Some reporters suggested we'd become friends because we both came from underprivileged backgrounds. Some said Bobby and I sympathized with her because the East German track coaches forced her to compete in too many events. But Heike and I never discussed any of that. We became good friends because we admired each other as athletes. I think, too, that we're both caring people. After the fall of Communism and she was freer to talk, we shared several plane rides together to meets throughout Europe. She pulled out the latest picture of her baby son. Then she started prodding me to have kids. We also talked about visiting each other once we retired and didn't have to worry about rushing back home to resume training.
When she got injured just prior to the 1996 Olympics, Bobby and I sent her a telegram. In it, I told her I could imagine what she was going through and I knew how difficult it must be not being on the Olympic team. She sent me a letter before the Games wishing me luck and told me she was looking forward to our competition in Europe shortly after the Olympics. She made it there, but I didn't, because of my hamstring injury.
28
Anointed
Despite the twisted ankle from the long jump, I felt fine by the start of the heptathlon the next day at the World Championships. I'd slept with electrical stimulation on my hamstrings the night after the long jump and I was raring to go on the first night of competition.
I had a comfortable lead after three events, heading into the final event of the first night, the 200-meter sprint. But in the 200 meters, as I tried to round the curve, my right leg went crazy. There were 130 meters to go. I was in the middle of the turn, at the stage in the race where I needed to really accelerate. I tried to explode around the curve. Instead my leg exploded. A sharp pain crept up my thigh, as if someone was dragging a needle from the back of my knee to my buttock. Then, suddenly, I felt a ball build up in the back of the thigh. An instant later, the ball burst. I screamed. The sensation was so painful and so jarring, it lifted me off the ground. I came down and fell face-first onto the track. The other runners were passing me. I reached out and grabbed the red rubber track in front of me with my fingernails and tried to crawl to the finish on my left hip. My mind wasn't processing what had just happened to my leg. I wanted to finish the race so that I could come back the next day and compete again.
Bobby leaped over the stadium railing and ran to me, with Bob Forster right behind, carrying his shoulder bag full of therapist's supplies. Two paramedics brought over a stretcher. I was screaming and crying and trying to crawl. Bobby knelt down beside me and held me down with his hand on my hip to keep me still. He put his other hand to my cheek. “Jackie, it's over. It's over,” he said to me.
He picked me up and placed me onto the stretcher on my back. As they rolled me off the track to the medical area, I covered my face in my hands and continued to sob. Why did this have to happen now? I'd withstood the painful ankle and won the long jump. I was trying to be tough, but my leg had let me down. I was so disappointed.
I was also in a great deal of pain. In the first-aid shelter, it hurt every time Bob and the doctors touched any part of my leg. I thought the hamstring was torn. A big, dark red spot had already appeared on the back of my leg, which was swelling by the minute. The spot was the bruise mark where the muscle had pulled and the blood had seeped out of the end of the frayed tissues and fibers. Bob hurriedly packed the leg in ice and wrapped it with an Ace bandage to prevent further swelling, then I was wheeled out of the stadium on the stretcher, surrounded by photographers, cameras and reporters. An official ordered the medics to move the stretcher from the entrance, where we'd stopped so that I could answer the reporters' questions. I tried to talk through my tears as I replayed the events. Meanwhile, the camera lights nearly blinded me in the dark Tokyo night.
Soon the cab showed up to take me to the hospital. When the paramedics rolled the stretcher off the curb, the wheels banged onto the street, jarring my leg. I winced. The cab driver, Bobby and Bob waited while I answered the last question. Then they lifted me off the stretcher and loaded me into the back seat. My Worlds had just come to a painful end.
The physical rehabilitation of the hamstring was routine. After a couple of days, I was walking. Six weeks later, I was running at full speed.
The emotional rehab was more complicated, though. The injury had been more traumatic than I realized. I found myself flashing back to the moment of injury in Tokyo each time I reached that point on the track during practice. In the middle of a sprint, I'd literally slow down at the spot the muscle had yanked, terrified that it would happen again. I thought I actually felt my leg tighten. But it was all in my head. “I don't know why this is happening,” I told Bobby after one flashback.
