A Kind of Grace (3 page)

“Bobby, I just want to
try.
”

“No, Jackie, this isn't a coach-athlete thing. This is your husband telling you it's time for you to go.”

It was over. I sat there a good three to five minutes absorbing the impact, while Bobby told the officials I was withdrawing. I tried to hold back the tears, but they poured out of my eyes, down my cheeks. Bobby started crying, too. I leaned against him and put my head on his shoulder. He put his arm around me. We sobbed together.

Ghada Shouaa, a Syrian heptathlete, came over and hugged me. Then she kissed me on both cheeks. She also kissed Bobby. That was the greatest compliment a competitor could have paid me. Sabine Braun of Germany came over and patted me on the back. It was a touching gesture considering our tense rivalry. I gathered my paraphernalia and walked off the track with Bobby. None of the spectators knew what was happening, so there was no reaction. We walked past a wall of reporters. I was too upset to talk. If I had tried to open my mouth and speak, I would have burst into tears.

Bob, Bobby and I walked back to the hotel, just a few blocks from the stadium, in silence. With the track and field events underway, the streets around the stadium were deserted and deadly quiet. It was like being in a funeral procession. A funeral for my dead dream.

Within minutes our hotel room filled with our friends: my high school track coach, Nino Fennoy, and his friend Toni; my aunt Della; my brother, Al, and sister-in-law, Florence; Bobby's best friend, Dave Harris, and his wife; my orthopedist, Dr. Rick Lehman; Bobby's sister Debra; Valerie Brisco, Jeanette Bolden and Valarie Foster, my assistant. Dave and his wife walked in wearing custom-printed caps that read, “
JJK STILL NO
. 1.”

As each visitor came in and saw me, there was a new round of hugs, kisses and tears. The room was filled with warm affection. After what we'd just been through, it was the perfect tonic for Bobby and me. What began as the worst of days was ending as the best.

The phone rang nonstop, once the word got out that I'd withdrawn. Reporters wanted to interview us. I still couldn't talk about what had happened. Bobby agreed to go to the broadcast center for an interview with NBC's Dwight Stones. During the telecast, Tom Hammond and Dwight discussed my career, tracing the ups and downs. Their report showed scenes of Bobby yelling at me and comforting me, and replayed moments from my injuries and my victories.

Tom and Dwight said such wonderful things. For the first time in my career, I felt appreciated and respected for my accomplishments. “She is clearly the greatest female athlete of her day,” Tom said. “If judged by her heart, then surely the greatest of all time.” Tears came to my eyes.

Then Bobby's face appeared on screen. I could see how red his eyes were through his tinted glasses. As he described our conversation before I withdrew, he choked up and tears filled his eyes. In the hotel room we were all crying.

“Jackie Joyner-Kersee is very, very important to track and field,” Dwight said in conclusion. “There's no argument that she is the greatest female athlete of all time.”

Most people never get to hear such tributes, because they're bestowed after they die, at their funeral. I felt so privileged to hear them while I was alive. It was a shining moment for me at a time of darkness.

Bobby returned to the hotel room just in time for a call from Bill Cosby, our friend and trusted advisor for many years. Bill said he was thinking about us. Then, he teased me about the fight he figured Bobby and I were having about the decision to withdraw. It made me laugh. “I know you and Bob are going to get into it,” he said. “But why don't you listen to your husband one time?”

Then he talked to Bobby and kidded him, “Try not to be so evil to your wife, man.”

Flowers arrived throughout the day. One vase was from Aretha Franklin. Another arrangement arrived from Arsenio Hall. Lionel Richie also sent a bouquet. Late that night, we received a message that President Clinton was trying to reach us. He left a number to the retreat at Camp David, Maryland.

I was dumbfounded. To think that the President would take the time to call me and offer his support! I hadn't even won anything. Bobby called the number right after reading me the note. It was about 11:00
P.M.
We worried that it was too late. But the President told us to call, so we did.

When Bobby handed me the receiver and I heard President Clinton say, “Hi, Jackie,” I was speechless. He told me I'd done a lot to inspire the youth of the nation. Of all the nice things he said during the conversation, that compliment made me proudest. He also said he believed that Bobby had made the right decision in pulling me from the heptathlon, because it preserved my chance to come back for the long jump. I smiled as I listened to him, but I was tongue-tied. All I could manage was “thank you, Mr. President.”

