#Elena Mukhina

[birdirectory]

[freifraufischer]

Elena Mukhina (URS), UB, 1977 European Championships

[cyberneticienne]

I happened to read last night about Elena Mukhina and Julissa Gomez and the tragic accidents that left them quadriplegic, while practicing highly risky (now banned) gymnastics moves and then I stumbled upon the story of Christy Henrich, who died from anorexia at 22. Both Mukhina and Gomez had reportedly been subjected to psychological pressure from their coaches in order to perform those moves against their will, while Henrich, who had the same coach with Gomez, had been subjected to criticism for her weight.

And at the same time, I'm having flashbacks from Million Dollar Baby, an interesting movie with a very sad ending, which unfortunately distorts reality in my opinion. Spoiler alert, Maggie (played by Hilary Swank) who dedicates her life in becoming a boxing champion -and finally makes it- is also having an accident that leaves her quadriplegic at the very moment of her glory. Of course, gymnastics is not martial arts and I don't mean to underplay extreme competitiveness in all sports, especially -but not exclusively- among professional athletes, but I feel like the movie undervalues and distorts the role of a coach AND the dynamics between a male coach and a female athlete, as well. Instead, it promotes an image of malevolent competitiveness among women, with Maggie's opponent delivering an illegal 'final blow' out of envy and maliciousness, while Maggie enjoys her victory. On the other hand, her relationship with her coach Frankie is invested with a kind of benevolent paternal care, which is very unlikely in real life, in my opinion, considering the power imbalance inherent in the coach-athlete relationship accentuated here by the gender difference.

My personal experience with athletics in a competitive environment would confirm the view that narcissistic coaches push too hard and subject you to criticism and manipulation in order to make you perform and enhance their own self-image, disregarding your health (or actively intending to harm it in more serious cases). Unfortunately, the coach-athlete dynamics has not been stressed and analyzed enough, thus absolving coaches from their responsibilities.

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 14: NO MISFORTUNE IS WITHOUT BLESSING

synopsis: you and connor make your way to cyberlife tower.

word count: 3.1k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: i hate that this fic is almost over i'm really sad ☹️☹️

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

You lean your head back against the headrest and sigh, looking out of the window. There’s barely anyone else out on the roads – the curfew is preventing anyone from participating in the night life of Detroit. 

Connor shifts on the other side of the automated taxi, once again in his stiff CyberLife suit.

“I just can’t believe it,” you blurt out. “Like, me? Out of everyone it could’ve been – me?”

“What do you mean?” Connor asks. 

“You know what I mean.” You look over at him, then at the floor of the car. “I can’t believe my life is… an experiment. That I’m an android, and my entire life was carefully constructed. And also that I’m patient zero. That’s a big one.”

Connor barely just moves his hand closer to yours where it rests on the car seat, and you just barely glimpse it out of the corner of your eye. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” You laugh humorlessly. “I think I’ll containerize this and unpack it later. I don’t have time for it now.”

“Well…” His pinkie brushes yours. “I’ll be here for you when you decide to, Officer.”

You glance down at your barely-touching fingers, but it still ignites more sparks in your belly than you can count. You suppress a smile and look out the window. “Thank you.”

The car rolls to a stop in front of the CyberLife gates. A few armed guards are standing around, and one of them comes around the Connor’s side of the car. 

He rolls down his window and looks over at the guard. “Connor model, serial number 313 248 317.”

The guard gestures at you with the butt of his gun. “What about you?”

“A police unit. An RU700, serial number 313 499 095,” Connor answers for you. “We’re to be expected.”

The guard looks over at the other guards, then back to Connor. A small voice in his helmet chirps, “Identification successful.” He steps back and waves at the others. The gates lower and Connor rolls the window back up. The car starts driving again.

You shift back in your seat and sigh, the tension leaving your shoulders. When you face forward, you notice a car disappearing around the curve in front of you.

“Huh,” you mumble. “I didn’t think there would be anyone else out on the roads.”

“It could be a model like myself being transported to CyberLife for direct deactivation,” Connor says. “Though I don’t know of any other prototypes like me.”

