From 8:00 A.M. to 8:00 P.M., I worked six days a week. I sprinted up and down and around one half of the track stadium, trying to climb every step before the hand on Bobby's stopwatch reached the five-minute mark. Then I lifted weights, working each body part. In the afternoon, I worked on the heptathlon skills.
I had never worked harder at athletic training. My palms were decorated with calluses from weightlifting. As I limped off the darkening track at the end of each day, my calves ached, my buttocks were tight and my feet screamed for a pail of warm water. But I saw the rewards every time I looked in the mirror. My arms and legs were lean and sinewy. My body fat count was in the low single digits. My stomach was as stiff as a washboard. The results showed on Bobby's clipboard. I was throwing the javelin and putting the shot farther. The seconds were disappearing from my 800, 200 and hurdle times. I was jumping farther down the sand and the high-jump bar was moving up.
17
The Carnival
There's always a carnival atmosphere at track and field events. Athletes in the multi-events suffer more than others because our competition goes on for such a long time. Just as you're about to start your approach to the high jump, the crowd starts to roar about something that's happening on the track. Or they start playing the music for an awards ceremony and throw your concentration off when you're in the middle of crouching for the shot put.
During the Olympic Trials, however, the carnival takes place inside a pressure cooker. The media and the people involved in the event make it hard to stay calm and focused. Journalists love to play up the fact that the Trials are an athlete's one and only shot every four years to make the Olympic team. Athletes get spooked by such talk and start thinking, “Oh my God, I gotta be ready, this is it.” Some put too much pressure on themselves, overtrain and get injured before the meet. Or their nerves just get the best of them.
And then there are all the requests for interviews and photographs. Here you are, trying to prepare for the biggest event in your life, and suddenly you're bombarded with attention. Of course, the exposure, interest and publicity are exciting and flattering. They're what you've worked for and it's hard to turn down a chance to savor some of the benefits. But I always remember what Mr. Fennoy told me when I went away to big meets in high school—take care of business first and reap the rewards afterward.
I think track and field athletes are more easily seduced by the limelight than, say, football or basketball players, because, normally, we attract little publicity or fan interest. Some of us act like the reporters are on the last train leaving the station and if we don't get on board, we'll miss our one and only chance at celebrity. I wish our sport was covered more consistently and that officials who govern track and field would do a better job of promoting the sport so that people would be interested in covering us year round rather than just every four years. Unfortunately, that's not the case.
Some say the solution is to change the system for selecting the Olympic track team. They think U.S. athletes who hold world records should get automatic spots on the Olympic team. Others say the team should be made up of athletes who win the most competitions during the previous four years.
I believe that the system in place now, which uses results from the Olympic Trials to determine the makeup of the track team, is the fairest, most objective way of doing it. Every athlete knows the rules—that the Trials are where the decision is made. All of us should have to get out there and perform when the time comes. That's the only way to level the playing field for veterans and newcomers. Doing it any other way is just asking for trouble. It would be an invitation for mischief by unscrupulous agents, promoters and sponsors who could help certain athletes build up their records while avoiding tough competition.
In 1984, I wasn't distracted by interview requests or photos for sponsor ads. As relaxed as I was about the competition, though, I was only cautiously optimistic about my chances of making the team. The four women who were favored were hungry. Jodi Anderson won the 1980 Trials but the American team's boycott of the Moscow Games dashed her hopes of winning a medal. Jane Frederick held most of the American heptathlon records but had been plagued by injuries for most of her career during major international competitions. Patsy Walker hadn't competed in 1980 because of a broken bone in her foot. Cindy Greiner was trying to emerge from the shadows of the others.
