A Kind of Grace

by Jackie Joyner-Kersee

  The guys on the team were great players and great fun to be around. When we played doubleheaders against the University of Southern California and the two Arizona schools, the men's and women's squads traveled together. We got to know each other pretty well. I felt like I was a part of one big team.

  We were regarded as equals by the athletic department. We weren't treated like stepchildren, the way some women's teams at other schools were during that time. The women's team had the same privileges and used the same facilities the men's team did. We lifted weights in the same room. Our locker rooms were the same size and just as nicely appointed. We stayed in the same first-rate hotels the men did. On the road, we ate in the same restaurants, rather than in diners and fast-food joints. And, like the men, we could order anything we wanted. There were no spending limits. Money was not an issue for the basketball program. It was a far cry from my junior high school days with the Railers when I had to scrounge for nickels and dimes to afford a McDonald's hamburger. And it was light years away from the political battles at Lincoln High over practice time in the gym.

  I later found out, when I joined the track team in the spring, how different being on the basketball team was from being on other UCLA teams. Basketball was a big, big deal in Westwood. Because of the winning tradition established during John Wooden's coaching tenure, a period during which the Bruins won ten NCAA Championships over twelve years, including seven consecutive titles between 1967 and 1973, the basketball teams received generous alumni and athletic department support. At most big universities, football is king. But at UCLA, football and basketball shared the throne. And because of Title IX, which required university athletic departments to give women's teams the same things they gave the men, my teammates and I shared in the riches equally.

  I believe our high self-esteem contributed to our success. We had winning seasons each year I played with the Bruins. We never duplicated the success we had during my freshman year, but I believe that was mostly because both Long Beach and USC, our conference rivals, had some of the finest players in the country. LaTaunya Pollard of Long Beach set a single-season scoring record in 1983, an amazing 907 points. Cheryl Miller, the most heavily recruited female high school basketball player in the nation, joined the USC squad in 1983 and dominated on both ends of the court.

  At 6′ 3″, she was a revelation for women's basketball and took the game to a new level. Cheryl set new standards for the big women that followed her, players such as Carla McGhee and Lisa Leslie. What Cheryl did with a basketball was remarkable and exciting. She had Shawn Kemp's strength inside and Magic Johnson's flashy skill outside. She blocked shots and ruled the territory under the basket. She moved well without the basketball and could wear you down roaming around the court getting into position for a pass. And she had a deadly outside shot. Almost always, she was the tallest person on the court, making it nearly impossible to post up against her. You couldn't push her around. The only hope was to vex her.

  Few people did it with any success. She swiped 474 rebounds in 1985 and scored 3,018 points during her college career, the third highest total in women's hoops history. Helping her were Paula and Pam McGec, known as the Twin Towers, and Cynthia Cooper.

  I'm not making excuses for the Bruins, but that's what we were up against. Sophomore year, 1981–82, our record was 16–14 and we finished fourth in the conference. The next year we improved to 18–11. We finished my final season 20–10.

  The USC and UCLA campuses are across the city from each other and the rivalry between the two schools is as bitter as that between Lincoln and Eastside back home. In 1985, as USC tried to win a third consecutive national title, we were the only team in the nation to beat them twice during the regular season. Those games were the Bruins' proudest moments that season. In the first game, I nagged Cheryl like a gnat. She shot just 32 percent from the floor and we narrowly beat them, 77–73. The second USC game was my best as a Bruin. I couldn't stop Cheryl, who shot 52 percent and scored 26 points. But I ruled the backboard. That night I had a double-double, 11 points and 12 rebounds. Cheryl pulled down only 7 rebounds and we escaped with a 57–56 win. The Trojans didn't three-peat; but they were such an awesome team that when you beat them, you knew you'd beaten the very best.

