Sovetsky Sport. August 22, 1990. For nearly four decades, the name of this remarkable gymnast was constantly on the lips of fans of this beautiful sport and frequently appeared in the sports press. He competed for twenty years, never once dropping out of the top ten in the all-around standings. He was crowned the national all-around champion three times. His rivals included such stars of Soviet gymnastics as Gulo Rtskhiladze and Alexander Dzhordzhadze, Mikhail Dmitriev and Adzhat Ibadulaev, Vladimir Belyakov and Viktor Chukarin, and Grant Shaginyan and Valentin Muratov.
Yet, even had Nikolai Pavlovich not won a single competition or secured a single medal in individual events, he would still have left a significant mark on gymnastics - so extraordinary and artistic was his performance style, and so noticeable was his contribution to the sport's progress.
During one of our meetings, I wrote down a monologue by Nikolai Seryi.
Evgeny Avsenev, Master of Sports
I was born in a year that was significant for Russia - 1913. That was the year the Romanov dynasty celebrated its tercentenary. We lived in Kerch, on Sadovy Lane, where my father worked as a shoemaker. It was hardly a ministerial position, of course, yet he managed to support the family - and I was the seventh child. I grew up to be a lively, quick-witted boy. Somehow, it just came naturally for me to take the lead in our childhood games.
As I grew older, I joined the Vodnik club, where I took part in running, diving, swimming, weightlifting, and acrobatics. I even competed in the Crimean championships in the 100-meter dash and diving. However, I was drawn more strongly to the neighboring street than to sports; there, in a shed, we set up a space that was a cross between a circus and a theater. We staged amateur productions - such as Tarzan, Mowgli, and The Red Devils - always incorporating stunts inspired by foreign action movies and comedies.
Later, under a Komsomol assigment, I began working as a lathe operator's apprentice at the Voikov Plant. I dreamed of attending university but didn't know which one to choose: I was drawn to both the Institute of Physical Culture and the Theater Institute. The decision was made in the summer of 1931, when Nikolai Nelga - a student from the Moscow Institute of Physical Culture and, above all, a skilled promoter - arrived in Kerch for his practical training. In a short time, he became an idol to the youth of Kerch. It was already too late to send my application papers to Moscow, but I could still make the deadline for Leningrad. And so, in the autumn of 1931, I found myself in Leningrad at the Lesgaft Institute. There, I began to pursue gymnastics with greater focus and determination.
In August 1982, the cream of the gymnastics world gathered in Leningrad for the USSR championships. As it happened, a member of the city team fell ill, and I was asked to step in. I finished dead last. But that really stung my pride. I had been used to coming in first since childhood, and then this... I began training furiously.
In 1935, the department hired me - by then a graduate - as an instructor and entrusted me with creating the program for the mass performances at the physical culture parade. I threw myself into it with enthusiasm!
The 1937 Workers' Olympiad in Antwerp was a success for the Soviet athletes. We won the team competition, and I managed to win the all-around event.
Nowadays, trips abroad have become commonplace, but back then it was a different story. We were meticulously prepared for the journey. They decked us out in the latest foreign fashions - elegant suits and hats - though we hardly knew how to wear them. Naturally, there were also strict rules regarding our conduct abroad.
From Belgium, the delegation traveled to France. One day, Gulo Rtskhiladze and I decided to take a walk around Paris. We got lost. There was only one solution: take a taxi back to the hotel. We walked up to the taxi stand and discussed how we would communicate with the driver. Gulo knew a little German and started trying to phrase something. Suddenly, the taxi driver said, "Guys, don't struggle. I'm Russian. Hop in, I'll take you there."
And on the way, he told us he was a White Army officer who had fled Crimea for Paris - and here, practically every other taxi driver is a Russian emigre.
