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The manly Little Pablo, actually a boyish twenty-three years old despite his grown-up muscles, grabs the bar in his well-powdered hands, jumps from the pedestal with a slight flutter of his feet, and begins the gradual pendulum swing that is both the basic syntax and the lofty poetry of the flying trapeze. “As a boy, the first thing I learned was the swing,” he told me. “It’s really quite simple. As you leave the pedestal you swing your feet up, then on the way back you arch your back forward, swing your feet under, then throw them forward as fast as possible. It’s just like riding a swing when you’re little—that little snap of the legs is what gives you all the power. Once you get that down the rest of it just follows.”
The rest of it follows, at least for the audience, in somewhat of a confusing blur. The first trick is performed by Mary Chris. She does an initial swing to gain power and then on her second pass through the air, instead of hanging beneath the bar, lifts her body onto the trapeze itself and does a forward somersault that takes her over the bar, through the ropes, and into the outstretched arms of her husband, who has miraculously appeared above the ring at the precise moment she arrives. Catch. Once they complete their follow-through and are back in the middle of the tent, she releases his hands, spins halfway around, and once again grabs on to the bar, which she then rides safely back to the pedestal. Though few in the audience could describe what they just saw, they still burst into applause.
The next trick, a double layout, is Little Pablo’s. After completing his swing, he releases the bar in a swan-dive position, does two complete revolutions of his body, and then at the last possible moment grabs his brother’s arms. The trick after that seems even more perplexing. Da
The music stops when Juan Rodríguez, alias Little Pablo, steps to the center of the carpeted platform. Not even a drumroll fills the air. It’s the first time since the show began that no sound at all is heard in the tent. All eyes turn toward the platform. Jimmy James enhances the scene.
“Introducing…the Master of the Legendary Triple Sommmersault…Fox Television Star, Juaaaan Rodríguezzz…”
A quick slap of the snares accompanies the applause. Juan raises his hand in a salute, plucks a piece of chalk from his waistline, and climbs three steps to the very top of the platform. There he prepares his body for flight. After stretching his back and clapping his hands to remove the excess dust, he grabs the fly bar held up by Da
“As soon as my brother passes the center I go. I jump up, kick my feet up into the air, and begin my forward swing. On the way back I try to go as high as possible—I’m almost in a seated position by the time I reach the top of the tent. Coming down for the final time I have to let go just before I reach the top of the swing. If I let go too early, I’ll smash into the catcher. If I wait too long, I’ll fall into the net. It’s all a matter of timing.”
Like time, somersaults are measured in revolutions. Each spin marks not only the passage of time but also the passing of a generation. Indeed, as Little Pablo explained, the history of ascending somersaults is as closely followed in the circus as the number of home runs is worshipped in baseball. One historian has even compared the question of who would turn the first triple somersault from a springboard in the 1840s and 1850s to the early-twentieth-century anticipation over which aviator would first fly across the Atlantic.
The enthusiasm over somersaults switched to the air in the 1850s after Jules Léotard first leapt from one wooden bar to another over his father’s swimming pool in France. The first double somersault was thrown by Eddie Silbon in Paris in 1879. The first triple was actually thrown by a teenage girl, Lena Jordan, though her technique (being thrown from one person to another) was slightly unconventional. Instead, the glory for turning the first consistent triple somersault from the trapeze falls to lithesome Alfredo Codona, who performed the trick regularly from 1920 until he dislocated his shoulder and shredded two muscles during a performance in April 1933.
After Codona few people were able to perform the triple consistently, and the trick was considered an unattainable dream. The speed of up to sixty miles an hour, the risk of crashing into the catcher, and not least of all the mental instability that comes from spi
“The first time I threw the triple was in 1980,” Little Pablo recalled. “I was ten and I made a bet with my cousin Miguel Vázquez. It was the last day of the first year we had ever worked the flying act. He and his brother came to help us. We were in Evansville, Indiana. Before the last show I told him, ‘I’ll go up and throw a triple to the net if you throw a quad.’ He had never done a quad, and I had never even done a double. I went and threw a triple, and he went and did the quad. It was an incredible moment.”
Within a year of that moment Miguel was attempting to throw the quadruple to his brother’s hands. In 1982, a year and a half after his experiment with his cousin, he tried to throw the quad on opening day for Ringling Brothers in front of Irving Feld, Ke
“It was amazing,” Little Pablo recalled. “It was the start of a run. You have to understand, in the circus everyone has his time. Tito Gaona had his time in the sixties and seventies. In the eighties it was Miguel. But now his time is passed. Now there’s almost no one left who can even catch the triple every show, not to mention the quad. That’s why our time is now.”