rom the moment her name was called, from the moment the music began, she was in a place where nothing on earth could reach her. A place where the rink has no end, where her blades barely touch the ice, where there is no rule book to limit her, no record book to weigh upon her. A place without judges, without critics. A place where nobody asks Michelle Kwan why she still does this.
''To feel the wind in my face - that's what I love about skating,'' Kwan was saying last night, after she had left her teenaged pursuers on the far side of the FleetCenter dasher with seven perfect 6.0s in the short program, and drawn within 4 minutes of her fifth US title. ''When I get that feeling I say, this is why I'm here.''
Ever since Nagano, ever since Kwan declined to put her silver medal in a drawer and put Olympus in her past, she has been trying to explain why she still laces up. She doesn't need the money. She's won three world titles. She's 20. Shouldn't she get off the stage like Tara?
How could Kwan explain about the wind in her face, ''the freedom that I cherish''? Only a child would understand. Adults think too much. They think about gold medals and money, about pressure and what-if-I-don't? Adults do not live in the moment. Children always do.
Kwan wanted to be a child again, to be the 12-year-old who delighted herself with every new jump. When she talked at the beginning of the season about going back and finding the motivation again, that was what she meant. Back to a place where there was only a girl with a ponytail and an open sheet of ice.
It seemed unlikely that Kwan would discover that place again last night. She was hurting when she arrived here, her back still stiff from practicing the triple salchow-triple loop combination that everyone said she needed to keep up with Sarah Hughes. Then she plotzed on a simple triple loop in Thursday's practice and ended up in a most unregal position.
Maybe Kwan was beatable here. Irina Slutskaya had beaten her twice this season. Josee Chouinard (yes, that Josee Chouinard) had beaten her. Coaches of rival skaters had been saying (OK, whispering) that Kwan hadn't upped the technical ante, that her artistry had become predictable. If she had a bad night, as she did in Nashville four years ago when Lipinski lifted her crown ...
Kwan knew what everybody was saying about her. She knew what the online gossips were posting on the message boards. It was hard, she said, to hear the criticism. But as soon as she stepped onto the ice last night, Kwan left the babble behind.
''I forgot about Nationals,'' she said. ''I forgot about the competition. I forgot about the Olympic year. I forgot about everything.''
Suddenly, there were no judges, no spectators, no ticking clock, no required elements, no pressure. There was just a place where Kwan felt completely comfortable.
As soon as the music began and Kwan heard the first stirrings of ''East of Eden,'' she was transported. ''It's haunting music,'' Frank Carroll, her coach, was saying. ''It gives me the chills. It's very Michelle.''
When she landed her opening jump, the simple yet treacherous double axel, Kwan could sense the wind in her face. When she did the triple lutz-double toe combination, the program's high hurdle, Kwan knew it. She was in the zone, just as she was in Philadelphia three years ago, when she simply took wing and left Lipinski earthbound.
''Just being out there, being in the moment,'' mused Kwan. ''That's what athletes dream about. I felt that sweet spot.''
Dan Jansen felt the sweet spot in Lillehammer, when he finally won his Olympic gold medal. Picabo Street felt it hurtling down the slopes in Nagano. The Boys of Winter lived in the sweet spot for a fortnight in Lake Placid.
For 2 minutes 40 seconds, Kwan wasn't East of Eden. She was in the middle of downtown, at the intersection of State and Main, with nothing but green lights as far as she could see.
When the music stopped, she saw the crowd come up out of the seats, heard their roar, saw the flowers and teddy bears end-over-ending toward her. The artistic marks - 6.0, 6.0, 6.0, 6.0, 6.0, 5.9, 5.9, 6.0, 6.0 - were thrilling, but irrelevant. Kwan had seen them before in Philadelphia, seen them on both nights.
The sweet spot is a moment in time. It comes and it goes and those who have been in its Zen-like center can't tell you why. Perhaps Kwan will still be there tonight when the medals are given out and will join the half-dozen women who have won this crown five times. And perhaps the sweet spot will turn sour in the flash of a blade, as it also has for Kwan.
Last night was but a moment in a special place where Kwan has been before, a free and easy place where children live, a place she yearned to locate again. Last night, Michelle Kwan was 12 - and nobody could touch her.
