I've read more than once that David Rigert lifts record-breaking weights with enviable ease, with a smile on his face.
It's nice to hear that.
Who really wants to watch someone strain themselves? It's a completely different story when they lift enormous weights as if frolicking and playful!
And the photographs confirm it. Aren't there enough pictures in newspapers and magazines of Rigert holding a barbell over his head, grinning from ear to ear as if he were lifting not a heavy object but, say, a couple of bouquets of fragrant flowers?
One day I was relaxing in a hotel room and I heard the maid say to someone: "Keep banging away with that bucket and mop! There's a strongman, a champion, living in that room over there. He broke a record yesterday, I watched it on TV. He lifted a barbell, and then tossed it! Can you imagine how much strength that takes? He tossed the barbell, honestly!"
And indeed, I did pull off such a little trick. I manage, say, a record-breaking snatch. I catch my balance in the squat, spring up, hold it, and stand up, with the weight above my head, of course. That's it, the job is done, white lights flash, the weight is counted. I can lower the weight . . .
Many try to get rid of it as quickly as possible, as if it were an annoying and unsafe burden. But you have to respect the barbell. So I perform a little trick that Plyukfelder taught me back in the day: I squat slightly and, springing my legs, catch the weight on my chest. It feels as if I've actually thrown it! And then I carefully lower it back onto the platform. The spectators always love it, and you shouldn't forget the spectators.
Of course, when the barbell is overhead, the weight is locked in place, why not smile? Especially since at that moment the athlete isn't exerting much effort; it's all over. But I have photos, I rarely show them, and I don't show them to everyone, of my face close up. Looking at them, I feel uneasy too . . . it's distorted by a grimace of inhuman tension. This is the moment when the barbell "lifts." In a moment, the enormous weight will land in my hands, and I'll start to rise. This movement lasts for hundredths of a second, but in those moments, believe me, there's no time for smiles. In a few seconds I'll be "tossing" the barbell, radiating joy and energy, and the spectators will remember it. And the grimace, well, it will flicker and disappear.
An athlete's signature style is made up of many details. Some say that weightlifting competitions aren't particularly interesting to watch. Is that really true?
I was ready to hang around the hall, especially near the warmup platforms, from the beginning to the end of the championship, every day. Incidentally, my coaches had long since given up on me. They once tried to convince me that I shouldn't waste my nervous energy, since I had to compete myself and for the national team at that. But instead of lounging in the hotel and building up my strength, I waste it so unwisely.
But I've never thought so, never thought that. Firstly, it's still unclear what's worse: sitting in your hotel room and endlessly thinking about your upcoming performance . . . or being in public, distracted from obsessive thoughts and worries.
And secondly, where else but at major competitions can an athlete gain insight and learn from others? I've competed in eight world championships. Not everyone can boast of such longevity in sports. So what would you have seen if you arrived at the hall just in time for your start? The best athletes in the world parade before you. They represent the leading coaching schools of various countries . . .
Watch, learn, adopt the best, and discard the outdated.
Of course, it also depends on personality: if a weightlifter gets worked up, it's best not to let him into the hall to watch someone else's performance. But I taught myself to watch the most important competitions with a cool head and, over time, even began assisting the national team coaches as an assistant. For example, I've often "led" my good friend featherweight Nikolai Kolesnikov onto the platform. They trusted me to assist flyweights and keep relaxed. But I wasn't eager to assist in the middleweight class anymore; after all, that was once my weight class. I would start to get nervous and anxious. As they say, there's a limit to everything.
Frankly, I love "grounded" athletes. Our own Yuri Vardanyan, for example, is one such athlete. He often leads his fellow countrymen onto the international stage. He knows them inside-out and has constantly monitored the development of these extraordinary athletes, world champions. Vardanyan, too, apparently, isn't afraid to let his emotions run wild on the eve of an important competition. He knows how to manage them and doesn't get too excited. Two-time Olympic champion Noreir Nurikyan excelled in this regard for the Bulgarian national team. And it's no coincidence that he's now an assistant to the renowned Ivan Abadzhiev, head coach of the Bulgarian's national team.
I'm saying that weightlifting competitions aren't boring. You just have to know how to watch them. After all, every athlete has his own style, isn't it interesting to compare them?
