He and I didn’t speak to each other or make direct eye contact, but I did look at his face when I knew he wasn’t looking. The three of us had dinner together one night in 2008, my very first time around him as an adult.
I used the word pedophile to describe him to her. In 2018, when he was still alive, I sent an email to one of his relatives. I do the same thing when I look at photos of my dead father, or when I hear his first name, or when an older man stands close to me on the sidewalk. It’s a small wince, a nervous compulsion, really, more than anything else. When I see images of Nassar, I gag a little. But if Nassar was the familial abuser, a hidden-in-plain-sight predator in a schlubby polo and khakis, then USA Gymnastics played the role of complicit family, concerned with guarding resources and reputation above all else. He treated with one hand and violated with the other. He was their medical professional, a paternal caretaker. Nassar, the bespectacled, cheery-voiced pedophile who had been given years of unsupervised resources and titles and promotions and access - most of all, access - to girls. Suddenly, we were forced to confront the idea that some of the things that make the sport so spectacular to watch were the same things delivered to us by injured children in leotards.Įach new report from the Indianapolis Star that year blasted a fresh hole into a system of complicity, of multiple entities who bankrolled and subsequently protected USA Gymnastics’ former team doctor Larry Nassar. Children who, in the cold, raw light of day, had been exploited, their pain ignored at every authoritative turn. Suddenly, we were forced to confront the idea that some of the things that make the sport so spectacular to watch - the teeny tiny superhuman feats of strength and mobility, the way the bodies seemingly revoke the laws of gravity, the elegance of ballet and the joy of acrobatics packed into adrenaline-fueled ten-second events - were the same things delivered to us by injured children in leotards. It feels like old, weary news now, but in 2016, when a local newspaper’s reporting unearthed a vile, decades-long cover-up of sexual abuse within the national governing body of gymnastics, it blew the edifice of the whole operation right off. A choiceless “choice” foisted upon a child by a circuitry of coaches and family members, and instituted by an organization that enabled all of it - USA Gymnastics. Twenty-five years later, her perceived heroism, the quality of “toughness” she showed that was shared by generations of her teammates, revealed itself to be something much uglier - a decision to keep going that was never really her decision. At the time, Dominique also had a tibial stress fracture. Now, in slow-motion replay of the footage, it’s easier to grasp the impact of bone against padded wood, of what that kind of collision might do to a prepubescent neck. Commentators gasped in collective concern, but Dominique hopped right back up to finish, nary a tear on her face - resilient, unflappable, a nation at its best! A couple of minutes passed, and she was in the floor final. Millions of people were watching the broadcast when she hit her skull against the balance beam - the crown of her head landing where her foot was supposed to go. Dominique was the smallest of the group, America’s 72-pound princess, Team USA’s adorable little mascot. Dominique was part of the Magnificent Seven, the United States Olympic teen-dream squad for that year’s Atlanta Games. I loved how fast she flew down the 82-foot runway toward the vault. I had her picture taped to my bedroom wall.
That was the year 14-year-old Dominique Moceanu became the youngest gold medalist in the history of American Olympic gymnastics. What did we learn?īack in 1996, the answer was nothing. Today, Simone Biles learned she can protect her health first and win Olympic medals second.
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