Off Balance: A Memoir (16 page)

“If I had wanted to be a soccer player, I know my parents would’ve figured some way to help make it happen,” Jennifer has said.

Jennifer says she was also very lucky to have had wonderful teachers who encouraged and supported her throughout her school years. All of her teachers had a positive impact on her in some way or another, but in particular, her fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sweat, stands out. Mrs. Sweat, an eccentric woman with big, wild curly hair and long fingernails, reinforced what Jennifer’s family had taught her about standing up for yourself even when it feels like the world is against you.

Like it was yesterday, Jennifer shared with me a story about spending the day with her family at Holiday World amusement park in Indiana when she was about eleven years old. After waiting for hours to ride a roller coaster, she was immediately turned away once she reached the front of the line because she didn’t meet the height requirement. She felt this was unfair because she was tall and large enough to sit in the seat to be properly secured by the harness and seat belts the same as everyone else. Her body was actually bigger than those of many of the children on the ride. Jennifer would’ve understood if there was a safety concern, but she had previously been allowed on other roller coasters, some bigger and faster than this one. Her parents never would have allowed her to get on a ride where there was any doubt regarding safety. Had she been wearing prosthetic legs, she would have met the height requirement, but having them hang below her belted body in the roller coaster seat would not have made her any safer, just taller. The people operating the ride didn’t want to consider any of these particular facts. They took one look at Jennifer and told her she couldn’t ride. Period. She was never going to be able to reach the height requirement for this ride, even when she was an adult.

The next day at school after Jennifer shared what had happened at the amusement park, Mrs. Sweat devoted a good part of the day to discussing discrimination and teaching the class why it’s wrong to judge or deny people rights simply because they “look” different. Jennifer was taken aback and deeply thankful for this lesson by her teacher. Moments like this reinforced Jennifer’s confidence and her belief that she should have the same rights as others even though she was born different. She decided that her adventures in life were not going to be decided by what other people perceived she could or could not do.

Growing up with three older brothers, Jennifer was not only adventurous, she was a complete daredevil. Besides riding four-wheelers and rough-housing with her brothers, she’d scare her parents
half to death by jumping off their second-story spiral staircase onto the living room couch below time and time again. She was also a skilled and agile climber and, with book in hand, she’d easily make her way up a big backyard tree to wedge herself between the branches and read for hours.

As long as Jennifer can remember, she was a fan of gymnastics and would watch the US and international competitions and exhibitions whenever they were televised. She was drawn, in particular, to me, the littlest gymnast on the floor, and found herself cheering “little Dominique” on from the beginning. I reminded Jennifer of herself—we were both petite, with dark hair and eyes, and strikingly similar facial features. Jennifer knew she was of Romanian descent, like me, so she felt an even greater connection. She tells me she used to ask her parents if they thought she and I looked alike. I get goose bumps when she shares how she used to tell her parents that we looked “like sisters.”

Jennifer watched all my televised meets, read books and articles about me, and declared to her family that she was going to meet me one day. It’s mind-boggling how our lives crossed as kids and have come full circle as adults.

“I want to be a gymnast,” Jennifer announced to her parents when she was in second grade. With that, they enrolled her in gymnastics classes, which then led to tumbling classes.

Jennifer’s entry into gymnastics coincided with the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, where I reached my own goal of winning the gold medal alongside the other members of the Magnificent Seven. Jennifer tells me that watching me compete and succeed, even though I was so young and tiny compared to my peers in the sport, inspired her to start competing in gymnastics and tumbling. With her strength, coordination, and focus, Jennifer quickly excelled in tumbling, eventually competing over the next four years and winning various competitions in her age division.

By the time she was twelve, Jennifer had become a small-town hero through her tumbling feats, having participated in four state meets, one in which she took the title of State Champion, as well as competing in three national meets and one Junior Olympic meet. Upon entering high school, Jennifer felt she had accomplished all she had set out to do in the sport of tumbling and was ready to tackle new challenges. She also looked forward to having more free time to hang out with her friends, do girly things like experiment with makeup, and just be a teenager.

