Off Balance: A Memoir

by Dominique Moceanu

  After bars, we moved to the balance beam, and I could feel myself getting nervous, more so than earlier. I had seen Marta arrive toward the end of the bar rotation. I was standing at the chalk bowl and through the glass windows in the lobby, I had a clear shot of her coming. She walked into her office, set down her things, then came out and just stood by the beam—her event. I was most nervous about performing on beam to begin with and now, seeing Marta standing there, waiting, made me uneasy as we finished up bars.

  I learned later that this was the way Bela and Marta did things. Bela liked to coach solo with the gymnasts during the running drills, conditioning, floor, vault, and bars, and Marta liked to train her event, the balance beam, by herself. They only stayed for each other’s events if extra help was needed to work on something specific. It was better for everyone this way, because when they were there at the same time, they’d usually bicker back and forth, which made the sessions more tense.

  I had the last pick as to which of the balance beams I would work on. Kim, Betty, and Hilary had chosen the beams closest to where Marta usually stood, Kerri had the next beam, and the two end beams that nobody wanted were left for Jennie and me. I was the weakest link at this point and I felt it. I followed the lead of the older gymnasts and jumped straight up onto the beam. We did a short warm-up, and when the older gymnasts headed into their compulsory exercises, Jennie and I were instructed to work on the skills we already knew.

  Marta had high expectations on her event. I saw it in the way she watched the older gymnasts with such intensity and scrutiny. If you weren’t strong on beam, she didn’t give you much of her time or attention. She liked those gymnasts who were good on her event, so I knew I had to impress her, and I tried my very hardest—really went all out. I made mistakes, falling every now and then, but I’d jump back up quickly and secretly hoped that she missed those turns, but I’m sure she saw everything. About an hour later, I breathed a sigh of relief that I’d made it through the beam rotation, and practice in general, without any major embarrassments or injuries.

  On the drive home, my parents didn’t really discuss my performance or what they had talked about with the Karolyis. I was exhausted physically and emotionally from the evaluation, and I was just happy to be heading back to Florida.

  I remember sitting at the dinner table a few weeks after trip number two when Tata asked me about moving to Houston to train with the Karolyis. We were already following Tata’s plan every step of the way, so it was almost silly to even ask what I thought at that point.

  “Do you want to go?” Tata asked, but what he really was saying was, “This is where you want to go.”

  All I could say was “Okay.”

  Tata was ecstatic at the opportunity to have the most famous gymnastics coaches in the world coach his daughter. Mama later described how they were “swollen with pride” that the Karolyis had accepted their daughter to train with them. I figured if my parents truly believed it was the right thing to do, then I had to believe it, too. I was a kid who had just turned ten, after all. How much of an opinion could I really offer? I knew they wanted me to be an Olympic champion, and in their minds, they believed Bela and Marta Karolyi had the coaching and political power to help make it happen. They had coached the iconic Nadia Comaneci, also a Romanian, so my parents thought they would be a perfect fit for me. Why wouldn’t they? On the surface it appeared to be the perfect move.

  It was December 1991, when trip number three came knocking at my door. The call had come from the Karolyis, and before I knew it, my parents packed our things, loaded up the moving truck, and just like that, we were moving—Maia and Papu included. We left in typical Tata style: we never looked back. That’s just how he thought; move forward and that’s it. Done. No long good-byes.

  I don’t think Tata ever knew how tough it was on me to leave the one place where I had felt so comfortable and safe. To him, Florida was merely a stepping-stone to bigger things, but to me it had meant so much more. Despite this, I kept quiet as I normally did, never expressing my sadness to anyone. I was dying on the inside having to leave Jeff, Julie, Beth, my teammates, and my friends—the first real friends I had. “Okay” was all I mustered when Tata asked if I wanted to go. I expressed nothing else.

  Mama drove the car, and Tata, the large U-Haul van. I don’t remember much of this trip except that I slept a lot, and when I wasn’t napping, I had a pit in my stomach—a mix of sadness to be leaving Tampa and fear of the unknown of Houston. I wondered … Would these amazing gymnasts accept me? Would I be happy there? I knew deep down that the answers to these questions really wouldn’t make a difference. I wouldn’t have a choice one way or another because my parents already had sacrificed so much to get me into that gym. I knew I couldn’t disappoint them.