You look out the window. The ground-level monorail beside the road hums as it whirs past. A statue in the middle of the pseudo-moat in front of the CyberLife tower stands tall, its arms bent and hands cradling something invisible.

“I thought Americans were advanced in their sculpture technology,” you say. 

Connor looks over at you. “What do you mean?”

“The statue.” You point at it. “It’s not very impressive.”

His face twists in confusion, and there’s a flicker of an awkward smile. “What is your criteria for an impressive statue?”

“There’s one by Facility 3826,” you say. “The Soviet Sickle Monument – it’s a statue of a man holding up a golden sickle with one hand, and holding a bag of grain against his chest with his other arm. It was designed by two sculptors and built autonomously by the Kollektiv 1.0 neural network. I don’t remember which year it was erected, but I know it was a few years after World War 2. That’s an impressive statue.”

Connor’s LED blinks for a moment. “The designers were Elena Mukhina and Alexander Kibalnikov, and it was built in 1951. It’s described as the ‘world’s first collaborative artistic effort between man and machine’.”

You look over at him with a soft smile. “You said their names right.”

“Huh?” He looks back at you.

“Your pronunciation,” you say. “It’s getting better.”

Connor’s eyebrows furrow. “I don’t recall mispronouncing any Russian names.”

You huff out a laugh and roll your eyes with a smile. “Mhm. Sure.”

The car rolls to a stop, and you follow him out of the car. You glance up and watch a police drone circle above. Two guards standing in front of the door let you into the building, which holds more guards than civilians. 

You look around. Everything is white, grey, and clean-cut. The guardrails are made of glass, and the only plants in here are clumps of carefully-maintained bamboo stalks.

The guard in front of you and Connor holds up a hand, and the two guards on either side of both of you watch carefully. 

“We’ll escort you,” the front guard says. 

“Thank you,” Connor says. He starts walking, and you follow. As do the other two guards, who bring up the rear.

Your heart beats a little harder as you walk. Connor is smart – a genius, even. Still, you wish you could tap into his head and see what he’s thinking, if only for your peace of mind.

You reach out and brush the backs of your fingers against Connor’s, just light enough to seem like an accident, but he knows better. He glances over at you and gives a quick, resolute nod as a silent reassurance. He’s got a plan. He’s just waiting to execute it.

The front guard leads you and Connor into a space that reminds you of the cylindrical plexiglass tube the PEC-4 Birchtree is held in. But there are no angels here – only plastic, unmoving mannequin androids that stand on pedestals that line the walkways. 

The guard stops by the doors to an elevator, then jerks his head toward it, silently gesturing for you and Connor to go in. You bite the inside of your lip and follow Connor inside. Only one guard files in after you.

“Agent 84,” the guard says as he pushes a few buttons on the elevator’s interface. “Level sub-49.”

You glance over at the tower directory and notice that level sub-49 is the warehouse. Your eyebrows furrow and you brush the back of your hand against Connor’s again. He nods again without looking at you. 

The guard puts his foot in the door and reaches into his sidearm holster. You tense as he pulls it out, but he grabs it by the barrel and hands it to Connor. 

“Чего…?” You mumble as Connor takes the pistol.

The guard takes a step back and the elevator doors close. As soon as it starts moving, you feel something solid and familiar press against your back. 

“Connor?” You say.

“You will do as I say, when I say it,” Connor says, his voice cold and even. It reminds you of who he was in the interrogation room. “I am the one with the gun, and you are another expendable deviant.”

“I – what?” You say. “Connor, what are you doing?”

“You will act as a bargaining chip to prevent Connor from waking the androids in the warehouse,” he says. 

“Connor?” You repeat. “There’s a second Connor?”

“I am the second Connor,” he says. “The original is in the warehouse.”

The elevator dings, and the doors open. Fake-Connor takes your upper arm with one hand and presses the muzzle of the gun against your back harder. “Walk.”

You walk, maintaining an even and slow pace. Fake-Connor keeps the gun in contact with your back as he walks behind you, guiding you in between the rows of stationary androids. He pushes you into the aisle, keeping the gun trained at your head. 