Jennifer’s positive outlook has served as an inspiration for me, even in the short time I’ve known her. She looks at life not as an obstacle, but as an opportunity. Clearly, because of her physical challenges, she has had to conquer a number of things on a daily basis that the rest of us don’t even think twice about, but she nonetheless moves forward with her trademark “no excuses” attitude, which I absolutely love!

Chapter 8

OLYMPIAN

T
he time leading up to the 1996 Olympics was the most demanding and stressful of my career. The sport I had loved so much was slowly becoming a nightmare as I trained with Bela and Marta Karolyi the summer before the Olympics. I pushed myself as hard as I could, but I always felt like I couldn’t please them. I kept telling myself that they were just trying to get 100 percent out of me, like any decent coaches, but they were so out of tune with where I was mentally, emotionally, and physically that their tactics were having the opposite effect. I was already fiercely competitive
and sharply focused on the goal of Olympic gold. I’d been in love with gymnastics forever, it seemed, and since my very first media interview at the age of nine, I had envisioned nothing more vividly than standing on the Olympic podium receiving my medal. That dream was
almost
a reality. After years of work and total dedication, it was so close I could taste it. Deep down, I loved gymnastics with all my heart, so I was devastated and confused when I began feeling apprehensive about walking into the gym each morning. Leading up to the most important competition of my career, I felt unprotected and vulnerable in training.

I was so afraid to make mistakes and get reprimanded by my coaches that the joy of the sport started slipping away. Bela would threaten to call Tata whenever I’d make mistakes. Bela knew he had total control over me, and he used this power to intimidate me, not to motivate or empower me, and I hated that. Just like he’d done when he found the Mentos in my Georgia bear, Bela knew one phone call would have Tata carrying out the physical punishment Bela thought I’d deserved. I was mad and disappointed with all of them for stealing my joy and happiness from gymnastics.

Performing my routines—both compulsory and optionals—was packed with difficulty, yet executing them was the least of my worries. The real anxiety in the pit of my stomach was fear of Bela and Marta berating me for any error. For most gymnasts, practice is supposed to be the place to get all the mistakes and kinks worked out as the routines are mastered. My routines were nearly perfect already, and we were just putting the final touches on them. I typically did six compulsory beam routines in the morning and six optionals in the afternoon session, and there were weeks when I wouldn’t miss a single routine. I’d challenge myself to see how long I could go without a fall—on beam, I once went three weeks. I’d go weeks without a fall on my bar routines, but I still felt the pressure every day, every minute, to make zero mistakes because I knew one fall, one slip-up, could set off Bela and Marta and erase all the good
I’d done up to that point. Maybe, for some gymnasts, the Karolyis’ style of coaching made them stronger, better athletes, but, for me, the fear tactics and scrutinized training methods kept my nerves unsettled, made me feel tight, and sapped joy from my sport.

There were times I felt strapped into a straitjacket, trapped living and training at the Karolyi ranch that summer. My every move was monitored by Bela and/or Marta around the clock, 24/7. Spending day in and day out with them, you’d think a personal bond would form, and a certain level of trust would be established, but I could never fully trust either of the Karolyis even though I desperately wanted to. Bela and Marta made no effort to create a real connection with me. I was terrified of them and found myself counting the days until I could break away. Of course, this meant that I was counting the days until the Olympics were over and done, and
that
was the most confusing thought of all. I had waited my whole life for this, and now I couldn’t wait to be done with the Olympics, so that I could be done with the Karolyis? This was not at all how I’d envisioned the summer before the biggest competition of my life.

Thank God for Kerri Strug. Earlier that summer, Kerri moved in with me to the log cabin house next door to the Karolyis’ main house at the ranch. It was just the two of us training with the Karolyis at that time. Had I been there by myself, I think I would have gone crazy. We were good training partners, both with an unwavering work ethic. We pushed the best out of each other. Our training was focused, intense, and left no time for fun or socializing. Kerri was eighteen years old, four years older than me, so, aside from gymnastics, we didn’t really have much in common then, but our time together built a foundation for a strong friendship years later as adults.