  In Houston, we settled into an itsy-bitsy two-bedroom apartment. It was all we could afford, but it was home to the six of us. Mama enrolled me in the fourth grade at Ponderosa Elementary School in December 1991, halfway through the school year. Another neighborhood, another school, another gym. I was getting used to it.

  I remember one cold morning after we’d arrived in Houston, the windshield of our car had frozen overnight and Mama couldn’t see two inches in front of her. Coming from the balmy winters of Tampa, I found this funny that a windshield could “freeze,” but then panic set in as I realized that a frozen windshield meant I could possibly be late to the gym for training, which was simply unacceptable to the Karolyis. I remember sitting in the passenger seat of the car while Mama ran into the apartment to boil some water. Tata poured the scalding water over the windshield, and I watched as the frost and ice melted away. Mama and Tata had some peculiar methods of doing things, but somehow they always confidently tackled the problem at hand. The windshield was good as new and Mama got me to the gym on time. The Karolyis did not tolerate anyone arriving late for practice. I had seen Bela kick Hilary out of the gym for practice just for being the last one to walk in the gym even though she wasn’t late, just the last one in. From that day forward, I was ready plenty early in case some other crazy Houston roadblock stood in our way.

  My official training at the Karolyi gym pretty much took up where I’d left off at my evaluation. I, along with Jennie, jumped into the Senior Elites group with Kim Zmeskal, Betty Okino, Hilary Grivich, and Kerri Strug. It was a very big deal. Very few my age had ever had the privilege, and I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. I was proud to be training in Gym Number 1 with these 1992 Olympic “hopefuls.” Gym Number 1 was not only separated by status from Gym Number 2 and Gym Number 3, but was physically partitioned off as well. Gym Number 1 was separated by a glass sliding door, and gymnasts from lower groups were never allowed in Gym Number 1—it was reserved only for the Elites in training. The rules were strict at the Karolyis’ and everyone knew them and obeyed them.

  Gym Number 3 was pretty much abandoned at the time. Nobody liked going in there because it had the worst of the worst run-down equipment. I specifically remember an old gray Nissen balance beam that was torn up around the edges. I got shivers at the thought of working out and landing on something so hard and torn up under my feet. I was surprised that the Karolyi gym had such old equipment. It seemed strange to me that a gym with the country’s highest-level gymnasts didn’t have newer equipment for training.

  Shortly after I joined the gym, I had my first exhibition with my new teammates at Houston’s Salute to Olympic Gymnastics Hopefuls at Rice University. My team at the exhibition consisted of the 1992 Barcelona Olympic hopefuls Kim Zmeskal, Betty Okino, Hilary Grivich, Kerri Strug, along with 1996 hopefuls Jennie Thompson, myself, and other Karolyi gymnasts from various levels.

  I was floored when I saw that the Nadia Comaneci and her soon-to-be husband, Bart Conner, were television commentators for the event. Nadia Comaneci was the gold standard for gymnastics, and as a Romanian, she was not only my family’s hero, she was a hero to her entire country. I couldn’t believe I was actually in the same room with her.
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  When Bela called me and my teammates over to meet Nadia and Bart behind a blue curtain, I did everything I could to appear calm, because on the inside I was exploding. We locked eyes, and I felt an instant connection with her. I wasn’t sure if it was because we shared the same heritage or because we were both selected by the Karolyis to train at such a young age, but I felt like she somehow understood me and what I was going through as a ten-year-old Elite gymnast better than anyone else in that room. I felt as if we had this unspoken understanding of each other. I had dreams, but standing there that day meeting her, who would have guessed that I’d one day follow in her footsteps to win gold for my country at the age of fourteen, just like she had done for her country.