The first day of the competition, I won my heat of the 100-meter hurdles in 13.61, a personal record. But Jodi ran 13.52 in the next heat. In the high jump, I started at 5′ 4″ and, along with a group of others, cleared it. Jane conserved her energy and passed at that height. Her strategy didn't seem unreasonable considering she'd cleared 6′ 2″ just a month earlier. The bar went to 5′ 6″. Several of us cleared it, but Jane was still passing. Finally, she set it at 5′ 7¼″, but when she rose into the air the bar toppled. Then she missed again. Suddenly, there was just one chance left for her. Several girls cleared the height. But Jane missed again on her third try. She'd no-heighted, which means she wouldn't get any points for that event and couldn't possibly make the team. We were all stunned. Jane was devastated. She just sat on the mat, holding her forehead in her palm, looking dazed. I felt so bad for her. What can you say to someone in that situation? I walked over, gave her a hug and patted her on the shoulder. The Trials were over for her before they really began. She had high hopes of winning her first Olympic medal after decades of working toward the goal. Now she'd fallen short again.
Jane was one of those athletes who always seemed to have trouble handling the pressure leading up to the Trials. In 1980 she came in with a hamstring injury, which she blamed on overexertion. She told Sports Illustrated she couldn't help it. “I get worried. I'm not good at keeping myself from over training.” This time, after jumping 6′ 2″ at the Pepsi Invitational meet, she said her legs were tight. But she just felt she had to keep working out. It was similar to what I'd experienced in 1983, going to the Worlds just a few weeks after exerting myself in the NCAAs. Bobby and I learned our lesson from that experience. But even when you know better, the temptation to continue training is almost too much to resist. You don't feel pain, so you think you can do it. But contrary to what we athletes like to believe, the body can only take so much pounding. A muscle might not hurt but it can still be fatigued, and when it is, you have to lay off it and allow it to rest. If you don't, you're flirting with serious injury. The words are easy to say, but they're hard to follow, especially when a spot on the Olympic team is at stake. Jane kept training after that Pepsi meet and ended up tearing her right Achilles tendon. Then she was forced to stop working out at a crucial time. She hadn't put on a pair of spikes for a month before the Trials. So she was rusty and out of synch on the high jump.
The high-jump competition continued without Jane. I cleared 6′ 0″, another personal best, which gave me a 15-point lead on Jodi Anderson, whose best jump was 5′ 10¾″.
Patsy Walker won the shot put. In the 200 meters, she ran a really good 24.68. But I ran it in a personal best of 23.77.
We began the second day at the long-jump pit. Patsy hit 20′ 4¼″, a personal best. I reached 22′ 4¼″. The judge who sits at the end of the runway watching to see whether jumps are foul hadn't given a signal. There was a pause. He stared at the line for what must have been an eternity. I kept my eyes on him while he kept his on the board. There were no instant replays in track and field in those days. Finally, he raised the white flag indicating a fair jump. I threw my head back in the air and let out a big sigh. It was a new American heptathlon record for the long jump.
There are two sets of records that apply to heptathlon competitions. One is the record for the event within the heptathlon competition. The other is the overall record for the event itself, whether contested within a heptathlon competition or outside it. In the long jump, the overall American record was still Jodi Anderson's 22′ 11¾″.
The heptathlon record for an event can only be broken or tied in a heptathlon competition. But an individ
ual event record can be broken at any time. So, if I'd broken Jodi's record on that leap, it would have stood as both the new American record in the individual long jump and as the new American heptathlon long-jump record.
Setting that long-jump record meant a lot to me. I'd struggled so long to regain my form from high school. The jump also put me back on pace to break the American heptathlon record for total points.
Jane came over to me during the lunch break and encouraged me to go for the record. I really appreciated her support and told her so. It showed real sportsmanship for her to cheer me on when she was obviously hurting so badly. I realized, though, that this wasn't the time to worry about records. The goal here was to make the team. I wanted to avoid straining so hard for the record that I wound up injured and watching the Olympic heptathlon competition on television. I could worry about the record another time.
