Off Balance

by Dominique Moceanu

  My entire comeback hinged on competing at US Nationals. I had done everything USA Gymnastics required of me to compete at that meet, yet at the eleventh hour, they were changing the rules on me. I knew I was in trouble when they started backpedaling on their original criteria and began talking about scores. For the first time, after we demanded an explanation, USA Gymnastics claimed I had needed to obtain a combined score of 28.0 on two events at the US Classic in order for my petition to be granted. What? They explicitly told me in writing that I need only compete in one event—and now they were saying I needed a specific combined score in two. This was crazy-making. I wasn’t originally even planning to do two events. I was going to only do vault, but Mike and I figured I might as well do floor exercise to get an additional competitive practice before Nationals. We were never told that my combined scores would factor in my petition. Had I known, I would’ve strategically done my four-pass routine (not the five passes), just to be on the conservative side and make sure my scores were solid. It seemed they were arbitrarily coming up with new criteria just to keep me out.

  If USA Gymnastics was now requiring a combined 28 on two events, I’d actually already satisfied that benchmark at training camp a few weeks prior when I received a combined 28.80 on vault and floor. “Banking” scores from a training camp or another competition is a regular, sanctioned practice in gymnastics, yet USA Gymnastics refused to consider those scores for me.

  It quickly became clear that whatever Mike or I presented or proved to USA Gymnastics, they’d come back with some newly introduced wrinkle to deny me the chance to compete at Nationals. All my training and hard work invested for that opportunity to compete at Nationals was washed away by bureaucracy. I was deeply disappointed, but I was also taken aback at how unfair the whole process was and how easy it was for the system behind the Elite level of our sport to block anyone from competing. I knew my shot was over, but I wanted to stand up for the gymnasts following me, the hopeful young girls I’d met at camp, the kids I’d been coaching in Cleveland and at Woodward, and future generations of young athletes who would possibly face this biased, closed-door selection process one day themselves—after they’d been chewed up and spat out by the system.

  On August 2, 2006, I filed a grievance with USA Gymnastics, the first of its kind by a female gymnast. Few gymnasts dared to challenge the governing body, especially Marta Karolyi, because it most surely meant they would be blackballed down the road. And since most gymnasts eventually coach or own a gym themselves, everyone is afraid of burning bridges. USA Gymnastics also lines up many paid performances, tours, and events for the gymnasts, current and retired, so butting heads with them is never in a gymnast’s best financial interests, either. I was well aware of this, and I assumed I’d be stonewalled, but I still wanted Marta, the selection committee, and the governing body to be held accountable to some extent.

  As expected, the grievance committee confirmed the selection committee’s decision to bar me from competing at Nationals in a 2–1 vote. I had my final opportunity to argue my case during a conference call that was supposed to simulate a court hearing. It was my sole opportunity to talk to and question the selection committee about their votes to block my petition, yet Steve Rybacki was the only member of the selection panel to participate in the hearing. The other two-thirds of the voting panel, Marta Karolyi and Kim Zmeskal-Burdette, didn’t even phone in. Mike, as my coach, was on the grievance call with me and did an amazing job outlining how we’d complied with all of the requirements. He methodically outlined how patently unfair it was to throw a new requirement our way after the fact, when there was no time or venue in which to correct it. He also asked a number of questions, which were met with awkward pauses as the grievance panel clearly didn’t have answers. But what they did have, in the end, was all the power. USA Gymnastics attempted to make the entire process seem official and “by the book,” but it was obvious to me that they were winging it, seeming to improvise as they went along.

  This was the state of US Gymnastics in 2006, and, sadly, the situation has not improved. Instead of making the selection process more open and objective, US Gymnastics has gone in the opposite direction. I believe Marta Karolyi now has even more subjective control and power. In 2011, the US Olympic Committee named the Karolyi ranch the “official” training site for US Women’s Gymnastics, as well as women’s tumbling, trampoline, and acrobatic gymnastics. Now Junior and Senior Elite gymnasts who train in gyms across the country with their own coaches must attend Karolyi ranch camps throughout the year to be monitored and evaluated by Marta, the National Team Coordinator.

  While it’s understandable that USA Gymnastics would want to emulate the successful Soviet and Romanian practice of “centralized gymnastics,” there is, in my opinion, something innately wrong and very un-American about one person holding nearly all of the power over a national sport. With little published criteria and few guidelines outlining how gymnasts are to be evaluated, ranked, and selected, there is no accountability and no safe and effective way to appeal a determination by the selection committee. I believe that filing a grievance against the committee is, in essence, filing a grievance against Marta, the National Coordinator, because she seems to have a stranglehold on every aspect of Elite women’s gymnastics, including, ultimately, who makes the Olympic team.

  Making decisions and naming World and Olympic team members in “closed door” sessions seems to contradict the notion of fair play. If I were in charge of USA Gymnastics, I’d go back to the tried-and-true system of selecting World and Olympic teams through public competitions, such as Olympic Trials. Not too long ago, we relied on Olympic Trials to determine which gymnasts were peaking at the right time and were primed for international competition. Top scores at Trials would qualify gymnasts for a World or an Olympic team—much as they would in other events such as track and field, swimming, and diving.

