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

to get a perfect 10 on the bars first because when I began gymnastics, bars were my original favorite. I loved the precision, the angles, and the complexity. Bars require a lot of thinking and figuring things out by using specific lines and points for reference. The Comaneci Salto and Comaneci Dismount that I performed during the 1976 Games came from countless hours of practice and thousands of falls. The idea that Bela and I had created new skills never seen before was exciting. But other than those random thoughts, receiving the first 10 for my uneven bar routine did not affect me. My fellow gymnasts were still my friends—my sisters. There was little
personal jealousy because everything we did was designed to help the team, which benefited everyone. Bela was responsible for the strategy, and we were responsible for the consistency of our performances.
    In the end, I won the all-around gold medal as well as an individual gold on bars and beam and a bronze on floor . . . and made history. Does this sound anticlimactic? Well, in a way, that’s how it felt. There were a few moments of disbelief coupled with winning medals, which felt great, but as I’ve said, doing well was expected of me. It was my job. I accomplished my goals, everyone’s goals, but winning a competition wasn’t an enormous surprise. Very simply, that is what I was supposed to do. My moments of success felt incredible, but they were topped off by exhaustion and the desire to return home to my family and life.
    There were no appearances on David Letterman or Oprah Winfrey. I didn’t do a photo shoot for the cover of a magazine. Sports agents at IMG and CAA never beat down my door; they didn’t even knock. I came, performed, made my country proud, and left the arena via a bus, not a limousine. I felt a sense of accomplishment, but there was practice, training, and more competitions ahead. The Olympics were over, and I was naive enough to believe I would never look back.
    Nothing, my friend, is ever what it seems.

■ The Disciplined Life
    My favorite vault as a competitive gymnast was the “Tsukahara.” In this vault, a gymnast runs forward, springs off the springboard, and dives onto the horse with a one-half turn onto her hands, then performs a piked one-and-one-half somersault off the horse and lands facing it. The Tsukahara was the first multiple-flipping vault for women. Before that, gymnasts performed a variation of a handspring over the vault. The Tsukahara was much more difficult and dangerous than any other vault, and that ’s why I liked it. I always wanted to do the hardest skills possible. I was one of a handful of gymnasts who did a Tsukahara, and some experts thought I performed it better than anyone, including the guy who invented it.

    During the 1976 Olympics, I did not realize how much media attention was focused on the Romanian team or me. We didn’t watch television or speak to other athletes, so there was no way to know. Plus, the media were not allowed into the Olympic Village, so we had no contact with reporters and journalists. But Bela and
Marta knew, and they asked the Romanian government to allow us to go home immediately after the Games. They found the attention overwhelming and frightening and wanted to make certain the team was safe. There was no immediate flight, so we were taken to a youth camp in Canada, which was a treat. I was still under the impression that I’d done very well at the Olympics but not that I had become a national figure or a heroine back in my country.
    Friend, I understand the curiosity in your last letter about our return to Bucharest. You’ve watched countless athletes return victorious to your own country, and there is an expectation for ticker-tape parades, speeches, and screaming fans. Until 1976, that had never happened in our country, so how was I to know or be prepared for what lay ahead? When our plane landed in Bucharest, I still had no clue. I