Off Balance: A Memoir Page 12

  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.

  For some reason, as much as I felt that Bela and Marta treated me with disdain and lack of respect, I kept trying to gain their approval. I would look at Bela when he was enraged or disgusted with me and I couldn’t help but think of Tata. They were so similar in some ways, how their tempers would flare over simple things. I feared Bela like I feared Tata, yet I still tried to please both of them, even when I knew deep down they’d rarely be satisfied with what I’d done or if they were, they’d rarely give any praise. I can’t remember a single time that the Karolyis o
r Tata ever uttered the simple words “I’m proud of you.” Later, of course, I’d learn from Mama that the Karolyis had told them that words of praise would limit my progress. They once even asked Janice to remove herself from the gym for complimenting one of the other gymnasts on a job well done. In so many ways, this captures their philosophy—a philosophy that almost destroyed me.

  I resented that added pressure of walking on eggshells at the gym, trying not to upset Bela. At times, I envied the relationships I saw between other gymnasts with their coaches at competitions. I remembered what it was like to have someone who demanded everything from me but who also believed in me and made me feel good about myself. I wanted that security and support back in my corner. Here I was, heading into the Olympic Games, feeling less confident than ever before with coaches making sure I knew I wasn’t that good.

  To make matters worse, I was starting to suffer from chronic sharp leg pains stemming from my right shin. It had been an issue for months and worsened leading up to the US National Championships in Knoxville in June. It was obvious that my leg wasn’t right, and it was affecting my performances, but the Karolyis did not alter my training in response to my injury. I had seen them push other hurt gymnasts. I worked up the nerve to tell Bela and Marta a few separate times that I was really hurting and that I knew something was wrong with my leg. They seemed to dismiss me each time, muttering under their breath and making sour faces, making me feel like I was faking my injury. They told me there wasn’t anything “really” wrong with me. By then, my self-esteem had been chipped away significantly, and I actually started thinking that they knew me better than I knew myself, even though, in truth, they barely knew me at all.

  During US Nationals podium training (the “official” practice before the competition begins) my leg was hurting so badly I had to literally grit my teeth to stop from crying out at each turn, especially on vault, beam, and floor. I did everything I could to fight back tears. I didn’t want to show weakness to Bela and Marta. A few times I winced in pain, which I knew would get me into trouble. “Stop making faces,” they would call out, coldly. During floor warm-ups, I fell, landing facefirst onto the mat on my first and fairly easy pass. My leg completely lacked the stability it normally had, and I felt it could give out on me at any time. How on earth am I going to run down the vault runway? was all I kept thinking. I could barely put pressure on my right leg in a turn, how was I going to sprint down the vault runway, much less stick a landing?

  An hour before I was to leave for the competitive arena, Bela and Marta called my parents and me into their hotel room for an impromptu “parent-coach meeting.” I couldn’t remember them holding such a meeting before, and they certainly never included me in any discussion about my training, so I had no idea what this would be all about. Based on past experiences with other kinds of “parent-coach meetings,” I was terrified.

  “Do you want to compete?” Bela asked me, with Marta, Tata, and Mama standing behind him staring quietly, awaiting my response.

  I just stared back at Bela. He rarely asked my input or opinion on anything and now, an hour before the US Nationals, he was asking me if I wanted to compete. Fourteen-year-old me did not recognize the malicious sarcasm, either. I thought it was some kind of trick question, and I didn’t know how to answer. I wanted to say what he wanted to hear, but I was so confused that I just looked at him and then at my parents and back at Bela again. I finally nodded my head yes. In retrospect, I saw that it was a rhetorical question. Bela’s way of saying, “Don’t complain. You’re not really that injured, so suck it up and compete.” Of course, Bela knew I had every intention of competing and that I hadn’t complained about my injury to anyone else. As we made our way to the arena, I was so frightened—scared of the pain, scared that no one believed me about my leg, scared of falling in front of the public during the competition with the Olympics right around the corner, and scared because I knew I was trapped in a situation where I could never tell my coaches how I truly felt. I felt hopeless and alone. I prayed that the rush of adrenaline I normally got in competition would help me through the pain.

  The actual event is something of a blur to me now. The pain was there, but that adrenaline kicked in and I was able to muscle through it for the most part. I ended up placing third in the All-Around. I made uncharacteristic minor mistakes on vault and uneven bars that most likely cost me the gold medal. I was disappointed, of course, yet I still felt total confidence that I would have done even better had I been healthy, and I couldn’t understand why Bela didn’t see that, too.

  “That was NO GOOD, Domi. That was NO GOOD,” Bela barked at me after my uneven bars routine.

  Bela’s comments, seeping with disgust, cut like a knife and made me feel like a failure. Considering it was difficult to put my weight on my leg, I expected he’d see at least some honor in the fact that I finished my routines without any major falls and that I pushed through the injury to place third despite having to sit out the final day because my leg became unbearable.

