Letters to a Young Gymnast (3 page)

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The Beginning

In your letter, you asked if I always knew that I was destined to be a great athlete. I remember noticing when I was in kindergarten, only about four years old, that whenever people thought someone was getting too cocky about their abilities, they would say, “If only you could see the size of your nose.” It was said to me many times because I believed I was a super athlete, always, and in the case of gymnastics, I was right. Does that sound cocky? I would not say I was the best at swimming
or ice-skating, although I believe I could have been quite good at the latter. But to say this about my gymnastics ability . . . well, it has been proven.

But at the start of my career, nothing was proven and gymnastics was simply a pastime, nothing more. I never set out to be “Nadia—the first gymnast to receive a perfect 10 in competition, with a new power and body-type that would change the face of gymnastics forever.” Back then, gymnastics didn't bring fame, sports agents, millions of dollars, or your picture on a Wheaties box. For me, it wasn't about the future; it was about the moment and personal accomplishments and eventually representing my country and making my people proud. Romanians have a saying, “Not every dog has a bagel on its tail.” It means that not all streets are paved with gold. When I began my career, I just wanted to do cartwheels. It's hard to believe that now, but it's true, my friend.

I was in kindergarten when I joined my first gymnastics team, the Flame. My mother took me to the large gymnasium where the team practiced because she wanted to find an outlet for my excessive energy. Jumping on beds, spending day and night racing around the village, and punching little boys in the nose when they refused to let me play was no longer working for my mother. When I stepped into the gym, I knew I fit into that world—or that I wanted to. I was overwhelmed by its size, by my own shyness, and by the endless possibilities for play that each mat, vault, parallel bar, and beam held.

In Romania, sports are considered a great way to help children develop into healthy adults. For me, gymnastics was introduced casually—there was no pressure and no fear. Though I didn't realize it at the time, the
instructors quietly watched to see which children showed the most talent. I still loved soccer, but gymnastics slowly began to eclipse all other sports in my life. I remember that at the end of each class, my instructor, Mr. Duncan, would ask, “Who thinks they've done well today?” We'd all raise our hands, and if he agreed, he'd give each little gymnast a piece of chocolate. I loved chocolate, so the reward may have had something to do with my returning to the gym every day.

You asked in your letter what “the single question” that changed my life was. At first, I was taken aback by your query. Do
you
have a sole question that you remember so vividly? Does one question have the power to set anyone, let alone a child, onto an unchangeable path? Is existence just a matter of fate? I imagine my life as an intricate, swirling line of dominoes and wonder if the touch of a single fingertip on the first ivory rectangle is enough to set the rest into motion, click-clacking one by one until the end of my days.

I guess the single question for me may be buried in history—not just mine but that of the gymnastic world as a whole. It's a history I find difficult to recall because I was only six years old when it all began for me. I remember a big man with a droopy mustache coming to my school class and asking, “Who can do a cartwheel?” The man had bright eyes, and there was something about him that made me want to raise my hand and impress him with what I could do. But I must turn to that man's own words to explain the moment because my memory of that day is a little hazy:

If I wished?! Gymnastics meant freedom to do the things I couldn't do at home. The experimental school in Onesti, the hostel for boarders, and the gym were all connected in one complex. In the early years, I lived at home and only walked half a mile to the school. Our schedule went six days a week—four hours each day taking classes and four in the gym. I enjoyed math and chemistry, but I craved the moment we were set free and I could race to the gymnasium. It was as if a fence had been unlocked, a chain released, a bolt turned, and the world instantly stood waiting and wide open.

When I received my first leotard, I slept with it on my pillow. It was too big and didn't fit me. The night I took it home, I wouldn't let my mother sleep until she'd sewn a red
N
on the name tag and made me gymnastics shoes and socks (they were not available in the stores, and even if they had been, we couldn't have afforded them). My grandmother had made me a doll out of T-shirt material; it was named Petruta, and I used to sleep
with it every night. The doll was immediately replaced with the leotard. Like any child, I had a short-term memory and no loyalty for once loved but readily discarded toys. Everything was forgotten in lieu of gymnastics.

Bela Karolyi and his wife and coinstructor, Marta, put me in a group of young gymnasts. We spent a few hours a day working with weights and ropes and did lots of jumping, running, and other training. They made each day fun, and I had no fear and never said “I cannot do that.” Bela tells me now that this trait caught his attention early on, but back then, I was not the star of the little girls' team, Viorica was. I was quiet, never smiled, and rarely stood out from the other gymnasts. We were also surrounded by older girls with much more developed skills, so I always knew I was not the best at the school. But inside, I was bursting to learn new skills and prove myself. It's hard to describe, but I could actually taste how much I wanted to be a better gymnast. I was consumed. Friend, is there anything in life you've desired that much?

I always wanted to do more than Bela or Marta asked of me—if they said twenty-five push-ups, I'd do fifty. I liked the feeling of improving; I craved accomplishments. It took months to learn the simplest skills; a cartwheel on the beam began as one on a mat, then on a line painted on the floor, then on a low beam surrounded by cushions, and finally moved to the high beam. Every day, I'd return to the gym and start all over again until I mastered each skill. I didn't mind because each step, repetition, loss, or gain made me better.

That's life, isn't it? You see what you want, and you strive to become more every day until you can grasp the
dream in your hands. It's hard work, but if you do what you love, it's joyful. I was not born a champion, and I did not dream in those early days of becoming one. I dreamed of the little competitions Bela held in the gym and the silly trophies he passed out when we'd done well. I dreamed of learning new skills. I never saw the bigger picture or international success and fame. I dreamed of running and twisting and double somersaults and that nothing could tether me to the ground because I was born to fly.

Have you heard people say that the eyes are the windows to the soul? I have been told that my eyes make people uncomfortable, that they are too intense, too calculating. Some say my eyes do not match my smile and that there is a coldness in them that adults find uncomfortable but to which children are oblivious. I can say only that if my eyes are windows, then I can choose to draw the shades at times. The glimpses I allow into my soul are the product of a conscious decision on my part. I look back on pictures of myself as a young gymnast and understand that some see blankness. But I see intensity, determination, desire. Always desire.

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Necessity

Friend, do not believe that luck covered me like silk from the moment I was born or that everything I did came easily, without cost. I had a very long road to travel before I achieved any of my goals.

My first big gymnastics competition was the 1970 National Championships—I was nine. I remember Marta, who was my beam coach, telling me minutes before the competition began to show the world what she'd taught me. Concentrate and don't let me down, she instructed. Looking back, I realize that the Karolyis were under enormous pressure to justify their work at the Onesti gymnastics school, which was funded by the Romanian government and originally designed and created by a family named Simionescu. It's hard to express in words my thanks to the Simionescus for bringing to life such an incredible program, to which I owe much of my success. Back then, though, I felt that I, not the Karolyis, had something to prove and that the weight of the world was on my shoulders.