A Kind of Grace (34 page)

Bobby said the bullfight was a metaphor for what we had to do at the gorgeous Estadi Olimpic across town. He wanted us to go for the kill, which I thought was a bit much. “I don't need to act mean,” I told him. “I'll just do what I'm capable of and the rest will take care of itself.”

I did take his other insights to heart, however. “Everyone in that stadium has talent,” he pointed out. “It's going to come down to who can concentrate, maintain focus and make the fewest mistakes. If the matador doesn't concentrate, his life is gone. If you don't, your gold medal is gone.”

The Olympic stadium stood majestically atop Montjuic, a mountain range outside the city. To get there, spectators rode a long escalator that rose past waterfalls and pinewoods. As the staircase ascended, riders had a breathtaking view of the Olympic flame burning just above the treetops. At night, floodlights illuminated the scene. It was magnificent.

Instead of a hotel, we roomed in a dorm-room-sized cabin on the gigantic cruise ship
Sports Illustrated
rented for the Games and docked at the Barcelona seaport. Ann Moore, who had been publisher of the magazine's sister publication,
SI for Kids,
arranged for us to stay there for the entire two weeks. It was fabulous. It was such a scene, with movie stars, models and athletes, including Arnold Schwarzenegger, the original Dream Team members and Kathy Ireland mingling among the crowd at mealtime. I met George Foreman and had a nice chat with him.

The ship's staff catered to our every need. The rooms had color TVs. The food service staff knew what I liked to eat and had turkey and bagels ready for me. The staff even handled our transportation to and from the stadium. It was the best thing anyone could have done for us, because with all those details taken care of, I could concentrate on my performance.

I never trailed in the heptathlon. However, Irina Belova of the Unified Team of athletes from the former Soviet Union kept things interesting until the end. She needed to run 20 seconds faster than me in the 800 to overtake me. But I stayed within 7 seconds of her and won by 199 points with a total of 7,044.

Bobby greeted me with a dozen roses and hugged me twice, all before I could sufficiently catch my breath. I was also allergic to flowers. I had to walk away from him. The NBC cameras caught him looking hurt and sounding jilted. I didn't mean to reject him; but I was about to choke. It was a muggy night. I'd just run 800 meters. I was exhausted and out of breath.

One thing about our relationship is that we're always ourselves, even when the eyes of the world are watching. Whether Bobby's screaming at me to “Come here, right now!” when I'm in the middle of an interview, or I'm telling him to stop kissing me because he's suffocating me, it's always candid camera. With us, what you see is the way it is.

I stood on the medal stand wearing a strand of pearls and my brand-new gold medal. I held my flowers close to my chest, but away from the allergy alarm bells inside my nose. I was both gratified and relieved. What a four years it had been. I'd shaken myself out of 1988's dejection, forgotten 1991's disappointment, overcome physical and emotional exhaustion, and survived another scary hamstring injury. No matter what anyone else thought, I was very proud of myself.

At the end of the contest, during a walking victory lap, I saw Tracy Austin and ran over to hug her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bruce Jenner trying to get my attention. When I walked to him, he told the crowd of journalists, friends and fans gathered near him that I was “the greatest multi-event athlete ever, man or woman.”

I beamed. His words warmed my heart. Here was the very athlete whose performance in the 1976 Games had inspired my Olympic aspirations—a decathlete who himself had held the title of world's greatest—anointing me. Such compliments from a superstar male athlete to a female counterpart are rarely bestowed. It said a lot about what a generous person Bruce is. It meant more to me than any magazine ranking. I was momentarily transported from that mountaintop high in the Barcelona sky onto Cloud Nine.

29

Human Relations

S
ometimes my sensitivity brings me joy, rather than grief. When I hear about or see another person in pain or in trouble and I can do something to help, I'm happy to do it. That's when a thin skin comes in handy.

I think compassion for your fellow man is a very undervalued trait. Acting on it to bring comfort to someone who needs it makes me feel great. And I appreciate it when others do the same for me.

