The facility was about a four-hour drive from Cleveland, so I had the freedom to come home to spend time with Mike on weekends and during my off time. While I was at camp during the week and Mike was knee-deep in his medical residency in Cleveland, we had to be creative about my training. Mike would write out my daily training plan, then email it to me each morning. It was an unorthodox method, but it worked for us. As a seasoned gymnast, I was able to stay on task and push through workouts on my own. I’d get odd looks and comments from people when they’d see me in the gym alone—no training partners, no coach. Just me and my video camera. I’d position the videocam on a tripod and review each turn as I completed it. A far stretch from how I’d trained in the past, but the video didn’t lie and held me accountable. I’d make corrections and repeat each skill until I got it right. Mike’s training philosophy, medical knowledge, and pure love for the sport helped me see gymnastics in a new light. I was training more effectively and even as a “geriatric,” I felt refreshed and more motivated than ever.
As word got out in the gymnastics community that I was training again, I’d find spectators, sometimes coaches from gymnastics clubs who had gymnasts at camp or collegiate gymnasts and coaches, would watch my workouts from the sidelines. Sometimes these observers were very supportive, but there were always those few who watched with a critical and judgmental eye. This was to be expected and basically unavoidable since I trained in an open facility. I remember two specific occasions when bystanding coaches made personal, derogatory comments as they stood there watching me train, as if I were a circus animal there for their viewing and criticizing pleasure. The expressions of pure shock were priceless when I later learned what they had said and confronted them, telling them how their rude, inappropriate comments were disrupting my workouts. Both of these guys immediately began backpedaling and stumbling over their words after I’d confronted them. It was liberating to stand up and not be intimidated, knowing full well that I would never have had the confidence to do so earlier in my career—least of all with those who held themselves out as coaches. Thankfully, for every naysayer viewing me as a “has-been” came hundreds of supporters, and I focused on the letters, emails, and cards of encouragement that I received from fans and the gymnastics community overall as I pushed toward a comeback.
By July 2005, I was exceeding my goals and sticking my landings. Right when things were moving along so well, however, I started suffering from an intense new pain in my right Achilles’ tendon, which Mike diagnosed as Achilles’ tendinosis. We immediately slowed my trainings, but the pain persisted. Easing up on my workouts seemed appropriate to me, but I was surprised when Mike told me to take four days off for physical therapy and rest. Four days was the equivalent of forever in my mind. I still wanted to compete at the US Classic in late July, and the injury was already slowing me down. I didn’t think I could afford to put training on hold altogether. Mike was adamant, explaining how the body would attempt to repair itself, but not if I continuously tore it back down by working the muscles and tendons where I was hurting. By this point, Mike had become a foot and ankle surgical resident, so I wasn’t about to argue with him. He was convinced that my Achilles’ required time off from the repetitive pounding in order to avoid a complete rupture of the tendon, which could end up requiring up to a year of recovery time. Mike thought that stretching and reviewing training videos was more beneficial than being in the gym and risking a rupture.
Mike also asked his mentor, world-renowned foot and ankle surgeon Gerard Vincent Yu, DPM, to examine my Achilles’ tendon. Before the MRI and X-ray results were even back, Dr. Yu confirmed that the Achilles’ tendon had degenerated and that I indeed had tendinosis of the Achilles’, and there was already a slight tear in the tendon. I also had a condition called Haglund’s deformity—a bump of bone at the back of the heel that pushes against and irritates the tendon, which added to the pain.
Instead of competing at the US Classic at the end of July, I was in the operating room, as Dr. Yu and his resident team, Mike included, performed surgery on my right Achilles’. They utilized an innovative, less invasive surgical procedure that would allow me to heal faster. Dr. Yu also shaved down the Haglund deformity in my heel and removed a bursa sac of fluid. The surgery was a success, and I was able to return to Woodward Gymnastics Camp to finish my summer coaching obligations, albeit with cast and crutches. My recovery was swift, though. In October, just eight weeks after the operation, I was able to perform at the Hilton Ice Skating and Gymnastics Spectacular Show with an all-star group of Olympic ice skaters and gymnasts. I viewed my Achilles’ surgery as a mere bump in the road—my tendon was mending quickly and was almost back to normal. I was still determined to push ahead.
