Culture
They have one of Team USA's toughest jobs: Picking Simone Biles' Olympics teammates
The garbage can didn’t have a chance. Alicia Sacramone Quinn, captain of the 2008 U.S. Olympic silver-medalist gymnastics team and winner of 10 World Championship medals, had just been told she hadn’t made a long-since-forgotten gymnastics team, so she reared back, channeled her fury into her foot and unleashed it on the bin.
Now a mother of four and a dozen years removed from her last competition, Quinn shares that story to reiterate a simple message: “I get it,” she says. This week, she undoubtedly will incite ire and agony in equal measure. Sixteen women will compete in the U.S. Olympic Trials in Minneapolis; only five will be chosen to compete in Paris, and Quinn, the national team’s strategy lead, will help make the painful cuts.
Yet those three words — I get it — are why she and Chellsie Memmel, the technical lead, are here. They were not obvious choices. For the last 25 years, the women’s national team program has been led by older coaches with a wealth of experience. Quinn, whose focus is planning the overall strategy for the national team, worked on the development staff a decade ago and served on the board of directors for the Athlete Assistance Fund, a not-for-profit that provides financial assistance and counseling for gymnasts who were victims of sexual abuse. Memmel, tasked with ensuring routines are designed to maximize points values, is a respected judge. Both are just 36.
But after a much-needed reckoning awakened the sport to reconcile its ugly past and restore its future, Quinn and Memmel represent the pivot the sport’s leadership intentionally sought. They are athletes-turned-administrators, young enough to recognize the damage the sport incurred, mature enough to improve it and just insouciant enough to not care who gets offended in the process.
“Ultimately, I want these athletes to be able to look back on their careers and be happy about it,” Memmel says. “I want them to be able to look back and have fond memories, to be proud of their accomplishments and not just be like, ‘Well, I did it, but what did I have to do to get there?’ I don’t want that, that cost.”
Asked to describe Quinn, her co-worker, co-conspirator and “work wife,” Memmel considers the question carefully. This is not surprising. She is the stereotypical Midwestern girl — thoughtful, even-keeled and sweet. The Wisconsin-born daughter of two gymnastics coaches, she naturally gravitated toward the gym, where her tactical exactness quickly separated her from the pack. Memmel is, in other words, ideally suited for her current position to nuance a routine and find and maximize the values hidden in the complex code of points.
Quinn is none of that. She jokes that she is here for comedic relief, and when asked about her recurring and ever-evolving roles within gymnastics, she likens it to being in the mob. “Once you get in, you don’t get out.” Born in Boston to an orthodontist dad and hairstylist and salon owner mom, Quinn only found gymnastics after she decided the best way to travel about a mall for a shopping trip with her mother was via cartwheels. She succeeded on equal parts dogged determination, moxie and verve, which make her equally well-suited to be the front-facing person for her sport.
“Spicy” is the word Memmel finally settles on to describe Quinn. The descriptor relayed back to her, Quinn nods in approval but adds — “Chellsie can get spicy, too, if she needs to. I’ve seen it.”
They grew up in the sport in lockstep, albeit via different routes. Memmel stayed the traditional elite course, where she grew into an excellent all-arounder (she won the 2005 world championship gold medal) before a rash of injuries conspired to chronically mess with her timeline. Quinn developed into a floor and vault event specialist and took what was then an unorthodox turn when she opted to compete for Brown University and still train at the elite level.
They crossed paths frequently in the small community that is top-flight gymnastics, and in 2004, shared a room for the first time — at the World Cup in Birmingham, England, where Memmel won uneven bars and Quinn the vault. Quinn also was part of that 2005 world championship team — she won a gold on floor and took third in vault — and in 2008, they both were named to the Olympic team.
It is both their wildly opposing personalities and those shared experiences that prepared them for their current gigs. When Memmel frets, lost in rabbit holes of possible meet outcomes and their potential effects on team selection scenarios, Quinn yanks her out and reminds her to let things be. When Quinn flies off the handle, Memmel restores calm. They have, at times, needed both.
Selecting a team does not earn anyone popularity points, and more than once Quinn has fielded calls from angry coaches, distraught that their gymnast didn’t make a cut. She uses Memmel’s measured approach when she can, but she’s smart enough to know when someone is trying to bully her. Memmel and Quinn acknowledge they are young, they are new, and they do not know all of the answers.