The question on everyone's mind after my withdrawal was whether I had a realistic chance of making it back to the track for the long jump. I had four and a half days to rest, but the hurdle race had further weakened the muscle. Subjecting it to additional stress would be like playing Russian roulette. It could rip the very next time I tried to run hard. That would surely end my athletic career, and possibly maim me for life.

But in my mind, the decision came down to this: I couldn't let that tearful withdrawal stand as my final Olympic act. Though my entire athletic career might be at risk, I knew what I had to do. It was time to reach deep into the core of myself, to call on the voices from my past—alternately sympathetic, challenging, even derisive—that had urged me on over thirty-four years of living and competing. At the appointed hour, I would show up at the long-jump pit, and hope and pray I could respond one last time.

1

My Roots

T
he night in October 1960 when Alfred Joyner and Mary Ruth Gaines eloped, they told their grandmothers they were going on a date. Ten months earlier, in January of that year, Mary had given birth to a baby boy, Alfrederick. Mary's grandmother, Lena Rainey, didn't approve of teenage pregnancy, but she allowed Mary and her baby to continue living with her. Mary didn't dare tell her about the marriage. She was just sixteen. Her groom was only fourteen.

Mary was my mother, one of four children born to Estella and Sylvester Gaines. Momma and her younger sister Della were born in Ruleville, Mississippi, and were raised there from birth by Estella's mother, Lena. When Lena moved from Ruleville to East St. Louis, Illinois, she brought my mother and Della with her.

By the time she was a teenager, my mother had blossomed into quite a beauty, standing 5′ 6″ and weighing about 130 pounds. Alfred, my father, was just entering puberty at the time of their marriage. But A.J., as Daddy was known in the neighborhood, looked and acted like a man. He ran track and played football. He was tall and handsome and had an athletic build, reaching 6′ 2߱, 190 pounds before he stopped growing. Wary parents in the neighborhood called him, and boys like him, “mannish.”

After taking their vows, Momma and Daddy went back to their separate homes. Two years later, my mother was pregnant again. When my great-grandmother found out, she hit the roof. And when she discovered that Alfred was also her grandson-in-law, she tried to hit my father. She chased him out of her house and all the way down the street. Then she stormed back into her house and kicked my mother and her baby son out.

Lena considered herself a devout Christian. But I guess she was too mad at my mother to care that she'd be giving birth soon or that she and her baby son had nowhere to go. Fortunately, Daddy's grandmother, Ollie Mae Johnson, took in Momma and my brother, Al. Ollie Mae told her neighbors, “I won't have my great-grandkids raised on the street or in some stranger's house.”

My father's mother, Evelyn, worked and lived in Chicago and visited East St. Louis on holidays and weekends. She was home for the Christmas holidays in January 1962, a few months before the second baby was due. John Kennedy was president at the time, and grandmother Evelyn told my mother, “If it's a girl, name her Jacqueline because she's the first Joyner girl and someday she'll be the first lady of something!”

Three months later, on March 3, 1962, I was born.

My sister Angela was born eleven months after me, in February 1963. Debra arrived the following year in June. While Momma stayed home with the babies, Daddy finished high school and found a job after graduation. They were kids raising kids.

The six of us lived with my great-grandmother Ollie Mae in her small, six-room, wood-frame house. The house wasn't spacious or opulent, but it was home to us. My mother treated our living room furniture like fine antiques. She kept plastic slipcovers on the couch and upholstered armchairs, and wouldn't allow us to sit in the room unless visitors came over. Space was at a premium. The house had one tiny bathroom. I shared the room off the kitchen at the front of the house with Debra, on the other side of the wall from the family room. By day, the family room was the gathering place for meals and TV watching. At night, it was the bedroom for my other sister and great-grandmother, who slept on the fold-out sofa. My parents' bedroom was across the hall from the kitchen. Al took the room at the back of the house.