We listened to him, huddled in the corner. After all, the orders had been strict: "No making contact!" - and here was a White [Army] man! I was reminded of the recent arrests of gymnastics department instructors Chernogorov, Mayer, and Chernov. I also knew about the arrests of the men from Moscow - Lunevsky, Kalantyarov, and Okunev - whom I had met earlier. I felt a bit uneasy. But it turned out all right - nothing came of it.
I returned from the trip a regular hero. People began recognizing me on the street, and my photographs appeared in newspapers and in the magazine Gymnastics - a publication that existed before the war. I got a taste of the heady intoxication of fame. It turned out that I had a great many friends I hadn't even known existed. Invitations to join various social circles came pouring in - invariably involving drinking, of course. It was flattering to play the daredevil; after all, I was Seryi - I had to be number one at everything!
One day, my gymnastics instructor, Lev Pavlovich Orlov, gave me a book. The cover read: Vicente Blasco Ibanez, "Blood and Sand." I read it in a single sitting - the fate of the matador Juan Gallardo struck me as strangely similar to my own. I realized that fame, it turns out, can have a bitter aftertaste. In short, I gave up fooling around with wine and became a serious athlete.
I prepared the student column for the 1937 sports parade alongside Orlov, with V. E. Meyerhold invited to serve as a consultant. Before that, I had considered myself a fairly experienced director, but then I realized - good Lord - what a blind puppy I actually was. Working with him opened my eyes: I needed to learn. Two years later, I enrolled in the directing department of the Leningrad Theater Institute.
Of course, I didn't stop training, either. At the time, a debate was underway in the pages of the Gymnastics journal regarding when gymnasts should take their rest. I wrote a piece arguing that June and July were the right months. The 1941 championship was scheduled for June, and - to prove my point - I skipped it and headed south. But then came the 22nd [the day Germany invaded the Soviet Union]. By early July, I was already in Leningrad, at the military enlistment office. I was assigned as a company commander in the reconnaissance battalion of a People's Militia division from the Petrogradsky District.
We retreated all the way to Leningrad amidst fierce fighting, followed by the blockade. We went through a great deal; it seemed the relentless battles would never end. However, my battalion commander, Captain Rubo, felt that a 'physical education specialist' like me had no business at the front; he secured my transfer to a front-line convalescent battalion to serve as the physical training officer. From there, I was reassigned as an instructor for physical training courses designed to upgrade the skills of commanding officers. In early 1943, these army-wide courses were evacuated to Moscow. At that time, national championships resumed, and I became the overall champion for the first time. In 1944, I was recalled from the Red Army - as the goverment had begun returning many specialists to civilian work - and took a position in the sports department of the All-Union Council of Trade Unions.
And then came the long-awaited word, dear to every heart: "Victory". Soon, I was tasked with preparing a trade union column for a sports parade. It was then that the idea first occurred to me to create a unique visual effect by varying the colors of the performers' costumes. When the exercise was performed facing forward, the column appeared as a single color; but with turns and bends, the colors would shift. The grand finale featured a rapid forward bend, causing the word "Victory" to flare up like a bright flame. The authorities were initially reluctant to approve this innovation. What if some troublemakers failed to execute the maneuver correctly, distorting the word "Victory"? After all, Stalin himself would be watching! Yet, I had faith in the participants and took full responsibility.
And for many years, I directed the parades on Red Square and taught at the Institute of Physical Culture, and later at Moscow State University.
At the end of December 1952, the national championship in individual events took place - my last championship. I really wanted to prove that they didn't put me on the Olympic team in vain. After the compulsory I was third, but the optional one let me down. Apparently, age really did take its toll. True, I still beat some of the Olympians.
It grates on me when the press describes an athlete's work as backbreaking toil. Oh, how I miss that 'backbreaking toil' today!
Lately, one often hears complaints that an athlete ending their career has to start life over from scratch. But who is to blame for that, if not the athlete themselves? After all, one should use one's youth to achieve great goals, not just to acquire an apartment and a car. You shouldn't work merely within set hours, but for as long as it takes! Youth is capable of anything. I am 77 years old, and that is what I think.