Like me, Kerri was relatively shy and quiet, and respected the rules. From what I remember, she had trained with Bela and Marta leading up to and throughout the 1992 Olympics and
then returned to train with them in 1996 in preparation for the Atlanta Olympics. I can’t speak for Kerri’s experiences because they were certainly different than mine, but I noticed right away that Kerri was treated differently by the Karolyis. They dealt with her in a softer tone and with a basic level of respect. If we were both doing routines on bars, for example, it didn’t matter if mine was nearly flawless, Bela or Marta would criticize me sharply and make disgusted faces when I made even the slightest mistake. I often wondered at the time why they were so much harsher on me and figured that they just liked Kerri more as a person—she
was
very sweet and respectful. That’s not to say that Bela and Marta didn’t ride Kerri. There were many times at the chalk tray when we’d share a quiet look, both rolling our eyes about something the Karolyis had said or done. I admired how Kerri handled herself and was so grateful to have her there.

Years later, Kerri explained that her parents had talked to Bela and Marta prior to her return to the ranch in 1996, telling them that they wouldn’t be able to treat Kerri “the way you used to” if she was going to come back to their gym.

Geez
, I thought,
was that all my parents needed to say to get the Karolyis to treat me like a human being?

Often after particularly hard training sessions and demoralizing chastisements from one or both of the Karolyis, I would feel let down by them, by Tata, and even by Mama. Tata and Mama repeatedly made it clear that they were taking their marching orders from the coaches. My parents were prideful, hardworking people, but they put all of their trust in the legendary Karolyis, leaving me little room at home to voice any difficulties at the gym. Our family already had enough stress and conflict with Tata’s mood swings and financial strains. I didn’t want my parents arguing over my gymnastics, the one thing they both seemed to agree on.

I don’t think the Karolyis ever thought much of me, Mama, or Tata anyway. To them, we were just a poor Romanian immigrant
family who hung on these world-famous coaches’ every word. And we certainly did our share of ass kissing. Mama, the people pleaser she was, always made herself available to help the Karolyis. Whether it was picking up choreographer Geza or some other Russian coach from the airport, baking homemade breads and food for the Karolyis, or running their personal errands for them, she did everything she could to help get me in their good graces. She went above and beyond because in her culture, parents did such things to help their children. By American standards, it may appear like bribery, but for Mama it was typical, expected behavior. It was the only thing she felt she could do to help me.

In his way, Tata did his part as well. I remember when Tata was a salesman at the Ford dealership, he pulled some strings and arranged for Bela to drive a Ford-sponsored vehicle at no cost. Tata was a proud man, and I know he felt taken advantage of by the Karolyis at times, too. I’d sometimes catch a small earful here and there when Tata would vent to Mama about “being used” by the Karolyis, but he’d immediately stop when he’d see me listening. Mama would later tell me that they knew if they had questioned the Karolyis’ rules or methods, Bela would have told them, “Take Dominique somewhere else. We don’t need her.” Tata believed that the Karolyis had the political power to put gymnasts of their choice on the Olympic team. It was far too late in my career to transfer anywhere else. They had already uprooted our family when we moved to Texas. My parents stayed loyal to the Karolyis even as other gymnasts came, went, and came back again. That summer our family avoided talking about how I was treated at the ranch and instead just kept plugging forward knowing the Olympics were almost here.

I was only fourteen years old, but I knew from deep within that it was urgently important that I figure out how to hold on to my passion and keep it burning throughout that summer. I’d daydream about Alexander walking through the gym doors and taking over my
training. I cried myself to sleep countless nights wishing I could train with him. Of course, this was just fantasy, but I continued to think about him, replaying the things he’d say and do, especially when I was struggling. I used what he had taught me to work through that difficult summer. I kept reminding myself that it was an honor to train so hard toward such a goal and no one—not even my own coaches—was going to stand in my way to Olympic gold.