“It's okay, it's all part of the healing process,” he said.
He asked Alice Brown, my former training partner, an expert curve runner and silver medalist in the 100 meters in 1984, to teach me to negotiate the turn properly. “I want her to have confidence, instead of fear as she approaches that curve,” he told her.
Before I worked with Alice, I was like a car out of control coming around there, entering it at too fast a speed and hugging the left edge too tightly. Alice moved me to the center of the lane. From there, she said I could run as fast as I wanted, with better control.
The end-of-the-year rankings by Track & Field News disappointed me once again. I'd looked forward to being number one in the heptathlon and the long jump and possibly being Female Athlete of the Year. I had the top score in the heptathlon internationally. But because I got injured and withdrew from the World Championships, the magazine ranked me second in the event, behind Sabine Braun of West Germany, who'd won the world tide. Ditto the long jump. I had the longest jump in the world that year and also won the World Championship. But I was placed second to Heike. The editors said I hadn't competed in enough events to earn the top spot. I didn't begrudge the other athletes their awards, particularly not Heike, but I couldn't suppress the feeling that the editors already had other athletes in mind and were forced to come up with excuses to rank them ahead of me.
I tried not to, but I took the slights personally. The more I gave, the more they withheld. Telling me those performances weren't good enough made me feel as if I wasn't good enough. But I gamely tried to take it in stride and wait for brighter, happier days.
Bobby gave me a reason to smile early in 1992. I never had birthday parties growing up. But he always gave me a nice present and made a fuss. Uncharacteristically, when my thirtieth birthday arrived on March 3, 1992, he said nothing and gave me nothing. We spent all day at the track without the subject coming up. I was disappointed. But I tried to hide it.
On the way home from the UCLA track, Bobby went through Beverly Hills for some strange reason, instead of heading for the freeway. Then his pager went off. He pulled into a restaurant parking lot and went in to use the phone. He came out and said Della was calling from St. Louis and wanted to talk to me. “Somebody stole your car from the house,” he said casually.
“What?” I flung open the door and ran inside.
I spotted the phone and dashed toward it, past a big room filled with people. I got to the phone, turned around and they were all staring at me. Suddenly I realized they were all of our friends. They yelled, “Surprise!”
I pride myself on not letting anything get past me. But Bobby pulled this surprise party off without my having the slightest notion. I was really happy he had. It was a much-needed boost to my flagging spirits.
We always arrived in Europe at least two weeks before a meet to give our bodies time to experience jet lag and recover from it. In the midst of packing and traveling to Barcelona for the 1992 Games, I contracted a cold. Then, an asthma attack hit. Both Bobby and my inhaler were nearby and I was able to quickly get it under control. After a visit to the hospital, the doctor prescribed an antibiotic for the cold, which we scrambled to find. I didn't dare go near prednisone. It was just ten days before the start of the heptathlon competition and I didn't wa
nt any drug test complications.
To pass the time and motivate us, Bobby took Gail and me to a bullfight. The outdoor arena surrounding the bullfighting ring was beautifully rustic. While Bobby rattled off the gory details of what the contestants had done to the bulls, I tried not to listen, focusing instead on how cute the matador's costumes were. To Gail and me, it seemed so barbaric. Exciting, but barbaric.
Bobby said the bullfight was a metaphor for what we had to do at the gorgeous Estadi Olimpic across town. He wanted us to go for the kill, which I thought was a bit much. “I don't need to act mean,” I told him. “I'll just do what I'm capable of and the rest will take care of itself.”
I did take his other insights to heart, however. “Everyone in that stadium has talent,” he pointed out. “It's going to come down to who can concentrate, maintain focus and make the fewest mistakes. If the matador doesn't concentrate, his life is gone. If you don't, your gold medal is gone.”
