As I grew more skilled and more serious about gymnastics, my training and the number of hours I spent at LaFleur’s gym increased dramatically. By the age of seven, I was training with Jeff, Julie, and Beth five to six days per week, logging twenty-five hours, often more, each week. When I first started working with them, I was a compulsory level gymnast, so I spent my days practicing and perfecting predesigned routines with a series of required moves. The compulsory routines are dictated by USA Gymnastics (USAG), the organization that governs competitive gymnastics in the United States. During compulsory levels 4 through 6, gymnasts perform the same routine with the same movements to the same music. I looked forward to completing my compulsories and moving on to “optionals,” the next level, where I’d get to flex my own creative muscles and create my individualized routines with my coaches to reflect my own style and personality, especially for balance beam and floor exercise routines. I was excited for the day I’d get to pick my own floor music and show my customized routines. I knew the harder I worked, the faster I’d move through compulsories, so I followed my scheduled calendar diligently.
Granted, my daily routine was quite different than that of the average seven-year-old, but it was the only life I knew and I embraced it. Each weekday I went to public school until early afternoon, then off to LaFleur’s for four hours of training. Plus, I was at the gym training Saturdays from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. During the summer, my daily workouts were from 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Often on Friday nights, I would stay late, until 9:00 p.m. for “Open Gym” to play and have extra time to do whatever I wanted.
Jeff LaFleur was a demanding and structured coach. He expected a lot from his athletes, and I never wanted to disappoint him. I was in a group that varied in age quite a bit, and I worked extremely hard to get Jeff’s praise and approval each and every day. I’d later come to understand the intricacies of successful student-coach relationships and just how fortunate I was to start my career with a demanding yet empathetic coaching presence and mentor. Jeff is still among my favorite coaches I’ve had the privilege to work with, which says a lot considering I have had the help of more than twenty coaches throughout my athletic journey. Looking back, what I loved about his coaching style most was that he always brought a great sense of balance to our training sessions. He demanded more out of me when necessary, but, as a father himself, he seemed to have an innate sense of when to show a more nurturing side. Jeff treated all his gymnasts with a level of respect and caring that I valued even as a young girl. I felt so comfortable with his coaching style and direction. I always felt that he cared about me as a person as well as my progress in the sport, which meant the world to me. I cannot recall a single time Jeff lost his temper or even yelled at me, yet he always had my utmost attention and respect.
Jeff had competed as a collegiate gymnast at the University of Minnesota, where he majored in physical education and minored in child psychology. Maybe this mixture of disciplines explains why he has such an incredibly easy way with kids. As an Elite-level gymnast, he competed internationally and represented the United States, which helped him relate to his gymnasts on an athletic level as well. Having actually gone through the rigorous training himself and experiencing firsthand what it was like to compete as an Elite gymnast I think made him an even more understanding coach. He had been there and knew exactly what it was like. He pushed us because he knew what was required to reach the next level, and he never wanted his gymnasts to settle when he knew they could achieve more.
Jeff was super strong and worked hard to stay fit, even for coaching standards. I was always amazed that he could pull off his trademark one-arm handstand on the men’s parallel bars with his legs in a straddle position at any given time. I thought that was the coolest thing ever.
I spent so much time with my coaches that they became like family to me. I looked to Jeff as a positive male role model and somewhat of a father figure as well as a coach. At this point, Tata was gone most days, working long hours to provide for us. Often frustrated and exhausted, he was temperamental and moody when he was home, sometimes blowing up at Mama or me for no apparent reason. At the gym, I appreciated Jeff’s steady, reliable nature.
I believe my rapid early progress during those formative years was a testament to Jeff’s coaching skills. After only a year and a half of compulsory gymnastics, I moved up to the optional level, which in turn increased my training to a minimum of thirty-two hours per week. I was on my way to the bigger and bolder gymnastics skills. By the time I was nine, Jeff had already taught me a triple back dismount, which is three consecutive flips in the air; a Tsukahara, also known as a full-in (two consecutive flips in the air with a 360-degree twist in the first flip), on the floor, and a Yurchenko-style vault, which is a round-off entry onto the board with a backward motion, landing with my hands on the vaulting horse, followed by flips and twists off of the horse into a landing. At the time, I had never seen anyone else my age complete this vault with a 360-degree twist in a tucked and layout position. Jeff was also the first to teach me a release move on the uneven bars called a Gienger, named after the German male gymnast Eberhard Gienger. This skill begins in a handstand on the high bar, then moves into a giant swing and on the rise three-quarters of the way through, as the toes come up above the high bar, the gymnast releases the bar into a straight body layout (or hollow position) into a half twist (180-degree turn), and ends with a regrasp of the high bar. I would go on to compete this release move in the 1996 Olympics.