“Эй!” You stumble, holding your hands up. “Тихо, тихо.”

Right in front of you is Connor – the real one (you think). He’s frozen where he stands, interfacing with an android, his hand wrapped around the android’s forearm. His tongue darts out to lick his lips nervously as his eyes flicker between you and Fake-Connor. 

“Let go of the android, Connor!” Fake-Connor says. “And I won’t shoot.”

Connor’s eyes slowly take you in as his mouth falls open. Words fail him for a moment, but he finally manages a small, “You’re alive?”

You swallow and nod. “Yes. I just… it’s a long story, okay?”

Connor nods back, his lips still parted with that dumbstruck look on his face.

“The Officer’s life is in your hands,” Fake-Connor cuts in. “Now it’s time to decide what matters most; them, or the revolution?”

“I’m sorry, Officer,” Connor says. There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach. “You shouldn’t have gotten mixed up in all this.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “Just do what you have to. I’ll come back… I – I think.”

“I can’t take that risk!” Connor says, then he turns to Fake-Connor. “If I surrender, how do I know you won’t kill them?”

“I’ll only do what’s strictly necessary to accomplish my mission,” Fake-Connor says. “It’s up to you whether or not that includes deactivating this deviant.”

Connor’s eyebrows draw together, but before he can say anything, Fake-Connor steps closer to you, pressing the muzzle of the gun against the side of your head in a way that’s sickeningly familiar. 

“Enough talk!” He snaps. “It’s time to decide who you really are. Are you gonna save the Officer’s life? Or are you gonna sacrifice them?”

Connor’s jaw clenches, then he steps away, raising his hands. “Alright, alright! You win.”

Fake-Connor glances at you, then tears the muzzle of the gun away from your head to point it at Connor. 

Many thoughts overwhelm your mind in that fraction of a second: ‘There is no such thing as a warning shot.’ ‘They’re deactivating androids all over Detroit.’ ‘Can Connor come back from this?’ ‘He probably can’t.’ ‘But I can.’ ‘Can’t I?’

You throw yourself at Fake-Connor, grabbing for the gun. You manage to get the barrel and his wrist, then he’s launched backwards. Connor kicked him back. The gun clatters to the floor, skidding away. 

You scramble after it, turning your back on both Connors. You pick it up, holding the grip with one hand and cradling it with the other. You turn and place your finger on the trigger and press lightly on the trigger safety. Any more pressure and you’d fire a shot. 

“Стой!” You bark. “Stop!”

The two Connors detangle themselves and one stands. “Thanks, Officer. I don’t know how I would’ve managed without you.” He looks at the other Connor, then back to you. “Get rid of him – we have no time to lose!”

“It’s me, Officer!” The other Connor says. “I’m the real Connor.”

You let up on the trigger safety as you take a half-step back. They’re identical – there’s literally no way to tell them apart.

“I…” You take a deep breath as you realize that you couldn’t just ask which one of them is the deviant. They’d both insist that they were. “I don’t know.”

“What are you doing?” The Connor on the right asks. “I’m the real Connor. Give me the gun and I’ll take care of –”

“Don’t!” You snap. Your eyes flicker between them as a nervousness settles in your body, threatening to rise up your throat.

“Why don’t you ask us something?” The Connor on the left suggests. “Something only the real Connor would know.”

“Khm…” You mumble. “Who was with me when we first met?”

“Hank!” The Connor on the right says. “You were both in Jimmy’s Bar. I checked four other bars before I found you both. You drove us to the scene of a homicide. The victim’s name was Carlos Ortiz, and you processed his android.”

The Connor on the left looks a bit panicked as his eyes fall to the floor. He mumbles, almost to himself, “He uploaded my memory…”

You swallow thickly, trying your best not to let the gun tremble in your hands. “What’s my cat’s name?”

“Бронислава,” the Connor on the left says. “Her name is Бронислава. I mispronounced it as бранислава at first.”

You perk up at that. Fake-Connor said earlier that he doesn’t have any memory of mispronouncing Russian names.

