep his head above water any more. If he handles things right, he'll be secure for the rest of his life."

Galindo's rags-to-riches story has attracted extraordinary attention. More attention, at times, than he can handle. Reporters from Sports Illustrated, Time, People magazine and USA Today have dropped by in recent weeks. The major networks are intrigued, including ABC, which spent three days in San Jose, trailing Galindo at the rink, around his neighborhood and at the gym.

"Sometimes it's weird these cameras focused on me and people asking questions," Galindo says. "I'm trying to enjoy it, though, because I realize it's a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing. But I always liked it when nobody paid any attention to me."

For now, that anonymity has been shattered. After the world competition, Galindo will join a lucrative 76-city tour of skating's elite. Endorsements are being lined up, many aimed at Mexican-Americans, who claim Galindo as their hero. He has a standing invitation to the White House and there's even talk of a TV movie based on his life.

It's enough to make a guy dizzy. Especially a guy from the rough streets of East San Jose, who lives in a trailer park with his 56-year-old mother, Margaret, and still doesn't own a car or a credit card. When Galindo isn't groping to make sense of the absurdity, he's laughing about it.

"I just think it's so funny," he says, smiling. "Really a movie based on my life? C'mon. What, an Afterschool Special? I never, ever imagined something like all this. It cracks me up."

Free of gravity

There will be pressure to duplicate The Moment. Galindo realizes this and it worries him a bit. Miracles don't happen every day. That's why, even if his mother continues to pull out the videotape, he refuses to watch as he trains for the Worlds. But there is comfort in knowing that it is there. That it can never be taken away.

The Moment, of course, is Galindo's long program at the Nationals. He practically floated across the vast sheet of glistening ice at San Jose Arena that night, producing the most mesmerizing performance of his life. Free of stress. Free of gravity.

"It was like I was wearing a harness out there and every time I jumped, somebody was pulling me up," he says. "I had never felt that feeling before."

He unleashed a dazzling array of eight triple jumps with flawless precision. With each jump and every spin, the cheers intensified. With 15 seconds left in the program, the rollicking crowd rose to its feet, drowning the final strains of "Swan Lake." When it was over, Galindo stretched his arms to gather the adulation. With glazed eyes, he stared heavenward, made the sign of the cross and shouted the names of his father and brother. And he thanked them for tugging on the harness.

The crowd began to chant: "Six! Six! Six!" Sure enough, two judges punched up the perfect mark. Galindo's mouth flew open. His eyes became saucers. A look of absolute astonishment was painted on his face.

"My mom always pauses the tape right there," he says. "She just starts pointing at me and yucking it up."

Was there ever a more improbable champion? Galindo spent eight months out of competition and earned extra pocket change helping Laura instruct youth skaters. In a sport where athletes spend upwards of $25,000 a year on lessons and equipment, he was being coached free by his sister, who had no world-class credentials, and performing in stock skating boots battered from overuse. Often, he was forced to ride his bicycle four miles to the practice rink.

Galindo, at 26, became the oldest man to win the gold medal in 70 years, beating two men Scott Davis and Todd Eldredge with five titles between them. He was the first Mexican-American to stand atop the podium.

"I think it's probably the greatest upset that I've seen since I've been around," says Morry Stillwell, president of the U.S. Figure Skating Association and a 30-year official in the sport. "It truly was a magical night."

Says Laura, 30, "It was so wild so overwhelming. There was this lump in my gut that just wanted to explode. And that was mixed with a feeling of utter disbelief."

The power of that moment still amazes Galindo. It brought media acclaim and financial opportunity. It bolstered his confidence and gave him instant credibility among wary judges. On top of all that, it moved people in ways he could never imagine.

Says Galindo, "I'll go to the gym to work out and these big, tough guys the size of King Kong will come up to me and say, 'Hey man, that thing you did out there made me cry.' "

Jaws dropped all over

Early on, there were no hints of the obstacles ahead. In the beginning, everything came easily. Maybe too easy. At the age of 7, Galindo accompanied Laura to her skating lessons. While his sister was being tutored, he slipped on a pair of rental skates for the first time and began to mimic every move the teacher and student performed. As he danced about the ice with well-coordinated, fluid moves, jaws dropped all over the rink.

