A Kind of Grace (28 page)

The heat turned out to be less stressful than what happened to some of my teammates. I watched in horror, my hand over my mouth, as Jeanette screamed and fell to the track halfway through the quarterfinals of the 100 meters, grabbing her ankle. I knew what had happened. Her Achilles tendon was sore coming into the meet. She had ruptured it and run her last race. Oh, my God, I thought. What's next?

It was a roller-coaster Trials. Val just missed making the 200 team. We cried together.

In her quarterfinal heat of the 100, Florence turned heads around the world with her sexy racing outfit, a purple body suit with the left leg cut off, topped off by a pair of turquoise bikini briefs. Then she kept everyone's attention by running a breathtaking 10.49 seconds. It was a new world record, one that probably won't be broken for decades. I was ecstatic for her.

Greg Foster, running with a cast on his broken left arm, bumped his right arm against the left arm of a competitor in an adjacent lane during the 110-meter hurdles. The collision knocked Greg off balance and he had to stop running in the middle of the race to avoid falling on his bad arm. Time for tears again.

Andre Phillips earned a spot behind Edwin Moses on the 400 hurdles team. More celebrating.

Then it was my turn. I felt the heat. But it didn't bother me. I sailed through the hurdles in 12.71, setting an American heptathlon record in the process. I set another one in the high jump, with a 6′ 4″ leap, just as it started to rain and cool things off a bit. This was fun.

I had to shot-put in a downpour, but managed to heave it 51′ 4¼″. I set a heptathlon world record and my third American record of the day by running 22.3 seconds in the 200. Final score: 4,367 points. I was on pace to hit 7,300 points! I was in the zone again, clicking on all cylinders.

The next day, I long-jumped 25 feet, but it was a foul. I played it safe from there, dropping down to 22′ 11¾″ on the next jump. My javelin throwing had improved during training and I hurled it 164′ 4″, right after Jeanette went down in the 100. Watching her traumatic collapse had yanked me out of my zone momentarily. I had to really bear down and block out the sorrow I felt for her to pull it off.

To beat my own world record, I needed to run the 800 in at least 2:24.95. That would be easy. I had run faster than that to win the Junior Olympics when I was fifteen.

But Bobby had cautioned me the night before about the expectations trap. By posting an extraordinary score, which was now a probability, I might be setting myself up for disappointment and criticism at the Olympics if I couldn't improve on it. “I think you should ease up on the 800 because it's going to be hard to come back and top 7,300 points at the Olympics,” he advised me. Once again, I needed to know both how and why in order to reach my goal. I knew how to reach 7,300, and I knew why it was best not to achieve it now.

I stayed off the accelerator during the 800, following Cindy Greiner to the finish line and crossing it in 2:20.7. I finished with 7,215 points. A new world record. One down, one to go.

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 to 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.