I remember how my heart broke for Chris Webber of the Michigan Wolverines during the final game of the 1993 NCAA basketball tournament against the North Carolina Tarheels. The last seconds were ticking down and the game was close. Caught in a bind on the court, Chris called a timeout the team didn't have. The Wolverines were assessed a technical foul and had to surrender the ball to the Tarheels, who went on to win the game and the national title.

The TV camera froze on Chris's face as the North Carolina players, coaches and cheerleaders celebrated around him. He looked so dejected and sad. I knew he was probably blaming himself. I thought he could use some cheering up.

“I'm going to send him some flowers,” I said to Bobby, who was sitting beside me on the bed watching.

I'd never met Chris. He probably didn't know who I was. I just wanted him to know that someone was in his corner. In the note accompanying the flowers, I told him to hang in there because he had a promising career ahead of him. I didn't want him to let that one moment spoil the rest of his life.

A year or two later, I was in Connecticut to participate in a program honoring heroes. Chris, who was by then an NBA star, was also speaking. His eyes lit up when I walked into the room. He walked over and hugged me.

“I want you to know how much I appreciated those flowers and your note,” he said. “When I received them I was still feeling depressed about what happened. They really cheered me up.”

I was so pleased to know I'd helped him. I knew firsthand that when you're in the public eye, people have no reservations about harshly criticizing you or saying things that hurt your feelings, without concern for how it will affect you. At those times, it's nice to hear comforting words or to have a shoulder to cry on.

At that point, I was in the midst of my own search for comforting shoulders and encouraging words. I'd lost most of my on-track support system when Al, Valerie Brisco and Jeanette Bolden stopped competing after 1988. My other good friend, Sandra Farmer-Patrick, was still competing, but she was married with a baby, and her family needed her attention.

Gail Devers, whom Bobby also coaches, has been my teammate, friend and training partner since 1986. But her serious health problems and intense competitions have demanded her full attention. Gail suffered from a severe case of Graves' disease, a thyroid disorder, for nearly two years after the 1988 Olympics. Then, the radiation treatments for the thyroid played havoc with her body and caused her feet to ache and bleed. Her doctors were considering amputation when they realized the radiation therapy was the cause. Gail never gave up. By 1991 she was back on the track, running and winning. I admire and applaud her determination. Her single-minded focus is one of the big reasons she was able to overcome Graves' disease and win gold medals in the 100 meters in Barcelona and Atlanta.

I wasn't completely abandoned, though. Bobby has always been a great listener and my biggest supporter. Also at especially grim moments, I drew strength and inspiration from my mother's spirit. Still, I sorely missed the camaraderie I'd felt with other athletes over the years.

During the thirteen years I've been competing on the world-class level, track and field athletes have become less collegial and more self-absorbed. Even during the Olympic Games, there's no feeling of “we” among team members, just “me.” It's the attitude in every sport, I guess. But in track and field, it bothers me to see people treat their competitors like sworn enemies and act as if every race is a matter of life and death.

To be sure, the competition has always been intense. And gamesmanship has always been a part of our sport. I remember a girl at a college meet stepping into the blocks beside me before the start of a hurdle race. She whispered to me that her girlfriend was sleeping with my boyfriend, in an attempt to rattle me. I almost lost my concentration, but not because she'd distracted me or upset me. I thought it was such a silly thing to say, I wanted to burst out laughing. I saw right through what she was trying to do.

Occasionally someone would elbow me out of their way during a race and, once or twice during the long jump, girls would move each other's starting marks to screw up their runs, but that was about as bad as things got.

In the old days, we were all able to turn it off and on. I was able to compete against Heike, Anke, Jane and Cindy, and still laugh and talk with them. We were fierce, but friendly rivals.

People were colleagues, not enemies. Athletes and coaches formed track clubs to share a pool of sponsorship money, facilities and training advice, and to work out together. A few clubs still exist around the country—including the Santa Monica Track Club, which includes sprinters Carl Lewis, Mike Marsh and Leroy Burrell, who work out together, despite the fact that they regularly compete against each other. But for the most part, such arrangements are an anachronism. That sense of team spirit in track and field went out of style with- baggy running shorts.

