Off Balance

by Dominique Moceanu

  The news story wouldn’t have been complete without an interview with Tata. Looking pleased to have the reporter and news camera’s attention, he explained that he was a gymnast himself back in Romania. In the final news story, Tata’s name appears in captions under his image, misspelled as “Dimetrius Moccano,” instead of “Dimitry Moceanu.” Tata was comfortable in front of the camera and his words, despite the thick accent, came easily:

  “In the capital Bucharest, I practiced almost eleven years until I was in eleven grade in the high school. It was very important to me to be gymnast. I mean gymnast was my profession, was to be my career … but I cannot finish it because the government doesn’t let me. I came to the United States in about ’79 because of the regime in Romania, the communism. You know, it was very hard. I escape through the airport. I took a plane. I flew in Vien … Vienna. I stayed six months and then after, I came here. Everybody knows that United States is the best country in the world [w-oo-rhl-dh].”

  Animated and emphatic, Tata was a charmer. He had the news reporter and crew laughing and hanging on his every word and sweeping hand gesture. He went on:

  “I said to myself if I ever have a child, I like to be a gymnast.… My heart is jumping with every movement, every step she does on the floor, or beam or, you know, parallels.”

  At that point, the camera panned out with perfect timing to catch me doing a press handstand on the balance beam.

  I was the focus of the piece, but my part was to perform my skills, leaving everyone else to comment. I did manage to squeak out a few sentences:

  “I was little, three and a half when I started gymnastics. I’ve been doing it for six years. My goal is to reach the 1996 Olympics.”

  “How come?” Jerry asked.

  “Because I wanna win a lot of medals,” I said with a smile and shrug of my shoulders, “and be on TV a lot.”

  It almost seemed scripted, but it wasn’t. Definitely not the words of the shy little girl I was outside those gym doors. I was feeling the moment and gaining more confidence with each word I spoke.

  “It’s absolutely realistic.” Coach Jeff followed up, in support.

  “When I look at Kim Zmeskal and Betty Okino and some of the kids that are in the top three of our country right now … [Dominique’s] way ahead of where they were four years before the Olympics … she’s milestones ahead of them and, so barring injury or, you know, unforeseen mishaps, she’s got a tremendous shot at the Olympic team, and perhaps an Olympic medal.”

  Jeff, always focusing on developing the complete athlete, made sure my efforts outside the gym were acknowledged:

  “She’s extremely quick and a straight-A student … all three terms last year she had straight A’s in conduct and achievement, so she’s extremely bright intellectually, as well as extremely fast and strong and powerful, so she can grasp the concept and make it work.”

  I remember Tata being particularly proud, practically bursting with joy, when I did my triple back dismount off of the uneven bars. It was one of the highlights of the day and was emphasized on Al Keck’s “Sportsline” segment on the Channel 10 evening news that night.

  Tata, with his chin held high, would call it “The Triple” like it was this work of genius. With his dramatization and heavy accent it sounded more like “Th-uh Tr-e-e-pole.” Indeed, for my age this was a gigantic skill well beyond my years of experience. As it turned out, I really was one of very few gymnasts in the world at the time who had even attempted this skill, much less at the young age of nine. In retrospect I am so grateful to Jeff for allowing me to excel in a rapid yet safe manner. He fed my talent by safely allowing me to do daring skills that I desperately wanted to try, but always was there to spot my every move and not let me do it on my own until I was truly ready. It was my favorite dismount, and I loved doing it partly because it was so unique.

  On the day Channel 10 was there, Jeff decided it was safest to assist me by lightly spotting my triple dismount. Jeff didn’t see the need to show off for the cameras by pushing me to do the dismount without a spotter and risk injury. He was a wise coach, and I respected and trusted him completely.

  I stood at the chalk tray, powdering my hands after warming up on the bars. I tried to ignore the cameraman circling around trying to catch me from different angles. That part was all so new to me. It was hard not to look directly at the lens, and I did my best to pretend I didn’t notice the camera. As I chalked up, I even winced once after catching myself staring straight into the camera. In future years, that news camera would become a constant companion and familiar presence as I traveled the world to compete at high-profile gymnastics meets. But for now, it was still a new distraction that I had to try to tune out as I prepared for my triple dismount.

  I climbed the steps to reach the high bar that stood alone over a loose foam pit. As I stood on top of the wooden step, which Jeff would later use to spot me, I looked down at my chalked hands. Beneath the chalk, my hands were pretty beaten up. I was one of the few gymnasts who didn’t wear grips on the bars. Grips—leather two-inch strips that support the middle of the palm with two holes for the second and third fingers, with a strap around the wrist for support—help gymnasts grip the bar better while offering some protection to the skin. Most US gymnasts wore grips at the time, while gymnasts from Europe and Asia rarely wore them. After lengthy practices on the bars, my hands were more torn up and callused than those of my teammates who used grips, but I didn’t mind. I was comfortable not wearing them, and I figured it made me tough. I felt I had a better hold on the bar without a layer of material in my way. Later in my career I did learn to use grips, but as a young gymnast of Romanian descent, it seemed part of my birthright not to.

