A Kind of Grace

by Jackie Joyner-Kersee

  Cindy finished second. I was delighted for her. But I was heartbroken for poor Jane Frederick. She reinjured her pesky hamstring in the long jump and lost the race for the third spot to Wendy Brown. I gave her a hug and, as I panted, told her I was sorry she wouldn't be with us in Seoul.

  I was still doubled over, struggling to get my breath when Bobby reached me. He asked if my asthma was acting up, and I truthfully answered no. He poured two big bottles of cold water over my back and waited for me to recover.

  From the track, Bob, Bobby and I walked inside and mounted the stage in the press room. We removed the microphones from the long interview table. I climbed onto the table and lay on my stomach. Bobby placed four hot-water bottles full of ice under me, one on each hip and each thigh. In front of the roomful of reporters, Bob began to massage my leg muscles, while I propped myself up on my elbows, held the microphone and prepared to take the first question.

  At that moment, the press box announcer's voice came over the intercom. The men's triple jump was over. I held up my index finger, asking for a minute to listen to the results. “Willie Banks, Charlie Simpkins, Robert Cannon,” the voice said.

  Al hadn't made the team. I shrugged and forced a smile of resignation. Then I dropped my head and broke down. This news was more disappointing for me than any of the day's other developments because it was about my brother. I wanted so badly for us to return to the Olympics and try again for brother-and-sister gold medals. I also wanted it for him. Al had come such a long way from his wild teenage days at home. He'd really gotten himself together and settled down. His friendship with Florence had grown into a romance, and they had recently gotten married. I knew how much he wanted to make the team after Florence's performance.

  Bittersweet. That's what the 1988 Olympic Trials had been for all of us.

  From the Trials, the four of us, Al, Florence, Bobby and I, flew to New York to appear on Good Morning America. After sitting on the couch in front of the camera and talking about how track was a family affair for us, and how much fun we all had together, Al and Florence headed back to Los Angeles and we flew to Orlando, Florida, for a vacation at Disney World. Bobby's last words to them were: “I'll call you about practice when we get back to L.A.”

  The next day, we hopped into a cab outside our hotel to go to the Epcot Center. The cab driver recognized us from television. Then he started talking about how sorry he was to hear about what had happened. “Family should stick together, you know,” he said.

  Bobby said, “I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about.”

  The driver handed him the morning paper.

  The article said Florence and Al had announced that they were no longer going to be coached and managed by Bobby. They'd hired a new manager and Al was taking over as Florence's coach.

  Bobby told the driver to take us to Epcot. He saw no need to call Florence and Al to discuss it. Bobby said the decision spoke for itself, adding that everyone had the right to move on.

  With no contracts or commitments tying them to Bobby, Al and Florence were certainly free to leave. But I was shocked and disappointed. There are appropriate and inappropriate ways to do things. And I think they handled this all wrong. Bobby and I shouldn't have had to find out about something like that by reading it in the paper. I didn't understand why they hadn't told us when we were together in New York. Or called us on the phone.

  As for the decision to leave, that was their prerogative. I wished we all could have continued to train together. But, after I got over the initial shock and sadness, I resigned myself to it.

  I think the decision hurt Bobby more than he revealed. He had coached Florence for nearly ten years. He thought of her as a daughter, the way he does Gail Devers, the 1992 and 1996 gold medalist in the 100 meters. He's known them both since they were in high school.

  The news stunned everyone in our World Class Track Club. But we all just wanted to put it behind us and concentrate on preparing for the Olympics. The media wouldn't let us, though. Before and during the Games, there were articles everywhere about the four of us, inaccurately depicting us as feuding in-laws. A profile of Florence published in Newsweek helped ignite the controversy. Quoting Florence, the article claimed Bobby tried to alienate me from Al, which was absolutely false. The article also contained a widely reprinted quote from Florence to the effect that Bobby ran the track club like a cult. A hundred times I have been asked to respond to the quote and a hundred times I've refused because I've never seen the need to do so. People can hold whatever opinion they like about his coaching style, but the results Bobby has produced in international competition, in terms of Olympic medals, world records and world championships, speak for themselves.