Take, for example, Gennady Bessonov, getting ready to take the platform. I've never been able to capture those moments when he's getting ready to enter the gym; lo and behold, Genna is already there. Only the coach, Victor Dorokhin, stands tensely frozen backstage. Such is their unobtrusive demeanor; coach and athlete in the warmup room. Bessonov doesn't like anyone touching him before the start, be it a coach or a massage therapist. Sergei Poltoratsky had the same habit. He even had a theory: if they touch you, they've taken away your strength!
Meanwhile, Valery Shariy is getting ready to take the stage. Or, more accurately, he's being prepared. Two people are rubbing Valery's legs, two are massaging his arms, and the trainer, a huge, dark-browed man named Pavel Zubrinin, is tearing at his trapezius muscles with his large hands and rubbing his ears with the energy of a Native making fire. All the while, he manages to whisper passionate words . . . One day, somewhere abroad, Igor Kudyukov, then the head coach of the national team, took on the job of masseur for Shariy. Any athlete becomes demanding during competition. So, Valery kept hoarsely commanding, "Harder! More!" Igor Savvich was sweating, finally getting him into the swing of things - a master of sport, after all - and now Valery was croaking in fear, "Easy! Easy!"
You see, this particular approach to training suits Shariy; otherwise, he wouldn't pull the weight. But I wouldn't recommend it to anyone else blindly. Yes, strength can increase with this sort of frantic "pumping" - but you lose coordination and self-awareness - things that are, in my opinion, more important.
One time, the film actor Mikhail Zharov came to visit us at the Podolsk sports center. He performed for a very short time, maybe five minutes, but in those five minutes we felt as if we'd known each other for a long time. That what the charm of an extraordinary personality means!
"We have related professions," Zharov said casually. I'm a bit of an athlete, you're a bit of an artist . . ."
One can feel that a person such as this knows life beyond textbooks.
Perhaps, with all our high-profile athletic titles, we can be a bit of an artist. People come to the arena to watch the athletes, their struggles, their performance styles. This is what interests the spectators first and foremost, not the number of kilos we lift. And every athlete, especially the great ones, must, I suppose, cultivate their own image. Unfortunately, we rarely think about this, and we don't hear much thoughtful advice from others. But little by little, as best we can, we do create this image. And this has probably always been the case.
Unfortunately, I was not acquainted with the renowned post-war lifter Grigory Novak. But here's what he once told a journalist friend of mine:
"Where's there's smoke, there's fire, of course. Why did they always make up all sorts of things about me? Well, popularity, of course. But there's another side to it. I've always been a bit of a performer. People were eager to come the the competition, knowing Novak would be performing. And if there was an opportunity to somehow shake up the crowd, I didn't miss it.
"Sometimes it would happen completely unexpectedly, and everyone thought it was supposed to be that way. For example, one time during an exhibition I was doing a snatch. Suddenly, I lost my balance, the barbell flipped upside down, and - crashed through the stage floor. The audience laughed and applauded.
"Or, I remember, I was performing at the Krylia Sovetov Sports Palace. The house, as always, was packed. I was in excellent shape, setting a world record in the press, and planning to go for the clean & jerk record. The judges unanimously okayed the lift, but instead of lowering the bar, I did a couple of overhead push presses. I was kind of kidding around. And then . . . the bar flew apart in my hands! This happened to me only once in my lifetime, but I kept my composure and bowed to the crowd. "Soviet Sport" wrote about it, saying that Novak had begun performing like a clown.
"I was flattered: a good clown is not the least of people."
Montreal Olympic champion Petr Korol also liked to turn his performance into a little spectacle when the opportunity arose. He was a natural eccentric and very humorous, able to find humor where no one else could. Such people are desperately needed on a team, especially before major competitions, when the guys were already starting to look down at their feet, and the start was still a long way off. But when Korol appeared, everyone would be laughing within minutes. How he managed to combine his fierce fighting spirit on the platform with his witty jokes, only he knew. But when our King was in form, it was something to behold.
He was competing abroad one day at a very important tournament. He was going for a world record in the clean & jerk. He locked out the bar, lowered it, straightened up, and made a face: phew, done! There were no humorous judges among the panel that evening. They deliberated sullenly, and disallowed Petr's attempt.
