A Kind of Grace (29 page)

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.

I tried to put it out of my mind. It was another intrusion, a distraction from my appointed purpose at Seoul. I reminded myself that getting upset about it and wasting energy being angry the way Al and my father were would be a victory for the intruders. But I was upset.

I didn't have breakfast the next morning. I just wanted to get away from it all. I went to the track early to find some peace. I also felt I'd be better protected from reporters on the warmup field.

The Inter-Continental Hotel provided bodyguards to all the athletes who were guests. Those men were the greatest. Every morning at 6:00
A.M
. there was a knock on the door and a voice said, “Bodyguards are here.” The two men, dressed in khaki pants and white shirts, waited for me to come out of the room into the hall. They weren't the beefy kind of guys I envisioned. They looked more like Secret Service agents—quiet, serious and conscientious. It was a wonderful luxury and it made me feel very secure. They escorted me to my destination and, as a precaution, hung close by as I walked around.

Since the Munich Games in 1972, where Palestinian terrorists killed several Israeli athletes, there was an ever-present fear of attacks at the Games. Those fears were heightened in Seoul because of the hostilities between North and South Korea. The bodyguards drove me around the city in a little van: I didn't have to bother with the regular athletes' transportation. I was dropped off right on the warmup track. Later, when I went shopping for dolls after my events were over, they shadowed me in and out of the shops.

So that morning, I sat peacefully on the grassy infield, beneath one of the tents on the warmup track with my two Korean bodyguards. There were only a handful of people out. Most of them were other long jumpers. I felt completely safe and sheltered from the chaos swirling around the Games. That time alone out there relaxed me and got me back into the right frame of mind after the unsettling events of the night before.

Heike Drechsler showed up after an hour or so. We couldn't really talk because of the constraints imposed by her government. But she congratulated me for winning the heptathlon and smiled. Then we both started our warmup routine. Gradually the track became crowded as other athletes and coaches began filing in. Florence and the other runners in the 200-meter sprints, also scheduled for that day, showed up. The smell of Icy Hot, Ben-Gay and other ointments filled the air as the physical therapists began their morning massages, loosening the tight, sore muscles of their athletes.

After a light jog around the track, I stretched out my legs. My front thigh muscles, the quadriceps, were tight. At about forty minutes before the competition, the officials summoned all the long jumpers to the call room, where our shoes and other equipment was checked to make sure they were legal. After that, we sat around for fifteen minutes until they were time for the ride to the track.

Throughout the competition, I was having trouble hitting the board. Though Heike had jumped 23′ 8¼″, the best I could do on my fourth jump was foul. Between jumps, Bob Forster massaged my legs. I kept whispering to myself, “You're
not
tired. You're
not
tired.” I was starting to feel fatigued and I didn't want those thoughts getting too close to my consciousness.

Bobby, dressed in a blue cap, blue warmup pants and T-shirt, hollered to me, “Accelerate through and hold the extension. Let Sir Isaac Newton drop you out of the air.”

At the line before my second-to-last jump, I said out loud, “Think indefatigable.” Then I took off. It was a good leap. I sat down in the hole dug by my heels, a sign that I had grabbed every inch that I could out of the jump. The measuring tape extended to 24′ 3¼″. It was an Olympic record. Bobby let out a blood-curdling scream and lay out on his back on the stadium floor. I ran back to the waiting area with my face in my hands. I was overjoyed. Heike had one jump left. She gave it a good go, but only managed 23′ 6¼″. The gold medal was mine. Heike came over and hugged me.

Bobby was so excited—more than I was, I think. When I saw him down on the track, my first thought was that he might not have clearance to be there. “Are you supposed to be down here?” I asked worriedly. “I don't want them to take away my gold medal.”

He wanted me to take a victory lap, but I resisted at first, feeling it was cocky. I hadn't taken one since an embarrassing incident at a high school track meet.

At that meet, the scores were announced after the last race and the speaker said Lincoln had finished first. All of us Tigerettes chanted, danced and bragged during our victory lap. We carried on for almost a half-hour. Then, the loudspeaker came on again and the announcer said there'd been a mistake. The officials had miscalculated and we weren't the winners. They took back our trophy and awarded it to—of all schools—our crosstown rival, East St. Louis High. We were devastated. The obvious lesson: We never should have behaved so ungraciously. I vowed then that I would never take another victory lap.

Besides, I'd never seen a jumper take one. But Bobby was adamant, “As much hell as I've been through, you'd better get out there and enjoy it.” And so, I trotted around the track, waving to the crowd, wearing a big grin, overcome with joy about my second gold medal.

There wasn't much joy at the press conference afterward. It was crowded and chaotic. Reporters and photographers and television cameras jockeyed for vantage points and seats. Others sat or stood in any empty space they could find. They all wanted to know what I thought of the comment made the night before. “I'm not using drugs and I'm not on steroids,” I said emphatically.

Then I added something I'd been wanting to say for a long time but had kept to myself. Because of Cruz's comment about my looks, I thought it was the perfect time. I told them that I had read and heard all the disparaging remarks about my appearance. “I never thought I was the prettiest person in the world,” I said. “But I know that, inside, I'm beautiful.”

As pleased as I was with my performance, I was disheartened about the reception I received. At the press conference and interviews immediately afterward, I felt like the journalists were searching for something that wasn't there and giving short shrift to my achievement. They wanted to talk about Cruz, about Florence, about steroids. Anything except my heptathlon world record, my long-jump Olympic record and my two gold medals.

The final straw was the zillionth question about whether I'd taken steroids during a press conference in New York, a month after the Games. The Women's Sports Foundation had named me Amateur Athlete of the Year and the steroid question was one of the first ones asked. “No, I've never used drugs,” I said as convincingly as I could. “I will put my hand on a Bible.”