That does not mean they’ll be pushed around. When the measured Memmel approach doesn’t work, Quinn isn’t afraid to use a little Sacramone Italian flair. “I have no problem telling someone that they’re not going to talk to me like that and if they don’t stop, I’m going to hang up and we can continue this conversation at another time,” she says. “I know I’m young. I know I may not have as much experience as someone on the coaching side, but you’re not going to disrespect me because I’m younger.”
Memmel and Quinn have, in a lot of ways, more experience than most of the coaches they’re dealing with, especially when it comes to the nuances of the national team and its antiquated system.
At the 2008 Olympic trials, Shawn Johnson and Nastia Liukin finished 1-2 in the all-around, cementing their previously presumed spots on the Beijing teams. Memmel slotted behind them in third and also finished second on uneven bars, her signature event. Quinn took second only to Johnson on vault and fourth on floor, her specialist apparatus.
Neither, however, left Philadelphia as members of Team USA. They didn’t secure their positions on the six-person team until a month later, when they competed in an invitation-only, all-or-nothing meet at the Karolyi Ranch in Texas.
Because that is the way Marta Karolyi, the national team coordinator, wanted it and that is how USA Gymnastics operated. From 1999 until 2021, elite gymnastic decisions wrested at the discretion of one person — first Bela Karolyi (1999-2000), then his wife, Marta (2001-2016), followed by Valeri Liukin (2016-18) and finally Tom Forster (2018-2021). The national team coordinator essentially chose the team based on his or her standards and preferences. Marta Karolyi, it was long rumored, would nix an athlete if they fell so much as once during a selection competition.
Neither had the Olympic experience they envisioned. Designated to compete on all four events in the team final, Memmel instead was rendered a bars specialist after injuring her ankle days before competition. It was only after the meet that Memmel explained that her “minor” ankle injury was, in fact, a broken ankle. Quinn, in the meantime, fell on both the beam and the floor, and when China overtook the U.S. for gold, she largely blamed herself.
“We didn’t come back with the color medal we wanted,” Memmel says. “And it took me a long time to be able to look back and be fully proud of what we did. It’s taken many years — not just one or two — to be able to say, ‘Look at what you did. You were still able to do it.’”
Still, Memmel and Quinn believe they were the “lucky” ones. Mercifully, neither was part of the cycle of abuse exposed during and after the Larry Nassar investigation. That reckoning not only led to Nassar’s imprisonment and the exposure of others, but called into question the wisdom of allowing one person to wield so much power.
In 2021, after Forster resigned, USA Gymnastics officially decentralized control. They turned the one-person job into three, creating strategy, technical and developmental directors (Dan Baker is the third member of the current team), and then subcontracted it even further, appointing a three-person selection committee to fill out competition rosters (the top finishing all-arounders automatically qualify).
It was already better under Forster. That Simone Biles could own up to and ultimately remove herself from competition because of the twisties is progress. But he did not always communicate well, and Memmel and Quinn believe that it is as much the minuscule, seemingly inconsequential, mistakes that ultimately led to the fracturing of the old system as much as the more global problems.
Gymnasts, quite simply, weren’t considered. They were the cogs in the very successful gymnastics machine, told when to show up, and what to do, with little thought about what they wanted to do and almost no explanation as to why they had to do it.
Team mealtimes, for example, were set without any input from the athletes about when best to fuel their bodies. Quinn and Memmel ask their gymnasts before cementing competition schedules. Under the old regime, little to no time was spent with the athletes individually to understand their personalities, their quirks and their fears. Upon getting their jobs a year ago, Quinn and Memmel set up individual meetings with each gymnast and her personal coach.
Microaggressions left unchecked led to major inflection points. Unlike similar individualized sports, such as swimming and track, gymnasts compete for a team medal. That team, however, is composed of individuals trying to win their own medals, too, and to do that they have to beat each other while simultaneously winning for their country. Consequently, Quinn, who witnessed the infighting firsthand, intends to make team dynamics and chemistry an immediate focus.
“Our sport was stuck in its ways for so long,” Quinn says. “We’re finally modernizing and progressing to take things like nutrition and mental health into consideration, things that were shoved to the wayside or viewed as unimportant before. It was always like, ‘We’re winning, why fix it? Is it broken?’ Well, yes. It was. And it still could be better.”
Alicia Sacramone Quinn understands the demands and expectations required of an Olympic gymnast. (Ronald Martinez / Getty Images)
This is going to be hard. Of the 16 women in Minneapolis this weekend, four were on the Tokyo Olympic team (and Kayla DiCello was an alternate) and five others on the most recent world championship squad. “We could send a B or C team and still do well,” Quinn says.