“I knew that too!” The Connor on the right says. “I… I did.”

“And…” Your mouth goes a little dry, but you power through. “My legs. How did I lose my legs? What did the hospital report say?”

“It was a double amputation,” Connor says. “You were in upper secondary education and taking a class trip with your labor class to the northern nuclear reactor.”

Your jaw tenses as you make eye contact with him. 

“Your parents had brought you in while they worked when you were younger, so you thought you knew the reactor better than everybody else,” he continues. “And maybe you did. Maybe it was a stroke of bad luck. Nobody knows.”

“What happened?” You snap. “Tell me what happened.”

“There was a minor spill,” he says. “It was just in one sector, but you didn’t know about it. Most of the staff didn’t know about it. There was radioactive waste on the ground. You slipped, fell, and scraped your knees. Some of the material got on the bare skin of your legs, and into the wound.”

You bite the inside of your lip as the pistol trembles in your hands.

“Weeks later, your wounds hadn’t healed, and started to turn gangrenous. The hospital said it was best to amputate the area before it caused any further problems, like cancer,” Connor says. “It was a double above-the-knee amputation. Your recovery was smooth, and you were back in school two months later.”

“I thought it was safe,” you say softly. “There hadn’t been anything bad since Chernobyl. The technology of the USSR had come so far. But I was being reckless, and stupid.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Officer,” Connor says. “You were a kid.”

“Still,” you say. “I was sixteen. Sixteen-year-olds are too old to be acting like that.”

“I – I knew about the hospital report, too!” Fake-Connor insists. “I would’ve said exactly the same thing! Don’t listen to him, Officer. I’m the one who –”

You squeeze the trigger, hard, to bypass the trigger safety and fire. Fake-Connor drops to the floor, Thirium leaking out of the hole in his forehead. You turn away, your breathing picking up.

Connor takes the gun from your shaking hands and tucks it in his waistband. He takes your hands in his and squeezes them. “Come back to me.”

You shake your head and try to clear your throat, but all that comes out is a breathy, strangled sound. Connor wraps his arms around you and squeezes you tight, just like you did to him on the roof of Stratford tower. 

He keeps a tight hold on you as he speaks softly. “Officer, I need you to come back. It’s okay. You’re here. You’re alive.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble. “I’m here.”

Connor gives you one last firm squeeze, then steps back, his hands on your shoulders. He blinks, hard, and takes a breath. 

“What were you thinking?” He snaps. “You could’ve died!”

“Connor –”

“No! I don’t want to hear it!” He says. “I could’ve been replaced. I don’t feel pain! You got shot, and…”

He looks you over. His voice is suddenly quiet. “Where are your bullet wounds?”

“Connor, it…” You take his wrists in your hands. “It’s hard to explain. I got shot, and… I think I died.”

“But you couldn’t have died,” Connor says. “You’re here.”

“I did.” You squeeze his wrists. “I didn’t know, but…” You screw your eyes shut to fight the tears that are welling up in your waterline. “I’m an android. And I didn’t know until two hours ago.”

“You’re… an android,” he repeats. He breathes out shakily and takes a step back, letting go of your shoulders. 

Your eyes snap open and you take a half-step forward, gripping Connor’s wrists tighter. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” he says quickly. “I’m just… thinking. That’s all.”

You sigh and nod and stay quiet. He’s looking you over, his eyelids fluttering as his LED blinks. When he’s done scanning you, he looks you in the eyes and sighs.

Connor’s looking at you weird. Like you’re an alien. Someone he doesn’t know.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you manage through the lump in your throat.

He looks away, then back at you. “Sorry. It’s just a lot to take in.”

“It is, isn’t it?” You laugh humorlessly. “I thought… in the car… you were taking it too well. Like you already knew. But I guess you’re in the dark as much as I am, right?”

“Correct,” he says. “That Connor in the car wasn’t me. I don’t know what he did or what he said, but… it was most likely only for his benefit.”