  I remember how Bela conveniently acted like he was concerned about my injury during the few fleeting moments that the television cameras were filming him on the sidelines. In truth, he was disappointed in me for my errors. It confused me at first, but I soon caught on to the game—with the cameras present, Bela did a 180 and became the animated, entertaining, and caring “you can do it” coach that everyone knew and loved.

  My injury was not properly addressed even after we returned to the ranch. We were given one day’s rest after Nationals, and that Monday we were back in the gym picking up where we had left off. Kerri and I were training as usual on our compulsory floor routines that morning, and my leg pain was now severe. One day off with no treatment was clearly insufficient. The hard gray floor beneath my feet looked and felt a hundred years old, especially in contrast to the equipment at Nationals. The Karolyi floor was hard as a rock with what felt like no springs at all, which only worsened my leg pain. I didn’t know how to train through it. I felt demoralized, and Bela and Marta barely spoke to me—instead shooting me looks of disgust when I was struggling on compulsory floor that morning.

  I remember Bela opened the warehouse doors of the gym that morning to try to get some fresh air to circulate. It was another sweltering hot day in New Waverly and I was sweating profusely from the workout. Bela and Marta rarely turned on the air-conditioning for our training even though it was often more than one hundred degrees with strangling humidity. My leotard was soaked through within the first few minutes of our conditioning training. I’d stand in front of the huge dusty fans to try to dry my sweat between runs on vault or floor. My face would turn beet red and I could feel my cheeks flushed and burning. I’m not sure how we managed to not pass out from heat exhaustion.

  I tried my best to make it through the workout that day, but my leg literally gave out and I collapsed. I had made it through my tumbling pass okay, but when I went on to my switch straddle dance element, I collapsed right in front of Marta, Bela, and Kerri. I realized my leg had given out during my jump—my leg was so weak that I wasn’t able to push off. Crumpled up on the ground, with streaks of pain radiating from my leg, my primary focus was fear—I was afraid of being yelled at by Bela, so I forced myself up quickly. The gym was silent. I attempted the same element and, again, I couldn’t push off of my leg properly and collapsed once more. I was afraid to make eye contact with the Karolyis, but with only one training buddy in the gym with you, it’s unavoidable.

  Marta made a disgusted face and mumbled some words I couldn’t make out. I was frozen with fear, so I got up and just stood before them, staring down at the tattered gray floor. I was waiting for them to either yell at me or, worse, threaten to call Tata.

  “What you doing? You playing the fool?” I remember Bela saying.

  I didn’t answer. I just knew they were going to call Tata and could feel my body begin to tremble. I tried to stand perfectly still, but the trembling only got worse—especially my leg—and it w
as almost like it was no longer a part of my body.

  Marta purposefully walked toward me and silently squeezed the back of my neck, digging her fingers in tightly, as she had often done when she was upset with me, and began pushing me toward her office door. She was talking as we made our way to her office, but my head was spinning and I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. I was trying to read Bela’s expression to see if he was going to call Tata.

  “Let’s call your parents. Maybe your leg is broken!” Marta announced loudly.

  I think back now at this whole scene and I can’t believe how frightened I was of those five words, “I’m gonna call your parents.” The Karolyis always threatened me with it, and it never failed to scare the crap out of me. I really wasn’t sure who I feared more, Tata or Bela, but I knew that having the two of them mad at me at the same time was lethal. By then, I was slightly less afraid of Marta. I had become one of her favorite beam workers, so, at times, she gave me the benefit of the doubt and was a little softer on me than she had been before.

  The X-ray and MRI revealed a four-centimeter stress fracture in my right tibia—five weeks before the Olympic Games. Even though I knew it had been getting progressively worse, my heart sank with the news of a fracture. It’s the kind of news that smashes Olympic dreams. I was horrified and I panicked, afraid that I wouldn’t be healed in time to compete at the Olympics. I was relieved to finally get treatment for my leg, but as I sat out conditioning on the sidelines, I was going crazy seeing the days tick away and the Games inching closer. I eventually trained on bars, skipping my dismounts to limit the pounding on my leg, and I had to stop vaulting and floor exercise altogether for a couple of weeks. I rode the stationary bike for endurance training.

  At first, I bought in to Bela’s blame game and blamed myself for being injured, as if I had done something to cause the fracture. But once I really thought about it, I realized I had done exactly what my coaches had told me to do from the moment I woke each morning to the moment I went to bed. I was mad at myself for not being more persistent and insisting that they examine and treat my leg when I first told them something was wrong. I know from years in my sport that next to prevention, quick treatment is key to staying healthy. If you pay attention to the warning signs, you can usually avoid subsequent, more serious injuries from overtraining and overuse. But open communication, and especially talk of injury, was never permitted at the Karolyi gym.