But building an Olympic team is complicated; it’s not as simple as picking the five best all-around athletes. The Olympics run off the “three up, three count” format — meaning each team sends three athletes to each apparatus for team competition, and all three scores count. Specialists, in other words, matter. Despite the wealth of talent and experience at trials, there are, besides Biles, no obvious choices.
Shilese Jones, widely considered the other most likely all-around candidate, withdrew from the U.S. Championships last month with an injured shoulder (she tore her labrum in 2022). Sunisa Lee is the defending gold medalist in the all-around, but she’s been fighting the lingering effects of a kidney disease. Jordan Chiles fell on both floor and beam at championships, and Skye Blakely, while solid at that meet, stumbled elsewhere. DiCello is generally solid in all four events, but Jade Carey likely will perform skills on floor and vault that no other athlete will attempt.
This is not a test. There are no right or wrong answers. Just incredibly difficult choices. The U.S. won gold in 2012 and 2016 and silver in 2020. Without Russia this year, the Americans will be heavily favored again. “It is a ton of pressure,” Memmel says. “An incredible amount of pressure.”
If anything has caught both women by surprise in their new jobs, it is how emotionally fraught selections are. As athletes, they felt it singularly; they wanted to make the team. Now they’ve spent months watching 16 women at various camps and competitions who all want to make the team. Memmel likens it to watching her own daughter compete. “Only this isn’t Level 3,” she laughs.
Adds Quinn: “I’m like everyone’s crazy aunt. I want them all to do well. I try to stress to them that this is going to be one of the hardest things you’re ever going to do, and more than half of you will be disappointed. It kills me, but I want them to know this is only one step on their journey, one page in their book.”
In other words, Memmel and Quinn get it.
(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; photos: Tim Clayton, Xavier Laine, Aric Becker / Getty Images)
Now that we’ve memorized the first half of our poem, let’s learn a little more about the man who wrote it. (Haven’t memorized anything yet? Click here to start at the beginning.)
For most of his life, Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-73) was a star. He was widely read, quoted, argued over and gossiped about, achieving a level of fame that few writers now — and not many then — could contemplate. His New York Times obituary did not hesitate to call him “the foremost poet of his generation.”
Celebrity of that kind is ephemeral, but Auden’s words have continued to circulate in the half century since his death. Maybe you’ve heard some of them before. In the 1994 film “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” his poem “Funeral Blues” is recited by Matthew (John Hannah) over the casket of his lover, Gareth (Simon Callow).
In the Gen-X touchstone “Before Sunrise” (1995), Jesse (Ethan Hawke) regales Celine (Julie Delpy) with an impression of Dylan Thomas reading Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening.”
In both these scenes, the characters use Auden’s poetry to give voice to a longing for which they otherwise might not have words. Auden’s poetry is often useful in that way. It speaks to recognizable human occasions, and it isn’t always all about him.
“The More Loving One” might not be something you’d quote at a funeral or on a date, but it is almost effortlessly quotable — the perfect expression of a thought you never knew you had:
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Ken Burns, filmmaker
The word “I” occurs five times in this stanza, but we don’t know much about the person speaking. His personality is camouflaged and revealed by craft.
Auden, born in the northern English cathedral city of York, began practicing that craft as a schoolboy, and honed it at Oxford. Not long after graduating in 1928, he was anointed by critics and readers as the great hope of modern English poetry. A charismatic, divisive figure, he gathered acolytes, imitators and haters.
He swam in the intellectual and ideological crosscurrents of the 1930s, drawing Marxism, psychoanalysis and mystical nationalism into his writing. Assimilating a daunting array of literary influences — Old English and Ancient Greek, French chansons and Icelandic sagas — he forged a poetic personality that was bold, confiding and seductive.
His love poems of that era were candid, discreet dispatches from a calendar of feverish entanglements, wrenching breakups and one-night stands, usually with other men. He also wrote about the feverish politics of the time — class conflict; the rise of fascism; the Spanish Civil War — in ringing rhetoric he later disavowed.
In 1939 Auden moved to America, acquiring U.S. citizenship after World War II. In New York he fell in love with Chester Kallman, a young American writer who became his life partner.