The Olympic stadium stood majestically atop Montjuic, a mountain range outside the city. To get there, spectators rode a long escalator that rose past waterfalls and pinewoods. As the staircase ascended, riders had a breathtaking view of the Olympic flame burning just above the treetops. At night, floodlights illuminated the scene. It was magnificent.
Instead of a hotel, we roomed in a dorm-room-sized cabin on the gigantic cruise ship Sports Illustrated rented for the Games and docked at the Barcelona seaport. Ann Moore, who had been publisher of the magazine's sister publication, SI for Kids, arranged for us to stay there for the entire two weeks. It was fabulous. It was such a scene, with movie stars, models and athletes, including Arnold Schwarzenegger, the original Dream Team members and Kathy Ireland mingling among the crowd at mealtime. I met George Foreman and had a nice chat with him.
The ship's staff catered to our every need. The rooms had color TVs. The food service staff knew what I liked to eat and had turkey and bagels ready for me. The staff even handled our transportation to and from the stadium. It was the best thing anyone could have done for us, because with all those details taken care of, I could concentrate on my performance.
I never trailed in the heptathlon. However, Irina Belova of the Unified Team of athletes from the former Soviet Union kept things interesting until the end. She needed to run 20 seconds faster than me in the 800 to overtake me. But I stayed within 7 seconds of her and won by 199 points with a total of 7,044.
Bobby greeted me with a dozen roses and hugged me twice, all before I could sufficiently catch my breath. I was also allergic to flowers. I had to walk away from him. The NBC cameras caught him looking hurt and sounding jilted. I didn't mean to reject him; but I was about to choke. It was a muggy night. I'd just run 800 meters. I was exhausted and out of breath.
One thing about our relationship is that we're always ourselves, even when the eyes of the world are watching. Whether Bobby's screaming at me to “Come here, right now!” when I'm in the middle of an interview, or I'm telling him to stop kissing me because he's suffocating me, it's always candid camera. With us, what you see is the way it is.
I stood on the medal stand wearing a strand of pearls and my brand-new gold medal. I held my flowers close to my chest, but away from the allergy alarm bells inside my nose. I was both gratified and relieved. What a four years it had been. I'd shaken myself out of 1988's dejection, forgotten 1991's disappointment, overcome physical and emotional exhaustion, and survived another scary hamstring injury. No matter what anyone else thought, I was very proud of myself.
At the end of the contest, during a walking victory lap, I saw Tracy Austin and ran over to hug her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bruce Jenner trying to get my attention. When I walked to him, he told the crowd of journalists, friends and fans gathered near him that I was “the greatest multi-event athlete ever, man or woman.”
I beamed. His words warmed my heart. Here was the very athlete whose performance in the 1976 Games had inspired my Olympic aspirations—a decathlete who himself had held the title of world's greatest—anointing me. Such compliments from a superstar male athlete to a female counterpart are rarely bestowed. It said a lot about what a generous person Bruce is. It meant more to me than any magazine ranking. I was momentarily transported from that mountaintop high in the Barcelona sky onto Cloud Nine.
29
Human Relations
Sometimes my sensitivity brings me joy, rather than grief. When I hear about or see another person in pain or in trouble and I can do something to help, I'm happy to do it. That's when a thin skin comes in handy.
I think compassion for your fellow man is a very undervalued trait. Acting on it to bring comfort to someone who needs it makes me feel great. And I appreciate it when others do the same for me.
I remember how my heart broke for Chris Webber of the Michigan Wolverines during the final game of the 1993 NCAA basketball tournament against the North Carolina Tarheels. The last seconds were ticking down and the game was close. Caught in a bind on the court, Chris called a timeout the team didn't have. The Wolverines were assessed a technical foul and had to surrender the ball to the Tarheels, who went on to win the game and the national title.
The TV camera froze on Chris's face as the North Carolina players, coaches and cheerleaders celebrated around him. He looked so dejected and sad. I knew he was probably blaming himself. I thought he could use some cheering up.
“I'm going to send him some flowers,” I said to Bobby, who was sitting beside me on the bed watching.
