Tsukahara Mitsuo opens his autobiography not with triumph but with catastrophe. Rather than beginning with his eponymous vault or the dismount that made him famous, or with any of his five Olympic gold medals, he begins in February 1980, when he sustained a cervical spine injury, which effectively ended his bid for a fourth consecutive Olympic Games.
The excerpt translated here follows him through the accident itself, the frustrating weeks of rehabilitation, his increasingly desperate attempt to recover in time for Japan’s Olympic trials, and the painful realization that his competitive career had come to an end. They also reveal a personality familiar from the earlier chapters of this autobiography: a gymnast whose greatest strength was often indistinguishable from his greatest weakness. Again and again, he acknowledges that his determination to finish routines no matter the circumstances and his willingness to accept risks others would avoid had become both the source of his success and the cause of his injuries.
One aspect of the accident is worth noting. The skill that caused Tsukahara’s injury was a roll-out skill: an Arabian 1¾. Only months later, Elena Mukhina would be paralyzed attempting a more difficult version of the skill. Roll-out skills have since been banned from FIG competition.
The excerpt below is Tsukahara’s account of how that ending unfolded.
A Moment’s Carelessness
“Crack!” I heard it clearly. At the same moment, it felt as if my neck were being driven down into my body. My hands tried desperately to brace against it, but my neck—which should have been thick and sturdy—kept grinding down into my body with a merciless “creak, creak,” or so it felt.
It happened while I was attempting to add a new floor exercise skill to my routine: a piked Arabian. It was over in an instant. Damn… Did I do it? But I found myself braced on my head and both hands—in other words, I had landed in a tripod position. My sixty-odd-kilogram body had been launched more than two meters into the air. I built up speed on the run, drove forcefully off both feet, executed a half twist into a front somersault, and should then have continued into a forward roll. But apparently I hadn’t rotated enough and wound up landing on my head. Normally, of course, a landing is made on both feet. It’s the legs and hips that absorb the impact. Even on a simple somersault, being slightly off balance can easily injure your ankles or knees. But this time I landed not on my feet, but on my head…
It really was a “skull-cracking drop.” I thought my eyeballs might pop out. In fact, everything went white in front of my eyes for a moment, and then everything went pitch black. Gradually, light began to filter back in from the darkness. I couldn’t tell why my head wouldn’t clear—my mind was hazy, and I didn’t know where I was or how I’d ended up like this. Oh, right— I still had to do my next routine.
But right after that flash of light, everyone around started making such a fuss that being the least bit embarrassed or annoyed about it was beside the point; that wasn’t really true either. Still, in the end, whether I felt embarrassed or wanted to shrug it off, it was already too late. It was a reckless act, plain and simple. Ugh, I really did it this time. Why was I so stupid? Why hadn’t I used the soft crash mat meant for spotting? My training tended to be like that; I’d cool a towel with water and press it against my neck and shoulders, lying down in the corner of the gym.
If it had happened to an ordinary person, they probably would have had their cervical spine completely destroyed and died instantly, or ended up in a vegetative state from the impact. It was precisely because I’d trained my body that it could withstand that kind of force—I might still be able to move. Even with the shame of having failed, I forced myself to my feet and moved on to the next routine. All of this could only have taken a few seconds. Even now, looking back on that split-second event, I’m amazed at how much I managed to do, and how clearly I remember it.
I don’t recall standing up on my own. The routine wasn’t over. After failing at a new skill, you often perform the rest of the routine in an almost trance-like state, not feeling like yourself. My consciousness still wasn’t entirely clear, but I was determined to finish the routine I’d set out to do, all the way to the end, finishing with a double-twisting layout backward somersault. I decided the landing would be the last thing I’d nail. I got through the side somersault, the Y-scale, and the rest of the moves reasonably well, though my consciousness still wasn’t fully clear and I wasn’t quite myself.
Still, in the second half of my routine, my wrists hurt terribly every time they touched the floor. It hurts, but I have to keep going to the end. That feeling just kept driving me on, almost automatically.