It was a complicated relationship, starting as a passionate affair and enduring through decades of domestic companionship and creative collaboration. Kallman’s refusal to be sexually exclusive wounded Auden, a dynamic that poignantly shades this poem’s most memorable couplet:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Yiyun Li, writer
In America, Auden distanced himself from the radical politics of his earlier career and embraced Anglican Christianity. His intellectual preoccupations shifted toward religion and existentialism — to the kinds of big questions we think about late at night, or when we look to the sky.
Making the leap from wunderkind to grand old man without seeming to stop in middle age, he became a mentor for several generations of younger poets. He was a prolific and punctual contributor of reviews and essays to various publications, including this one, for which he wrote a rave of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Fellowship of the Ring” in 1954.
Through it all, Auden devoted fanatical attention to the finer points of poetic technique. His notebooks are full of numbers, word lists and markings that show just how deep this commitment went. He counted every syllable, measured every stress.
He gathered rhymes and other words with a lexicographer’s zeal and a crossword puzzler’s precision.
The third stanza of “The More Loving One” is a miniature showcase of Auden’s skill. Of the four epigrams arrayed before us, it may be the most technically perfect.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
W.H. Auden, poet
The rhythm is flawless, without an extra syllable or an accent out of place. The grammar is also fastidious. Here is a single sentence, springloaded with equivocation, beginning with one idea and sliding toward its opposite.
This quatrain is the poem’s ideal formal representation of itself, a kind of proof of concept: four lines of impeccable iambic tetrameter in an AABB rhyme scheme. The by-the-book regularity of this stanza should give you a leg up in memorizing it, and you can test yourself below!
But the rest of the poem is an argument against perfection, just as it is a celebration of uncertainty and humility — as we’ll see tomorrow.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.Your first task: Learn the first two lines!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
PERMANENCE, by Sophie Mackintosh
Sophie Mackintosh’s novels are always speculative in some way, with either the author or her characters forging a world governed by its own logic and rules. In their boldness and their ability to convey the violence of patriarchy, they recall the work of Jacqueline Harpman — not only the cherished “I Who Have Never Known Men,” but also “Orlanda,” her wild riff on Virginia Woolf’s “Orlando.”
Like Harpman, Mackintosh has a spare and confident hand. Her work is sometimes described as dreamlike; certainly, its contours are sketched with rapidity and confidence and relatively little detail. Her prose operates according to the same principle, at once lyrical and precise, like this from her second novel, “Blue Ticket”: “On the ground was a dead rabbit, disemboweled. Still fresh, the dark loops of its insides glistening like jam.”
When Mackintosh writes about masculine power, she does so in a way that articulates both its seductions and its terrors. Her newest novel, “Permanence,” is less explicitly concerned with the structure of patriarchy, but it has the same erotic charge as her earlier work, the same preoccupation with social prohibitions and the thrill that comes from breaking them.
Like “Blue Ticket,” “Permanence” turns on a highly pronounced binary. In “Blue Ticket,” adolescent girls are issued either a blue or white ticket on the day of their first period. A white ticket denotes a future of marriage and children, a blue ticket one of work — even, it seems, a career. The divide is stark and self-evidently faulty, its coarseness an expression of the brutalizing regime the characters are trapped in.
“Permanence” features a similar opposition, neatly delineated. Clara and Francis are conducting an illicit affair. One morning, they wake up in an alternate reality where they are openly living together. The novel shuttles between these two worlds, one ordinary and familiar, the other a curdled paradise for adulterers.
The thinness of this “city of impermanence” — “fluid, cohesive and yet disparate” — emerges at once. The sky is “uncannily blue,” the newspaper bears no date, the edge of the city is marked by “a slick ring of water, as far as the eye could see.”
Still, a boundary cannot keep the other world from seeping in. Initially, elegantly, this is a problem in the structure of desire. Having been provided the life they dreamed of, in which their longing for each other is fully met, Clara and Francis begin to experience, to their uneasy surprise, boredom and discontent.
Without absence, the intensity of their desire for each other wanes. They even begin, or at least Francis does, to long for the relief of their ordinary life: “Another day ahead of them of petting, giggling, lying around. It seemed insubstantial suddenly, though only the day before he had felt he could do it forever.”
Soon enough, it becomes clear that the problem between Francis and Clara doesn’t lie in the outside impediments of the world they live in, but in their relationship itself. Francis remains troublingly himself — a married father of a small child, reluctant to leave his family, however much he is in love with Clara: “He did love her, and he did want to be with her. … But he already had reality elsewhere, reality which he sometimes felt trapped by, he would admit, but which he could not truly imagine cutting loose.”
