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Anonymous
"For the drug test," coach Liu Qunlin said, passing Yang a bottle of water so she would be able to provide a sample for the dope-testers.
Then, a little hesitantly, Yang started to answer the questions. And the more she said, the more shocking it was. The answers were brief, spoken without heart. What emerged was a picture of a young girl who has been kept largely cut off from family and the outside world for more than a year, so she could be intensely trained to win medals for China at its own Olympics.
Were your parents here to see you compete, among the cheering crowds?
"I don't know."
When was the last time you went home?"
"Ummm ... before I joined the national team," Yang said, her small voice hard to hear.
When was that?
"More than a year ago."
Will you go on holiday after the games?
"I don't know."
How many holidays do you get a year?
"I have not had a holiday since I joined the national team."
China's national gymnastics squad trains in a sports complex in Beijing, not far from the Temple of Heaven, where elderly men and women keep their aging joints and minds supple with taiji exercises in the misty mornings. The training center is a guarded, single-minded and demanding world, where China's brightest talents are honed to bring glory to their country and the communist government.
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