MINNEAPOLIS — The members of the U.S. men’s gymnastics team lined up in a row, sitting in chairs while sharing their joy with reporters. Fred Richard, the winner of the all-around competition at the Olympic trials, radiated like a rising star. Paul Juda couldn’t stop crying, and Stephen Nedoroscik wouldn’t stop smiling. But there on the far end sat an alternate, his dream trampled and his heart broken.
During the three or so minutes when Shane Wiskus faced the media, he kept his answers short. He mostly stared at whoever was talking as redness filled his eyes. He fidgeted in his seat, probably because he wanted to get far away from the place that will mark a symbolic end point of his career.
Wiskus, along with his devotees who filled Target Center, thought the news Saturday night would center on this Minnesota kid and his triumphant return to the Olympics. The hometown hero being the day’s protagonist always makes for a good story. Wiskus missing the five-man cut — because what matters most here is not the individual standings but how much certain routines can boost the team’s score — was the cruelest plot twist.
“Uh, I mean, numb,” Wiskus responded when asked how he felt about being named one of the team’s two alternates.
We tune in to these events every four years because the stakes aren’t just high — they’re sky-scraping. The casual observer and couch potato don’t need to know a thing about obscure scoring systems or the career results of athletes who have spent the past three years largely anonymous. The reason we watch, the reason our blood pressure spikes (as if we’re the ones trying to stick the landing), is simple: We’re here for the stories.
The mainstream audience that lives blissfully outside of the gymnastics orbit, those viewers who don’t know the difference between the parallel bars and the pommel horse, probably had never heard of Wiskus before Saturday. But you don’t need to know him to care about what happened in this arena:
A 25-year-old had devoted his life to the steadfast pursuit of just one thing. He had been flipping since he was a toddler, and now he was at the precipice of a major life change. One false move, and his career would be over. And the make-or-break event would play out in front of his family, friends and former teammates. He was home. When the public address announcer introduced him last among the performers, the screams from roughly 16,000 fans let it be known that this was his event.
Wiskus freed himself to soak up all the love in that moment, lingering on the stage a while longer and making a heart gesture back to the audience. He wasn’t the best gymnast in the field — Richard wasted little time earning that distinction — but Wiskus was Minnesota’s guy. He had the home-court advantage as well as the motivation.
“I allowed myself to have some fun considering what could potentially be the last meet of my career,” Wiskus said following Thursday’s first round of competition.
Wiskus, who made the Tokyo Olympics squad in 2021, previously considered retirement. Those thoughts eventually took root. This past week, as Wiskus returned to his home state, where he excelled at the University of Minnesota, it appeared he had come to a resolution. If he didn’t make this Olympic team, the trials probably would be his final competition.
Wiskus wouldn’t go down without a fight — and several fist pumps. After his floor routine, Wiskus, who looks as if he has never missed a chest and arms day in the weight room, flexed his biceps and exulted. As he closed his routine on the rings, sticking the landing, he clapped so hard he created a cloud of chalk.
In his final event, the parallel bars, Wiskus began his routine just as the other competitors had stopped. All eyes were on him. NBC’s cameras followed his every swing, dip and handstand. When he finished, the crowd cheered its hero. He roared “Let’s go!” then cupped his hands to his ears to hear his fans scream even louder.
“I had the best two days of competition, so …” Wiskus would say later, his sentence trailing off.
The lead-up to the Games have been tough for several notable athletes. Athing Mu, who won gold in the 800 meters at the Tokyo Olympics, tripped and fell during the track and field trials. But she’s merely 22; in 2028, she will have a ready-made narrative for a revenge run in Los Angeles. Elaine Thompson-Herah, formerly the world’s fastest woman, had to pull out of the Jamaican trials with an injury, but her legacy is already paved in gold. Alex Morgan was left off the U.S. women’s soccer roster, but her contributions to the sport — and the movement for pay equality — will never be forgotten. Bryson DeChambeau, the U.S. Open winner, didn’t make America’s team because he lacked enough ranking points. But he will be just fine drying his tears with the stacks of money he gets from the Saudis.
Those athletes have either seen their Olympic dreams come true or possess the kind of wealth that makes life comfortable. Wiskus’s pain is different. He has devoted his life to a sport that rides the back seat to the women’s version, and though he has enjoyed an excellent career, its lights will soon flicker out — possibly without an Olympic medal.
After the meet, all of the participants left the floor as the selection committee deliberated and chose the team members who would join Richard in Paris. Wiskus finished third in the all-around, and he thought he had done enough to make the cut.
“Yeah, I think I deserved it, so …” he said, again his words coming to a quick end.
When the team was announced, one by one the lucky few bounded from backstage and bathed in the spotlight. Like the five gymnasts named to the team, Wiskus, too, received a bouquet of white flowers. He wore the same blue Nike warmups they were wearing and stood next to them on the platform. However, when Wiskus appeared for the last time at Target Center, he was no longer pumping his fists and flexing. The support from the fans felt more sympathetic. They were applauding for an alternate.
“You’re not human if you don’t have those types of emotions for these incredible athletes,” said Brett McClure, the high performance director who helps pick the men’s team. “Every athlete out there just laid it all on the line, been training their entire lives for this, and it is absolutely gut-wrenching. It’s horrible for the ones that don’t quite make it, and it’s great for the ones that do — it’s life-changing for them. The roller coaster of emotions is absolutely real, and it never gets easier to manage in my position.”
It’s a strange thing to grieve the end of a dream in front of strangers with notepads and microphones. But given the U.S. gymnastics media obligations, Wiskus did so. When a local reporter asked a variation of the question about his feelings, Wiskus just repeated the one-word answer: “Numb.” When the same man began a question about how hard it was not to make the team despite all the “great things” he did, Wiskus was the very epitome of Minnesota nice.
“I’m not answering any more of your questions, sir,” Wiskus said, calmly and in control.
Wiskus then shifted eye contact and asked whether anyone had further questions. No one spoke up, so he turned to a volunteer and inquired how he could get back to the other end of the row. Wiskus’s stuff was down there.
As Richard was providing easy sound bites (“… loving Minnesota! Going to do everything to get the men’s team back!”), Wiskus was down on the floor, picking up his garment bag and that bouquet of flowers. Then he left. End of story.