Category: 1987

In 1987, readers caught a glimpse of Elena Davydova’s next chapter — one shaped not by competition, but by research, teaching, and a vision for gymnastics’ future. Still remembered for her dazzling Olympic floor routine in Moscow that earned her the all-around title, Davydova had turned inward, navigating the difficult transition from world-class athlete to scholar. While completing her Candidate of Sciences dissertation (equivalent to a Ph.D.) at the Lesgaft Institute in Leningrad, she explored innovative ways to enhance elite gymnasts’ preparation, and as a judge, she embraced the sport’s growing emphasis on artistry and individuality.

Note: This interview stands in stark contrast with other interviews published in 1987, notably those of Bilozerchev and Filatova, both of whom admitted that their professors let them skate by in their courses. Meanwhile, Davydova was pursuing higher education.

In 1987, journalists visited Moscow’s Dynamo training center and found a scene that perfectly reflected the energy of its coach: Elvira Saadi. Once a beloved gymnast whose elegance and charisma lit up the competition floor, Saadi had poured that same vitality into coaching. The hall bustled like an anthill, yet under her watchful eye, it ran with order and purpose. She darted from one apparatus to another, her sharp gaze missing no detail, her voice firm one moment and full of laughter the next. It was as though the same spark that captivated audiences in Munich and Montreal now animated her gym, fueling the efforts of a new generation.

The interview that followed revealed both the sternness and the warmth behind her approach. Saadi spoke candidly about the challenges of transitioning from star athlete to mentor, about the disappointments and patience required to truly reach young gymnasts, and about the joy of creating something original together with her pupils. She admitted the complexity of modern gymnastics sometimes frightened even her, but she instilled in her girls courage, ambition, and the drive to think creatively.

Note: The following translation is not an endorsement of Saadi’s coaching. At the time of this writing, Elvira Saadi is permanently banned from working with athletes in Canada. If you’re curious about her move from the Soviet Union to Canada, you can jump to the appendix to read one of the first profiles of Saadi in Canadian newspapers.

In the mid-1970s and early 1980s, Maria Filatova—Masha, as she was affectionately known—stood at the center of Soviet gymnastics. With her lively spirit, quick smile, and natural ease on the competition floor, she became not only a two-time Olympic champion but also one of the sport’s most beloved figures. For many, the “sparrow” of the Soviet team symbolized sincerity and childlike openness, qualities that drew audiences in a Korbutesque way. Yet behind her medals and ovations was a more complex story: a girl molded by demanding coaches, sometimes rebellious, sometimes uncertain, yet ultimately carried forward by a deep love of gymnastics and the camaraderie of her team.

By 1987, Filatova’s life had shifted dramatically. Now Maria Kurbatova, she lived in Minsk as a wife, a mother, and a coach, pouring her warmth and imagination into the youngest generation of gymnasts. Her reflections speak to the hard lessons of her own path: the pressures of early specialization, the sacrifices of education, the challenges of living with her coach, the bittersweet role of being the “opener” on a team, and the struggle to find identity beyond the arena. At the same time, she dreamed of a new kind of coaching—one that balanced discipline with storytelling, study with sport, team spirit with personal growth. In her words and memories, readers will find both a chronicle of the Soviet gymnastics system and a gentle manifesto for a more humane future in sport.

Note: You’ll notice some parallels between Filatova’s philosophy and Kuchinskaya’s. Both advocated for creating well-rounded people — not just athletes.

In 1967, Lyubov Burda stunned Soviet audiences with a dazzling new release move on the uneven bars — the “Burda twirl.” From that moment, her career unfurled with remarkable speed: Olympic team gold in 1968, World Championships medals, a second Olympic title in Munich, and memorable duels with Ludmilla Tourischeva for national supremacy. Yet Burda was never only a prodigy of results and medals; she carried with her the lessons of her coach, Yuri Shtukman, whose patience and humanity shaped her approach both as a gymnast and later as a mentor. By the late 1980s, she was no longer the schoolgirl from Voronezh dazzling crowds, but a coach and mother in Vladimir, navigating the challenges of raising children and guiding the next generation in a sport that had become ever more demanding.