“Permanence” might seem like an outlier in the current array of articles and books about open marriages and polyamory, and at first glance the line of distinction between the two worlds, much like the division between blue and white tickets, seems almost old-fashioned. But as Mackintosh persuasively illustrates, the familiar emotions of jealousy, infatuation and eventually indifference — these persist and can flourish in any relationship, however free of prohibition.
“You want this,” Clara tells herself, and then, “You no longer want this,” as it occurs to her that “maybe it was in absence that they loved each other best, and most honestly.”
In her work, Mackintosh devises scenarios that are bold and almost aggressively simplified. But her terrain is complexity and contradiction, and in her hands these oppositions twist and turn in on themselves.
It’s hardly a surprise when the central character in “Blue Ticket” decides to eschew her designation and have a child, declaring, “True and false were no longer opposing binaries. My body was speaking to me in a language I had not heard before.” Nor is it especially startling when discontent chases Clara and Francis from one world to the other, unraveling their relationship.
What is more disquieting is the surreptitious ease with which Mackintosh’s speculative worlds start to align with our own, allowing the reader to see how so many of the old prohibitions and conventions — around choice, around marriage — remain, somehow, firmly in place.
That moment of recognition, in a landscape that is startlingly alien, is the source of Mackintosh’s power as a writer.
PERMANENCE | By Sophie Mackintosh | Avid Reader Press | 240 pp. | $28
Maybe you woke up this morning haunted by the first four lines of W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — or tickled by its tongue-in-cheek handling of existential dread. (Not ringing any bells? Click here to begin the Poetry Challenge).
This is a love poem. Perhaps that seems like an obvious thing to say about a poem with “Loving” in its title, but there isn’t much romance in the opening stanza.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Ada Limón, poet
Nonetheless, the poem soon makes clear that love is very much on its mind.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
David Sedaris, writer
The polished informality gives the impression of a decidedly cerebral speaker — someone who’s looking at love philosophically, thinking about how it works and what it means.
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Reginald Dwayne Betts, poet
Musing this way — arguing in this fashion — he stands in a long line of playful, thoughtful poetic lovers going back at least to the 16th century. He sounds a bit like Christopher Marlowe’s passionate shepherd:
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Auden’s poem, like Marlowe’s, is written in four-beat lines:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Josh Radnor, actor
And it features strong end rhymes:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Samantha Harvey, writer
These tetrameter couplets represent a long-established poetic love language. Not too serious or sappy, but with room for both earnestness and whimsy. And even for professions of the opposite of love, as in this nursery rhyme, adapted from a 17th-century epigram:
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell
The reason why I cannot tell.
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
There is some of this anti-love spirit in Auden’s poem too, but it mainly follows a general rule of love poetry: The person speaking is usually the more loving one.
This makes sense. To write a poem requires effort, art, inspiration. To speak in verse is to tease, to cajole, to seduce, all actions that suggest an excess of desire. That’s why it’s conventional to refer to the “I” in a poem like this as the Lover and the “you” as the Beloved. The line “Let the more loving one be me” could summarize a lot of the love poetry of the last few thousand years.
But who, in this case, is the beloved? This isn’t a poem to the stars, but about them. Or maybe a poem that uses the stars as a conceit and our complicated feelings about them as a screen for other difficult emotions.
What the stars have to do with love is a tricky question. The answer may just be that the poem assumes a relationship and then plays with the implications of its assumption.
This kind of play also has a long history. Since love is both abstract and susceptible to cliché, poets are eager to liken it to everything else under the sun: birds, bees, planets, stars, the movement of the tides and the cycle of the seasons. Andrew Marvell’s “Definition of Love,” from the 1600s, wraps its ardor in math:
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
The literary term for this is wit. The formidable 18th-century English wordsmith Samuel Johnson defined a type of wit as “a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.” “The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together,” he wrote; that kind of conceptual discord defines “The More Loving One.”
The second stanza is, when you think about it, a perfect non sequitur. A hypothetical, general question is asked:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Mary Roach, writer
The answer is a personal declaration that is moving because it doesn’t seem to apply only or primarily to stars:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tim Egan, writer
Does this disjunction make it easier or harder to remember? Either way, these couplets start to reveal just how curious this poem is. We might find ourselves curious about who wrote them, and whom he might have loved. Tomorrow we’ll get to know Auden and his work a little better.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your task today: Learn the second stanza!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
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