When the routine was over, I went back to the bench. My steps were a little unsteady, and the female club members who trained at the same gym, along with my wife, who was coaching there, hurried over to me, looking worried.
“Are you alright?” “Nothing’s wrong, is it?” “Maybe you should lie down…” Voices asking after my safety came flying at me from all directions, like machine-gun fire. “Should I call a doctor?”
I’d tried to keep a calm face throughout the routine and afterward, but apparently, to everyone watching, I looked like someone who’d suffered a serious injury.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, nothing’s wrong.”
That’s what I answered, feeling a bit embarrassed, sensing that I was somewhat dazed myself. It wasn’t that I found my wife and everyone else making such a fuss annoying or embarrassing; that wasn’t the truth of it either.
But in the end, whether I felt embarrassed or annoyed, it was already too late. It had been a reckless string of actions on my part, plain and simple. Ugh, I really did it this time. Why was I so stupid? Why hadn’t I used the soft spotting mat? For now, I cooled a towel with water and pressed it against my neck and shoulders, lying down in the corner of the gym.
My training style tends to be forceful, if anything. For example, once I’m partway through a routine, even if it looks like I’m about to fail, I don’t stop—I push through to the end even in a dangerous position. In a sport like gymnastics that demands caution (though of course caution alone isn’t enough), that forcefulness has led to injuries before. This time, I forgot that lesson again. Even though I understood my own flaw perfectly well, I sometimes forget it anyway. In the past too, my forcefulness has led to injuries. This time was no different; I forgot it all over again. It was an accident born from a flaw I understood all too well about myself.
In February 1980 (Showa 55), I was aiming for my fourth Olympics—Moscow—following Mexico City, Munich, and Montréal Olympics. Japan’s only four-time Olympic gymnast is Ono Takashi (Helsinki, Melbourne, Rome, Tokyo). Outside of gymnastics, there’s also Nekoda Katsutoshi, the famous volleyball setter. Burning with determination for this record-tying fourth Olympic challenge, I was throwing myself into intensive training, telling myself, I won’t lose to the younger athletes. I was feeling good, and my physical condition was at its peak. Having placed third at the All-Japan Championships three months earlier, buoyed by that good form, I was determined not to fall behind the rest of the world technically, and eager to incorporate a difficult new skill that was in vogue at the time.
An Unexpected Serious Injury
I was resting in the corner of the gym, pressing a water-cooled towel against my neck and shoulders. After about thirty minutes had passed, I cautiously moved my neck a little. When I tilted it to the right, there was no pain. When I tilted it to the left, my consciousness cleared. Alright, my head’s clearing up, I muttered to myself, and even sitting still, nothing hurt. No matter what happened today, I was determined to properly finish the training I’d set for myself—I’d be fine.
Let’s leave it at that for now. Believing my neck was nothing serious, I decided to resume training. As planned, I did parallel bars, horizontal bar, and every event as usual, working up a sweat. There was no problem doing so, and since the pain had gone numb, this decision may not have been a good one. As a result, once I finished, I moved on to pommel horse. As usual, I was in a kind of excited state, so training resumed without incident, and the pain had numbed too—which may have been what led to this outcome. Once I’d worked through my whole training menu, I gradually started to feel pain building up, and I should have simply cooled my neck and gone straight home to rest. As I rested through the remaining training menu, going home to lie down, a throbbing headache set in. Huh, something’s not right, I muttered to myself as I lay on the bed resting, but even lying still it started to hurt. Tilting it right made a “crack,” tilting it left made me cry “Ouch!” My neck wouldn’t bend right or left anymore; it just wouldn’t move at all.
“Hey, is anyone there?” There should only have been my little son and my wife at home. My wife came running.
“What’s wrong?” “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
“Put water and ice in a plastic bag and make me some ice packs—three of them—and bring them here.” “Bring me some ice.” It was starting to hurt. I rested for a while, but then when I tried to move my wrists, they hurt too much to move.
Had I hurt my neck too? Looking closely, its shape had changed—it was badly swollen.
“Hey, make two more ice packs and bring them here.”
