Back to the Front of the Line
By Ellie ZygmuntI was waiting in line at an ice cream shop on a particularly hot day a few weeks ago. The line was very long, with nowhere to sit and no shade for relief. But because it was hot and I had walked half an hour from my apartment to get ice cream, I was willing to wait in line. I could be patient because I was confident my turn would come.
Just as I was about to reach the front of the line, 4 more people arrived. The owner of the ice cream shop waved them to the front of the line: “They’re good customers, VIPs, I wouldn’t be in business without them!” So even though this feels really unfair, I also really want this ice cream. I also don’t want to kick up a fuss because I don’t want to get banned from the ice cream shop. But now, not only were there 4 extra people in line, they then order the last scoops of the ice cream flavour I had sweated and waited for. No scoops for me.
“No scoops for me” is what a lot of people think when a figure skater comes out of retirement just for the Olympics. It can seem wildly unfair when an unexpected skater comes back to the rink because competitive careers are short and there limited Olympic entries to go around. The potential for resentment, entitlement, and frustration is high. Yet all of this drama is inscrutable if you aren’t familiar with the development curve every figure skater must manage across their career. I think it’s worth discussing that development curve as a reminder of the effort these athletes have made to even enter the Olympic qualification process and how that history influences their likelihood of success. Not a one of these skaters, active or newly returned, is entering into this process lightly.
Grinding to the Top of Mount Olympus
If you’re just tuning in to this particular figure skating drama, you might be confused. Why are some skaters more welcome back to the rink than others? Why does it matter that a legacy athlete wants to try their luck again—a competition is a competition, best skater wins, right?
When you watch figure skating at the Olympics you are witnessing a very small fragment of a figure skater’s competitive life. Figure skating is an early specialization sport, and an exceptionally demanding one at that. While there are lots of sports where it’s possible to start training as a teenager or adult and become an elite athlete, figure skating is not one of them. Most figure skaters start learning between 3 and 5 years old. It takes years to develop the balance, coordination, and expression that characterize strong figure skating. Shoma Uno’s flow? Thousands of hours of stroking practice. Virtue and Moir’s incredible speed and synchronicity? Years of drills. The way Ilia Malinin pops a quad axel into the air? A childhood gift from learning to jump when you have no fear and bones heal faster. Even if a kid does not become (or want to be!) a competitive athlete, starting as early as possible confers massive advantages for skill development and ease of movement that last a lifetime. Ask anyone who has started figure skating as an adult: it’s hard!
Beyond the years of individual training, there’s also a significant competitive development curve skaters must negotiate as they mature in the sport. There is a world of difference between domestic competitions in a near-empty rink and a World championships with the scrutiny of international judges and media. Ideally, skaters have the opportunity for progressive development that tempers their nerves and technique. They aim to improve each season through more competitive exposure and work their way up the ranks through more prestigious events. If all goes well, those skaters become elite competitors capable of winning major titles and qualifying more spots for—you guessed it—new skaters to develop their competitive experience. Big names will eventually retire, so younger skaters need to keep flowing up the ranks to replace them. Otherwise, a country may find itself in a competitive wilderness, sometimes for years.
This cycle of experience is how countries ensure athlete development and build figure skating dynasties. The US has long been synonymous with success in the Women’s event thanks to successful senior skaters creating opportunities for younger skaters behind them. The success of Elaine Zayak and Rosalyn Summers leads to Debi Thomas, which leads to Kristi Yamaguchi and Nancy Kerrigan, then Michelle Kwan. This same process has also contributed to Russia dominating Ice Dance and Pairs since time immemorial (thought it must be said a hefty dollop of state sponsorship in the Soviet Union years certainly eased things along). When competitive dynasties fall, the resulting redistribution of World championship entries allows once minor federations to establish a tradition in the sport. Consider the rise of Japan in the Men’s discipline. Daisuke Takahashi was the first Japanese man to medal at Worlds in 2007. Japan has won 20 World medals for Men since then, double that of the US over the same time period. Strategic use of World and Olympic qualification spots allows countries to prime future generations of athletes for success.
Every year skaters jockey for Grand Prix and World Championship assignments knowing how crucial the experience is. The opportunity to skate in front of international judges, particularly at Worlds, is an opportunity to demonstrate your ability to become a super-elite competitor. Until a skater makes that break, they’re paying their dues, toiling in semi-obscurity to build up a reputation. That grinding process of performance politicking is one of the difficult and maddening parts of figure skating, for athletes and fans alike. It’s not enough for figure skaters to be super talented, lucky, and well-financed. They must also craft a championship narrative by strategically choosing their choreographers, music, coaching team, and their selfies. Alliances must be built and teams assembled. It’s like Tudor England out there, where bloodlines count, there’s sexual misconduct whispered behind curtains, and everyone’s constantly watching out for usurpers to the crown.