  My battles under the basket with Cheryl were intense. She was as tough a competitor as I was. Unlike me, she loved to talk trash on the court. In that regard, she's just like her brother Reggie, who plays for the Indiana Pacers. She was quite impressed with her talents. But she had a right to be. People often confused her flamboyance and self-confidence with arrogance. I think that was a misimpression. I got to know Cheryl off the court, when a bunch of us got together after games. We shared lots of laughs. When she took off her basketball shoes and dropped the game face, Cheryl was very funny, very friendly and she always praised the performances of other players.

  The Bruin men didn't fare as well over the same span. During my sophomore year, Larry Brown left to coach the New Jersey Nets and the men's team was placed on probation by the NCAA for two years. The violations cast a pall over the program for several years afterward. It was a real shame because there was so much talent on that team. I respected the athletic prowess of Rod Foster, Mark Eaton, Michael Holton, Cliff Pruitt, Kenny Fields and Michael Sanders.

  Of all the players, I was closest to Rod. He was a little sweetie-pie. I had a crush on him before ever meeting him. Sitting on the floor at Della's house one night after graduation, while watching a UCLA men's game, I blurted out to Della and my sisters, “Oooh, I'd like to date him!” Once I got to UCLA and got to know him I admired him even more. But there was never anything romantic between us. He was just a really nice guy. I knew he had a girlfriend he seemed to care for and he talked about her all the time.

  Despite what I'd said in that unguarded moment at Della's house, I probably wouldn't have dated Rod if he'd been available. He and other athletes faced temptations from other girls all the time. Most of the male athletes were extremely popular on campus. Wherever they walked, a crowd gathered. Girls fawned over them at school and waited for them outside the locker room after games, trying to get their attention. It was clear to everyone who saw them standing around wide-eyed, with enough makeup on for two people, sporting spiffy hairdos, and wearing tight pants, that they would do anything to spend time with the guys.

  I saw how inconsiderate a lot of the male athletes were toward their girlfriends, making them wait or standing them up for dates, and talking disparagingly about them. I saw them go out with other girls, particularly when they were on road trips. A lot of those guys went off with girls who were waiting around after the game. They knew they could have anybody they wanted. I expressed shock at a story one football player told about his secret escapades. I knew his girlfriend and felt terrible for her. He just shrugged and said, “It's no big thing.”

  I vowed to keep my relationships with my male colleagues strictly platonic. There was no way I would put up with a boyfriend who took me for granted or had two or three other girls on the side. My experience in high school had made me gun-shy about relationships. It had been so emotionally draining, I decided that getting head over heels over some guy would distract me from what I wanted to do. So, if I really liked a guy, I never let him know. I just admired him from afar.

  Eventually I let my guard down and started dating a guy on the track team. He was a 400-meter runner. I met him through Andre Phillips, a 400-meter hurdler who went on to win the gold medal in that event at the 1988 Olympics. He teased me about being a country girl because of the way I talked and dressed. He and Andre called me Ala, as in Alabama.

  He came to my basketball games and said I was the first girl he'd ever seen who played like a guy. He seemed like a sweet guy—at first.

  I moved into a dormitory next door to Rieber Hall in my sophomore year, which put me closer to the other athletes. The following year, I moved into an apartment in Culver City with my boyfriend and another female track athlete, LaShon Nedd.r />
  Things quickly turned rocky in the relationship. Living with him night and day, I saw a different side of his personality. We were completely incompatible. He was selfish and possessive, while I was stubborn and independent. He was also insecure. He was a speedy quarter miler who garnered his share of victories and awards. Yet, the more successful I became, the more he resented me. He could deal with me as a girlfriend, but not as his athletic equal. Every time I achieved something in basketball or track, he tried to make me feel like I shouldn't be proud of it. He belittled my accomplishments and criticized me in front of our friends. He didn't like the fact that I spent so much time at practice and ordered me to stop. I just laughed, which infuriated him.

  We argued a lot. Several times, the arguments turned into fights. He would hit me or shove me and I'd punch him back. The first time he did it, I was startled. But I quickly retaliated. There was no way I was going to let a man hit me. I wasn't a battered woman or anything close to it. But I didn't like where the relationship was headed.