  Many of the pieces published after that one zeroed in on my relationship with Florence, and our so-called contrasting styles. Invariably they referred to her as glamorous and to me as conservative, and implied that I was jealous of her. I had no reason to envy Florence. I'm very secure with myself. I wasn't as close to her as I was to Jeanette and Val. But we were friendly, and we were teammates who supported each other.

  What frustrated and insulted me was the inaccurate characterization of me by the people who wrote those stories. The perception of me as conservative is based on two things: One, I compete in the heptathlon, which is regarded as grueling, whereas the sprint races are considered glamour events. Two, I choose not to put on a lot of makeup and jewelry or wear flashy outfits during competition. But what you see of me on the track is only one facet of my personality. Off the track, I like makeup and nail polish and brightly colored clothes as much as any woman.

  When I'm competing, I'm engaged in a battle. And when you're in a battle, things sometimes get untidy. So, if it's pouring rain and the wind is gusting when it's my turn to throw the javelin, I've got bigger concerns than whether every strand of my hair is in place. Likewise, I can't help it if, after running 800 meters in 118-degree heat, I don't look like I just stepped out of a beauty salon.

  When I was in high school, some people believed that playing sports would make girls unfeminine. Now, people were trying to categorize certain women's sports as more feminine than others. It's all so nonsensical and irrelevant. I told Tom Callahan of Time magazine during an interview before the 1988 Games that “I don't think being an athlete is unfeminine. I think of it as a kind of grace.”

  As for what or who is truly beautiful and glamorous, I look beyond the superficial. I see beauty, elegance and grace in every female athlete. Selfishly speaking, I believe there's something especially beautiful about the ability to perform seven distinct athletic skills well. I consider heptathletes the Renaissance women of track and field. In my mind, ours is the most glamorous competition of all.

  Reporters continued to ask me about Florence and to ask Florence about me. I wasn't stupid. I understood the true agenda. They wanted to pit us against each other so they could portray us as a couple of cat-fighting, egomaniacal women. It was not only sexist, it was untrue. And I wasn't going to fall into their trap.

  Florence and I discussed the situation one night on the phone for a long time. We wished each other well at the Olympics and agreed that we couldn't allow outsiders to tear our family apart. Since then, the birth of little Mary Joyner, Al and Florence's daughter, has brought us all even closer.

  After the talk with Florence, I pushed the issue out of my mind. I had to stay focused on what I was trying to do. Nothing could distract me from my objective at the Games. One night before we left for Seoul, Bobby and I were on a shopping trip. After pulling the car into the parking spot at Sears, he turned to me with the most serious look on his face. “Let's make each other a promise,” he said. “Let's promise to make this Olympic experience fun.”

  That sounded like a great idea to me.

  He had one more request. “In that spirit, I think we should dedicate these Games to our mothers, who aren't here to experience them with us.”

  Such a sweet sentiment. I nodded and started t
o weep. We kissed.

  Bobby also did his best to keep the bad omens at bay. USA Today wanted me to pose for photographs in front of a Buddhist temple in Seoul before the competition began. When we arrived, a service was underway inside. We heard the chanting outside. Bobby thought it wasn't respectful to be taking photos outside while the service was going on inside and insisted the photographers find another location. “I'm not going to start pissing off God now,” he said.

  The conditions were ideal for a high heptathlon score. It was September in Seoul and the weather felt like Southern California in spring, highs in the seventies, lows in the sixties. Bobby figured I could cut 10 seconds from my 800 times under those conditions. The big East German threat was Anke Behmer. She joined her veteran teammate Ines Schultz. Natalya Shubenkova of the Soviet Union was there, too.

  I was startled to see Sabine Paetz, who'd gotten married and was now Sabine John, jogging around the warmup track. She'd given everyone in the West the impression she'd retired. I hadn't seen her at a meet since the 1986 Goodwill Games. Must have been a long honeymoon, I thought to myself as I watched her run. Seeing her annoyed me. Here was a woman who hadn't competed in two years and all of a sudden she shows up at the Olympic Games! No matter, I told myself, I'm ready.

