For all of Yakov's vitriol about too many years of working with ungrateful, undisciplined brats, there's no denying that he's been one of a select few coaches who has a definite eye for spotting potential brilliance in raw and untrained talent. Viktor Nikiforov, his greatest success, hadn't merely been a lucky find. Georgi Popovich, though still overshadowed by his more famous rink mate, is capable of turning out truly artistic (if occasionally erratic) performances on the ice. Mila Babicheva, currently number three in the world in her division, can sail cheerfully through routines that Yakov's own generation of skaters would have struggled and quite possibly failed to master. And Yuri Plisetsky -- on the occasions when he gives it his all -- seems prepared to break his own neck rather than back down from any challenge to reach greater heights in their field.
And Yakov would not have it any other way. He would like his current record of national and international wins to continue. He would like his skaters to take pride in themselves, their achievements, their careers, the legacy of those who came before them. But it's a little difficult to summon that sense of goodwill in the face of an insubordinate little hellion and...and Viktor, who is definitely old enough to know better, and who still seems unsettled in a way that any coach would find unsettling in turn. It's enough to make him follow Viktor as he moves away from the wall -- following, always following.
'I meant what I said earlier, Vitya.' He slows to a stop with a gentle hiss of blades; still in perfect control after all these years. 'Consider it an order, for this evening at least.' A pause. 'But not before you redo that step sequence.'
In what seems like an inordinately short amount of time for getting changed, Yuri emerges from the locker room, dressed for practice but with his skates in his hand and his water bottle tucked under his arm. He sets his gear on the bench and flops down into a stretch, disappearing below the wall of the rink as suddenly as if he'd vanished through a trap door.
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And Yakov would not have it any other way. He would like his current record of national and international wins to continue. He would like his skaters to take pride in themselves, their achievements, their careers, the legacy of those who came before them. But it's a little difficult to summon that sense of goodwill in the face of an insubordinate little hellion and...and Viktor, who is definitely old enough to know better, and who still seems unsettled in a way that any coach would find unsettling in turn. It's enough to make him follow Viktor as he moves away from the wall -- following, always following.
'I meant what I said earlier, Vitya.' He slows to a stop with a gentle hiss of blades; still in perfect control after all these years. 'Consider it an order, for this evening at least.' A pause. 'But not before you redo that step sequence.'
In what seems like an inordinately short amount of time for getting changed, Yuri emerges from the locker room, dressed for practice but with his skates in his hand and his water bottle tucked under his arm. He sets his gear on the bench and flops down into a stretch, disappearing below the wall of the rink as suddenly as if he'd vanished through a trap door.