In this personal essay, published in 1987 as part of the Lessons of Life series, Burda-Andrianova reflects on the joys and burdens of coaching girls at a time when Soviet gymnastics was marked by increasing technical difficulty, shrinking age limits, and systemic pressures on both athletes and coaches. Her writing is frank, even raw: she describes the challenging home lives of her gymnasts, overburdened trainers, and a system that rewarded machine-like difficulty over artistry and emotion. Yet through it all runs her abiding love for gymnastics and for her pupils — “my girls,” as she calls them — whose resilience and trust gave her both purpose and hope. What emerges is less a nostalgic look back at a glittering career than a plea for a more humane, more beautiful vision of the sport, one in which gymnastics is not just a test of skill but a formative force in shaping lives.

Few gymnasts captured the imagination of fans quite like Natalia Kuchinskaya, the so-called “Bride of Mexico,” whose charm and artistry made her one of the most beloved figures of the 1968 Olympic Games. Though she stepped away from competition shortly thereafter, the memory of her performances lingered for years, with admirers hoping she might one day return to the floor. Instead, her path took her far beyond medals and routines—almost to the circus ring. But ultimately, she returned to the sport in a new role: coach and mentor to a new generation of gymnasts in Kyiv.

In this 1987 interview, Kuchinskaya reflects on her journey from teenage prodigy to thoughtful coach, offering insights into the challenges of children’s sports, the dangers of overemphasizing technical difficulty at the expense of artistry, and the responsibility coaches have to raise not only athletes but also well-rounded human beings. She speaks with both honesty and warmth about her own missteps, her admiration for Věra Čáslavská, her pride in Ukrainian gymnasts like Oksana Omelianchik, and her belief that gymnastics, at its core, is not just competition but happiness born of dedication and love.

What happens after the medals are won? For Olympic champion Larisa Petrik, the real challenge of sport was not the saltos or the spotlight, but what comes next. “You must constantly think about the future, not live only for today,” she stated in an 1987 interview. “Sooner or later, you have to part with sport, and then you have to start life from scratch. And how will you start it if all you know how to do is ‘whip out’ incredible saltos?”

In this interview from Sovetsky Sport from 1987, Petrik looked back on her career with honesty and warmth—sharing memories of her legendary floor routines, her thoughts on today’s gymnasts, and the lessons that endure long after the competition ends.

In the decades following her retirement from competition, Larisa Latynina remained one of the defining voices in gymnastics. Her perspective was shaped not only by her record-breaking athletic career but also by her years as head coach of the Soviet women’s team. In this interview, she reflects on the changing face of the sport she once dominated—its increasing demands, the fleeting brilliance of its stars, and the challenges of nurturing talent in a system that can just as easily overlook it. 

The conversation that follows offers not only a glimpse into the technical and organizational workings of Soviet gymnastics, but also into the enduring spirit of a champion who enjoyed the thrill of victory but also believed that gymnastics could be for everyone, even those who might not become an Olympic champion like her.

In the late 1980s, Soviet sports journalists published a series of interviews with the athletes who had defined Soviet gymnastics. As we’ll see, again and again, the conversation returned to the same lament: gymnastics, they argued, was losing its artistry. The next generation, though technically dazzling, was seen as less feminine, less expressive, and less capable of embodying the emotional depth that the stars of the 1960s and 1970s considered essential to the discipline. To modern eyes, the 1980s may seem like the pinnacle of artistry, but to those who had come before, it already represented a decline.

Against that backdrop, Olga Korbut — the gymnast who had electrified Munich in 1972 and inspired fan clubs — looked back on her career and forward to the future of gymnastics. By the time of this interview, she had stepped away from competition and begun coaching the Belarusian national team. Still, she remained outspoken about what she believed the sport needed: more beauty, more femininity, more emotionality. What follows is a conversation that captures both Korbut’s candor and her conviction that gymnastics must always be more than acrobatics — it must be poetry in motion.