Except for Al's space and the bathroom, the house didn't have interior doors. We walked right out of one area into the next. As soon as fall began to turn into winter, my father turned on the furnace. As the feeling of warmth circulated through the house, we gathered around the door frames with armfuls of blankets. Daddy stood on a chair with a hammer and a pocketful of nails. Holding the satiny hem of the blankets to the top of the frame, he drove in the nails. The makeshift insulation trapped heat within our bedrooms, and kept Al out in the cold, literally. His room could have doubled as a refrigerator.

All of our efforts to trap the precious warm air came to nothing when the furnace broke, a frequent wintertime occurrence. At those times, the kitchen stove was our heater. My mother kept the oven door open day and night. For most of the winter, the kitchen replaced the den as the family gathering spot.

On the coldest days, I'd walk in after track and basketball practice, and before removing my coat, run into our toasty kitchen. With the aroma of simmering pork chops and gravy wafting through the air, I stood in front of the stove with my long arms outstretched toward the inside of the oven. After my bones were good and warm, I removed my coat and hat and returned to the kitchen and took a seat beside my sisters on the floor.

Leaving the oven on for so long wasn't safe, but it was either that or freeze. The stove so bathed the kitchen in heat, I hated to go into the other parts of the house, where it sometimes got so cold I could see my breath when I talked. At night, that heated kitchen floor was our mattress. We covered the brown linoleum with blankets and sheets and slept in front of the open oven. Even Al, who usually craved privacy, camped out with us.

The other virtual certainty during winter was that the water pipes would freeze and burst. After the first episode, which resulted in a sinkful of dirty dishes, an unflushable toilet and no bathwater, my mother devised a backup plan. On fall Saturday mornings, I stood at the sink, filling a dozen plastic milk jugs with tap water while Debra and Angie stacked them against the wall.

East St. Louis, Illinois, is twenty miles across the border and the Mississippi River from St. Louis, Missouri. Our home sat on Piggott Avenue, between 14th and 15th Streets on the south end of town, in the center of a rough-and-tumble precinct. Tiny, wood-frame shotgun houses with painted cement porches lined both sides of our block, except for a fifty-meter stretch of assorted businesses directly across from our front porch.

For a certain kind of man, those enterprises catered to almost every need. He could grab a haircut, shave and shoeshine at the barbershop, then walk to the corner convenience store for a pack of cigarettes before joining his buddies in the poolhall for a cold beer and a few games. Or he might lay down a bet on someone else's cue stick and listen to the blues playing on the jukebox. After that, he could fill his tank in the tavern next door and grab a fifth for the road at the liquor-sales counter. The Swahili Club, a bar and lounge just around the corner on 15th, catered to the velvet-banquette-and-tablecloth crowd. Ruby D's, another lounge in the vicinity, had similar ambience.

The entire one-block radius around our house was a magnet for assorted winos, pimps, gangsters, ex-cons and hustlers. But we always said hello to the men who called the spot headquarters. Two of them, who were known to everyone in the neighborhood as Squirrel and Doug, were around so much they seemed like neighbors. My father had grown up with them. They practically adopted Al, who worked in the barbershop shining shoes for 35 cents with the kit Daddy had given him as a Christmas present. In addition to Squirrel and Doug, I vividly recall three other men whose nicknames were Slick, Dick and Bubba. They wore sunglasses, wide-brimmed hats, shiny alligator shoes, brightly colored suits with bell-bottom pants and open-necked print shirts. And lots of gold chains. Slick, Dick and Bubba were reputed to be the biggest gangsters in town—men who'd actually committed murder, according to local legend. The men greeted Al the same way each time they walked into the barbershop. They extended an open palm and waited for my brother to slap it, a gesture known as “givin'em five.” “Hey little A.J., what's up, man? Anybody messing with you?” they'd ask him during the ritual.

Al pulled his box over, shined their shoes and listened to their war stories. When he was done, they gave him fives—bearing Abraham Lincoln's picture. I walked out on the porch one afternoon and found them sitting on the steps with Al, helping him put his train set together. During my brother's senior year in high school, Slick, Dick and Bubba were ambushed late one night and gunned down, gangland style. When Al heard about it, he cried as if a member of our family had been killed.

I never feared the men who hung out on the corner and in front of the liquor store. Whatever bad things they did, they didn't do them around us. When our parents weren't around, these men were our protectors.