  I was timid and quiet when she spoke to me, but I couldn’t stop smiling and staring at her. It was hard to not be mesmerized—besides being a legend in my sport, Nadia was so beautiful. She had strong European features: big brown eyes, shoulder-length dark hair, and an hourglass figure that left little doubt she was still in great athletic shape.

  At the time, I secretly wondered how she’d endured all that she’d gone through in her life to get to the very top of her sport—and to stay at the top. From my parents, I knew that during her era of competition, gymnastics was different and that she trained under a dictatorship in Romania. I wondered how that must have affected her on the inside because she always looked so stoic and calm and carried herself with class and dignity.

  Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and still in prime physical shape nearly eight years after he’d won his two gold medals at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics, Bart Conner was the happiest and sweetest gentleman I’d ever met. Being around Bart put a smile on my face. I couldn’t believe he took the time to ask me, a little pipsqueak, about my gymnastics, and I could tell he sincerely listened to what I was saying and that he wanted me to do well. With the exception of my first coach, Jeff, most of the men I knew in my life up to that point were not as well mannered or polite, especially not with kids. The two most prominent male role models in my life, Tata and Bela, in fact, both terrified me. Then here was Bart—an Olympic warrior who was genuine, kind, and positive. This stranger was a ray of sunlight that day, and he and Nadia have remained friends ever since, even serving as godparents at my wedding in 2006.

  It was at this exhibition that I got my first taste of interacting with the public and the media. After the event, a fan was working his way through the exhibition floor collecting autographs on his white T-shirt with a black Sharpie pen. He approached me and Jennie and asked us to write “1996 for sure” because he was so sure we’d make it to the 1996 Olympics. I was overwhelmed by the attention and also by this stranger’s confidence in me. In my experience, only Mama and Tata had been so certain about my future. I hesitated to sign the shirt, thinking that it might somehow be against the Karolyis’ rules and also, I was only ten years old. There was a long road ahead of me before the Olympics, and I didn’t want to jinx it by signing this guy’s shirt. I wasn’t sure what to do. I froze. The fan persisted, so I relented and wrote “1996 for sure!” and Jennie and I signed our names. I had butterflies in my tummy because I was afraid of what Bela might say when he saw it, which I knew he eventually would because his signature hadn’t made it onto the man’s shirt yet and I knew this persistent fan wasn’t leaving that exhibition without Bela Karolyi’s signature.

  In later years, Bela would tell and retell the story to poke fun at me. By the time he recounted the story in a 1995 segment on NBC, it was so exaggerated, it went something like this:

  “… And in an interview she wrote, ‘Dominique Moceanu 1996 Olympic All-Around Champion for sure!’”

  Bela laughed and made big hand gestures mimicking how I’d signed the shirt. Bela, like Tata, had a knack for telling stories, and if there was a camera crew or media in the vicinity, watch out! It was always a love fest because reporters and camera people all marveled at Bela’s effortless charm and charisma, and Bela loved having an audience.

  “I never said that! I would never sign my signature as the ‘All-Around Champion for sure,’” I cried to Mama after the NBC interview aired. I was so ashamed and embarrassed that Bela had painted me as an overconfident brat. The one thing I was certain of, even very young, was that nothing was ever 100 percent certain in sports. I was raised in a superstitious household where saying things like I’d be the “All-Around Champion for sure” was definitely tempting fate. Later, by the time I’d heard the story a few more times from Bela on television, I’d grown a thicker skin and it bothered me less and less, even though Bela exaggerated the details more and more.

  As I had only been training with the Karolyis for a short time prior to this exhibition, I’d had little time to prepare. Bela and Marta didn’t like the floor routine I had prepared at LaFleur’s gym, so they told me I needed to learn a new routine in time for the exhibition. Team choreographer and fellow Romanian Geza Poszar was to work with me. Geza had been with Marta and Bela since the early days in Romania when they were training Nadia and her teammates. Marta, Bela, and Geza continued to work together after all three fled Romania for the United States in the early 1980s.