I ended up spread-eagled on the bed, spending the whole night with ice packs on my head, neck, and both wrists. From the outside, it must have looked bizarre—like something serious had happened, given how strange and dramatic a state I was lying in. Ugh, looks like I’ve really done some serious damage this time. It was a complicated mix of regret and sorrow.
That night, my wife—herself a former gymnast—and I had a conversation that only the two of us, in our particular situation, could have had.
“I really am careless, aren’t I?”
“You really are.”
“I was in such good form this time.”
“You shouldn’t have pushed so hard.”
“Yeah, well, there’s still a month and a half to go.”
“You need to heal before the competition (the Olympic qualifiers).”
“Yeah.”
“But will it heal in time?”
“It’ll heal. You’re lucky like that.”
“What if it doesn’t heal in time? Would that be the end for me as an athlete?”
“Well, life’s not just about gymnastics.”
“I wanted to try for a fourth Olympics, though.”
“If you can, do it. If you can’t, there’s nothing to be done about it.”
“Maybe it’s just my age.”
“(You failed) that skill was dangerous. Maybe you should give it up.”
“It didn’t feel that dangerous to me… though I have heard a lot of people get hurt doing that move.”
“Fukaku!” [an exclamation/onomatopoeia]
“That’s right. But you know, I’ve heard a lot of people get hurt on that move of mine.”
“That settles it, then.”
“Even once it heals, are you still planning to do that move? You should give it up. You’re so stubborn.”
“I’ll go to the doctor first thing tomorrow.”
“That’s more like it.”
“It’s been twenty years since I started gymnastics.”
“So many things have happened.”
Even faced with me—someone determined to attempt the same move again once it healed—my wife, exasperated as she was, never once said she wanted me to quit gymnastics. Having lived in the strict world of competitive sport, and still working as a coach, she understood me thoroughly.
Early the next morning, I went to the hospital. According to the doctor’s diagnosis, I had a cervical sprain causing “compression of the right brachial plexus,” along with sprains in both wrists. It was, apparently, a fairly serious injury. Though it didn’t require hospitalization, I was told I needed to rest for a month. But I vowed to myself: I’ll keep training while I heal.
Regrettable Cervical Sprain
Only a month and a half remained before the second Moscow Olympic qualifying round. For a gymnast, this period is the most crucial of all. Operating on the assumption that my injury would definitely heal, I mapped out a training plan for this stretch of time. I told myself I absolutely could not afford to rush. I believed I’d built the schedule carefully and deliberately. For the first two weeks, I was to avoid moving my body as much as possible, simply staying home and resting in bed. That period was truly agonizing. The pain itself wasn’t so severe, but the injury didn’t heal on the timeline I’d hoped for, and it took roughly three weeks before I could return to a normal daily routine. That left only about three more weeks. Everything would be decided by how I trained during that remaining time.
My neck still wasn’t stable; against my own will, my head seemed to move on its own. My wrists, too, were still swollen. Even after three weeks of rest, if the injury didn’t heal completely, I wouldn’t make it in time for the Olympic qualifiers. Still, the time had come when I could no longer put off moving my body and getting back into serious training.
According to my training plan, I should have been ready to begin full run-throughs of my compulsory and optional routines (practicing them exactly as they would be performed in competition). It was around that time. I had finally managed to do even a handstand on the rings, one of the easier skills, and decided to try a kip. The instant I did, I was overcome by a strange sensation unlike anything I had ever experienced. My right arm had no strength in it whatsoever. It felt as though I were no longer myself.
The kip—a move I’d always been able to do with ease—was now completely impossible, just like the very first time I’d attempted it. This can’t be happening. This is insane. I tried again, but the result was the same: my right arm simply wouldn’t generate any strength. I panicked. I could feel the color draining from my face.
Having never before experienced any kind of nerve damage, I felt an indescribable fear at this abnormality in my own body. It was only then that I truly understood just how frightening a cervical spine injury could be.