  I rubbed my hands together and quickly glanced around the gym. Everything and everyone seemed so still, practically frozen with most eyes on me. I could see Mama peering out from the viewing balcony, Tata standing proud next to the bars, my teammates, coaches, a smattering of parents, the reporter Jerry Johnson, and his crew all waiting to see what I could do.

  I took a deep breath and focused on doing the best triple dismount I possibly could. I grasped the bar, hung straight down, and moved my hands side by side to get to the middle of the high bar so I could land in the middle of the mat. I pulled myself over the bar and placed myself in a support position and waited for Jeff to climb up and spot me. Once he was ready to go, I casted to a handstand with my legs slightly apart and a little loose, but as soon as I reached my handstand position, my body remained tight and straight. I wound up with two giant swings over the dismount bar, gaining tremendous speed and making sure my legs stayed glued together. As my legs reached above the bar on my final swing, I released the bar underneath. I didn’t have to think, I just floated through the air. I did what naturally felt easy to me—I flipped: three consecutive flips in a tucked position with my legs at 45 degrees and slightly separated. I landed soundly on the soft twelve-inch mat. I remember Jeff jumping off the spotting table and being there for me throughout my triple, with his hand lightly tapping my back for reassurance and safety. By the time I completed the three flips, Jeff was to my left on the mat and watched me roll out of the dismount with room to spare. I did it with such ease.

  It still amazes me today that I went for such a challenging skill while the cameras were rolling. I can understand now why Tata was so proud. I relished being one of the few gymnasts in the world who could perform a particular skill at that age. I liked that. It made my desire and fire burn harder to be the best. It also served to heighten my competitive spirit while making the world seem so much smaller—knowing that only a handful of others anywhere else in the world could even attempt what I could do. And sure enough, beating the rest of the world became a part of Tata’s mantra from that day forward. I can still hear my father’s voice in my head saying, “You have to be the best!” With his broken English it sounded more like “Y-o-o h-ah-v t-o-o b-he d-uh b-eh-s-t!” And he’d give two fist pumps, as if pumping confidence into b
oth of us. Sometimes it would make me laugh out loud, and Tata would stop and say, “What? It’s true, you have to believe!” Although I would act like his exaggerated mannerisms were over the top, I knew deep down he was right. I did have to believe in myself and in the possibility of going to the Olympics one day, and perhaps even winning a medal—maybe even a gold!

  The Channel 10 segment closed with a Jerry Johnson comment:

  “Dominique Moceanu, very, very talented and only nine years old, headed for the 1996 Olympics Games in Atlanta, no doubt. There are senior Elite-level gymnasts all over the world who cannot do a triple, and that’s a triple somersault on the dismount from the uneven parallel bars, and Dominique M-ahr-cee-ah-no can do one.”

  I still value that first news story and never underestimate what it did for my career. I’m thankful for the memories and footage, and thankful, in particular, to Tata for making it happen. I already knew I loved the sport of gymnastics, but something unspoken, some new level of belief in myself, just clicked that day. I realized that beyond loving my sport, I thrived on performing gymnastics, especially under pressure. I relished the aspect of others taking notice of my hard work. This is awesome! I thought. In my mind, I was no longer the small, skinny, awkward European kid; I was a 1996 Olympic hopeful! A fire had been lit under me. I knew I wanted to be an Olympic champion.

  Chapter 4

  THE LETTER

  December 2007

  Hi Dominique,

  My name is Jennifer Bricker. I’m not sure whether or not you have read the papers I sent you, but if you have, let me explain what they are all about. I’ve known my whole life that I was adopted and that my heritage was Romanian. Ever since I was about six years old, I’ve been obsessed with gymnastics and I always watched you on TV. In fact, you were kind of my inspiration to start competing myself! Anyway, right before I turned sixteen, I was asking my mom if there was anything she had not told me about my adoption, and I was expecting her to say “no” because they (my parents) never kept any secrets from me, but she said “yes.” There was something she had not told me yet. She said that I would never believe her, so she told me that my biological last name was “Moceanu” and proceeded to show me the papers I sent you.

  I almost could not believe it myself. You had been my idol my whole life, and you turned out to be my sister! I was in extreme disbelief, and my immediate thought was that I wanted to meet you and let you know! So my whole family had known for quite a while, but they had to wait until I was older for a lot of different reasons to tell me, which was the right thing to do.

  My uncle is a retired private investigator, and he got in contact with Dumitru, your father. He talked to your father, and he did not deny that I was their biological child, but he would not return my uncle’s phone calls after that. So we stopped trying to contact you for a while because I did not want to seem pushy and I wanted to do this right. I feel that I have one chance to show you and prove to you that I’m not some crazy person, but I’m sure after seeing all of the papers, you’ll see that I’m serious. I’ve been a member of your website almost since the day I found out. I saw pictures of Christina, and you would not believe how much we look alike, it’s so crazy. The first time I saw a picture of her I got chills; my friends and family thought it was me on the computer!

