Letters to a Young Gymnast by Nadia Comaneci Read Free Book Online Page A

1976 Games, I had already chosen my path; I was doing exactly as I wished.
    The Karolyis and my government gave me an opportunity that my family never could have afforded. In other countries, you have to pay for your coach; for your private-school tuition; and for all of the leotards, wrist guards, shoes, and medical attention necessary for success. Things were different in Romania. My parents and my brother never suffered as a result of my desires. They could enjoy my successes while pursuing their own lives. In Romania, it was a big deal, a huge honor, to make it onto an elite athletic team. You were allowed to travel, and none of us could have afforded that. As a thirteen-or fourteen-year-old, you got to see other countries and buy stupid things that seemed really important at the time, such as dolls and ribbons and socks. Although I didn’t understand the importance of the Olympics in 1976, I was a willing participant. I had the choice to participate, and I grabbed the opportunity with both hands and held on as tightly as humanly possible.

    When the Romanian team entered the arena in Montreal for the Olympic compulsory competition, with our hair in ponytails and wearing snow-white leotards with striped piping, we were no longer the unknown team from a tiny country who-knows-where. There was a buzz, created by an unparalleled public relations move by Bela. Though many of the judges came from the USSR and favored the Soviets, our team dominated the compulsories; when I stepped up to the bars, we were in second place, only one-hundredth of a point behind the Russians.
    No one knows when he or she is about to make history. There is no warning and no instruction manual on how to handle the moment. I can only tell you that it was business as usual as I swung onto the uneven bars. I executed each skill with the extension and movements expected of me, and I dismounted. I’d done the same compulsory routine as everyone else, but with a “Nadia touch.” I felt an almost invisible hop on the landing but knew that my routine was good enough. It wasn’t perfect, though.
    Since I was the last to perform on the bars, I immediately went over to warm up for the beam. I never analyzed my performance beyond a quick thought of the landing. It was done, and I needed to move on. I knew that after the day was over, the Karolyis and I would talk about what I had done right and wrong. That’s how we always processed competitions. While I warmed up for the beam, my score for the bars flashed across the scoreboard—a 1.00. I continued to warm up, unaware of what was happening, focused on my next routine. The crowd was silent, confused. No one knew what 1.00 meant.
    Bela gestured to the judges to ask what my score meant, ready for a fight. A Swedish judge held up ten
fingers. The reason my score had shown as 1.00 was that the scoreboard didn’t have the programmed ability to flash a 10 because the organizers had never had the need for one before. Bela came over to me, and I asked, “Mr. Professor, was that really a 10?” He grinned from ear to ear and said yes. I’ve told you, friend, it is rare for me to show emotion on the outside, but I did smile then, and when one of my teammates told me to go up and wave to the crowd, I did that, too.
    Promptly, I forgot about the 10 and moved on to the beam. During the rest of the competition, I got six more perfect scores of 10, for a total of seven at the Montreal Games. It didn’t have an impact on me—not one bit. I thought that maybe the judges were being too good to me. The team was happy about my scores, but none of us focused on them. We needed to pay attention to the rest of the competition. I have always been able to concentrate. When I’m on the beam, I don’t hear the music from the floor. And when I’m vaulting, I can’t hear the applause when other gymnasts do their dismounts.
    I do remember thinking at the time that I was glad