After lunch, we walked to the javelin area. The event, always a question mark for me, went unbelievably well. The first time I had tried to throw the implement in 1981 I hit myself in the head. I didn't win the competition at the Trials, but I threw 148′ 11″, another personal best.
Things were clicking for me. I was in a cocoon of confidence and calm. I focused clearly on each event and on what I had to do. My mind was unpoisoned by pressure and self-doubt. It's a state athletes refer to as “the zone.” I was still on pace to set a record, but most important for me, I was in first place heading to the 800 meters, with a comfortable cushion.
Patsy, Cindy and Jodi were in a dogfight for the other two spots and the 800-meter race reflected it. Jodi, running beside me on the outside, interfered with me as I tried to pass her. There were only 300 meters left and she had lost the lead to Patsy, who was on the inside lane and had started her kick to the finish. I was ready to charge to the front with Patsy and tried to move closer to the inside. But Jodi threw her elbow out in my direction and pushed me away. I had to run the rest of the race outside in the third lane. I was furious. But unlike now, the tactic wasn't considered grounds for disqualification. In the end it didn't matter. Patsy won the 800, but I won the competition. I ran 2:13.41 on the outside lane, which gave me 6,520 points, a new American record. Jodi finished 107 points behind me in second. Cindy edged Patsy for the third team spot.
I crossed the finish line filled with a wonderful sense of accomplishment. From the despair that almost drove me out of the sport three years earlier, I'd rebounded to fulfill my great expectations. I savored the moment and the emotion, not realizing that even more happiness was in store. Several days later, I finished second in the long-jump competition and earned a spot on the Olympic team in that event as well.
Meanwhile, Al was having fun in the triple-jump pit. He opened with 54′ 8″ and took the lead. The crowd was stunned. No one expected Al to figure in the competition. But he was holding his own in a struggle with Mike Conley and Willie Banks, the two favorites. Banks jumped 56′ 2¾″. Then Conley went 56′ 10″ and everyone's jaw dropped. Al would have to really give it all he had to stay with them. He walked to the line and showed a determination I'd never seen before. He just flew on that jump, landing 56′ 4¾″ down the pit, ensuring himself of a spot on the team behind Mike and Willie. We embraced on the infield. I was so happy and proud.
What a great day for the Joyners. We'd survived that grueling test of heart, tenacity and nerve and emerged victorious. We were going to the Olympics together! It was a dream come true for the two kids who'd once raced each other to the mailbox on Piggott Avenue.
Back at the apartment that night, Al and I phoned my father. He'd watched the whole thing on television, cheering us on from his chair in the family room. The trip to Los Angeles for the Olympics was already on his itinerary. He said everyone in the neighborhood was sky high about what we'd done that day. Al and I smiled at each other. It was Sunday, June 17. We wished Daddy Happy Father's Day.
18
A Silver Lining
The Trials were a triumph not only for Al and me, but also for Bobby. Besides my brother and me, he coached five of the athletes who made the 1984 Olympic track and field team: Alice Brown, Jeanette Bolden, Florence Griffith, Valerie Brisco and Greg Foster. But there were no wild celebrations afterward. That wasn't Bobby's style. “It's too early to celebrate,” he said. “We haven't done anything yet. The objective is to win gold medals.”
Immediately after the Trials, Bobby packed up the seven of us and moved his training operation to the University of California at Santa Barbara, two hours north of Los Angeles. We spent the next three weeks there, preparing for the late July Games with our friend Brooks Johnson, who, as the head Olympic track team coach, was holding tryouts for the various relay teams. Alice and Jeanette were both candidates for the 4 × 100 relay team. Valerie Brisco, one of the three best female 400-meter runners in the nation, was a shoo-in for the 4 × 400 team. While they worked out with Brooks, the rest of us trained for our events with Bobby looking on.