  Sabine's presence upset me more than I realized. The first event is the hurdles and she's a superb hurdler. Her 12.64-second performance in 1984 still stands as the heptathlon world record. I didn't know what kind of shape she'd be in. But I knew it would be a fast race. At the starting blocks, I put pressure on myself. “You've got to be strong and tough, Jackie,” I whispered. “Don't let her beat you. Don't let her beat you.”

  I got out of the blocks well, but I hit a hurdle and stumbled. John was charging on my heels and had practically pulled even with me. I remembered Bobby's coaching: “If a mishap occurs, keep your composure and try to stay one step ahead of your competitor.” I pulled away and registered a 12.69. I hadn't buckled. I'd kept my composure and recovered. It boosted my confidence. I wasn't going to let her upset my concentration or beat me.

  The high jump would be a real test. Here was an opportunity to score big points because my technique was vastly improved. I was finally getting the hang of the flop. I didn't want to squander the chance. But, I was scared. I had a slight case of tendinitis in my left knee and it was killing me. The left leg is my launch leg and I thought my weakened knee was going to let me down. I struggled to get my speed right on the approach and then strained my ailing knee trying to clear a measly 6′ 1¼″. I couldn't jump any higher. Luckily for me, none of my competitors jumped exceedingly well. Still, I was nearly 100 points off world record pace.

  As Bob taped the knee, I knew it would bother me for the rest of the day. This would be a real test to see if I'd learned anything from 1984.

  The shot put requires a right-handed athlete to bend slightly and push off the left leg while tossing the metal ball. It's murder on a strained knee tendon. But I stared down the pain. “These are the Olympics, Jackie,” I said. “You're gonna have to block it out.”

  I put the shot 51′ 10″. Okay, but not great. I was proud of myself for hanging tough against the pain and staying positive. It spurred me on.

  I ran the 200 meters in a so-so 22.56 seconds. By the end of the day, I was 181 points in front of John, but 103 points off the world-record pace. With the shape my knee was in, my primary concern was holding off John and the others to win the gold medal. But I knew the record was well within reach. I knew my knee would hold up if I needed to push it a little to get the record.

  Overnight I slept soundly, despite a half-dozen electric wires taped to my left leg that sent electrical stimulation to my aching patellar tendon. The stimulation keeps the muscle from swelling, and contracts and relaxes it to keep it loose. It's like having a physical therapist massage it all night. I also had a gigantic bag full of ice on the leg to keep the blood flowing and to prevent soreness after straining it during competition.

  After a breakfast of pancakes, I was off to the warmup track. I felt relaxed. Bobby and I looked around at the other athletes and chatted about nothing important for fifteen minutes. I got up and started a low-speed jog. I didn't want to exhaust myself ahead of time.

  I needed a big jump to set the stage for the rest of the day. The gold and the record, if they were to be mine, would be won or lost right here. Fortunately for me, my plant leg in the long jump is the right leg. It was strong and healthy. I could let it rip. That was my intention as I took off from the starting mark. I didn't keep my legs upright through the air as long as I would have liked. But it was a new heptathlon long-jump world record, 23′ 10¼″, and good for a whopping 1,264 points. No one jumped nearly as far. Just like that, the record was back in hand. And I had pretty much slammed the door on my competitors.

  The wonderfully maddening thing about the heptathlon, though, is the way it can jump up and bite you just when you think you've got it under control. That's why I never give up or get too cocky when I have a lead. And so it was with the javelin competition. I needed a strong left leg again for pushing off and mine was sore and achy. Without much of a leg to stand on, I fell into my old habit of arming the throw—not using my legs at all. The result: a disgusting 149′ 10″. I shook my head after my last attempt. I knew I could have and should have done better.