All of that training and preparation must also match a skater’s brief physical prime. Figure skaters typically enter senior level competition at age 16-18. If a skater grows up safe and well, a typical senior figure skater can expect to be Olympic-eligible for about 8 years, give or take a season. That’s just enough cover two Olympic cycles. Within that 8 year span, only a handful of seasons will match an athlete’s true peak if they are exceptionally skilled and lucky. Sometimes it’s only a season, and sometimes an athlete, however gifted, never achieves their promise.
Balancing the Blade
I am laying this out in quite frankly exhausting detail because all of this comes to bear most heavily during Olympic team selection. Once every four years figure skaters have a chance to go to the moon and by jibbers crabst have they suffered for the chance. An unholy amount of time, money, tears, and compromise has been poured into a skater’s career for what might be a one-time shot at a dream. Oh, and all those years of preparation can be completely undone by any one of figure skating’s routine hazards: illness and injury; lost luggage; broken boots; even mediocre programs. Very little about elite figure skating is actually fair beyond the number of minutes you perform, the size of the rink, and the width of your blades. This why the selection stakes feel so high.
It’s easy to shrug that performance will decide, but as we already know, Olympic teams are chosen. Olympic selection criteria help guide and justify the choices federations make about which athletes to send to competition, but those guidelines are not blindly applied. There are explicit contingencies within those qualification guidelines that effectively allow for vibes-based team assignments. This is dressed up as “and other relevant criteria as it arises etc. etc.” In reality, there is a significant amount of room for lobbying, negotiation, and argument about which skaters to send.
US ice dance is a particularly strong example of this situation, where the return of Mai and Alex Shibutani complicates an already difficult selection situation. The US has qualified 3 Ice Dance entries for the Olympics. There are at least 4 teams who would put themselves in contention for those entries—and that’s before we account for the Shibutanis returning to competition.
Let’s say the Shibutanis have a sterling season leading up to the Olympics. It might seem obvious to grant them a spot, along with Madison Chock and Evan Bates, who are the current World and US national champions. 2026 would be the third Olympics for the Shibutanis. It would be the fourth appearance for Chock & Bates (and a fifth time for Bates, including a previous partner). These teams are seasoned, and quite a few people would use that as a predictor for future success. That means if you’re a US ice dancer and your name isn’t Shibutani, Chock, or Bates, you’re in a mighty fight for that single remaining Olympic entry. You also might feel salty that, after grinding for years for your chance at the Olympics, someone who has already enjoyed multiple Olympic trips (and won a medal!) is showing up just in time to short your odds.
USFSA has to assemble what they believe is the most competitive Olympic team. Great performances mean great press and greater exposure for a sport that is not the popular darling it once was. A comeback story is great drama and a past champion has history to work with. The downside of this approach is that early career teams lose out on the opportunity to build the kind of competitive history that leads to future World and Olympic titles. Bet too hard on the past and you risk future titles. Send too many untested athletes into the Olympics and the country’s medal hopes evaporate. And so the USFSA has to try and pick a team that will deliver everything. Medals now, medals in 4 years, great press coverage, happy sponsors, and spectacular performances. All of that stress and pressure will roll downhill to the athletes, who have their own private burdens to carry onto the ice.
Every figure skater in the mix for an Olympic entry is weighing their odds for success. If you’re a veteran skater deciding whether or not to return to competition, you are not putting your body through the meat grinder of training, your bank account into overdraft, and your family through hell unless you believe you can be a champion. Nobody sizes up that cost and thinks, “Gosh, it would just be nice to get in the top 10.” Olympians are rarely satisfied by just playing an encore. Meanwhile, for current athletes, there is no guarantee that there will be another chance to compete in 4 years. The sudden return of a legacy skater threatens to disrupt their carefully calculated competitive trajectories.
The Right Kind of Comeback
Not all comebacks inspire the same level of anticipation or animosity, but Olympic-specific comebacks usually draw the most attention and ire. Athletes who launch comebacks before the Olympic season tend to receive a warmer reception because there’s a perception that these athletes are paying their dues. A figure skater returning in the penultimate season of a quadrennial usually helps qualify Olympic berths and has re-established themselves in the world rankings through at least a season of competition.