He won the first competition he entered, a small event at Squaw Valley. By 12, he was winning in the novice level at regional contests. A year later, he was the reigning national junior champion.

"His absolute raw talent is incredible," says Sandy Earl, the vice president of the St. Mortiz Skating Club, who was a chaperone for Galindo in his early days. "Watching him early on, you could tell he had the ability to beat anybody. Anybody."

At 13, Galindo wanted to try skating pairs for fun something different. He hooked up with Yamaguchi, 11 years old and tiny. They immediately became a picture of synchronicity. They skated to "Romeo and Juliet." They captured two U.S. pairs titles. An Olympic medal in 1992 was within reach.

"I grew up with Rudy," Yamaguchi says. "For a long time, we were like brother and sister. I always thought we would be skating in the Olympics and have a professional career together. But it's not a perfect world. Our lifestyles started to change and our goals seemed to become different too."

By 1989, dark clouds gathered. Their coach, Jim Hulick, was dying of AIDs-related cancer. Galindo's character changed. He stopped listening to instructions and withdrew from Hulick as if he didn't want to deal with the situation. There were shouting matches and nasty scenes.

"Everything had been so easy between us," Yamaguchi recalls. "But our final year together was more and more difficult."

U.S. skating officials saw that. They did not like where Galindo appeared to be heading and urged Yamaguchi to devote her energies to her solo career. Hulick died in December 1989 at the age of 38. The two skaters drifted apart. Yamaguchi captured the gold medal at the 1992 Olympics and became a millionaire. Devastated, Galindo foundered. He experiemented with alcohol and speed and half-heartedly pursued his singles career. He also wallowed in jealousy.

"Kristi would walk into the rink and everyone would crowd around her wanting an autograph," he says. "That would really upset me to see all the success she was having while I was struggling. I kept thinking about how I could have paid my parents back for all the money they spent in skating if Kristi and I had made it."

Galindo tried to succeed in singles, but his results kept declining: Fifth at the '93 nationals, seventh in '94, eighth in '95. Meanwhile, off the ice, Galindo took care of his 34-year-old brother, George, the final eight months of his life. He would practice in the morning and then spend hours at his bedside. Often his training regime was thrown off kilter, having to rush George to the hospital when complications arose.

"Anyone who has dealt with AIDs knows how horrible the disease can be," Laura says. "Rudy and George were very close, and it was very emotionally hard on him to watch his brother just wither away."

Intensifying the heartache was the fact that Galindo's father had died of a heart attack six months earlier in April 1993. Jess Galindo was a jovial man who wore cowboy hats, bolo ties and shiny silver belt buckles. He drove huge 18-wheelers up and down the state, so he spent a lot of time away from home. But when he was around, he greatly supported the efforts of his children, spending $70 of his hard-earned money to buy Rudy his first pair of skates. In front of the Galindo three-bedroom mobile home lies a cement slab, now nearly covered in grass, that Jess put in and inscribed with: "Rudy, Laura. World champs."

"He loved to watch me skate, but he never pushed me. He let me do my own thing," Galindo recalls. "But my best memories I have of him are away from the rink. He'd let me work with him on the truck and then he'd take us all to the Dairy Bell hamburger stand."

Galindo, though, wound up spending more time at funerals then most young men. The death toll continued early last year when he lost another coach, Rick Inglesi, to AIDS.

"Rudy has always been a real sweet person, but for a while there he was awfully hard to be around," Earl says. "That's certainly understandable, though. The people who always said they'd be there for him all had gone away."

All too often, Galindo groped about, groggy with grief. He still finds it difficult to articulate the incredible sorrow locked inside of him. But he refused to be swallowed by the fear and the pain.