But he still had one attempt left. A couple of minutes later, the blond, rosy-cheeked master lifter reappeared on the platform. The demon wouldn't let him go! Pyotr walked toward the bar, almost marching, his expression a little more serious than required. He gave the weight a firm pull, locked it out, lowered it, and immediately half-turned to face the head judge, frozen at attention. The weight was okayed. Then he leaned over the barbell and cheerfully patted it on the "cheek" - as if to say, "Thank you, my dear, you didn't let me down!"
The audience was delighted.
In general, sport is a fun thing, and it should be presented as cheerfully and tastefully as possible. Sometimes you read a writeup and feel terrible for yourself: such a gloomy "plowman" and nothing more. And the spectators come to the competition to rejoice at our prowess. Of course, it's not necessary to make them laugh, and very few can succeed at that.
But we must lift their spirits with our lifting.
I can name dozens of lifters who handled this superbly, and often without any outward show. Estonian strongman Jaan Talts was never a joker, nor known for his verbosity. But watching him compete, and not just compete, but watching this renowned weightlifter warm up was a tremendous pleasure. A supremely honed movement, elegance, and boundless self-confidence, that's what Talts exuded on the platform. And the crowd, sometimes unconsciously understood and appreciated this. People always eagerly anticipated going to see Talts perform.
Leningrad's Pavel Pervushin was even less flashy. He competed in the light-heavyweight division and seemed to do nothing special on the platform. He walked out, lifting himself fully erect, bowed . . . and the crowd was in complete awe! And yet, a silly arm injury ended his brilliant athletic career so early. But we remember how our Pashka, strong of spirit, conquered Madrid at the '73 European championships. He set three world records there!
But, as in any endeavor, one must avoid going overboard. Some of our fellow weightlifters are not averse to showing off, to display a certain bravado, even casualness. They're powerful, handsome guys, but when they start to puff themselves up, to feign pride and self-importance, it seems their beauty rapidly evaporates. You also have to embrace the role of a great athlete. Otherwise, it's nothing more than a show, and it's no wonder these lifters never become true masters.
But they could.
I don't know if I had any "image" on the platform. I never thought about it. But there was definitely a performance ritual. It's essential for any athlete and develops over the years through self-discovery.
I'm rereading the 1975 issue of the magazine "Sports Life in Russia." Mikhail Govorkov's short article is dedicated to the weightlifting competition at the Spartakiad of the Peoples of the USSR . . .
"On the day of his performance on the Spartakiad platform, Honored Master of Sports from the city of Shakhty, David Rigert, felt a little unwell. He showed up to the weigh-in without much emotion, then went upstairs, had a little snack, went into his room and fell asleep.
"The slumber lasted twenty minutes. Two hours later a TASS correspondent announced, 'Two new world records for light-heavyweight athletes were set in Balashikha: 217.5 kg in the clean & jerk, and 395 kg in the total. David Rigert set both."
Misha Govorkov knows weightlifting well, but he was a bit off here. I didn't feel any discomfort. I just always needed a little nap before starting. I learned long ago to switch off for half an hour before a hard workout or competition. It relieves stress wonderfully, but I know it's not for everyone.
You need to learn to keep yourself focused until you step onto the platform. Many people start mentally lifting weights days, even weeks before a competition! Naturally, they burn out and end up empty-handed. It's important to control yourself, to stop your mind in time and bring yourself to the reality you seek.
A clear performance plan, your own techniques and rituals are important and necessary - all this gives confidence, and develops the signature style of the lifter.
I come out from behind the curtains. Slowly, I rub my hands with chalk, walking and carefully inspecting the boards. There was an instance where one of them stuck out a few millimeters and I caught it during a snatch - the world record was ruined. So, these "walks" aren't mechanical movements at all. At the same time, I'm psyching myself up to fight the weight. Gradually, all the energy converges toward the barbell . . . all the rest floats away.
This is what Leonid Pleshakov wrote in Smena magazine . . . the article is dedicated to Yuri Vardanyan but there's a little about me too:
"David Rigert was always an idol for Yuri. Not just for his victories, but also for his performance style. He would step onto the platform to compete, completely disconnected from everything: the spectators, the judges, the photojournalists. It seemed as if at that moment in the enormous Sports Palace, noting existed for David except him and the weights."