In the meantime, Mike was dealing with a less than welcoming USA Gymnastics, going back and forth trying to simply determine the correct protocol to allow me to compete at the Elite level again. We were finally told that in order for my petition to be granted to compete at 2006 US Nationals, I had to do two things: first, I had to attend a National Team Training Camp at my own expense, and second, I had to compete in at least one event at the 2006 US Classic. Mike and I carefully submitted all of the information, documents, forms, and membership fees asked of us in order to comply with these two requirements. We paid our expenses to attend the National Team Training Camp, which was to be based at the Karolyi ranch, where I’d trained with Bela and Marta all those years—a place that held more than its share of unhappy memories for me. We had done our part and awaited the green light from Marta for admission into her training camp.
The National Team Training Camp at the Karolyis’ ranch was where gymnasts would basically “try out” to compete at the Elite level and, ultimately, for the National team. To attend the Karolyi camp, a gymnast had to submit a video demonstrating her skills, and if Marta, the National Team Coordinator, approved of the video performance, then that gymnast could enroll (and pay the $240 weekly fee per coach and gymnast). Once the gymnast was at camp, Marta, and sometimes a panel of National team staff members under her supervision, would evaluate that gymnast’s “physical abilities” and skill level and determine if she would be allowed to compete in an Elite meet. Gymnasts who were not given high enough marks at camp, or gymnasts who were denied enrollment to the Karolyi camp altogether, were less likely to secure roster spots at subsequent Elite competitions unless they qualified at one of the Elite qualifier competitions. In essence, the Karolyi training camp was the gateway to becoming an Elite gymnast in the United States, and if the gatekeeper, Marta, didn’t believe in you, or disliked you for whatever reason, then your chances of moving forward at the Elite level were very slim.
The entire process was extremely subjective and contrary to the methods used to select athletes in other national sports. In the United States, a female gymnast’s future, in large part, teetered on Marta’s opinion of her skills, her physique, or her opinion of the gymnast in general. I didn’t know of any other Olympic sport that was controlled so subjectively, and it seemed crazy that gymnastics’ governing body allowed Elite women’s gymnastics to fall under the control of one person: Marta. In my opinion, there seemed to be very little oversight and no legitimate system of checks and balances. The governing body and Marta seemed to arbitrarily apply “official” criteria and standards on an ad hoc basis simply to justify their selections at the time.
A number of weeks had passed and I still hadn’t heard if I could attend the Karolyi training camp. It was drawing closer and I needed an answer, so I phoned Marta directly to inquire and make sure she’d received my video and the other mandatory materials.
“What Olympics were you in, again?” Marta interrupted me. This was Marta’s way of making sure I knew my place and that I was nothing special.
“The 1996 Olympics! The ONLY time our country has won team GOLD! Does the Magnificent Seven ring a bell?!” is what I wanted to yell into the receiver. Marta was so transparent, dismissively feigning that she couldn’t rememb
er which Olympics I was in, when I knew full well that the 1996 Olympic Games was among Marta’s most memorable moments since she defected to the United States. It was the first and only time she could say that the US women’s team was the best in the world.
“Um, excuse me?” is what I coughed up.
“What Olympics were you in?” Marta repeated, coldly.
Were you not my personal coach? I thought to myself. Marta may have wanted me to feel like I was one in a vast sea of Olympic gymnasts she’d coached over the years, but we both knew perfectly well that she and Bela handpicked only a few Elite gymnasts to personally coach every few years. And of those handpicked gymnasts, only a select few went on to win Olympic gold.
“The 1996 one, remember?” I calmly replied. Once she finally gave me the final approval to attend camp, I couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.
