A Kind of Grace (24 page)

Bobby and I discussed it when I returned to campus in the fall. I was worried that I didn't have what it took to be a champion. He reassured me.

“This will make you stronger mentally,” he said. “You will be a champion precisely because you've confronted the mental obstacle and you're ready to get over it. The athletes who aren't are the ones who fail.”

Our relationship had grown so much over the past three years that I now considered him much more than a coach. He was my good friend, someone I increasingly relied on for emotional support as well as professional advice.

I realized my feelings for Bobby had changed when I started going to the movies with him. He always invited all the girls from the team, and occasionally Valerie, Jeanette and Alice went. I wasn't a movie buff. My tastes ran more to bowling and video games. But I so enjoyed his company, I accepted every invitation.

I don't remember many of the films we saw because I usually dozed off halfway through. I do remember the great music and dancing in
Flashdance.
I didn't nod off once during that film. I also remember laughing and screaming through the scene where Anthony Perkins hits the woman over the head with a shovel in
Psycho II.

I was living with Valerie Brisco and her family in Inglewood, in a house with a front-door view of the Forum, where the Lakers play. Val was married and had a toddler. At the 1984 Games, she'd set Olympic records in the 200 meters and the 400, running the latter in 48.83 seconds en route to winning her second of three gold medals. During her victory lap around the Coliseum after the 400, she spotted Bobby standing on the first step of the victory platform. She ran to him and leaped into his outstretched arms. Her momentum knocked them both to the ground and they rolled around, laughing, crying and rejoicing. Besides Al and Val, Alice and Jeanette had won gold medals as part of the 4 × 100 relay team. In all, athletes Bobby coached won ten medals.

When I first met her, I thought Val was loud and inconsiderate. She could be so gruff with people. But as I got to know her, I saw how truly sweet and considerate she could be. I also came to appreciate her directness. I liked the fact that Val wasn't a phony.

By my sophomore year, Val was my closest friend at UCLA and one of my role models. She grew up in the Watts section of Los Angeles, where her brother, Robert, a budding track star, was killed by a stray bullet to the back. Although I grew up in a rough neighborhood, I wasn't nearly as streetwise as she was. Val knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. After giving birth, she immediately went back to the track, training diligently to make the Olympic team. Watching her out there, anyone could see Val's hunger.

Like Andre Phillips and my old boyfriend, she thought I was pitifully unsophisticated. She called me “the old lady,” because she said my way of thinking, acting and dressing was old-fashioned. She always teased me about the kinds of purses I carried and the fact that I took them everywhere I went.

In an act of unbelievable generosity, she had opened her doors to me after the Olympics so that I could finish up at college and save money. During that year, I traveled with Val as a kind of assistant. She was a celebrity in Los Angeles after the Olympics, the hometown girl who made good, and she handled her fame with consistent class. Even as people at filling stations, shopping malls and airports were asking for her autograph, she took the time to introduce me. And each time she did, I said to myself, “I want to be like that one day.”

I always joked with Val about Bobby. “I think he likes me,” I announced one night after a workout. “He's cute, huh?”

That got her attention. “Bobby? Our coach? You must be kidding.”

“He's coming to pick me up. We're going to the movies.”

“Yeah, right, Jackie. We'll see.”

When the bell rang and she opened the door to find Bobby standing there, she looked back at me in shock. “You were for real, weren't you?”

I just laughed. I joked and teased so often, Val and Jeanette didn't know when to take me seriously, especially when I talked about Bobby. I was always careful to cloak comments such as “He's nice” or “I kinda like him” in a laugh or a sarcastic tone of voice.

I was expressing my true feelings, but I wanted to protect myself in case the feelings weren't returned. So my affection for him remained a secret, even to my closest friends. After my two experiences with the opposite sex, in high school and college, I felt like a real loser when it came to relationships. I had told myself, “Oh well, it's not meant to be. You just can't win in that arena.”

