Not every Soviet gymnast whose age was falsified went on to become a World or Olympic medalist. Valentina Shkoda was one of them.
In Shkoda’s case, the evidence of age falsification was not hidden in sealed files or whispered recollections. It appeared plainly in the public record.
Olga Mostepanova’s name may not have been as familiar to American gymnastics fans as that of some of her Soviet contemporaries, such as Natalia Yurchenko, but her story ranks among the most poignant of the Cold War era. A world champion on balance beam in 1983 at just fourteen years old, Mostepanova appeared destined for Olympic glory—until the Soviet boycott of the 1984 Los Angeles Games intervened. An even more devastating blow followed at the 1985 World Championships in Montreal, where her elite career effectively ended at its peak: despite qualifying, she was withdrawn from the all-around final.
By 2008, she had returned to the sport that once broke her heart, working as a preschool coach at Dynamo Moscow, the gym where she once trained under the legendary “Aksyonov Brigade.”
In this interview, Mostepanova made a striking admission—one she insisted she had never made before: that Dynamo Moscow had added a year to her age to make her eligible for senior competition. Her categorical statement—”I can respond to anyone who says that my age was changed. It was. But I never discussed that in any interview, official or unofficial”—called into question the authenticity of previous reports, including a 1998 interview in Sovetsky Sport, where such admissions appeared. Mostepanova also reflected on the political forces that shaped Soviet gymnastics, her coaching philosophy, and her hopes for the future of Russian gymnastics.
Enjoy this interview with the only elite gymnast to score a perfect 40 in the all-around.
“They call her the Goddess of Gymnastics.”
If you grew up in the United States watching gymnastics in the 1980s and 90s, lines like these are seared into your brain. NBC routinely bestowed nicknames on gymnasts. The Belarusian Swan. The Painted Bird of Odessa. The Goddess of Gymnastics. But have you ever wondered if those monikers actually existed in the athletes’ home countries or if they were fabrications of NBC commentators or the playful inventions by Soviet officials amusing themselves at American credulity?
One of these nicknames, at least, was genuine. Svetlana Boginskaya really was called “The Goddess” by her teammates and coaches in the Soviet press—sometimes “Sveta the Goddess,” sometimes “The Goddess of Gymnastics.” The nickname was a play on her surname: Богиня (Boginya) means “goddess” in Russian, while her last name is Богинская (Boginskaya). What seemed to Western audiences like pure tribute was also clever wordplay that any Russian speaker would have caught immediately.
But as these contemporaneous Soviet articles reveal, the nickname had complicated connotations. It was one part admiration for her elegance and dominance, and one part wariness about a gymnast who refused to smile on command, who demanded favorable treatment, who “loved to take charge,” and who had a “complex character.” She was incomparable—and she knew it. That combination made her both indispensable and unsettling.
What follows are three articles that give context to one of her nicknames: the “Goddess of Gymnastics.”
In the summer of 1983, Soviet sports journalist Vladimir Golubev watched Irina Baraksanova compete at the Spartakiad and reached for the kind of language writers reserve for truly special talents. She was, he wrote, “a pure diamond” — a girl of “exceptional talent and natural gifts” whose sixth-place finish at the national championships was quite “an achievement” for a seventh-grader. After the Friendship-84 tournament the following autumn, another article celebrated her as embodying “the freshness of young shoots,” declaring that she and her fellow newcomers had brought gymnastics “new shades and freshness.”
The Soviet sports press had found a narrative they loved: the late bloomer from Tashkent who had started gymnastics only in second grade, yet possessed such refined technique that “there seems to be no element in modern gymnastics beyond her reach.” Her “exceptional spring and flight” produced vaults that were “both the highest and the longest.” Her floor routines were “daring and free,” her movements “harmonious and lyrical.” Month after month, Sovetsky Sport charted her ascent — gold in the all-around at the 1984 European Junior Championships, bronze in the all-around at the 1984 USSR Championships in Donetsk, gold on floor exercise at the 1984 USSR Championships in Individual Events in Moscow.
Eventually, Montréal happened.
At the 1985 World Championships, Baraksanova finished fourth in the team final, ahead of both Oksana Omelianchik and Elena Shushunova. Yet when the individual all-around final arrived, it was Omelianchik and Shushunova who competed, while Baraksanova and Mostepanova watched from the sidelines. The official explanation was injuries, but neither Irina nor Olga was injured.