Julie, Jeff’s wife, who majored in physical education and minored in dance, was my floor choreographer at the gym. She was as sweet as honey and always seemed to have the patience of a saint. I will never forget working with her on my very first optional floor routine for level 8. Mind you, I was no dancer at this stage in my career. I could flip, twist, and swing on the bars with no problem, but dance—forget it. I couldn’t keep a beat or even find it. Maybe it was because I was never exposed to much music outside of some traditional Romanian songs and what little radio I heard. Dancing was completely foreign to me, and it showed. I’m sure that, deep down, Julie must have thought she was choreographing a routine for an uncoordinated Smurfette, but she remained patient and kind until I eventually got it. It was a learning experience that came much less naturally than the other skills and moves I was learning, but I needed it to grow and develop within another realm of my sport. It was a challenge, but Julie worked and worked with me until it was just right. Ironically, years later, I’d become a choreographer myself and teach other gymnasts how to dance and perform their floor routines. To this day, I’m still learning from Julie as I remind myself to have the patience with my students that she once had with me.
Beth Hair, my beam coach, was the belle of our gym. Well, in my eyes, at least. She was beautiful, with dark brown eyes, bouncy brown curls, and a slender, fit figure. Her fingernails were always perfectly manicured and painted a bright scarlet color that matched her lipstick. She’d sometimes have jewelry and rhinestones on her nails, which I thought was so chic. I’d see her miniature gold ring dangling from her thumbnail while I was on beam or when she helped stretch me during flexibility training.
Despite all her glamour and my impression that everyone in Tampa must have had a crush on her, Beth was a no-nonsense beam coach whom I respected immensely. When she would get frustrated with a student’s performance, she’d make it clear who was boss. She demanded a positive attitude and the highest work ethic from her gymnasts and would get on our cases if she thought we weren’t putting in our best effort. She required seemingly endless series of repetitions during her beam workouts. Most gymnasts dislike this about the balance beam, and the fact that it’s only four inches wide becomes more and more intimidating as you grow tired. I know that Beth’s strict style of coaching made me a tougher competitor. Beth had a purpose for what she did when she did it, and I liked that. When I began training with Beth at the compulsory level, I didn’t like the beam at all, and it was my least favorite rotat
ion. I hadn’t mastered it, and if I did fall during competitions in my early years, it was usually on beam. Beth was tough but fair, and she clearly recognized my weakness on the beam; however, she also believed I had potential, so she pushed me until it finally began to click.
Beth taught me my very first optional beam series. After I mastered a walkover back handspring I moved on to a back handspring back handspring, which was a common flight series for an optional gymnast. I then went on to a back handspring layout step-out, which is a backward motion—jumping from my feet to my hands, and then my feet again—with my legs passing in a 180-degree split while in vertical, followed by the same movement with no hands touching the beam on the second flight. By the time I was eight, Beth had me doing a three-part series that consisted of a back handspring, a layout, and another back handspring.
For my second series, Beth had me do an unconventional round-off back handspring step-out on the four-inch-wide beam. It was more bold and daring than my other series, especially for my age. I remember that two of my other teammates were doing this same type of series, but I hadn’t seen it performed much at competitions, so I knew it was unique. I took pride in doing it even though it was a little scary.
I loved gymnastics. I loved it so much I’d sometimes just say the words to myself like a declaration: “I love gymnastics.” I craved the excitement of learning new tricks and threw myself into working to be better than every other gymnast I trained with. A fierce competitive spirit was there in full force before I hit the third grade. I longed to be the best in every aspect of the sport—from the discipline to the most difficult skills to winning in competitions. I found myself at this very young age driven to achieve superiority in everything I did. The hard work and long hours all seemed like a part of the process necessary to achieve the goals of pleasing my coaches, my parents, and myself. At that time, there was no cynicism—just an all-out belief in big dreams and championships. No one shut those dreams down, either. Least of all Tata, who made no secret of the fact that I, Dominique Moceanu, was “an Olympic champion in the making.” Those early years made up my most free and happy period as a young girl and a young gymnast.
Mama and Tata were also pleased with my progress and development at LaFleur’s, and when I was nine, Tata decided to call Channel 10 News in Tampa Bay to let them know about how “special” his little girl was at gymnastics and that I was doing things very few people in the world at my age could do. Tata was always thinking about his next move and always up to some wild scheme or another. Sometimes his plans would work out and other times they would fail spectacularly. Whatever he said to the good folks at Channel 10, it worked because the local sports desk actually decided to come out and film a feature segment at LaFleur’s gym, with a spotlight on me as the most promising gymnast of a promising bunch.
This news story may seem like no big deal to most people, maybe even trivial, but it was a turning point. It was the first time I saw the outside world show an interest in what went on inside our gym. I was so happy that people, real grown-ups, actually cared enough about our sport to film it and put it on TV. And it was the first time anyone other than my coaches and parents had taken an interest in my talent.
I was so excited the morning of the news shoot. Mama’s parents, Maia and Papu, had recently arrived in the United States from Romania and were living with us at the time. We were all crammed into this little apartment, but for Mama it was a taste of familiarity and comfort, so it was nice to have them there even though we were practically on top of one another. Maia helped take care of my younger sister Christina and me while Tata pulled Mama in every direction insisting she go with him to car auctions throughout Southern Florida to help him bring cars back to his auto dealership in Tampa. Tata loved cars, and he had a knack for selling anything, so as a car salesman he worked long hours. He did what he had to in order to support us, and that “us” now included Mama’s parents. I know he wasn’t thrilled about having to support Maia and Papu on top of the four of us, as I’d overhear him complain to Mama.