  I would have broken up with him, but he became seriously ill in the fall of 1982 and had to leave school for a semester. I visited him for a weekend at his parents' home during his recuperation. He looked awful and frail. When he came back to UCLA in the spring of 1983, although I no longer had romantic feelings for him, I let him move back in because he didn't have a place to stay. But I felt uncomfortable about it.

  He tried to resume his track career, but his illness had wiped out the bulk and strength he once had. He couldn't run the 400 in less than 47 seconds, which was nearly 3 seconds slower than most world-class competitors at the time. It was sad. His athletic career was finished.

  In the meantime, Al, who had continued to do well as a triple jumper in college, was thinking of coming to L.A. to train for the Olympics. I strongly encouraged him. I knew Bobby Kersee, the UCLA assistant coach, could help him improve technically, and would instill the discipline Al still lacked. I had an ulterior motive. I knew Al would be a buffer between me and my boyfriend in the apartment. I wanted to make sure he didn't get the idea that we were becoming a couple again just because we were roommates. The three of us lived together from 1983 through the Olympics. I ended the relationship and moved out right after the Games were over.

  Growing up, I'd told my mother everything. After she died, I didn't feel comfortable discussing my personal problems with anyone else. So, as much as the deterioration of my relationship with my college beau weighed on me, I didn't confide in my friends. Even when we started fighting, I didn't tell my closest girlfriends about it. I didn't even tell Al the details when he came to live with me. All I said was, “He's living in the apartment, too, but our relationship is over. I'm about to break up with him.”

  I didn't think I'd ever find someone in whom I could confide the way I had with Momma. When I got back to school after her funeral, I got a message that Coach Bobby Kersee wanted to see me. The note puzzled me. As I walked across campus to the track after my last class of the day, I wondered why he wanted to see me. The basketball season hadn't ended. Furthermore, he wasn't my track coach. He worked with the sprinters and hurdlers. I was a multi-eventer and a long jumper. My first thought was: I must be in trouble.

  Since our first meeting at the Olympic Trials in Eugene a year earlier, I hadn't thought much about Bobby. And because I played basketball during the fall and winter quarters, I hadn't had any contact with him since arriving at UCLA. But I'd heard from the girls who trained with him that he was a terror. He's mean, they said. He yells and screams until you want to strangle him, they said. He works you to death.

  As soon as I entered the stadium I heard a man shouting, “Let's go!” I looked across the field, letting my eyes follow the sound. They stopped at a thin, dark-skinned, bearded man wearing a T-shirt, shorts and a baseball cap. It was Bobby. He didn't have a bullhorn, but his voice carried across the field as if he did. He clutched a clipboard in one hand and a stopwatch in the other. He was putting Alice Brown through hurdle drills. She was still at Cal State–Northridge, the school Bobby had left in August to come to UCLA that year; but Bobby continued to help her train.

  The dark sunglasses he wore made him look even more dictatorial. I walked over to him, anticipating bad news or a furious tirade. Instead, his countenance softened when he saw me. A small gold cross dangling on the chain around his neck glistened in the sunlight. In a low voice, he said, “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your mother passing.”

  I was relieved, and taken aback. “Thanks, I appreciate that,” I said.

  “Have you decided what you're going to do about school?” he asked.

  “I'm not sure yet. I'll see how it goes.”

  “Well, I know what you're going through. I lost my mom, too—when I was fourteen. So, if you ever want to talk about anything …”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “… Before you make any decisions about your future, please come and talk to me. Will you do that?”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  How thoughtful. It opened my eyes. Here was the man everyone had described as a monster being very considerate to me. He wasn't my coach. He didn't have to concern himself with my problems. Yet he did. He was offering to help me, just like he was helping Alice Brown. That told me a lot about the kind of man Bobby Kersee was. I saw a sensitive and considerate side to a man everyone told me was mean and brutal.