  I also think there needs to be a petition format in place for those gymnasts who may be struggling with an injury at the time of Trials, whereby the gymnast could qualify for the team based on the strength of National Championships or similar meets. This was the system in place in 1996, and it seemed to work well enough to create a team of us that earned Team USA the gold medal at the Olympics.

  The gymnastics community needs to start asking why we’ve moved away from that selection process, which is still utilized in most other national sports in the United States. Bela and Marta pushed US gymnastics toward a semi-centralized system for years, and since they are the most successful coaching duo in gymnastics’ history, it’s no surprise that USA Gymnastics has accommodated them each step of the way. But we must remind ourselves, and the Karolyis, that we are not in Romania, where Bela and Marta were able to pluck prospective gymnasts from school yards, public parks, and gyms across the country and house them in a year-round gymnastics boarding school. Back then, the Karolyis selected the gymnasts themselves and, in turn, produced Olympic medalists, so it’s no wonder that they sought the same control here. It is up to USA Gymnastics, the Olympic Committee, and the public at large to tell them, “No, in the United States, we have a more democratic process, which gives every athlete an opportunity to compete and to be judged fairly—and not by one or two people.”

  In a twisted way, one has to admire the gumption of the Karolyis and how they are able to hypnotize people with their Olympic medals. Why is it that the gymnastics community doesn’t question the conflict of interest created by having the National Team Training Center and the National Team Training Camps based on property personally owned and operated by the National Team Coordinator, Marta Karolyi? Do we really want someone who financially benefits from hosting training camps telling us we need more of these camps throughout the year? Shouldn’t an unbiased individual, one who doesn’t have a financial stake in the property or the camps, be making those decisions? Or do we just continue to look the other way and ignore the damage as long as the Karolyi system brings home a medal? I love the actual spor
t of gymnastics too much to give in to that line of thinking. I believe that Team USA can win World and Olympic medals by instituting a fair selection process and adopting guidelines designed to protect our athletes from injuries and abusive training techniques along the way.

  Even though I wasn’t allowed to compete at the 2006 US Nationals, my comeback was still a success in my eyes. For the first time in my career, I was a gymnast on my own terms—and I proved that women can still have a place in “women’s” gymnastics and that the sport is not only for malleable prepubescent girls, as many would like us to believe. I faced some childhood demons by returning to the Karolyi ranch with a new perspective, and proved I could hang with the best of them at the national training camp.

  Even my grievance filing and dispute was a blessing in that it gave Mike and me a platform to expose USA Gymnastics’ dubious and secretive selection methods. I sometimes wonder if that was meant to be my mission all along. I received loads of phone calls and emails from people in the gymnastics community who were grateful and excited that Mike and I were demanding answers from USA Gymnastics and Marta. These gymnastics insiders, many of whom I’d known for years, and others I’d never met, gushed their support from behind the scenes. They were afraid that speaking out publicly might jeopardize their own positions in the sport. I appreciated where they were coming from. Heck, I lived in silent fear of the Karolyis and the USA Gymnastics system for years, but I was done being afraid. Despite any backlash or criticism I’d face, I decided that enough was enough and that the sport I love was too important for me to continue to look the other way like so many have done for years. If I sat back and did nothing, then more of the same would occur and change would never come. My grievance proceeding motivated me to stop being silent and be more proactive and outspoken for positive change within Elite women’s gymnastics.

  My comeback taught me that sometimes your impact may not be in the form of a medal, but it may be just as meaningful. I hope that by sharing my story, I inspire others to stand for what they believe in and know that their voice matters, even if change doesn’t occur overnight.

  Chapter 14

  FAMILY

  On November 4, 2006, I married Michael Brian Canales. Standing at the altar, exchanging vows with a man I view as “golden,” was one of the most meaningful moments of my life. I’d navigated some dark waters to get there, and I wasn’t about to let any of the magic of that day slip by unnoticed. I savored it all. With Mike—my partner for years and now, finally, my husband—I felt at peace and excited for our life together.

  The heavens must have been listening to our whispers about wanting to start a family, because a year after we married, we were blessed with our firstborn, Carmen Noel. She arrived on Christmas Day in 2007, giving her dad and me the best and sweetest present ever. A little more than a year later, in March of 2009, we welcomed our handsome and loving Vincent Michael. Becoming a mother changed my world and instantly reshuffled my priorities. Watching my children take their first steps, hearing them say “Mama” and “Dada” for the first time, rocking them to sleep in my arms—these are the things that melted my heart and made my days complete. Sleepless nights, potty training, and endless worry when they’re sick are a far cry from the life of a competitive gymnast, but I cherish every minute and wouldn’t trade being a wife and mother for anything.

  I am thankful that I was able to further reconcile with Tata before he passed away from cancer in 2008. I cannot recall a single time in my childhood that I saw Tata sick, even with the flu, so his being stricken with cancer was a devastating blow to him and our family. For the first few years he dealt with it fairly well, was positive and determined to conquer it. He had a rare form of eye cancer—cancer of the lacrimal gland—and, unfortunately, there wasn’t an abundance of research on the condition. He received care from some of the best oncologists in the country at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. They were able to prolong his life with the most current treatments available at the time.