Nowadays, it's every athlete for him- or herself. Money is the chief reason, I think. Athletes feel they're chasing the same small pot of endorsement money and the only way to get it is to knock their competitors out of the race and out of the public's consciousness. I'm always happy to see other track and field athletes get endorsements and do commercials and I hope the spots are a hit so that the next time a company wants a spokesperson, it will think about using another track and field athlete. The only way our sport will prosper is if we all prosper. But many people don't see it that way.

A few overly aggressive agents, I think wrongly, tell their clients that they have to look out for their own best interests and ignore the best interests of the sport. The result is the selfish, cutthroat, contentious atmosphere that exists at meets. With so much pressure, it's little wonder people sometimes say things they wish they hadn't in the heat of the moment.

At the Barcelona games, Gwen Torrence caused an international incident when, after finishing fourth in the 100 meters behind Gail, Juliet Cuthbert of Jamaica and Irina Privalova of the Unified Team, she blasted her competitors and accused them of using steroids. “I think three people in the race were not clean,” Gwen said. “As athletes, we just know who's on drugs. Everybody knew about Ben [Johnson].”

Later, when she repeated the allegations, she amended her comments to say that “Gail won it clean.”

In fact, Gail repeatedly denied ever using performance-enhancing drugs. Bobby nearly had an aneurysm, he was so mad about Gwen's comment. He angrily told reporters, “Anyone who believes Gail Devers has taken performance-enhancing drugs can kiss my ass.”

What a mess it was. I felt caught in the middle. Gail was my teammate and my friend. Bobby was my husband. I wasn't a close friend of Gwen's, but we'd been friendly since she joined the international circuit after a successful career at the University of Georgia. I knew she was going to accomplish great things in track. When she was just out of school, during the Millrose Games in Madison Square Garden, I offered her some friendly free advice, as one black female track athlete to another. “Make sure you're always prepared when you face the media,” I told her. “Be ready for the harsh questions. Don't let them catch you off guard or make you say something you'll regret later.”

Gwen's remark didn't directly involve me. But when she started pointing fingers at other sprinters—even though she excluded Gail—my teammate and my husband were caught in the undertow of suspicion. I felt like, indirectly, I'd been attacked, too. Nevertheless, I tried to stay out of it. But several weeks after the Games I knew something had to change. Gail and Gwen weren't speaking. Bobby and Gwen weren't speaking. We'd pass each other in the hotel hallway, ride elevators together or jog past each other on the warmup track without so much as a “Hi, how are you.” I couldn't stand it. Gwen and I had always been cordial.

During a ceremony at a meet in Zurich, I walked over to Gwen and told her it was time for everyone to bury the hatchet. “This is silly. We have to get beyond this,” I told her. “It makes no sense for us to be on the circuit together and not speak to one another. I'm not going to let it happen.”

I also told her I admired her and all that she'd accomplished but that the whole situation was bad for her, for women, as well as for track and field in general. As I talked, I saw her facial muscles relax and the tension leave her face. She smiled and said she was glad I had come over to talk.

Incidents like that one sadden me because I think the behavior is destructive to the sport. Basketball, football and baseball players can get away with saying and doing controversial things because the public already embraces them. But track and field athletes aren't held in the same esteem. We should be looking for ways to lift up our sport, rather than tear each other down.

I know I'm part of a dying breed. I realized it a few years ago, after the coach of an American heptathlete told her I was only being nice in order to “steal her energy” and keep her from winning. I shook my head.

I've never felt more alone on the track than I did during the 1993 World Championships in Stuttgart, Germany. I was struggling through the heptathlon competition in a way I hadn't since the 1984 Olympics. I didn't know what was wrong with me.

The weather was hot and muggy, and at the start of the hurdles, I felt really tired. Usually I'm bouncing around in front of the blocks, blood and adrenaline pumping. That day, I stood flat-footed, looking down the track, wondering where I'd find the energy to step over all ten hurdles. I lost the race and recorded a pitiful time. Right off the bat I was behind.