  I realize this must be a lot for you to take in right now, I mean, it is a lot for me too, but I’ve had a lot of years to soak it all in. I’ve been trying ever since I was sixteen (I’m now twenty) to think of the right way to get in contact with you. I thought about it almost every day. I would see different things on your website and see pictures of you and Christina and think, I wonder if they even know about me? I really hope we can get in contact; I would love that more than anything in the world!!

  If you still for some reason do not believe me and the papers, I would even take a DNA test if you wanted, just to prove it. I’m up for anything; I just have already lost all of these years without ever meeting or knowing my two sisters. If you want to call me my number is [redacted]. Please do not hesitate to call, I would really LOVE to hear from you, and I hope all is well!!

  Jennifer

  I lost count of the number of times I read Jennifer’s letter. I’d see her bubbly cursive writing on the envelope when I closed my eyes at night, and I could practically recite the letter from memory. When I first sifted through her package in the parking lot of the post office, I remember looking outside the tinted windows of my SUV to see if there was anything suspicious—a clue perhaps to make sense of everything. As silly as it sounds, I was halfway expecting Ashton Kutcher to jump out and say I’d been “punk’d!” Of course, that didn’t happen, but it seemed more likely at the time than what I was actually reading.

  As brave and tough as I thought I was, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone and dial Jennifer’s number. I was numb. I needed time to talk it over with my husband and Christina, and I most definitely needed face time with Mama and Tata so I could get the real story. I needed answers. Why had they kept this from me? How could I not know? I had questions swirling through my head so quickly, I couldn’t finish one thought before the next question jumped in. Here I was, finally enjoying the most “normal” stage of my life so far—happily married, inches from my college degree, and about to give birth to my first child. I didn’t want to cause Jennifer further pain by making her wait and wonder, but I needed time to digest this craziness. I was gaining a daughter and a sister all in a matter of weeks.

  For my daughter, Carmen, I was prepared. I had been counting the days since I got pregnant and could hardly wait to meet her. Mentally and emotionally, I had never been more prepared for anything. I had read every pregnancy and parenting book I could get my hands on, took my prenatal vitamins religiously, exercised, drank my daily water, and carefully monitored every stage of my pregnancy. I even wore compression stockings to limit swelling in my legs and feet. Every last detail of the nursery was complete and perfect, ready and waiting for Carmen’s arrival. The new cherry-wood crib, dresser, and changing table had been carefully placed, then moved and moved again until they were just right. We painted the walls a pretty light blue that reminded us of a cloudless sky on a warm summer day. Tiny onesies, newborn diapers, wipes, diaper cream, blankets, and baby books filled every corner of the room. We were ready.

  But Jennifer, I wasn’t ready for her at all. To say I felt blindsided would be an understatement. On the one hand, one of my childhood dreams had finally come true. I had always fantasized about having a big family when I was younger. I figured having siblings who shared the same family, DNA, and lifestyle as me would be a godsend and would fill some of my loneliness, especially when it was just Mama, Tata, and me. After years of praying and begging, I was blessed with my sister, Christina, who was born August 24, 1989, one month before I turned eight years old. Oh, how I had wished for her, and she was the best birthday present ever. I couldn’t believe I had a sister, and I treasured her from the day she was born. Christina was my everything, and I was so happy to have her. She actually kick-started my desire for an even bigger family. I knew it was a bit greedy asking Mama for yet another sister, but Christina was so lovable with her big brown eyes and warm smile that I wanted more Christinas. I thought there was hope, but nothing ever happened. Years later, Mama confessed to me that she didn’t want any more children with Tata. She didn’t want any more children with Tata. Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. She longed for more children and would have been in her glory with an entire houseful, but “not with Tata.” Not with Tata’s violent temper and unpredictable mood swings. His hot temper made raising a family very challenging, oftentimes unbearable, and it eventually drove a wedge between them. It saddened me to see Mama grow more distant from Tata throughout my childhood.

  It felt like hours before I could pull myself together enough to start my car and leave the parking lot after reading through Jennifer’s package. I kept glancing down at the papers and photos piled on my lap and the
passenger seat as I drove toward home. I just couldn’t get my head around the fact that since 1987, I’d had a biological sister in this world and I had absolutely no clue. I tried to do the math, backtracking nine months from Jennifer’s birth to get a picture of what was happening in our family, in my life, at that time. It just wasn’t adding up. Jennifer was born October 1, 1987, exactly six years and one day after I was born. All that time I was wishing for a sibling before Christina was born, I already had one! Mama delivered Jennifer the day after my sixth birthday. How could I not even remember Mama being pregnant? I was going in circles trying to retrace that period from five to six years old. I was always with Mama, hugging and snuggling with her. How could I not realize she was pregnant? I had spent endless hours at the gym, but Mama was there, too. Could I have been so focused on my own life that I missed something this big? Mama has always been petite, and I know she was quite small during her pregnancy with me, gaining only twenty pounds, but she must have been particularly small and hardly showing at all with Jennifer for me not to see or feel the change in her belly. Carmen kicked and repositioned herself as I pulled into the driveway of our home. The irony was overwhelming.