I'd never met Chris. He probably didn't know who I was. I just wanted him to know that someone was in his corner. In the note accompanying the flowers, I told him to hang in there because he had a promising career ahead of him. I didn't want him to let that one moment spoil the rest of his life.
A year or two later, I was in Connecticut to participate in a program honoring heroes. Chris, who was by then an NBA star, was also speaking. His eyes lit up when I walked into the room. He walked over and hugged me.
“I want you to know how much I appreciated those flowers and your note,” he said. “When I received them I was still feeling depressed about what happened. They really cheered me up.”
I was so pleased to know I'd helped him. I knew firsthand that when you're in the public eye, people have no reservations about harshly criticizing you or saying things that hurt your feelings, without concern for how it will affect you. At those times, it's nice to hear comforting words or to have a shoulder to cry on.
At that point, I was in the midst of my own search for comforting shoulders and encouraging words. I'd lost most of my on-track support system when Al, Valerie Brisco and Jeanette Bolden stopped competing after 1988. My other good friend, Sandra Farmer-Patrick, was still competing, but she was married with a baby, and her family needed her attention.
Gail Devers, whom Bobby also coaches, has been my teammate, friend and training partner since 1986. But her serious health problems and intense competitions have demanded her full attention. Gail suffered from a severe case of Graves' disease, a thyroid disorder, for nearly two years after the 1988 Olympics. Then, the radiation treatments for the thyroid played havoc with her body and caused her feet to ache and bleed. Her doctors were considering amputation when they realized the radiation therapy was the cause. Gail never gave up. By 1991 she was back on the track, running and winning. I admire and applaud her determination. Her single-minded focus is one of the big reasons she was able to overcome Graves' disease and win gold medals in the 100 meters in Barcelona and Atlanta.
I wasn't completely abandoned, though. Bobby has always been a great listener and my biggest supporter. Also at especially grim moments, I drew strength and inspiration from my mother's spirit. Still, I sorely missed the camaraderie I'd felt with other athletes over the years.
During the thirteen years I've been competing on the world-class level, track and field athletes have become less collegial and more self-absorbed. Even during the Olympic Games, there's no feeling of “we” among tea
m members, just “me.” It's the attitude in every sport, I guess. But in track and field, it bothers me to see people treat their competitors like sworn enemies and act as if every race is a matter of life and death.
To be sure, the competition has always been intense. And gamesmanship has always been a part of our sport. I remember a girl at a college meet stepping into the blocks beside me before the start of a hurdle race. She whispered to me that her girlfriend was sleeping with my boyfriend, in an attempt to rattle me. I almost lost my concentration, but not because she'd distracted me or upset me. I thought it was such a silly thing to say, I wanted to burst out laughing. I saw right through what she was trying to do.
Occasionally someone would elbow me out of their way during a race and, once or twice during the long jump, girls would move each other's starting marks to screw up their runs, but that was about as bad as things got.
In the old days, we were all able to turn it off and on. I was able to compete against Heike, Anke, Jane and Cindy, and still laugh and talk with them. We were fierce, but friendly rivals.
People were colleagues, not enemies. Athletes and coaches formed track clubs to share a pool of sponsorship money, facilities and training advice, and to work out together. A few clubs still exist around the country—including the Santa Monica Track Club, which includes sprinters Carl Lewis, Mike Marsh and Leroy Burrell, who work out together, despite the fact that they regularly compete against each other. But for the most part, such arrangements are an anachronism. That sense of team spirit in track and field went out of style with- baggy running shorts.
Nowadays, it's every athlete for him- or herself. Money is the chief reason, I think. Athletes feel they're chasing the same small pot of endorsement money and the only way to get it is to knock their competitors out of the race and out of the public's consciousness. I'm always happy to see other track and field athletes get endorsements and do commercials and I hope the spots are a hit so that the next time a company wants a spokesperson, it will think about using another track and field athlete. The only way our sport will prosper is if we all prosper. But many people don't see it that way.
A Kind of Grace Page 25