Alyssa Liu and Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir are strong examples of the “right” kind of comeback. Liu returned in the 2024-25 season out of, by all accounts and appearances, a genuine love of the ice and with zero expectations. Her efforts were rewarded with a surprise World title. Virtue and Moir returned in the 2016-17 season as decorated veterans with unfinished business. Despite winning the 2010 Olympic title and two World titles, a series of injuries and a fraught rivalry with training-mates Meryl Davis and Charlie White saw Virtue and Moir retire in 2014 on a sour note (inasmuch as a silver at the Olympics can be considered a disappointment). Virtue and Moir approached their comeback preparation for the 2018 Olympics with uncompromising diligence. They scrutinized every aspect of their training and presentation to ensure they were ready to win, including re-choreographing their FD multiple times in-season in response to judging feedback. While Liu’s Olympic performance remains to be seen, Virtue and Moir’s approach paid off: double Olympic gold medals in 2018 in the Team and Ice Dance events.
Leaving the public perception of Virtue and Moir and Liu’s comebacks aside, I believe the timing of their comebacks was a huge part of their success. Figure skating is unforgiving when it comes to absences. Physically training up takes an enormous amount of energy, and the older you are the more effort it takes to return to the physical shape required. Rules and judging standards change year over year, and the patterns and programs that were successful—or within your ability to successfully complete—may not be enough now. Finally, skaters need time to effectively re-introduce themselves to the competitive community and demonstrate who they are, what they’re capable of, and what their competitive persona is. You need to show up and remind everyone why you were a champion, an artistic force, a diva, or a shit disturber. Even legends need a little polish to keep shining. Far wiser to use a warm-up season to buffer yourself against these changes and allow time to adjust for difficulties than risk it all on the Olympic season itself where there is very little room for correction.
Betting Time
If I were a betting woman, how would I rate the chances of this year’s aspiring comeback class?
I think the Shibutanis have the hardest battle ahead of them because they’ve got two fronts to cover. First: ice dance in 2025 is a different beast from 2018 thanks to 7 years of compounding rule changes and shifting technical demands. With the longest competitive gap of all the returning athletes, I think the physical challenge before them is significant. Not only has ice dance seen serious changes in the raw technical requirements, their fellow teams have the advantage of adapting to those changes over time. The Shibutanis could reliably best a 2018 Chock and Bates, but I seriously doubt that’s the case in 2025. Chock and Bates have been out hustling for years and know precisely how to present their particular skills to a judging panel now primed to see them as the leaders of the field. The Shibutanis will have a serious battle to reestablish that primacy domestically, let alone against an international field which is about a dozen teams deep in seriously talented dancers.
Laurence Fournier Beaudry and Guillaume Cizeron will also return to face the same ultra-competitive ice dance field but with the added challenge of negotiating a new partnership1. Again, time is the only ally here: new dance teams generally require a lot of seasoning before their individual techniques can properly blend together. A single season is nowhere near enough time to build the kind of connection, flow, and ease that are the hallmarks of elite senior ice dancers, even though Fournier Beaudry and Cizeron are individually skilled athletes. Cizeron won the 2022 Olympic title with the incomparable Gabriella Papadakis, so this isn’t quite a pair of randoms teaming up in zany 80s comedy fashion to launch an improbable assault on an audacious dream. As with the Shibutanis, however, I do not think the Olympic season alone will be enough time for Fournier Beaudry and Cizeron to fully reestablish themselves technically or politically with a judging panel that has little incentive2 to look on them kindly in comparison to a very strong field.
Finally, we have Wenjing Sui and Cong Han, who are masters of the comeback. Sui and Han have had multiple injury-compromised seasons and, unfortunately, have a lot of experience arriving at major competitions with severely limited training time. They won both of their World titles in 2017 and 2019 with just a single pre-worlds competition as preparation. That kind of history could be an unexpected advantage this year: if you’ve already experienced winning with imperfect preparation, what makes coming back now any more difficult than before? It also helps that the technical standard in pairs is fairly similar to what it was when they last competed, and they are the only pair team in the field capable of landing either a quad twist or throw. Sui and Han defy every rule of preparation and politics in figure skating because they are celestial beings who descend from a separate plane of existence to annihilate the competition whenever they please…if they’re healthy. If the surgical pins in their bodies hold, they will be a serious challengers for the Olympic title. I absolutely refuse to bet against them coming back this season and winning every damn thing in sight.
I’ll Shut Up Soon, I Promise, but In Conclusion
There will inevitably be a blizzard of media puff pieces in the upcoming season framing these comebacks as heartwarming stories of grit, determination, and competitive desire that just won’t flame out. These are sweet and stirring stories. The reality, of course, is not nearly so simple. All of these skaters are bringing History with them, and all of them are making a mighty gamble that they can bend the odds of that history in their favour. Skaters returning to competition carry the burdens of injury, expectation, and past disappointments with them on the ice. It’s not enough to be competitive on paper, to have the jumps ready in your mind. The body has to pay, and the body is often short on gold.
1And, needless to say, deeply problematic as well. But that’s a separate story that I’ve talked about here.
2Assuming no one has let Didier Gailhaguet out of whatever box we’re keeping him in these days.