From Russia With Love; Born in Moscow to World-Class Gymnast Parents, Olympian Liukin Relishes Representing the U.S. - The Washington Post

When Nastia Liukin arrives for competition at the National IndoorStadium in Beijing, she will remove her warmup suit, emblazonedemphatically with the letters 'USA,' and compete in a red, white andblue leotard. 'This is a very typical American kid,' said hermother, Anna.

Now 18, Liukin scoots around the Dallas suburbs in a charcoalBMW, shopping at the mall and texting her friends. Superficially,the most atypical aspect of Liukin's life is her status in the arenaof gymnastics, in which she is a world champion, perhaps the world'smost graceful performer on the uneven bars, and next month acontender for multiple Olympic medals, including the all-aroundgold.

But as Liukin leaps to grab the bars in Beijing, bedecked inthose patriotic hues that will have NBC's cameras dutifullyfollowing her every move as a marquee American athlete, she will doso with a sense of history and pride that differs vastly from thatof teammate Shawn Johnson, the Iowan daughter of Iowan parents whois the all-around favorite. Anastasia Valeryevna Liukin was born inMoscow in the fall of 1989, just as the Soviet Union faced collapse.Her mother wasn't just another pretty Russian face, but a worldchampion rhythmic gymnast, a product of the Soviet athletic empire.Her father, Valeri, wasn't simply the man who had married AnnaKotchneva, but a true athletic hero, a Kazakh who is the owner offour medals -- two gold, two silver -- from the artisticgymnastics competition at the 1988 Seoul Olympics.

Typical American kid? Nastia Liukin speaks fluent Russian andrelishes her trips to visit her grandparents and great-grandparentsin Moscow, where she said the shopping, if a bit expensive, isunparalleled. She learned to write in English before her parents,occasionally teaching them their ABC's through her homework. Andmore than any of the six young women on the American team, she has abackground in her sport -- albeit one from another country inanother era -- upon which she can draw.

'I would never trade being Russian, deep down, for anything,'Liukin said. 'But I do feel, I guess, American, because I competefor the U.S., and I would never trade that. It's kind of like, I'mhappy and I'm proud of who I am. I'm proud of being Russian, but I'mproud to compete for the U.S.'

Here, then, is that typical American kid. She speaks without atrace of the accent that thickly marks her parents' speech. In away, too, their experience must seem foreign. Yes, she says she getssome of her lines from her mother, spindly arms and interminablelegs that defy her 5-foot-3 frame and provide the beauty in her barsroutine, the most difficult in the world. And sure, she is aware ofher father's accomplishments at the Seoul Games, where he helped theSoviet team to the gold and won an individual gold on the high bar.

But when the Liukins moved to the United States in early 1992,Nastia -- her lifelong nickname, even as kids in elementary schooloccasionally called her 'Nasty' -- was just 21/2. Anna and Valeri,who finally was considering retirement, wanted to center their liveson gymnastics, even as their competitive careers were ending.Traveling worldwide, they had heard about gymnastics schools, clubsrun by people who made money by teaching what they loved. So theypacked up and headed to, of all places, New Orleans -- newcountry, new jobs, new life, to say nothing of new adjustments.

Anna remembers one of her friends, a coach at the gym at whichthey worked, greeting her one day with, 'What's up?' It sent Annascurrying home to her Russian-English dictionary, which only led togreater befuddlement. 'I mean, it's slang,' she said. Within theirfirst two weeks in the United States with their young daughter, afriend brought the Liukins to the French Quarter. There, they tookin Mardi Gras.

'I look at Valeri going, 'We going to raise kid here? I don'tknow how to do it,' ' said Anna, just 22 at the time. 'I was youngenough to start with. That was an eye-opener. I thought the wholecountry was like this.'

The Liukins found out the whole country wasn't like that, andthey settled into a routine. After 18 months in New Orleans, theymoved to the Dallas area. Valeri saved some money, then founded theWorld Olympic Gymnastics Academy (WOGA) in Plano, Tex. The Liukins'intentions were to train other children, to possibly buildOlympians. They toted Nastia to the gym as an afterthought becausethey could not afford child care.

'We know what gymnastics is about, what it takes,' Valeri said.'We know all the travel, all the time in the gym. We were very busywhen we were gymnasts, and we just jumped into gymnastics again. Wekept moving ahead, no time to think. But we didn't think that's whatwe wanted for our daughter.'

Though Nastia mimicked the routines her parents were teachingolder children, Anna and Valeri said they not only hesitated to pushNastia into gymnastics, they pushed her away. First came pianolessons.

'I didn't like it,' Nastia said.

Said Anna, 'It stopped fairly fast.'

Nastia kept tumbling. Her father, with all his experience,couldn't help but notice that she both liked it and, even at 5 or 6,had potential.

'She was flexible,' he said. 'She was able to do routines withoutcoaching that the girls I was coaching couldn't do.'

So the Liukins gave in.

'When we saw that she really liked it, it was a sacrifice on ourpart,' Anna said. 'But you can't take away something that you cangive to her. It wouldn't be fair on our part. I think it would beway too selfish.'

Thus, under her parents' tutelage, Nastia began training. WOGA,too, established itself. Valeri Liukin's partner, former Russiangymnast and Latvian national coach Yevgeny Marchenko, helped foundthe gym and recruit from the 32 schools in Plano. Four years ago, aMarchenko pupil, Carly Patterson, took all-around gold at the AthensOlympics. Now, as she tries to forge a career as a singer, Pattersoncan share thoughts with Liukin. Earlier this summer, she gave Liukina bracelet on which were imprinted four words: think, believe,dream, dare.

'It's nice to have somebody there who's been through it all,'Liukin said.

Her parents, of course, have been through it all, too. Yet theyare not yet used to it. As Nastia's coach, Valeri came up with theunmatched uneven-bars routine. Of the 10 skills that count towardthe starting value -- half the mark in gymnastics' new two-tieredscoring system, which rewards execution and degree of difficulty --Liukin counts only 'D' and 'E' level skills, the two most difficultcategories. Both coach and athlete say Valeri pushes his daughter inthe gym just as he would any of his pupils.

But there is, too, the parental part. During competitions, Annaoften becomes so nervous she departs the gym when Nastia performs.At June's national championships, she wandered around Boston, 'justa little sightseeing,' though she says if Nastia expresses a desirethat she stay and watch, she does. At least she has the option.

'She can leave,' Valeri said, 'and I can't. . . . I am nervous,of course. How could you not [be]?'

Should Liukin perform her bar routine flawlessly, there will beno need for jitters. At the national championships, she twice scored17s, unprecedented for an American. Though her performances attrials were far less fluid -- marked by significant errors thesecond night -- she will be expected to medal in Beijing. Inaddition to the bars and the all-around, she also is a contender fora medal on balance beam; vault is her weakest event.

'Nastia is a special gymnast, excellent technically,' U.S.national team coordinator Martha Karolyi said at trials. 'We havegreat hopes for her. She can do great things.'

At trials, when she finished behind Johnson in the all-aroundcompetition, Liukin heard the screams from the crowd as she warmedup. 'Nastia! Nastia!' came the shrieks from tweens, and she wouldoccasionally look up, smile and wave, acknowledging her fans.

Forget that they might not know her full name or from where shecame. The daughter of Soviet legends will compete for them, for theUnited States. She wouldn't dream of it another way.

'I'm proud of my name,' she said. 'I'm proud of who I am. I wouldnever change or wish for anything different than who I am.'