Mike and I headed off to the National Team Training Camp the week of July 4, 2006. It was hard to believe that I was voluntarily returning to the Karolyi ranch, one facility I had tried to put out of my mind for years. I knew I had to pass through this nightmarish place in order to compete again, however, so I figured I might as well make the best of it. I was a different person with a new perspective driving down that dirt road toward the ranch, and I was hoping that confronting this aspect of my past might free some of the hurt that still lingered.
After conditioning circuit training on day one, I noticed Bela enter the gym. As I’d been taught the moment I arrived on the ranch as a ten-year-old, I went straight over to greet him. I approached Bela, smiled, and before I could get a word out of my mouth, he shoved right past me, literally inches from my side, and went into his office. He kept his back turned to me inside the office. For a second, I wondered if maybe he didn’t recognize me, but when I looked back at Mike, he was shaking his head in disbelief at Bela’s rudeness. I had become less than a stranger to him; I was invisible. When I walked back to continue my training, Mike gave me the best advice of all.
“Ignore him. He’s not worth being upset over.” Mike was right; I was here for gymnastics this time. Not for Bela Karolyi.
During the mock competition, I was placed in a group with some of the most recognizable young names in gymnastics, including Nastia Liukin, Chellsie Memmel, and Alicia Sacramone. It was enjoyable getting to know these girls and sharing with them stories from my career. My first vault was a Podkopayeva, named after the 1996 Olympic All-Around champion from Ukraine, Lilia Podkopayeva. My second vault, which I planned to perform at US Nationals, was a Tsukahara in a layout position with a 1½ twist. I wanted to showcase this skill because it was one of the higher difficulty vaults in the world at the time, and I thought it would give me an edge since no one at camp was attempting this type of vault. I was proud of both vaults as I executed them cleanly with little error.
When we moved on to floor exercise, I was one of the few gymnasts who performed her entire floor routine on the standard floor mat, not exercising any tumbling passes in the softer pit. Some gymnasts did “timers,” which are watered-down, simplified versions of the most difficult passes, and other gymnasts did all of their passes in the pit to protect their ankles, or because they lacked the endurance to do all the passes on the center mat. Mike and I contemplated using the softer landing pit for my first pass, like many of the other gymnasts were doing. If I’d used the pit, I would’ve upgraded that first pass to a double layout (two flips in a layout position), which would’ve upgraded my difficulty and increased my overall floor score a bit. However, we felt it was a trade-off because we also figured that Marta would use the pit against me, claiming I was not fit or skilled enough to perform my routine on the center floor. So I completed my floor exercise in its entirety on the center mat. Ironically, here I was the oldest gymnast at camp and one of the few to do my entire routine, including all four of my passes, on the center floor. I certainly wasn’t going to knock a gymnast for making the smart decision to use the softer landing mat, but we felt I didn’t have that luxury with Marta evaluating me.
At the end of training camp, Marta would approach each gymnast and her coach to discuss areas the gymnast needed to work on. While we were all stretching and winding down on the final day, Marta was in the gym, moving from one coach and gymnast to the next. Marta met with every single gymnast and coach in the building that day except for Mike and me. Mike was helping me stretch as we waited for Marta to give us her constructive criticism, like she’d given everyone else in the gym, but she never came.
“She skipped us on purpose,” I said to Mike as Marta left the gym. “She doesn’t want me to feel like I am a contender here.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike said. I could see he was a little irked by Marta’s pettiness, too. Mike, being Mike, made the perfect next move. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo of a silly cat we cut out from the SkyMall magazine on our plane flight from Cleveland. We called this cat Fred, and Mike had pulled Fred out of his pocket to make me laugh throughout camp whenever he thought I needed it. It was an inside joke that lightened the situation and made me smile when I got frustrated. He was right. I couldn’t let Marta’s mind games get to me.
