To an athlete quitting young

Not many people are legends by the time they’re eleven. Tippy Jordan was. She was the terror of Nationals: the year before I started, she won the first pony nationals, then the next year, setting all four records. I was scared of her. We all were. Parents said “She knows how to win” knowingly; we children just avoided her. Not that she seemed to want our company – between races, she would sit wrapped in a blanket, set off from the rest of us. The next year she was out of my group, and I breathed a sigh of relief; she won her group, despite being the younger half.
In 2001, Nationals was held in Bay City, Michigan. Outside the rink was a huge blow-up Jeep that some of the more boisterous skaters climbed, then got yelled at. Tippy was in my group again. This year, I don’t know why, I, the shyest girl there, talked to her some. She played soccer; we bounced a ball around, which was then confiscated by the man running the meet, because we might break a window. On the ice, she was fast; off it, not very. When I asked her to call me Abby instead of Abigail, she looked at me blankly and said “You’re Abigail, but also Abby?” (Her name was Tiffany.) I was put in an unfair heat; she and some others tried to get it changed. It slowly dawned on me that she was a real person and not just the girl who always won.
She disappeared after that year. Soccer would probably get her into a better school and earn her more money - her father was driven. Wherever you are, Tippy, I hope that you are doing well with your soccer and your life. No-one has touched your records. They don’t run the 222 anymore. Whatever happens, I am glad that there will be some part of the record book that is forever Tippy.