It was nice to have Papu with us, too. He’d mostly linger in the background, in the living room or in the little bedroom he, Maia, and I shared, often singing Macedonian tunes with his deep, steady voice. He was balding and had little patches of white hair on the sides of his head. He was already eighty-five years old when he came to the States, so he never learned English, or Romanian, for that matter. A true Macedonian, he spoke only Macedonian. It’s no wonder I couldn’t understand what was being said in my house sometimes; I never knew exactly what language was being spoken because Maia, Papu, and my parents would mash up his and their languages in the same sentence, confusing me entirely!
Even though I never fully understood the words of Papu’s songs, it always made me feel happy when I’d hear his rich voice. It was a tiny apartment, so I could hear him sing whether he was eating breakfast or bathing. I loved that he never cared what anyone thought about him and never bothered to ask whether any of us liked his singing.
On the “Channel 10 Day,” I could hear Papu singing throughout the house as I was in my room trying to focus on one important thing: “What leotard am I going to wear for the news piece today?” If only such things remained my biggest dilemmas in life. I dug through my closet looking for the right leotard, throwing several maybes that I’d collected over the years onto my bed while the automatic rejects got tossed back into the closet in a pile. I was looking for my “lucky leo.” Every gymnast has one. They also have their “bad luck leo,” the leo they got hurt in and some vow to never wear again. A few more searches through my basket of clean clothes and finally, way down at the bottom, there it was, my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow: my black leo with big green leaves and pink, purple, and orange flowers—that was the one. It reminded me of the jungle, and I’d had lots of good workouts when I’d worn it. My good luck charm, I thought, and I pulled it on. I was ready!
Both Mama and Tata took me to the gym that day, which was rare. I remember sitting in the backseat quietly just watching the road unfold in front of us. I was a little on edge and getting more nervous as we got closer to LaFleur’s. I wanted everything to go well. Tata was buzzing with an excited energy and talking nonstop about what an important day this was. He was wearing one of his special white button-up shirts, had his straight brown hair slicked back with gel into a mini-mullet, and his wiry mustache tightly combed. Mama, in typical fashion, was calm and quiet. She didn’t like a fuss made over her and never wanted to be the center of attention, so it was no surprise when she declined to be interviewed by the news crew later that afternoon. Tata, on the other hand, was front and center, ready to go from the moment we stepped into the gym.
When we arrived, the camera crew and news reporter were already at the gym setting up. I tried to act normal and get ready for my warm-ups, but I was so excited and a little nervous because I didn’t want to make a mistake in front of this new and very special audience. I especially didn’t want to disappoint my coaches or Tata, and I wanted people to be impressed with what we were doing at LaFleur’s.
My teammates, other coaches, and a handful of parents would stop by every so often to peek at the cameras and see what we were doing. I had butterflies fluttering in my stomach at first, but as the day went on, I became more relaxed and the butterflies disappeared. Generally speaking, I was a particularly shy little nine-year-old, but the gym could always draw me out of my shell. I truly loved being there and was always able to lose myself in the physicality of the sport. When I performed in the gym, the rest of the world just sort of blurred around me, and I felt at peace with myself.
Jerry Johnson, the local sports news anchor for Channel 10, covered the story and started the segment very generously:
“Right here in our Bay Area lives a little girl with even greater vision. You see, Dominique Moceanu is just nine years old, and that means she’ll be just old enough for the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta. She’s a gymnast with extraordinary talent and a d
ream that began even before she was born in the heart of her father amid the communism of Romania. … At the tender age of nine, Dominique already has the look of a world-class gymnast. She has the poise. She has the determination.”
The camera crew recorded all of my events that day—vault, bars, beam, and floor—and Jeff had me demonstrate all of my most difficult skills for each event.
On the vault, I did a Yurchenko tucked full, which is a round-off entry vault with backward motion into a block off the vaulting horse and into a flip backward in a tucked position with a 360-degree twist. It’s an expected skill from an Elite senior-level gymnast, but was an advanced skill for my age, especially in the early 1990s. I was actually able to do this skill in a layout position onto a small eight-by-twelve-inch mat over the pit, which I did in practices with relative ease, but I felt most comfortable that day doing it tucked, and Jeff agreed.
As the cameras caught this vault on tape, I remember Tata front and center about halfway down the runway on the right side watching me with his arms crossed, beaming with pride. Tata had been working so much, he would only come to see me perform at the gym occasionally. Which was typically fine with me—I didn’t like him there, hovering over me and watching and critiquing my every move. But on this special day I figured it was okay. In a way, it was his day, too, since he had orchestrated the whole event. I know Tata was full of pride and pleased to no end that people were taking an interest in his daughter. He held his chin high as he stood close to the vaulting horse and then on to the bars. Being able to please him in this way—to be the source of his pride—felt like a significant achievement in itself.
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