The moment crystallized something about Baraksanova’s career: extraordinary talent never quite converted into championship results, promise never fully realized, potential always just out of reach. Twenty-five years later, the gymnast once hailed as a “pure diamond” reflected on what she achieved, what she lost, and the peace she had made with her gymnastics destiny.
Among the brightest stars of Romanian gymnastics in the early 1980s, Lavinia Agache carved out a remarkable career despite controversies and heartbreak. Born February 11, 1968, in Onești—the same hospital that welcomed Nadia Comăneci into the world—Agache emerged as one of the era’s most decorated gymnasts, accumulating ten medals at major international competitions. Yet her path to prominence was shadowed from the start: Romanian officials altered her age, listing her birth year as 1966 instead of 1968. This deception allowed the thirteen-year-old Agache to compete illegally at the 1981 World Championships in Moscow, where she placed seventh all-around—two years before she would have been eligible under FIG’s minimum age of fifteen.
By 1983, Agache had established herself as a force in the sport, winning four medals at the European Championships in Gothenburg (including gold on balance beam and silver in the all-around) and three more at the World Championships in Budapest. She entered the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics as a legitimate contender for all-around gold, having finished third at the 1982 World Cup and consistently challenging teammate Ecaterina Szabó throughout their years training together at the Romanian national center in Deva.
First after compulsories, Agache’s Olympic dream disintegrated when a team doctor gave her a pill to combat jetlag. The next day, disoriented and lethargic, she fell four times during the optional round. The medication was legal, but its effects were devastating: Agache failed to qualify for the all-around final, watching from the sidelines as Szabó battled Mary Lou Retton for gold. What happened to Agache in Los Angeles—and the painful parallel she would later draw to Andreea Răducan’s 2000 Olympic ordeal, when a team doctor’s prescription cost the Romanian gymnast her all-around gold medal—forms a cautionary tale about the precarious intersection of medicine and athletic performance in elite gymnastics.
Here’s International Gymnast‘s piece on Agache from 2001, published before the age falsification scandal erupted in Romania in 2002.
In November 2003, Ziarul de Sibiu (The Sibiu Newspaper) published this profile of Mihaela Stănuleț, who won team silver at the 1983 World Championships and won Olympic gold with Romania’s team in Los Angeles in 1984. The article captures the harsh realities facing retired gymnasts in post-communist Romania. Even Olympic champions struggled to find work, were asked to return their competition tracksuits, and trained new generations in unheated gyms with decades-old equipment.
Like many of her contemporaries, Stănuleț had competed underage: born in 1967, she was only 14 when she placed fourth with Romania’s team at the 1981 World Championships in Moscow, a year before she would have been eligible under the age-15 minimum. By the time she reached the Olympics three years later, the system that had rushed her into elite competition as a child offered little in return for her gold medal—just 16,000 lei instead of the promised 100,000 and no car despite assurances. (Ecaterina Szabó made similar remarks about unfulfilled promises.) The article reveals how completely Romania’s gymnasts were discarded once their competitive value expired.
Oh, and there’s a story about Béla Károlyi’s dogs.
This lengthy profile of Ecaterina Szabó, published in Képes Sport (Sport in Pictures) in May 1990, offers a detailed firsthand account of life in Romanian gymnastics during the late 1970s and 1980s. The article, based on interviews conducted by Levente Deák for Romániai Magyar Szó (The Hungarian Voice of Romania), traces Szabo’s journey from a small village in Transylvania to Olympic glory at the 1984 Los Angeles Games, where she won four gold medals.
Notably, the article confirms Szabo’s actual birth date as January 22, 1968—making her 16 years old at the time of her Olympic triumph, not the older age sometimes claimed in contemporary sources. The narrative provides extensive detail about the grueling training regime at the Karolyi gymnastics school: wake-up calls at 6 AM, training sessions lasting until 10 PM as punishment, mandatory afternoon naps, and a schedule that prioritized gymnastics over traditional schooling.
As you’ll see, compared to today’s top gymnasts, Szabó competed non-stop, traveling to a total of 70 countries. It’s no wonder that, by the time the World Championships in 1985 rolled around, she “was simply exhausted.”
As was often the case at that time, gymnasts’ biographies were woven together with Béla Károlyi’s story. Throughout the piece, the writer includes several parenthetical statements that paint Béla Károlyi in a remarkably positive light, characterizing him as a dedicated coach who made tactical decisions in the best interests of his gymnasts.