  Tata’s illness was a constant battle for the five years he had to live with it, but if anything positive came of it, it was that Tata began to open up to his family for the first time. As I imagine many do when facing the end of life, Tata began to express his feelings and show emotion, which was a complete revelation for all of us. My father, who made me wait twenty-one years before telling me he loved me, was finally tearing down the barricades he had built around his heart and was trying desperately to pull Mama, Christina, and me inside before it was too late. I saw another side of Tata as I watched him cry and expose his vulnerabilities. He regretted so much of the past, and carrying that guilt and remorse had been a heavy burden. We began healing our battle wounds together, understanding each other, and really forgiving. I was relieved that he and I could finally each release our anger and guilt and forge a tighter bond.

  As strong as Tata fought during the first four years, the final year was the toughest, and it seemed like my family was getting hit from all sides. In the midst of Tata’s decline, my parents’ house in Houston almost burned down to the ground. Mama was running herself ragged taking Tata to his stream of doctors’ appointments and also tending to Maia, who was also ailing in her older years. It was a full-time job for Mama to care for both of them, leaving little time to rest or even slow down. On the day of the fire, Mama was in such a rush to get to the doctor with Tata that she left a candle burning in her prayer room. Mama’s prayer room was her private sanctuary, filled with religious figurines she’d collected from the holy land in Jerusalem and from the many monasteries she’d visited throughout her life. She prayed in that room every day, often lighting prayer candles.

  The fire destroyed the entire second story of their house and a large part of the first floor. Mama’s prayer room and Christina’s bedroom were reduced to a pile of ashes. It was heartbreaking to see them lose so many of their treasured possessions. I certainly wasn’t about to cry that my wedding dress went up in flames when my poor sister lost her entire bedroom and nearly all her belongings inside.

  Tata, Mama, and Christina spent the following day inspecting the damage and rummaging through ashes, trying to find any valuables spared in the fire. By the time they packed the car with the recovered items and drove to a local hotel for the night, they were so exhausted, physically and emotionally, they didn’t have much energy left to unload the items from the car. They carried what they could as they staggered into the hotel and never made it back out for a second load. Tata was usually the one to put some extra muscle into such tasks, but his cancer was beginning to spread and he didn’t have the strength or stamina that he used to.

  In some cruel twist of fate, a thief broke into their car during the night and stole every last item they’d salvaged from the house that day. Among the stolen items was Mama’s jewelry, including her Rolex watch, which was a special anniversary gift from Tata. He had saved for many years to buy her this watch to celebrate the twenty-seven years they’d been together. Christina’s laptop, one of her few items not burned in the fire, was also taken. Tata did his best to stay strong and worked with Mama to repair the fire damage to the house, so they could sell it and move to a new home. It took a lot out of them when they were already beleaguered to start with.

  Tata continued to get weaker, and he was now operating with only one eye, having lost the other entirely to the cancer. I’m grateful that Tata was able to walk me down the aisle at my wedding. After all we’d been through, to have him escort me as I moved to the next stage of my life made that day complete. The fact that he was also able to later meet and hold his first grandchild, Carmen, was a blessing as well.

  In fall 2008, during the second trimester of my pregnancy with our son, Vincent, I packed my bags and went to Houston to support Tata, Mama, and Christina as the cancer was now rampant and it was clear Tata was losing the battle. He was admitted to the hospital, and we were told that he was nearing the end of his life. His impending passing was beginning to sink in for all of us,
especially Mama. Tata was all she’d ever known; she’d never been on her own, having gone straight from her parents’ home in Romania to marrying Tata and starting a new life in America. I never doubted Mama’s strength; she was a survivor. But I could feel her pain. Tata had put her through hell a million times over, but she still loved him and she knew in her heart that he loved her with everything he had. In those final years, he had come to terms with his own mistakes and asked for forgiveness.

  “Will you ever forgive me for all that I have done?” he asked Mama.

  “Yes, of course I will,” Mama said, not thinking twice.

  I tried to stay strong to comfort Mama and Christina. As I was a relatively emotional person to begin with, being pregnant made it even more difficult to keep it together. I’d find myself crying more times than not. It was heartbreaking to see Tata’s withered body once we moved him to hospice just waiting for the end. He was so frail; he’d lost so much weight, I didn’t recognize his body at all. His mouth was dry and I could sense no life coming from him. He was barely hanging on.

  Our last coherent conversation was at the hospital the week before he moved into hospice care. Dementia was setting in, so I’d have to repeat things, which I didn’t mind. It was the least I could do for Tata. He kept asking me what “hospice” was, and, sadly, I’d explain again and again. It was very difficult to move him to hospice, since it was basically an admission on all our parts that the end was near, but at this point he required care around the clock. I remember we took a family photo in the hospital: Tata, Mama, Christina, and me, the three of us huddled around Tata in his bed. It would be our last.