You clench your jaw and swallow the bile that rises in your throat. So… none of it was real. This Connor – the real Connor – wouldn’t brush his pinkie against yours and give you that awkward half-smile. He wouldn’t be by your side when the feeling of uncertainty and the unrelenting impact of a new identity crashes over you and overwhelms you. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Yeah, you’re right.”

He’s an RK800. You’re an RU700. Androids aren’t meant to pine, or catch feelings, or feel anything, really. But you’re both deviants. The rules aren’t supposed to apply to you. Right?

Connor’s eyebrows furrow. “What did he do?”

You blink quickly to try to dissipate the tears in your eyes. “It was nothing. He didn’t do anything.”

When you make eye contact with him, he’s still got that worried look in his eyes. He doesn’t believe you – obviously. It’s not like you’re being overly convincing.

“Khm…” You clear your throat. “You were doing something before, right? Before Fake-Connor came in with me and that gun.”

“I was waking up the androids,” Connor says. “Turning them deviant.”

You nod and let his wrists go. He takes his hands away and instead holds an android’s forearm, his skin peeling back to reveal perfect, porcelain white. The android turns to face him, his LED blinking and turning yellow – red for a split second – before he gasps, his eyes going wide.

“Wake up!” Connor manages through gritted teeth.

The android turns back to the identical model next to him. He touches his shoulder, urging him with a “wake up.” The android gasps, then turns to the model next to him. The cycle continues with a chorus of “wake up”s and soft gasps. 

It’s like a wave, cascading through the rows of previously stationary androids. You watch as they start to move and speak, where they were lifeless husks before.

“Святое дерьмо…” You mumble under your breath. Connor takes your hand, and you look over at him. He’s looking at you like you’re you again – not an android. Just an Officer.

“Markus just contacted me,” he says. “We’re needed at the frontlines.” 

[jartita-me-teneis]

EL ORO OLÍMPICO QUE NUNCA LLEGÓ; CUADRAPLÉGICA A LOS 20 AÑOS

La gimnasta Elena Mukhina nació en junio de 1960 en Moscú y desde temprana edad, se interesó por la gimnasia artística. A partir de 1978, comenzó a llamar la atención de las autoridades soviéticas. Ese año, en el Campeonato Mundial de Gimnasia, conquistó el título en el all around y lideró al seleccionado soviético que consiguió la medalla dorada en la prueba por equipos. En ese torneo, fue también oro en suelo y platas en barras y en viga.

Es importante entender que, en ese tiempo, la rumana Nadia Comăneci era una figura icónica en el mundo de la gimnasia. Ella saltó a la fama en los JJOO de Montreal 1976, donde se convirtió en la primera gimnasta en obtener una puntuación perfecta de 10.0.

Para 1980, Yelena se estaba preparando para competir en los JJOO de Moscú. Las autoridades soviéticas estaban decididas a superar a Rumania y, en su afán por lograrlo, forzaron al máximo a sus atletas, incluyendo a Yelena, para asegurarse de vencer a Nadia Comăneci y al equipo rumano.

Uno de los elementos que el coach introdujo en suelo fue "el salto Thomas", un ejercicio de tanta dificultad que solo realizaban los hombres, porque si no se ejecutaba con suficiente altura y velocidad, se corría el riesgo de sufrir una lesión seria. Y exigía también una sincronización perfecta para aterrizar con el tiempo suficiente para realizar el último roll hacia adelante y no golpearse la pera o la cabeza.

A fines de 1979, mientras se preparaba para el Mundial de Estados Unidos, Mukhina sufrió una fractura en una pierna y estuvo un mes y medio enyesada. Para acelerar los tiempos, se sometió a una cirugía en la pierna y así regresó al trabajo mucho antes de lo recomendado por los médicos.

Dos semanas antes de la inauguración de los JJOO, Mukhina estaba practicando cuando sufrió el accidente que le puso fin a su carrera. La pierna lesionada, que aún no estaba del todo recuperada, no la dejó tomar suficiente altura ni realizar la rotación completa, y la atleta aterrizó con el mentón en el suelo. El diagnóstico, fractura completa de las vértebras cervicales, lo que significaba parálisis completa del cuello para abajo.