  So, as usual, everything came down to the 800. I wanted so badly to win the heptathlon, I had to calm myself down at the starting line. My adrenaline was pumping. My heart was pounding. I wanted to prove that I was much better than my performance in 1984. The victories in Moscow, Houston, Rome and Indianapolis had been satisfying. But they weren't the Olympic Games. If I didn't turn in a winning performance here, none of those other wins would matter much. This is what they would remember. This is the Super Bowl. The others were just the preseason.

  I needed to run a 2:13.67 to break the record. I had so much anxious energy I felt I could run it in 2:10. Keeping in mind Brooks Johnson's targets, I knew I wanted a 62-second pace at the 400-meter mark, halfway. That meant a very fast first lap and a lung-busting second one. I shot ahead at the start with all the power I could muster. Shubenkova overtook me and had a 62.63-second time at the halfway point. I was right behind at 63:60. My stomach started to burn. “Oh no! What's this, Jackie?” I wondered to myself.

  The three Germans passed me. I was falling off the pace. I quickly stanched the impulse to dwell on the pain. “Block it out, block it out,” I ordered my brain. “If your legs aren't burning, you can still run.”

  A fresh surge of adrenaline shot through me. With 200 meters to go, I had caught them, and even contemplated passing them. But I still had 200 long meters left. I decided to stay put. I was in fifth place. But I knew I was on the right pace. I could feel it.

  At the last turn, I just pushed and pushed and pushed some more. I actually felt good sprinting to the line. I was content to finish fifth in the race, because I knew I was first overall. And first in the world. The clock read: 2:08.51

  “Yes!” I screamed silently. I was overjoyed. The 1984 demons were exorcised. After four years of heated arguments, exhausting workouts, strategy sessions, pressure, massages and ice packs, I had my Olympic heptathlon gold medal. And a new world record score of 7,291 points.

  Two days later, Ben Johnson shattered the world record in the men's 100-meter finals. Three days after that, the International Olympic Committee announced that he failed his drug test and had to surrender his gold medal. In the span of seventy-two hours, track and field went from ecstasy to agony. Pandemonium reigned. All of the reporting about performances stopped as journalists tried to figure out who would be caught next. Every question, it seemed, was about drugs and test results.

  I was shocked. I couldn't believe it was happening at the Olympics. But I still had the long-jump competition and I didn't want to get caught up in the chaos. I prepared myself in case anyone questioned me. Otherwise I kept my mind on my own business.

  The
speculation, however, got to be outrageous. Suddenly every successful athlete at the Games was viewed suspiciously. Athletes were pointing fingers and whispering about each other. The atmosphere was pure poison. The thinking was, if you'd been a perennial second or third and had started winning, there was reason to wonder. But I'd never believed for a minute that every successful athlete was using performance-enhancing drugs.

  The night before the long-jump competition began, I was dragged into the muck. Joaquim Cruz, the gold medalist in the 800 meters in 1984, and silver medalist in 1988, told a television reporter that I looked like a gorilla and that Florence and I “must be doing something that isn't normal to gain all those muscles.”

  I didn't care about the steroid allegations because I knew I was clean. I had been tested as much as any athlete at the Games and I'd always passed. But I really took offense at the gorilla comment. Besides being cruelly unflattering, it smacked of racism. I was also offended that the media played up the quote as much as it did. I kept hearing it over and over on the television news the night before the long-jump competition.

  “They think this is so cute,” I said to Bobby, disgusted as I listened to the story. He was lying on the sofa, munching peanuts. He didn't flinch as he watched the report. “Someone calling me, a black woman, a gorilla. He might as well have just called me a nigger.” I didn't think it was at all newsworthy.

  The phone started ringing. Reporters wanted a comment from us about the story. Cruz, shamed by my brother and my father when they confronted him in the Olympic Village, denied he'd said those things. Bobby handled it all. I wasn't interested in discussing the matter with reporters and I certainly didn't want to hear anything Cruz had to say. Later, my brother and father watched a tape of the interview in which Cruz did indeed utter those words. They came storming into our room, incensed and talking about what we should do about the lies. Bobby, suppressing his outrage to keep me from getting upset, told them to ignore the whole thing—at least until after the Games were over.