During a track team trip to Taiwan in 1982, I watched Bobby flirting with the Chinese woman serving as our interpreter. She was flirting back, giggling and calling him pet names in Chinese. Perhaps, subconsciously, I was jealous. But I was dating my boyfriend at the time. I just wanted to have some fun at Bobby's expense. During an afternoon shopping trip through one of the outdoor markets, I sidled up to the interpreter and told her to watch her step because Bobby was my husband. The woman was so angry and humiliated, she walked over to him, chewed him out and stormed off. Bobby stood there flabbergasted, in the middle of the street, surrounded by screaming peddlers and grasping tourists. Jeanette and I were over in the corner, watching the scene and cracking up. The next day, Jeanette told him what I'd done. He was so mad at me, I thought he'd strangle me. Stunts like that were the reason no one took me seriously when it came to Bobby.

I really did think he was cute. When I looked at him I saw a man who possessed the ideal qualities. I respected his judgment and his advice. He brought out the best in me as an athlete and as a person. I knew I could rely on him and confide in him about anything. All of those attributes made him really attractive to me.

I sensed that Bobby's feelings might be changing toward me, too. In addition to the trips to the movies, he started buying me presents. He bought me clothes because he said I wore too much polyester. One spring night in 1985, he picked me up in his car and drove to the beach. He wanted to sit on the sand and watch the water. He said it relaxed him. I had no idea what was coming next. I wondered if he wanted to talk about starting a romantic relationship. He seemed tense. He said he had a lot on his mind.

I always knew instinctively when Bobby wanted me to talk or to just be an ear for him. So I sat silently and listened. He'd become head track coach earlier that season, after returning from a year's sabbatical to help us all train for the Olympic Games. He wanted to do well in the job. He talked about the women's track team and its chances at the NCAA Championships. He wanted me to play a game with him and predict the final team scores at the Championships. I couldn't believe it. We had the beach, moonlight and stars and he wanted to talk about track!

Finally, he asked me if I felt like he'd become more than a coach to me. This was what I'd been waiting and hoping for. But, I hesitated before answering. Still guarded, I hedged and said something evasive like, “Yes, kind of.”

I told him I didn't know if that was off-limits or not, because he was still my coach. “I don't know how to explain what I'm feeling,” I said.

He looked at me and smiled. “That's okay. I have deeper feelings for you, too.”

We left it at that until the end of the spring term. In the meantime, we continued to work together and go to movies alone and in groups. It was all very casual, though. Nothing romantic.

Bobby and I were so guarded and cagey about our feelings, it's a wonder we ever got together. But when we finally let down our guard with each other, it was like the Berlin Wall being demolished. The chain reactions occurred with dizzying speed. The turning point came later that summer. I was preparing to fly home to finally take possession of my Mustang and drive it back to Los Angeles, where I'd decided to live and train for the next Olympics. Bobby offered to meet me in St. Louis and drive back with me.

During the drive we got to know each other on an even deeper level. We talked about a thousand things. Our families, the future, our values. Bobby told me about how his mother had helped to shape his personality and his values. She'd raised him to be an independent person. That's why he didn't open up to a lot of people. But he was very relaxed and happy during that long trip. I could tell he was enjoying himself. He also talked about what he was looking for in a wife. It was eye-opening. But I didn't hear anything that troubled me. I was having a ball. We drove past the horse farms in Kentucky and stopped in Knoxville to take in the UCLA-Tennessee football game and spend the night.

We also stopped in Houston, where he made a recruiting call on Carlette Guidry, one of the country's best high school sprinters who wound up going to the University of Texas. Bobby is fascinated with sports arenas. So, before taking off for L.A., he wanted to see a game in the Astrodome. It just so happened that the Dodgers were in town and the night's pitching matchup was Fernando Valenzuela against Nolan Ryan. Bobby was in seventh heaven.

Midway through the game, in between Nolan Ryan fastballs and bites of his hot dog, he announced that he'd found someone he wanted to marry. My heart sank. He wanted to know what I thought about the idea. I forced a smile to hide my disappointment and said, “Oh, I think you'll be a good husband for someone.”

He laughed and looked at me with astonishment. “You don't understand, Jackie. I want to marry you.”