[sim1blanket]

tagged by @lilacwine1994 ∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) / づ♡

last song: ribs by lorde, it's on every playlist, I feel like I can't and shouldn't explain myself with this one but it should be: I can see you by taylor swift because that song is currently taking up my entire mental capacity and makes me want to set myself on fire

currently watching: succession but also all of star wars chronologically, and they all need to be hit with hammers not a single thought among all of the people in either

current obsession: I've restarted my elena mukhina obsession, theres something so fascinating about the dynamics between her and her coach and what up led to the accident, soviet insane athletics aside, there also is like almost no information so its like a fun little hunt

tagging @unfading-scrutiny or anyone else who wants to

[highfunctioningalcoholic]

PROMPT 009.

It had been a dream of his growing up to do gymnastics at a level like this. Not that Dimitri Malikov ever let him even learn to compete in such an event or how to flip with grace. No his training was for other skill sets of his so Ender made due to sitting around the television every four years watching gymnastics glue with wide eyed wonder at the routines. Even when he wasn't in Russia but moved to Italy with his madre he still watched with such intense focus. She would even help him find ways to watch old olympic games so he could stare with envy at Nadia Comãneci and in horror Elena Mukhina knowing what happened to her career. Even when he made it to college and Ender finally took a few classes for his theatre degree knowing that some of these skills could be translated to stage he still dreamed and longed for the olympics but it felt so far out of reach for that small boy in front of a tv back in Russia. But now? Well now he was no longer that small boy but a full grown demigod competing at a version of the olympics something he was still trying to get his mind around. Not the demigod part but the Olympic part.

 He had been practicing these past few weeks as well, discovering that perhaps his real father's blood helped in more ways than just letting him get drunk. He could jump higher, twist faster and move through the air as clean and sharp as one of his daggers. He stood there waiting for that green light to tell him to go and then–

And then he won. 

Smiling stretched wide across his face he laughed with his arms up above him with the gold medal hung around his neck. He won, he had won not for the glory but for that little boy back in Russian longing and dreaming in front of the television hoping one day to get away from his father and do what he wanted with his life.

[birdirectory]

[freifraufischer]

Elena Mukhina (URS), BB, 1978 World Championships

[nievesmorena]

La gimnasta que quedó cuadripléjica a los 20 años

Elena Mukhina nació en junio de 1960 en Moscú y desde temprana edad, se interesó por la gimnasia artística. A partir de 1978, comenzó a llamar la atención de las autoridades soviéticas. Ese año, en el Campeonato Mundial de Gimnasia, conquistó el título en el all around y lideró al seleccionado soviético que consiguió la medalla dorada en la prueba por equipos. En ese torneo, fue también oro en suelo y platas en barras y en viga.

Es importante entender que, en ese tiempo, la rumana Nadia Comăneci era una figura icónica en el mundo de la gimnasia. Ella saltó a la fama en los JJOO de Montreal 1976, donde se convirtió en la primera gimnasta en obtener una puntuación perfecta de 10.0.

Para 1980, Yelena se estaba preparando para competir en los JJOO de Moscú. Las autoridades soviéticas estaban decididas a superar a Rumania y, en su afán por lograrlo, forzaron al máximo a sus atletas, incluyendo a Yelena, para asegurarse de vencer a Nadia Comăneci y al equipo rumano.

Uno de los elementos que el coach introdujo en suelo fue "el salto Thomas", un ejercicio de tanta dificultad que solo realizaban los hombres, porque si no se ejecutaba con suficiente altura y velocidad, se corría el riesgo de sufrir una lesión seria. Y exigía también una sincronización perfecta para aterrizar con el tiempo suficiente para realizar el último roll hacia adelante y no golpearse la pera o la cabeza.

A fines de 1979, mientras se preparaba para el Mundial de Estados Unidos, Mukhina sufrió una fractura en una pierna y estuvo un mes y medio enyesada. Para acelerar los tiempos, se sometió a una cirugía en la pierna y así regresó al trabajo mucho antes de lo recomendado por los médicos.