"Every one of those deaths was extremely hard to take, but I think I've almost become numb to it," he says. "It's made me a survivor. And my skating helped me. Skating is like an entire separate world I can escape into. Somehow, I can just skate and forget about things going on in the real world. I always made sure I stayed on the ice. My life would have been really terrible if I hadn't."

The tragedies also strengthened Galindo's resolve.

7/8 7/8"I think it has made me a stronger skater," he says. `"t has given me that little edge and fire. I take all the anger from all the things going on in my life and I use it in a positive way on the ice."

And through it all, his bond with Laura intensified.

"I just love her so much. I can't even explain how important she is to me," says Galindo, who has her name tattooed on his right bicep. "I wouldn't be where I am in skating and in life without her. She's pulled me away from the bad things and made sure I was on the right track. I respect her because I know she's stable and she made all the right decisions in her life."

An All-American boy?

The ABC camera crew has returned to the Foothill Mobilodge to get more shots and ask even more questions. The brown and white double-wide is crammed with pictures and memorbilia from Galindo's skating career. During his self-imposed exile from competition, he'd hole himself up here and watch soap operas because "their problems made mine look like nothing."

The ABC guys take Galindo outside so they can film him walking down a narrow alley. They want things to look gritty and "real," but they shoo away a group of neighborhood kids and urge them to be quiet. Later, they prop up Galindo on a couch atop the trailer's elevated porch. There is an unobstructed view of Interstate 280.

The off-camera director talks about how people usually associate national titles and athletic achievement with all-American boys. He peers into Galindo's eyes and asks if he feels like an all-American boy.

The twig-thin 5-foot-5 skater with spiky black hair, a goatee and ear ring looks bewildered.

"No, not at all," he says. "I don't even know what that means."

Molds have never been comfortable. For a few years, Galindo grew his hair long, caked on layers of dark makeup and chose extremely effeminate outfits as if to hide behind an elaborate disguise. Hardly what skating officials consider poster material.

"In figure skating, they tend to try to package you. Well Rudy never allowed himself to be packaged," Earl says. "But the great thing about him is that he's a genuine, down-to-earth person. He's not real educated, but he has a real neat, sincere personality and he tends to let it all hang out. He doesn't have the cultural background to be a phony or to put on an act. That's why at Nationals when he was jumping up and down and going crazy - he just couldn't hide it."

Galindo has often wondered if his lifestyle affected the judges' view of him and thus, his scores. He doesn't hide his sexual preference, but doesn't emphasize it either. And he bristles at the term "openly gay."

"What's that all about? I'm outwardly happy?" he says with a slight sneer. "I mean, people know. They just know. But you don't see me doing gay parades. Anyway, it's not an issue. What does that have to do with my triple axel?"

Finally, Laura puts a halt to the questions. Enough already. The guy is tired and he has to travel to Danville for a reception in his honor sponsored by the St. Moritz skating club. The camera crew is eager to follow.

Forty-five minutes later, Galindo has gone from a modest little trailer park to the Blackhawk Country Club, surrounded by a gated community of palatial homes and lush green hills. He stares in amazement. A reporter suggests that someday he might be able to live here. Galindo shakes his head and laughs.

"I've offered to move my mother out of the trailer home," he says. "But she doesn't like the idea. She feels comfortable there. My dad bought that place for her 20 years ago. That's where her memories are. If she's not going to leave, I probably won't either."

As Galindo steps into the lobby, he is engulfed by young skaters, parents and club officials. They are eager to embrace the skater who too often has not been embraced. Yamaguchi's parents, Carol and Jim, are there. They smother him with affection and tell him how his performance made them cry. Galindo signs autographs. He poses for pictures. He flashes several smiles.

Not wax smiles. Genuine smiles.

"When you think about it, my life is pretty innocent compared to what a lot of people have been through," he says. "You hear and read about people devastated by drugs or people suffering every day. All things considered, I think I've turned out pretty good. My life is sweet candy compared to some lives."

Thanks to a magical night in January, it's suddenly a lot sweeter.