  Expectations were higher than ever, and I wasn’t yet used to the energy of the gym, which was very tense and so different than I’d ever felt before. I was nervous to start on this routine—and the music selected by the Karolyis didn’t make it any easier. The foundation for any floor routine is the music, and the Hungarian folk piece Bela and Marta selected for me sounded strange and foreign, even to me. I felt completely detached from it. But I also knew that it didn’t matter whether I felt it suited me, or whether I liked it. I was to dance to it, period.

  I remember the first day Geza and I started working on my routine. After my morning conditioning, circuit training, and regular team practice with Kim, Kerri, Betty, Hilary, and Jennie, I stood in the center of the gym with Geza while everyone looked on. Usually, these sessions were done in private, one-on-one between the gymnast and choreographer. For some reason, it was decided that it would be a good idea to have my first floor routine session in front of the rest of the team.

  The gym floor was old and worn under my feet and had very little bounce. It didn’t have that familiar feel of the floors at the competitions or at my old gym. I also felt awkward and self-conscious standing there with everyone staring. Geza played the Hungarian folk music a few times to get in touch with it and get his creative juices flowing. He had dark black hair with streaks of gray, a salt-and-pepper mustache, and wore a beret and satchel. He looked like a European artist and I liked that. I never knew any other man to carry a satchel, and I have to say that it looked good on Geza. During our private lesson sessions later, he would remove his satchel and beret, but, here with our audience, he stood in full garb. He had a friendlier vibe than the others I’d met at the gym, and I felt comfortable with him. I loved that he had a sense of humor.

  Geza started working on the opening pose and initial dance sequence. This first section is typically short and sweet as most gymnasts want to limit the dancing at the beginning in order to be fresh going into the first, and usually most difficult, tumbling pass of the routine. I had always liked the intro dance sequence and had fun with the moves, but that day, as I stood in the far corner of the floor, I wasn’t connecting at all. I had to strain to hear the music, but all I could hear was Bela talking to my teammates. I tried to focus on Geza as he instructed me to do eight long leaps in a circle to the beat of the music, but the music was drowned out by Bela, who was commanding my teammates to do running drills in a large circle around the mat where Geza and I were working. Why the heck did he have to make them run around me?

  For the life of me, I couldn’t do the eight elongated steps on beat and the more I tried, the less I could hear the music, the more I got distracted, and the worse it got. I wanted to crawl under the rug and hide. All eyes were on me and felt like they were burning through my skin.

  “1 … 2 … 3 … 4 … 5 … 6 … 7 …
8 … JUMP!” Geza began counting out loud in an effort to help. Still, I struggled. He raised his voice and started counting again and demonstrating how I was supposed to jump on the last count and land with legs glued together, slightly bent, with arms extended in front and behind in a diagonal. I tried it over and over again, but I couldn’t get on beat. Kim and Betty even chimed in with Geza’s counting to help me get on beat, but it didn’t work. It was my first solo display for my new teammates, and I was humiliated and flustered. My eyes welled up as I tried my hardest to fight back the tears.

  I couldn’t understand why it was so difficult for me. I’d performed these types of moves countless times and had performed far more challenging sequences in front of crowds and judges for years.

  Bela had turned his attention from my running teammates to my mediocre performance. It was the first time he really got frustrated and lost his patience with me. It stung like needles when he shot a look at Geza, snickered, and laughed disdainfully while shaking his head. I felt stupid. I was disappointed with myself and felt horrible for letting people down. I tried to hide my watery eyes from Bela.

  Geza ended up changing the first steps of the routine to make it simpler for me, and although I was humiliated, I was also relieved just to be able to move on to the next sequence. I tried to hide my disappointment, but it was all over my face.

  “Stop making faces. Stop playing the fool!” Bela barked.

  As a ten-year-old, I had no idea what “Stop playing the fool” even meant, but he used that line often in the gym with me and the other girls when he was mad, so I knew it wasn’t good. At first, I never realized I was actually making a “face” when he would yell this at me. I became very self-conscious and tried extra hard not to make any facial expressions at all, happy or sad. I eventually perfected my “gym face,” which showed zero emotion. I’d challenge anyone, even Mama or Tata, to know what I was thinking or feeling when I donned my gym face.