From the moment I resumed training, I threw myself into strengthening just my right arm—using barbells and rubber tubing attached to a stationary bike. At the time, I told myself, It’s probably just muscle weakness from being out of training for a few weeks. But it wasn’t anything so simple. With my neck still numb, I should have stayed completely still and avoided any stimulation whatsoever. My confidence—Twenty years of training my body through gymnastics; I’ll be fine—had actually worked against me.
One week before the second Olympic qualifying round: Ah, this is hopeless. I’m not going to make it in time after all, I sighed, and it’s true that I was half-resigned to giving up. Mentally, it was one long stretch of tension, and in the week before a competition, every athlete pushes through their final training push.
At the gym where I coached at the Asahi Life Gymnastics School, athletes from other clubs had come to train. I had to keep that tension alive in myself. Watching them—perhaps something had gone wrong with a particular skill—repeat the same move over and over, I found myself remembering my own gymnastics career. No matter the situation, I recalled how I had failed again and again, however many times it took, until I finally succeeded. I too had failed at certain skills over and over, training until I mastered them. Never giving up until the very end—There’s still a chance!
They say that when a person experiences an extraordinary rush of adrenaline, they can summon strength beyond imagining. In a match—especially one as critical as an Olympic qualifier—you’re forced into an extraordinary state of tension and excitement. I decided to gamble on whatever extraordinary strength might arise from that state. What people commonly call “the strength born of desperation.”
Though I’d made up my mind to compete, I hadn’t been able to train properly, and I was gripped by anxiety. If I have no choice but to withdraw partway through the competition, I’ll submit this medical certificate to the federation and let that be the end of it, I told myself. I’d already gone to the doctor and obtained the documentation.
Judging by my physical condition and the amount of training I’d managed, I could sense that there was a 90% chance I wouldn’t be able to compete at all. But I decided to bet everything on that remaining 10%. For an athlete to make a gamble like that is absolutely taboo. But I suppose you could call that 10% my sheer stubborn determination.
The day of the second Olympic qualifying round finally arrived. Before heading to the venue at Yoyogi Second Gymnasium, I did some light training at the gym at Asahi Life Gymnastics School. My right arm wouldn’t generate much strength. A bad feeling started creeping in. Is this really impossible after all? Even my wrists didn’t feel quite right.
Should I go, or should I not go? I agonized over it, torn like Hamlet, right up until the last possible moment before I had to leave for the venue. As I left the gym, I was overcome with a sentimental feeling: I might never come back to this gym again. But I quickly pushed that weak-hearted feeling away.
I’m doing this. That’s the only thing I’m going to let myself feel. The drive to the venue took about thirty minutes, and the whole way there, I kept repeating those words to myself.
The Humiliation I Felt for the First Time in My Life
By the time I arrived at Yoyogi No. 2 Gymnasium in Shibuya, Tokyo, there was barely any time left. I hurriedly changed into my competition uniform. The moment I put it on, I felt myself tighten up emotionally. Perhaps it was like the feeling of a warrior putting on armor and helmet before going into battle. Strangely, the same tension I had felt at other competitions began to rise inside me. I could no longer hear any of the surrounding noise. My mind was focused only on the meet that was about to begin.
The athletes were called to assemble. But I was filled with complicated feelings: This may be the last time I ever feel this kind of tension. At every meet, this is the moment when I feel the greatest excitement and nerves.
Let’s do this!
We marched in to the music. I headed toward the first apparatus: the pommel horse. For me, it was unlucky that the meet began with pommel horse. Of the six events, it was my weakest, and it also demanded the most from both arms, both wrists, and the shoulders.
We were given three minutes to warm up, and normally one would run through the routine once. The athletes began warming up in competition order. As in the actual performance, I did only a few circles, the basic movement, and ended my warm-up there. Even so, it put considerable strain on both wrists. The other athletes were warming up very carefully, but I did not connect all my skills. I simply thought, Somehow, I’ll fight through to the end.
At last, the moment has come. I have no idea how much strength I have left, but I’ll just be myself.
I told myself this as I waited for my turn. My wrist still hurt a little. When I was in poor condition, before beginning a routine, I would take two or three deep breaths to calm myself, focus my mind, and keep from getting too worked up. This was my own method. I did the same this time.
