A Kind of Grace (12 page)

Unfortunately, people aren't much more enlightened today than they were when I was coming of age in the 1970s in East St. Louis. Despite the advances female athletes have made and the growing popularity of women's tennis, golf, basketball, softball and soccer, the negative attitudes persist. It's true that there are gay women participating in sports. But I don't know whether they are more prevalent in athletics than they are in other professions. And I don't care. I would never criticize someone for the choices they make in their personal relationships. The most important thing to me is what's inside a person's heart.

I believe that many of the people who continue to label all female athletes as lesbians and shy away from women's sports for that reason are not only intolerant and prejudiced, they're also enemies of women's athletics. The labels and scare tactics are a way to justify their narrow-minded opinions and keep female athletics from succeeding.

It's really unfortunate. So many girls I knew back home got pregnant before graduating. Others got married soon after graduating and became housewives—not out of choice, but because they didn't consider the other options. Most of them never left East St. Louis. While I certainly don't look down on mothers or homemakers—I hope to be a mother and a homemaker myself someday—my point is that if those girls had developed other interests, they might have had more options. But either because of fear, intimidation or complacency, they didn't.

Some others in my neighborhood did see the bigger picture and their support kept me striving to prove the doubters and naysayers wrong. Squirrel, Doug and the other men in front of the liquor store were among my biggest fans. As I jogged by each afternoon, they cheered me on. The wife of the owner of Kaufman's, the big grocery store in our neighborhood, cut the pictures and articles about me out of the St. Louis daily papers and gave them to my mother. I taped them to the pages of my bulging scrapbook, beside the clippings I'd already collected from the East St. Louis weeklies,
The Monitor
and
The Crusader.
One of the sports columnists at
The Monitor,
Stanford Scott, heaped praise on me and my teammates. He called us the “proud and beautiful” Tigerettes. He referred to me as “little Miss Superwoman” and “a black pearl.” After my picture appeared in
Sports Illustrated,
Mr. Scott wrote a column about what a great accomplishment it was. In it, he congratulated me on being “a great athlete and a beautiful young lady.”

The route for my training runs intersected with the city bus route that ran near my house. Every afternoon, I encountered Skip, who drove the bus and who always waved as I jogged by. One day, as I approached 15th and Piggott, Skip stopped his bus, opened his window and shouted as I passed, “Just keep working hard, girl, you'll make something out of yourself.” I flashed a big smile and waved as I bounded up the street, invigorated by his encouragement.

10

Painful Realities

W
hen the letter arrived telling me I'd qualified to compete for a spot on the Olympic long-jump team and inviting me to the 1980 Olympic Trials in Eugene, Oregon, I couldn't stop staring at it and rereading it. I wanted to savor each word.

It was a time for fantastic dreaming. I couldn't get to sleep that night, I was so excited. I kept imagining myself on the medal stand. The next day at work, my mother started planning her trip to the Moscow Olympic Games. She was afraid to fly, so she and her friend Joyce Farmer tried to think of a way to get her from East St. Louis to Russia by train and boat.

The Olympic Trials were bigger than anything I'd ever experienced. After checking in at the bustling registration center, I received an identification tag and a big bag full of gear from Nike that included a pair of blue overalls with the word “Nike” across the bib, a jacket, lots of T-shirts and blue track shoes with a yellow swoosh. At Lincoln, we wore one pair of spikes until they wore out. That spare pair made me feel like Imelda Marcos. Mr. Fennoy had given me track shoes, but this was the first time I'd ever gotten so much free equipment. Because I'd already graduated from high school, I could accept it without breaking any rules.

But the grand prize was the blue and red sweat suit with the letters “USA” on the front, awarded to the athletes who qualified for the team. I looked longingly at a big stack of them folded and wrapped in clear plastic bags.

Whatever confidence I had vanished the moment I set foot on the track the first day. I walked over to the long-jump warmup area and there was Carl Lewis. He was a student at the University of Houston and the favorite in the men's division. I watched Carl warm up. His stride down the runway was breathtaking. He was so smooth and fast. Perfect tempo and such power! He sailed through the air forever before landing in the sand.