  14

  Frustration

  Going from basketball season to track season was like going from the penthouse to the outhouse, in terms of privileges. When the basketball team traveled, we stayed at Marriotts and Hyatt Regencys. The track team checked into Days Inns and Motel 6s. On basketball road trips, we ate in restaurants and ordered whatever we wanted. When I was with the track team, I got $3 for breakfast—including tip! We ate most of our meals at Denny's or a fast-food outlet.

  But for all my complaints about the lowly status of track athletes, our facilities were cushier and grander than anything Lincoln Park or Parsons Field could offer. The university had a separate track and field facility, Drake Stadium, that was on par with some college football arenas. The seats were sturdy aluminum, and the steps were wide concrete. Quite a contrast with the Parsons stadium, which creaked as people moved up and down its stairs. A dozen female runners assaulting the flights all at once didn't disturb Drake at all.

  As I jogged around the spongy Tartan track, the only obstacles in my path were the overachieving joggers who pooh-poohed the outside lanes reserved for novices. No need to use landmarks and bits of debris as starting and finishing points at UCLA. Distances and lanes—there were eight wide ones, rather than one narrow path—were clearly marked. The long-jump runway, high-jump setup, and shot-put and javelin areas were fine enough to host a world-class event. Shoes were available, free of charge, in unlimited supply, as were shirts, shorts and sweats.

  I also had to adjust to changes in the multi-event. That spring 1981 season, two events, the 200 meters and the javelin, were added to the pentathlon, making it a heptathlon. I had to learn to throw the javelin and to brush up on my sprinting.

  I wasn't the only one settling into new environs. It was a transition year for the entire track program. Bobby was starting his first year as an assistant and brought along a group of girls who transferred with him from Cal State–Northridge including Florence Griffith and Jeanette Bolden. We all had to adjust to each other.

  I showed up at the track after classes in the early afternoon, squinting from the glare of the relentless sunlight. All my multi-event coach would say was, “Work on whatever you feel like.”

  One day, as I trudged off alone to the long-jump pit, I looked across the track and saw that Bobby was already at work with his athletes. He had an agenda every day and his athletes had to get to work right away. The more I watched Bobby, the more I wished I had a coach like him. He reminded me so much of Mr. Fennoy. He wanted his athletes to succeed and was willing to go out of his
way to help them.

  The calendar said spring, but the temperature felt more like summer and my motivation was as low as the mercury was high. I was competing sporadically in the long jump and heptathlon that first season and the results weren't inspiring.

  My long-jump performances were dismal. I wasn't even a contender. As a senior in high school, I'd been jumping 20 and 21 feet. Now, a year later, I couldn't even reach 19 feet. It was crushing. I'd always felt like the long jump was my bread-and-butter event, something I could do in my sleep and do well. And I loved the event so much, I always looked forward to it. But my timing was off on the runway, which threw my whole jump out of synch. To have this kind of trouble at this critical stage of my career shook my confidence. What was worse, my coach was no help at all.

  Things were just as bad with the heptathlon. I typically finished third, but I knew I should be winning. Among other things, I wasn't in shape because I hadn't been pushed to work hard in practice, the way I'd been in high school. I felt like I was going backward rather than progressing. As I looked around the track that afternoon, I had a sinking feeling. This experience wasn't going as I'd expected. I was miserable.

  I'd gotten a bad feeling about my coaches as soon as I turned my attention to track after basketball season was over in March. During spring break week the team traveled to Austin for the Texas Relays, a big meet that drew the best women's squads from all over the country. My coach wanted me to travel with the team to the meet to get a feel for what collegiate track competition was like. That was fine with me because I was anxious to get going. The Texas Relays was a premier event. I felt the excitement as soon as I walked into the stadium and looked out on the track. Standing at the railing, surveying the scene, made me long to be out there. My competitive juices were flowing and I could hardly sit still during the meet.