The head judge raised the green flag. It was the signal to begin. I took a deep breath and sprang onto the pommel horse. Somehow, my timing felt slower than usual. I could tell that each skill was proceeding in a very uncertain, precarious way. From the first half into the middle of the routine, I managed to continue without any major mistakes.
Good. Keep this going into the second half.
The instant I thought that, I sat down on the horse. It was a major deduction of 0.5.
No!
I tried to continue, but miserably, I could not put any strength into my right arm. Each time I attempted a skill, I either sat down again or fell. Throughout the second half of the routine, I could not help feeling a wretchedness unlike anything I had ever experienced. I was embarrassed, too, but I did not abandon the routine midway. I kept going until the end.
I returned to the athletes’ seating area. I still remember how Okamura Teruichi, who had competed as the leadoff gymnast for our group at the Munich Olympics, looked at me with a sorrowful, sympathetic gaze.
If I can’t put strength into my right arm, I can’t continue with the remaining events.
I immediately took out the medical certificate I had hidden in my bag and submitted it to the Japan Gymnastics Association officials’ table. It was the first time in my life that I had withdrawn in this way.
I could not help feeling that everything I had poured my youth into, everything I had burned for, had burned out that day. But almost immediately, I also felt that there were still mountains of things I had to do. Inside me, loneliness, frustration, and the will to keep going were all tangled together. I wanted to be alone somewhere quiet. I wanted to take stock of my gymnastics career up to that point and think about what came next.
I went into the changing room, showered, and began to change clothes. My mind was in chaos, and while nothing had been sorted out, I answered reporters’ questions. The reporters were interested in only one thing: whether I would retire.
“Tsukahara, Kasamatsu has retired too. What about you?”
Mind your own business.
Then the reporters changed the question.
“If you were recommended for the final Olympic trials, would you accept?”
In the past, there had been cases where, if a gymnast of a certain level had missed the second trials because of injury or another reason, the Japan Gymnastics Association recommended that gymnast for the final trials and gave him another chance.
I answered immediately.
“No. A recommendation? I don’t think the association would do something like that. To be honest, if the association gave me one more chance, nothing would make me happier. But after entering the second trials and then withdrawing midway because of injury, wouldn’t it be too convenient for me to be allowed into the final trials? Every athlete trains hard and competes seriously. How could I alone get special treatment? It is easy to imagine how the alternate gymnast and the gymnast ranked after him would feel. Even if that produced a strong team, it would not be a true team.”
From: Endless Challenge: My Youth Devoted to the “Moon Somersault” 果てしなき挑戦: 「月面宙返り」に賭けたわが青春
In the end, Japan boycotted the Games, and Tsukahara did not participate in the Alternate Games in Hartford, Connecticut. In effect, his career as an elite gymnast had ended, but his lifelong commitment to the sport had not. In retirement, he founded the Tsukahara Gymnastics Center and later assumed leadership roles within the Japan Gymnastics Association.
Appendix: The FIG’s 2004 Interview
INTERVIEW WITH MITSUO TSUKAHARA
We caught up with the famous Mitsuo Tsukahara during the Olympic Games. He is not only known for the elements he invented, but he earned 5 Olympic gold from 1968 to 76. He is a world class gymnastics expert and the father of Naoya, current Olympic Team Champion.
Moutier: September 22, 2004.
Profile:
Date of Birth: December 22, 1947
Place of birth: Tokyo
Current address: Setagawa-ku, Tokyo
Marital status: Married
Children: Son 27 (Naoya)
Occupation: President of Tsukahara Gymnastics Center
Education: Nippon Sport Science University (NSSU)
Clubs: 1) Kamiya Jr. High-School, 2) Kokugakuin High-School, 3) Nippon Sport Science University, 4) Kawai Music Instruments Club, 5) Asahi Seimei Insurance Co. Club
Coaches: 1) Kojima in Jr. High, 2) Kouhei Sasaki in High-School
Q: When did you start gymnastics and why?