His sister, Carol, still in high school, was competing against me in the women's division. She and I had gone at it for years in AAU long-jump competition, trading first and second place. Another nemesis from junior competition, Gwen Loud, was also there. She was already in college, at UCLA. In 1979, Gwen's leap of 20′ 9½″ kept my 20′ 7½″ jump at the state championships off the books as the longest leap by a high school girl that year.

In high school, I was oblivious to my competitors. I just went out and jumped with confidence. But in Eugene, I was suddenly keenly aware of every potential threat. I knew both Gwen and Carol would be tough to beat. They were so at ease. The entire scene at the track overwhelmed me. My nerves got the best of me when it was time to compete, which only added to my timing problems down the runway. I finished eighth overall, managing only a pitiful jump of 20′ 4″. Carol's best jump, 21′ 6¼″, put her in third and on the Olympic team. Gwen jumped 20′ 10¾″ and placed fifth. I was in tears by the end of the meet. I had let a great opportunity slip away because I couldn't control my nerves. To top it off, not only didn't I get USA sweats, I didn't get any recognition at all. At the Olympic Trials, you were either one of the top three or you were nobody. It was a painful introduction to world-class competition.

My performance brought me back down to earth. Throughout high school I'd been the big fish in the pond. Now I was swimming with the biggest fish of all and I was back to feeling like a guppy. I was inconsolable. “It's a respectable performance,” Mr. Fennoy said. “Build on it. Use it as motivation for 1984.”

Brooks Johnson, the track coach at Stanford at the time, got into the elevator with me at the hotel after my event. He could see how blue I was. “You have a lot of potential,” he said. “Even though you didn't succeed this time, just remember, the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

I also met a young track coach from California named Bobby Kersee. I had read an article in
Track & Field News
about the program Bobby had built at Cal State-North-ridge. The monthly magazine is the bible of the sport, and in high school I read it religiously. Mr. Fennoy passed me the latest issue as soon as he was done reading it. Bobby had just been hired by UCLA as an assistant track coach. I made a mental note of it, but otherwise I didn't think much about this fellow Bobby Kersee. He didn't say much, and seemed quiet.

College recruiters sent me information and came to our track meets and basketball games throughout my last two years at Lincoln High. It was both thrilling and nerve-racking. Mr. Fennoy was so worried that someone would try to take advantage of us or do something improper that he screened every phone call, read every letter and monitored every visit from coaches. He even ordered us to temper our enthusiasm when we saw recruiters and coaches in the bleachers before our games and meets. “You can smile; but don't wave or yell ‘Hello,’” he instructed Deborah Thurston and me before the games UCLA basketball coach Billie Moore attended. She and her assistant coach, Colleen Matsuhara, made several trips to East St. Louis to recruit the two of us for the Bruin squad.

My parents knew nothing about big-time college recruiting, but they understood human nature. They kept reminding me not to take anything from strangers. I didn't understand what all the fuss-was about until late in my senior year. After the buzzer sounded at the end of the state championship basketball game, one of the city's wealthiest citizens congratulated me on our victory. As he shook my hand, he pressed something into my palm. I opened my hand and was startled to see a wad of bills. I don't know how much money it was because I didn't take the time to count it. As soon as I realized what it was, I handed the money back to him.

“Thanks, but I can't take this,” I said, before running back to join my celebrating teammates.

I knew Mr. Fennoy had said there were rules against accepting money and gifts. But what really prompted me to give it back was my mother's voice inside my head saying: “Don't let anyone think you can be bought.”

And it's a good thing, too. Later that evening I found out that several people had seen what the man tried to do. If I'd kept the money, they might have reported me. So, thanks to Momma's strict code of conduct and Mr. Fennoy's reinforcement of it, I avoided a lot of problems.

A few weeks after that, a coach from a top school showed up at our front door and offered me and Momma money to sign that university's letter of intent. I stood at the door with my mouth open as he made the offer. How did he find out where I lived, I wondered. Why was he offering us money?