However, this generous portrayal omits crucial context that we know today: before the Károlyis were transferred to General School No. 7 in Deva, the Romanian government’s patience with the Károlyis was wearing dangerously thin. In March 1977, Teodora Ungureanu fled during training in Cluj, boarding a train to Onești. The Securitate intercepted her at the Târgu Mureș train station and escorted her to Bucharest. According to the Securitate report: “The gymnast gave as the reason for leaving the fact that she could no longer stand working with coach Béla Károlyi,” who “persecutes her baselessly.”
The situation continued to deteriorate during a tour of Spain in 1977. Securitate officer Ioan Popescu reported that Béla Károlyi “showed inappropriate conduct towards Nadia Comaneci and Teodora Ungureanu, consisting of swearwords, insults, even beating them, because their weight was unsuitable for the competition.” Ilie Istrate, a National Council for Physical Education and Sport (NCPES) instructor and Securitate informant, reported that “the girls were found weeping in their rooms because of hunger.” (See Olaru’s Nadia Comăneci and the Secret Police for more.)
Read against this historical background, Szabó’s account becomes all the more poignant—a testament to both her remarkable athletic achievements and the complex, often contradictory relationships that defined elite Romanian gymnastics in this era.
In many ways, this set of articles becomes Szabó’s way of reclaiming her story—from her erased Hungarian heritage to her falsified age, from the name she was given to the one she was born with (Katalin), and from the rewards she earned to those she never received.
Olga Karaseva won Olympic gold in 1968, became world champion in 1970, and won medals on every event at the 1969 European Championships—taking silver in the all-around and gold on floor. Her career blazed briefly but brilliantly, embodying the elegance that made Soviet gymnastics compulsory viewing in those years. But by twenty-three, she was finished competing and felt, as she puts it, that “no one needed me anymore.”
In this 1990 conversation with sports writer Gennady Semar, Karaseva examines what the Soviet system did to athletes: how it created champions and then abandoned them, how it corroded the moral foundations that once made sport meaningful. She speaks with unusual candor about the collapse of purpose after competition ends, the loss of expertise as former athletes drift into bureaucratic roles, and the absence of any social safety net once the applause stops. Yet she’s not bitter. She counts herself fortunate—her coaches were “people of high human qualities,” and she escaped both the coercive “stick” of brutal training and what she calls the “chemicalization” of sport, a process she describes as “the destruction of the soul” that ruins both health and integrity.
For Karaseva, the crisis isn’t only institutional or pharmacological—it’s spiritual. Athletes, she insists, must be understood not as expendable performers but as whole people whose cultural development, imagination, and artistry are inseparable from their physical achievements. To save sport, she argues, means recognizing athletes as creators, not gladiators.
Note: Olga Karaseva passed away at the end of October at the age of 77.
In this 1990 interview, Yuri Titov — the long-serving president of the International Gymnastics Federation (FIG) — speaks not of glamour or privilege but of long hours in meeting rooms, piles of documents, and the constant struggle to keep the sport fair. Early injustices in his own career, he recalls, convinced him that “athletes must be led by athletes.” As FIG president, he turned that conviction into policy: revising the federation’s statutes to curb presidential power, creating twelve commissions to share decision-making, and championing more objective judging through mathematical analysis and a standardized six-judge system. He even proposed sanctioning entire federations for corruption on the competition floor. Balancing the competing demands of his country, the FIG, and its member organizations was never easy — especially in a political culture where, as Titov recalls with wry humor, a senior Soviet sports official once warned him that if he didn’t “work for the benefit of the Soviet Union,” he might “fall ill for a long time.” Yet Titov managed to navigate those pressures and the politics of world gymnastics for two decades.
Larisa Latynina has never been content to rest on her legend. The nine-time Olympic champion—whose name still defines an era of Soviet gymnastics—has lived many lives: prodigy, national icon, iron-willed head coach, and, later, the quiet architect behind Moscow’s next generation of stars. When Nadia Comăneci enchanted the world in 1976, it was Latynina who paid the price at home—forced to step down as head coach despite the fact that the Soviet women’s team had never lost a single Olympic or World Championship title under her leadership. In this interview from 1990, she reflects on the complexities of leadership, the stubbornness of talent, and the moral weight of guiding the sport she once ruled. Latynina speaks candidly about the fierce personalities she nurtured—Korbut, Tourischeva, Kim—and about one of her later instincts that proved prophetic: championing a young Svetlana Boginskaya when few others saw what she did. Her story is one of brilliance tempered by conviction—and of a woman who, even after the spotlight dimmed, never stopped shaping the stage.