I started gymnastics when I was 13 years old. There was a gymnastics club at the Junior High-School I attended.
Q: Which was your first big international competition?
I participated in the 1968 Mexico Olympic Game. The Japanese Men’s Team won the Gold medal. For Individual All-Around, I think I was in 18th place.
Q: When did you become a member of National Team?
I became a member of National Team in 1968.
Q: What was your favourite apparatus? Why?
I like Horizontal Bar the best because I like the dynamic and magnificent performance of this apparatus.
Q: What is your best souvenir in gymnastics?
It was the moment when I won a Gold Medal in Munich Olympic Game in Horizontal Bar as an Individual.
Q: What do you think about comparing gymnastics at your time and gymnastics now?
I think the fundamental or the base of gymnastics has not changed much. Main difference is that the level of Difficulty Elements. The level went up so high and almost challenging the limit of human ability. Therefore the technical skill is really different from before.
Q: Many gymnasts performed or trying to perform the “TSUKAHARA” element with maybe some additional twists or turns. How do you feel about this?
I never really thought about that. Now that you’ve mentioned, I do realize gymnasts are performing.
Q: What made you create the “TSUKAHARA” element?
The reason for creating “Tsukahara” in Vault was that I was not really good at performing “Yamashita”. So I thought if there is anything else I can do and was playing (experimenting) different ways and by chance, I performed “Tsukahara” and decided to include in Vault.
The “Moon Salto” on Horizontal Bar was a different story. I was not very good at the sense of aerial (twisting / turning in the air) which was very important for gymnasts. So in order for me to overcome the weak aerial sense, I practiced Trampoline. Already in other gymnastics leading nations included Trampoline for training but it was rare in Japan in my days. I decided to get serious with Trampoline to improve my gymnastics ability. As I practiced, I ended up performing “1/2 in, 1/2 out” which was not familiar in gymnastics area and is the base of “Moon Salto” (the original name). Then I came to the conclusion that, Trampoline goes up about 5 meters and Horizontal Bar also let you up 5 meters. So, I thought I can do the same technique on Horizontal Bar and challenged. It took me about 3 months to make “Tsukahara” for the Horizontal Bar and about 1 year to complete it.
Q: What is the reason for you being involved with gymnastics right now?
I never tried anything else but it is because I only know gymnastics. I been deeply soaked with gymnastics all my life and I don’t know what else I can do.
Q: How many gymnasts have you trained?
I have trained so many since I have been coaching for more than 26 years. I mainly trained Women gymnasts. I think there are about 24 women gymnasts and including Naoya, there are about 4 men gymnasts who went to the Olympic Games.
Q: Was any of your family member experienced in sports?
I remember my father used to be a champion in his village carrying a heavy straw bag which had rice in it. My mother used to do track and field athletics when she was a student.
Q: What kind of a child were you? Did you have any dreams then?
I’m glad you asked this question. When I was a child, I find a high or tall fence or tree which nobody wants to climb. Then I would climb up to the top and walk or wave to friends and was proud of myself so I was a hasty boy. I don’t really remember what I wanted to be then.
Q: Do you have any experience in other sport?
Yes, I play golf. My handicap is 5. My best score is 68.
Q: How do you spend your day-off? Any hobby ?
Because I like to play golf so much, I usually make my day-off playing at the courses.
Q: How do you analyse Japanese Men’s Team winning Gold medal this time (2004 Olympic Games in Athens)?
I think the main factor for the result is that the Japanese Team had more “Beauty and Stability” in their performances than other nations.
Q: What is your plan for the future?
I want to continue developing the environment for the Japanese Gymnastics to increase their level to the top of the world. But when I get old, gymnastics is too dangerous for elder people so I want to play golf. I want to challenge and see how long I can keep playing golf.
Note: Setagaya is one of Tokyo’s largest and most desirable special wards. If your mental image of Tokyo is endless neon, skyscrapers, and crowded intersections, Setagaya is almost the opposite: it’s primarily a leafy residential area with quiet neighborhoods, parks, cafés, and local shopping streets.
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