Momma wasn't fazed by it. She was insulted by the assumption that because we were poor, we could be bribed. She dealt with him the same way she had the man from the Nation of Islam—politely but firmly. “We're not interested in your money,” she told the coach. “Jackie will make a decision based on what's best for her, not money. Thank you.” She shut the door.

I spent a day in Champaign-Urbana talking to coaches at Illinois, but quickly eliminated the school from my list. The place just didn't excite me. I also visited Madison, Wisconsin, and talked with Loren Seagrave, the very nice track coach there, whom I'd gotten to know over the years at AAU meets. Though I liked him a lot, Wisconsin was too cold for me. After suffering through all those bitter winters in St. Louis, I was anxious to go to someplace warm. I also eliminated schools that wouldn't let me continue to play two sports. UCLA met my criteria in all categories and was always my first choice.

My father didn't want to hear that I was considering going any place
but
UCLA. He'd been a fan of John Wooden and the UCLA men's basketball teams of the 1960s and 1970s.

I felt that way about the women's program. I'd followed coach Billie Moore since 1976. I was impressed that she'd coached the U.S. Women's Olympic basketball team and that UCLA won the women's national championship in 1978. I also knew she really wanted me on her team. Between them, she and Colleen made a total of four trips to East St. Louis to recruit me. After one of her trips, Colleen wrote a letter to our local paper, praising the girls' sports program at Lincoln.

Daddy scraped together the money to pay for a recruiting visit to UCLA. He and I flew out there on Friday morning for a weekend stay. We'd left St. Louis on a damp, chilly morning. But the sun shone brilliantly over L.A. when our plane landed. What a paradise.

On first sight, Los Angeles was an eyeful. The mountains in the background were magnificent. But I looked at the packed freeways in wonder and horror on the ride to campus from the airport. There were so many cars, so many lanes, so many exits and a confusing jangle of interlocking highways. I'd been itching to get out into the world. But now that it looked like such a big, busy place, I wasn't sure I was ready. It intimidated me. If I decided to go to UCLA, I told myself, I wouldn't venture far from the Westwood neighborhood surrounding the school.

We toured the campus with an athletic department official. When the tour was done, Daddy and I met briefly with the women's athletic director, Judith Holland. Then Daddy bid me farewell for the weekend. “Here's my number in case you need to reach me,” he said. “You're on your own. That's how it will be when you get to college, so I'm not going to hang around and watch over you.”

That trip was the best gift my father ever gave me. During that weekend on campus I got a different, less-threatening view of city life and freeway traffic from the passenger seat of Billie Moore's 300Z sports car. When we stopped for a Fatburger, I felt like I was having an authentic Los Angeles experience. I met the other coaches and stayed in the dorm with Susie Swenson, a point guard. She was friendly and very enthusiastic about the team and the school. Getting to know her and the rest of the team made me more comfortable with the idea of living so far away from home. I knew I'd have lots of friends. By the end of the weekend, UCLA and Los Angeles didn't seem so daunting. I knew I could succeed and be happy there.

To my surprise, the letter-of-intent signing back at school was a media event. Several newspaper photographers and reporters showed up for the occasion. Deborah Thurston committed to UCLA as well, so we both signed the same day. We had no idea anyone would make such a fuss. Neither of us bothered to dress up that day, showing up for school as usual in jeans and T-shirts. Mr. Fennoy sat us beside each other at a big table in the library and put a blue and yellow Nike track shoe and a basketball on the table in front of us, for set decoration. As we signed our names at the bottom of the letter, the flashbulbs popped.

Mr. Fennoy gave me a big hug when it was over. “You've done it all at this level,” he said. “Now it's time for a new challenge. I know you're ready to meet it.”

Momma was elated. Her dream for me had come true. “This is what I've always wanted for you,” she said as she kissed me after school that evening. “A college education and a chance to make something out of yourself.”

Some people in East St. Louis thought I was biting off more than I could chew by turning down schools close to home to venture far away. At school, some of my classmates were a Greek chorus of negativity. I overheard them talking about me when I walked by.