(4 of 5)
Still, according to her coach Evy Scotvold, the nurturing and support Kerrigan receives has bred some immaturity and insecurity. "She's a very dependent person," he says. It was not until 1992 that Kerrigan moved out of her parents' wood-frame home in blue-collar Stoneham, Massachusetts. But last week, when Kerrigan wasn't doing her daily round of physical therapy and hydrotherapy sessions, she was home with her parents in Stoneham, with all the world camped outside. Asked at a snowy press conference what would make a happy ending to her story, Kerrigan made no mention of medals or movie deals. "The most important thing is to be happy and healthy," she said.
Harding, by contrast, would make an unlikely role model -- though her grit and spirit have served her well in surviving a turbulent childhood and triumphing in a grueling sport. Tough, self-sufficient and bruised well beyond her years, Harding has never known stability either on the rink or at home. She moved between eight different houses in six communities in her first 18 years, during which her father Al, who has variously driven a truck, managed apartments and worked at a bait-and-tackle store, was her best friend. He gave her her first gun, a .22, when she was five, taught her to hunt and fish and fix a transmission. Her parents' marriage fell apart in 1985, and two years later her mother married James Golden, her sixth husband (who told TIME last week that yet another divorce is in the works). Soon afterward, Harding moved in with Gillooly, whom she had been dating for three years.
In March 1990, when Tonya was 19, they were married; 15 months later she filed for divorce. At the same time, Harding sought a restraining order to keep Gillooly away. "He wrenched my arm and wrist, and he pulled my hair and shoved me," she wrote in her petition for the order. "I recently found out he bought a shotgun, and I am scared for my safety." A police report filed the next month quotes Harding as saying that Gillooly had cornered her in a boatyard and threatened, "I think we should break your legs and end your career."
The following March they got back together -- but by last July Harding was seeking a divorce and a restraining order. This time the petition read, "It has been an abusive relationship for the past two years, and he has assaulted me physically with his open hand and fist." The couple again reconciled, but not before their divorce was final. At a competition last October, Harding explained, "We're trying to get the divorce annulled." She then stated, "I'm definitely married." Since moving to Beaver Creek two months ago, the couple has maintained such a low profile that others living on their road didn't know of their famous neighbors until last week.
The picture of Gillooly remains fuzzy; he seems to project virtually no identity beyond that of being Harding's on-again-off-again spouse. The youngest of six children, Gillooly is a high school graduate who has been a lifelong resident of the Portland area. Fellow workers at his last job, on a conveyor line at the Oregon Liquor Control Commission warehouse in Portland, say Gillooly was an average guy and an average worker. His supervisor, Ron Marcoe, says Gillooly quit. "He started out good, but it deteriorated," says Marcoe. "It happens. It's boring work."