Well, if you mean the exact moment I grab the bar, then perhaps that's true. Especially if the weight is a record. But generally, during a performance, both the spectators and the judges remain a reality for me. We don't perform for each other. The popularity of weightlifting depends on how we behave, how we look, and that's a special concern. Looking at a frowning man, detached from everything in the world, isn't a very pleasant sight. Even before an attempt that could give or take everything away, I bow to the audience; briefly, reserved. And when, after my final attempt, the spectators rise to their feet to leave, I often say to the coach:
Come on, call for a world record! Let the audience stay for a while longer! And the judges, how could anyone forget them? I remember walking out onto the podium at the World Championships in Manila at the end of the competition. I bowed to the spectators, then to the impeccably-dressed judges, and saw them nodding primly in response. On my first attempt at a press - it hadn't been abolished yet - I felt like I'd slammed the bar upward so hard I'd have to hold on! I thought three red lights were guaranteed, but no, three white ones came on. How could such a group of polite, well-dressed fellows not have counted the attempt as good? Judges are people too.
Generally, when an athlete wins over the audience, performing is much easier. At the very least, you're almost assured of avoiding unkind shouts, whistles and hecklers. As you well know, sometimes the crowd wants you to fail, and your opponent to succeed. A shout from the audience can, of course, dampen the mood. But it depends on the importance of the attempt. If, say, it's a decisive one, if I'm already feeling elated, then even if the whole room stood on its head I wouldn't notice.
Courage is great, but I don't focus on my own feelings. I keep a close eye on my opponents, both during their warmups (which can sometimes tell me everything, or almost everything) and, if possible, when they take the stage. There's usually a TV in the warmup room; the small screen makes everything perfectly visible, so I don't have to run to the wings every time. However, I do so if there's no TV. That is, if the opponent is a worthy one to be wary of. I need this to assess their strengths myself, to estimate their current capabilities. Based on this, I'll formulate my tactics. You might say that's what a coach and a cornerman are for. Of course, and I trust them, but I also trust my own judgement.
Have you ever seen Yuri Vardanyan walk onto the stage with his hair unkempt? Exactly. At the very last moment, he'll ask the masseur for a comb, and our trusty assistant, Gennady Baldin, already has it handy. How could it be otherwise? A true athlete would never allow himself to appear in public with a rumpled, sweaty gym uniform and his hair disheveled. Many lifters even have their own style of dress, and it can be used to distinguish us. For example, for a while, I couldn't compete without a sailor's shirt under my tights. Some sailors game me one at the European championships in the Romanian port of Constanta. And for quite a while the sailor's shirt became something of a talisman for me. It looked pretty, too; blue stripes and red tights. But then I noticed that the gyms were starting to have too many blue stripes on a red background.
I read somewhere how our Olympic champion, equestrian Elena Petushkova, once complained: "I walk into the stadium and see only Petushkovas on the horses, it's downright creepy! The young riders tried to copy everything from the popular rider's hairstyle to her mannerisms. Something similar happened to me.
One day, during a national team training session, I was watching the VCR screen as I performed clean & jerks. I was quite pleased with the starting position and the pattern of movements. Only at the very end, when the bar was lowered to the platform, was I astonished to see the the lift was performed not by me, but by Vardan Militosyan! This talented guy and I bear a slight resemblance in appearance. And the rest, he copied perfectly. Right down to the fact that, just like me, he spend a long time "getting used" to the bar, and then, moving down quickly grabbed the bar!
Actually, I loved standing over the barbell before a lift. I guess I got that from my teacher, Rudolf Plukfelder. He couldn't stand any fuss on the platform; he was like a monk there, and he got into the right frame of mind that way. And I imagine the crowd too was imbued with a sense of the moment's significance.
I couldn't do my best without getting into the right frame of mind in the stadium, either. Sometimes, there were only a few seconds left when the momentum began. Unable to bear it, people in the audience would shout, "PULL!" It's important to seize the moment, and it's very difficult to explain . . .
Now you've grabbed the hard steel bar.
Now the game will be completely different.
A man's game with heavy iron . . .
You and the barbell.
You lift it, or it lifts you.
There will be no third option.
Enjoy Your Lifting!
