Category: Interviews & Profiles

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 the mid-1980s, Olga Mostepanova was the Soviet team’s golden child—the gymnast who achieved the impossible: a perfect 40.000 at the 1984 Friendship Games, the alternate Olympics for the boycotting socialist nations. Then, just as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone. After Yelena Shushunova replaced her in the all-around at the 1985 world championships, her dazzling career was extinguished almost overnight. (I discuss this more in the introduction to her 1989 interview.)

When Sovetsky Sport caught up with her in 1998, she was no longer the teenage prodigy who floated through beam routines but a mother of four, balancing domestic life with memories of an extraordinary, abbreviated rise. In this interview, Mostepanova reflects on the pressures of early fame, the injuries that ended her career, and the secret that allowed her to start it so young: a falsified birth certificate. Like other gymnasts of her generation, her age was quietly “adjusted” so she could compete at the senior level before the rules allowed.

What emerges here is not only a portrait of one of gymnastics’ most luminous talents, but also a human story—about ambition, obedience, and the cost of being perfect in a system built on illusions.

At the 1984 Friendship Games, Olga Mostepanova was untouchable. Her perfect 40.00 in the all-around was a triumph of grace, control, and artistry. But just one year later, on the world’s biggest stage, her story took a different turn. At the 1985 World Championships, she faltered on beam during the team optionals.

On balance beam, Olya Mostepanova wobbled badly, as if a powerful gust of wind had burst through the glass doors of the velodrome. What an effort it took for Olya to stay on, not to jump down onto the blue springy mats! By the way, this is precisely an expression of willpower—of courage, if you like. Her deductions were smaller (9.625), yet given the current closeness of the results, Mostepanova slipped two steps back on the tournament ladder, landing in third…

And so now, on our team, there had to be a gymnast who could draw close to the Romanian Ecaterina Szabo, who was breaking away. The burden of leadership was taken on by Yurchenko, the team captain.

Mostepanova was bandaging her leg, waiting for the score to appear on the board. She saw it, pursed her thin lips in frustration. Yurchenko, too, was upset for her teammate and quietly said: “Hold on, Olya.” And the 9.9 that Natasha received on the beam was like a challenge—it was excellent. Away with doubts, away with sadness—the team victory awaited us!

Sovetsky Sport, no. 259, 1985
На бревне сильно зашатало Олю Мостепанову, как будто мощная струя ветра прорвалась сквозь стеклянные двери велодрома. Каких усилий стоило Оле устоять, не спрыгнуть на голубые пружинящие маты! Между прочим, это и есть проявление воли, если хотите — мужества. Сбавки были у неё поменьше (9,625), однако при нынешней плотности результатов Мостепанова сделала два шага назад по турнирной лестенке — она стала третьей…
И вот теперь в нашей команде должна была найтись гимнастка, которая смогла бы вплотную приблизиться к уходящей в отрыв румынке Екатерине Сабо. Бремя лидерства взяла на себя Юрченко, капитан сборной.
Мостепанова бинтовала ногу, ждала оценки на табло. Увидела, поджала от обиды тонкие губы. Юрченко тоже огорчилась за подругу, тихо сказала: «Держись, Оля». И 9,9, полученные Наташей на бревне, были как вызов, это было здорово. Прочь сомнения, прочь грусть — нас ждёт командная победа!

Though she qualified for the all-around finals, Mostepanova never appeared there, sidelined with an ankle injury. At least, that was the official story at the time.

Experts in our sport will probably be surprised to learn that, in the final, it was not Olya Mostepanova and Irina Baraskanova, who had placed third and fourth respectively, but Oksana Omelianchik and Yelena Shushunova, who had been in sixth and seventh. Because of injuries, the coaches replaced them.

Sovetsky Sport, no. 260, 1985
Знатоки нашего вида, наверное, удивятся, узнав, что в финале от нашей страны выступали не Оля Мостепанова и не Ирина Барасканова, которые занимали соответственно третье и четвертое места, а Оксана Омельянчик и Елена Шушунова, которые были на шестой и седьмой позициях. Из-за травм тренеры их заменили.

But in retrospect, the story was less straightforward. By 1989, Mostepanova didn’t parrot the official story by citing injuries. Instead, she suggested that the Soviets had made a strategic substitution, hoping to topple Romania’s Ecaterina Szabo in the all-around. And that substitution wounded her.

What follows is an interview with Mostepanova from 1989. No longer the golden idol who once received bags of fan mail, she was instead quietly shaping the next generation of gymnasts at Dynamo. This conversation traces her evolution—from the fragile, ethereal star of Olomouc to the patient mentor of Moscow—revealing the resilience that carried her through injury, politics, and heartbreak, and the warmth that still makes her unforgettable, whether on the competition floor or in the gym.

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.