I was so relieved and thrilled! Not until I heard the words from his mouth did I know for sure how he felt. Bobby wasn't one to pour out his heart. So when he did open up, I knew he meant every word. Although he hadn't romanced me, or conducted anything resembling a normal courtship, we'd known each other for four years. We'd seen each other at our best and at our worst. I knew I loved him. When he proposed to me in that awkward, roundabout way and told me he loved me, I knew he was serious about making a commitment.

“Oh! Okay, yeah!” I said, the words stumbling out of my mouth just as awkwardly. “I'd like to marry you, too!”

And so we were engaged. I was ecstatic. I ran to the concourse to find a pay phone to call my aunt Della with the news.

20

Mr. and Mrs.

T
he morning we were to be married, Bobby was in the bathtub when his cell phone rang. He picked it up and heard Bill Cosby's voice.

“Hey, Bob, you gonna do this thing? This is your last chance to back out!”

“Yeah, Bill, I'm gonna go through with it.”

“Do you need any advice? Where's Jackie?”

“She's at her place getting ready.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess it would be bad luck to see her. Well, what are you doing? It's almost time.”

“I'm in the tub, Bill.”

“Well, get your naked self out of the tub and get over to the church. Put on your clothes first, though!”

“Okay, Bill.”

“Camille and I will send something. We wish you and Jackie all the best, Bob.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

After one trip to a department store with Jeanette and seeing the paperwork involved in joining the bridal registry, and the $900-plus price tags on the wedding gowns, I abandoned plans for a big wedding.

Our ceremony was a simple, sweet affair at the church Bobby and I attended, St. Luke's Baptist in Long Beach. January 11, 1986, was a sun-drenched, picture-postcard-pretty Southern California day. I wore a white lace dress and the veil from my Easter hat. Al gave me away, then picked up his camera and served as wedding photographer. Val was my matron of honor. Bobby's best friend, Dave Harris, was his best man. Bobby's family and all of our friends from track and field and basketball attended. Al was the only member of my family who attended. I told my family back in East St. Louis not to worry about coming. It would have been an expensive trip.

Instead of a honeymoon, Bobby and I flew to New Orleans, where I received the 1985 Broderick Cup, which is awarded to the nation's best female collegiate athlete. It was one of my favorite wedding gifts. At the dinner, I was so sure Cheryl Miller would win that I actually thought I heard her name when mine was called. I felt so honored to have been selected. Elizabeth Dole, the U.S. Secretary of Transportation at the time, was the dinner speaker and presented the award to me. We had a nice chat afterward. I thought then, as I do now, that she's a very classy lady. So smart and so accomplished.

Being Bobby's wife as well as his athlete was a difficult role adjustment for me. In my private life, I wasn't accustomed to somebody telling me what to do. After my mother died, I'd been on my own, in control, taking orders from no one. Now suddenly, Bobby was carrying over our relationship from the track and telling me what to do all the time. I resisted it. And my rebelliousness even spilled back into the athletic arena. I mouthed off about every tersely worded order he gave. Before we were married, they didn't bother me. But now that I was his wife, I didn't think he should talk to me that way.

Meanwhile, Bobby was having similar problems adapting to the dual role of coach and husband. It took him a long time to realize that I wasn't still the nineteen-year-old he'd grown used to ordering around on the track. When I was young I accepted whatever he said without question. But as I matured, I became more opinionated. While I accepted the fact that on the track he was the boss, I nevertheless wanted to discuss the reasoning behind those decisions so that I understood why I was doing things a certain way and to make sure we'd considered all options. Before our marriage, he'd voluntarily explained why. Now, every time I asked why, he called me hardheaded and viewed it as a challenge to his authority. “Don't ask me why,” he'd snap. “Just do it.”

I reminded him that we both were adults and that he didn't have to yell at me to get the point across, that it was humiliating when he did it in public. He's come a long way in that department. But occasionally, in the heat of the moment, he forgets.

He's taken a lot of flak for some of the things he's said to me while television cameras were rolling and reporters were taking notes. People have accused him of everything from exploitation to wife abuse. A woman approached us in the airport after the 1991 World Championships, where I'd twisted my ankle during the long jump and Bobby told Bob Forster, “If it's not broken, tape it. She's taking her last jump.”