During the final dinner at camp, Kathy Kelly, vice president for the Women’s Program, approached my table. I remember the moment distinctly because I had just decided to grab a kaiser roll from the bread basket right before she walked up. I was one of the few who had been brave enough to eat anything from the bread basket all week. I smiled, thinking that the bread basket was still taboo and that some things never change. Heck, I was at my optimal weight and felt I’d deserved a simple roll with my dinner on the last night of camp.
Kathy hadn’t said a single word to me during the entire time I was at camp, but she felt it necessary to approach me during dinner in front of all the gymnasts at my table to tell me what areas she felt I needed to work on. I believe she was acting on Marta’s orders. She had long been Marta’s right-hand woman and it seemed she didn’t do anything without her blessing. I didn’t trust her. I had learned long ago not to tell her anything. She was also the one Tata had had to battle with to get me a spot to compete at the Goodwill Games in 1998, and then was all smiles after I’d won the All-Around gold there, pretending that she’d been my friend and supporter all along.
“Well, I guess you know what you need to work on” were the first words out of Kathy’s mouth.
“I think I did great!” I said immediately. I know I took her off guard by answering so quickly and so confidently. She seemed to forget what else she was going to say, because she just stood beside me a few more seconds before walking away.
I wasn’t going to let Kathy Kelly, or anyone else, belittle my accomplishments. I was proud that I’d turned in Elite-level performances on floor and vault. I’d survived camp alongside current greats Nastia Liukin, Chellsie Memmel, Shawn Johnson, and Alicia Sacramone, among others, while attending college full-time, coaching part-time, and planning my wedding. Just being at camp at twenty-four and holding my own among these amazing young gymnasts was an accomplishment. I achieved what I set out to do that week.
After camp was over, Mike and I waited on an outside bench at the ranch for Christina, who was picking us up and bringing us to Houston to take engagement photos before we headed home to Cleveland. As we sat there, Bela came riding up the dirt road on his tractor. He obviously saw us there but never stopped or even slowed down. Just as he passed, however, a few feet in front of us, it seemed he couldn’t help himself. He waved, flashed a big grin, and said, “Bye.” Mike and I turned to each other and burst out laughing. The situation was so bizarre.
At the onset of my comeback, USA Gymnastics stated in writing that my petition to compete at Nationals would be granted if (1) I attended a National Team Training Camp at my own expense, and (2) I competed in one event at the US Classic. A few weeks after camp at the Karolyi ranch, I indeed competed at the US Classic, thereby fulfilling both requirements of my petition. Even though USA Gymnast
ics stated that I needed to compete in only one event at the US Classic, I decided to compete in two, the floor exercise and vault. Mike and I wanted to take advantage of the forum and practice both events in preparation for my comeback at Nationals. I performed a recently upgraded floor routine, which included five passes instead of the four I had done at the training camp.
My competitive gymnastics career ended on August 1, 2006, just two weeks before I was to make my official, planned “comeback” at US Nationals. We were notified that I would not be allowed to compete. Mike and I were stunned because I had done exactly what USA Gymnastics required of me. I attended training camp and competed in “at least one event” at the US Classic. I had satisfied the requirements they set out for me and now I was told I couldn’t compete at Nationals. Mike and I wanted an explanation and to see if maybe there was a misunderstanding of some kind.
Apparently, despite my compliance with the stated criteria, a three-member committee voted unanimously to deny my petition. This committee was made up of Kim Zmeskal-Burdette (the athlete representative), Steve Rybacki, and Marta Karolyi (National Team Coordinator). I wasn’t surprised that Marta voted against me—her dislike for me was palpable, but the other two panelists’ votes gave me pause. Steve Rybacki had actually seemed impressed with the difficulty of my vaults at training camp and had commented positively to me. The fact that Kim Zmeskal-Burdette was on the panel at all surprised me. Kim wasn’t present at the training camp or the US Classic competition, yet she was representing one-third of the panel’s voting power. I didn’t understand how she would evaluate my skills. I felt cheated.
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