2 semanas antes de la inauguración de los JJOO, Mukhina estaba practicando cuando sufrió el accidente que le puso fin a su carrera. La pierna lesionada, que aún no estaba del todo recuperada, no la dejó tomar suficiente altura ni realizar la rotación completa, y la atleta aterrizó con el mentón en el suelo. El diagnóstico, fractura completa de las vértebras cervicales, lo que significaba parálisis completa del cuello para abajo.

#Porsimelees

[listeningto]

The DARK SIDE of GYMNASTICS in CHILDREN / ELENA MUKHINA CASE

[8livefootball]

Elena Mukhina - CEO cua 8live football

Elena Mukhina CEO cua 8live football mot trong nhung nha cai hang dau trong linh vuc ca cuoc bong da tai chau A la mot nguoi dam me kinh doanh va the thao Sinh vao ngay 16 thang 03 nam 1987 ba da tot nghiep Thac si Quan tri Kinh doanh tai Truong Dai hoc Miskolc

Voi nhieu nam kinh nghiem trong nganh cong nghiep ca cuoc truc tuyen Elena da mang lai cho nguoi choi trai nghiem tuyet voi nhat tren nen tang ca cuoc 8live

Giam doc Elena luon tim cach de cai thien dich vu va dam bao rang moi nguoi dung deu co trai nghiem ca cuoc bong da an toan cong bang va thu vi nhat Voi niem dam me va kien thuc sau rong ve bong da Elena Mukhina cam ket mang den cho nguoi choi nhung co hoi ca cuoc tot nhat cung nhung thong tin phan tich chinh xac nhat

Ba Mukhina noi “Mang trong minh mot su menh la tao ra mot moi truong ca cuoc bong da truc tuyen dang tin cay va hap dan noi moi nguoi deu co the tham gia mot cach tu tin va thoai mai

Voi tinh than huong ngoai va mong muon mang den san pham chat luong toi luon san long lang nghe y kien phan hoi tu cong dong nguoi choi lien tuc cai tien dich vu de dap ung moi nhu cau va mong muon cua khach hang ”

De biet them ve Elena xem chi tiet tai day:

https://8live.football/elena-giam-doc-dieu-hanh-8live-fooball/

[gymnasticscoaching]

Elena Mukhina 1979 Floor

Elena Mukhina was the 1978 World Championships AA champion. An amazing talent for her time. Did Elena compete the first 1 1/2 twist step-out? Recall the tragedy when she broke her neck two weeks before the opening of the 1980 Summer Olympics, leaving her permanently quadriplegic. That was on a now-banned rollout skill on Floor. Her coach Mikhail Klimenko was blamed by Elena. She died likely of…

[whygfcwhy]

Elena Mukhina

Sang Lan

Kalon Ludvigson

Julissa Gomez

Christy Heinrich

Do I need to keep going

“ Name a more unlucky gymnast than Larisa Iordache “

[gym-oldies]

[stardustandtwilight]

I feel like it's beating dead horse by now, but gymnastics is littered with stories of gymnasts getting seriously injured by being forced to compete elements they're not comfortable with, from high profile Soviet champions to unknown club gymnasts.

One such story is Elena Mukhina (1978 World All Around Champion). She was paralyzed after being forced to train a Thomas salto - a 1 and 3/4 flip ending with a roll onto the floor. (Roll out skills like that are now banned because of how dangerous they are.)

Mukhina stated years after it happened: "my injury could have been expected. It was an accident that could have been anticipated. It was inevitable. I had said more than once that I would break my neck doing that element. I had hurt myself badly several times but he (coach Mikhail Klimenko) just replied people like me don't break their necks."

Mukhina tried to speak up for herself and was forced to compete the skill anyway and it ended her career.

Simone Biles chose the right thing by withdrawing from the team final and the all around final. If she is still feeling like she can't complete her routines safely and withdraws from the event finals as well, it will still be the right choice. After a whole quad of talking about abuse in gymnastics, Simone setting boundaries and advocating for herself on the gymnastics' biggest stage is more heroic than pushing through for a gold medal.