That training camp was a bustling operation. Every day, all day long, sprinters who'd arrived to try out for the relay teams circled the track, some jogging leisurely, others running as if they were in an actual race. Brooks divided his time between the two track straightaways, working with the relay runners. On the days he wasn't sweating through running drills, Greg set up his hurdles on an outside lane. Meanwhile Al worked in the infield jumping pit or did his running drills on the track.
I was all over the place. First, on the track for a warmup jog, followed by quarter-mile and sprint drills. Then to the long-jump pit with Al or to the hurdles with Greg or in the throwing area with the shot and the javelin. Brooks also saved a chunk of time periodically to help me with the 800 meters.
Brooks helped me unravel the mystery of that event. It's a race that is neither sprint nor distance, requiring physical strength, precise strategy and mental discipline. My work with Brooks on the 800 began that summer and continued, off and on, for the next four years. We worked first on my endurance and speed. He put me through a series of sprints in rapid succession, first 300 meters, then 500 meters, then 500 meters again, and finally, 300 meters. He timed each of them and insisted that I hit precise time targets. The last 300 had to be completed in 45 seconds, no faster, no slower. The point, he explained, was learning to divide the race into those two segments, 500 and 300, and to discipline yourself to hit those target times. The reason: Running the race efficiently and successfully required proper pacing and careful strategy. Going out too fast too early or waiting too long to move to the lead would spell defeat.
He took me for a walk around the track, pointing to target areas on the track and explaining the objectives. “Here's the point where you accelerate,” he said as we rounded the first turn. A little farther along, he said, “Through here, you just sit back and look pretty.” Into the second lap, he explained, “When you get here, you're gathering your strength and preparing for the final kick.” Rounding the final turn, he smiled and said, “And here is where you punch it and come on home.”
After hearing that explanation, I realized it was another example of Bobby's adage about those knowing why beating those who know how. Brooks had just given me the why and how of the 800 meters.
My training was intense and rigorous, but it was proceeding extremely well. I was in great shape, with plenty of stamina. And I was brimming with confidence from the Trials. Each day I felt more and more comfortable with the long jump, and was consistently hitting 22 feet. My hurdling, javelin and shot-putting skills were improving as well. For instance, from a high of 14.88 seconds in 1980, my time in the 100-meter hurdles was down to 13.5 seconds. At 23.8 seconds, I was two seconds faster in the 200 than I had been just three years earlier. I was finally putting it all together.
Bobby crunched the numbers and matched them against the results from the European Trials and the East Germans' performance. He believed I had a very good chance of winning a bronze medal.
Then, the unthinkable happened. Bobby lined up all the women
for sprint drills. I was running alongside Florence, Val, Jeanette and Alice. I got out of the blocks well, and started my charge, full-blast, down the straightaway. Suddenly, I felt a twinge creep up my left leg. Immediately, I knew what had happened. It was the same sensation I had a year earlier in Helsinki. As I slowed up, the pain increased. It was all too familiar. I'd pulled my hamstring again.
“Oh no! Oh my God!” I cried as I grabbed the back of my leg and slowed to a stop. I was trapped in an excruciating vise, between physical pain and emotional devastation.
“It's my leg again,” I cried out to Bobby. Al ran over from the jumping area.
The other girls, who'd been in fourth gear running down the track, slowed abruptly and raced back to see what was wrong. They all circled around me. I stood on my right leg and shifted all of my weight to that leg. I couldn't bear to put any weight on the left leg, couldn't even allow my foot to touch the ground. Around the track, everyone else was frozen in place, looking in our direction.
“This can't be happening! Why does this have to happen to me now?” I said as Bobby and Al helped me hobble off the track.
It was two weeks before the Olympics. Looking down at my swollen leg, I just knew my chances for a medal were doomed. It looked awful. I felt as if someone had just ripped our game plan into a hundred little pieces.
Bobby and Bob Forster worked on my leg, massaging the muscle to get it to relax. After a few hours, it calmed down and the pain subsided. But it remained very tender. I couldn't put any weight on it. They wrapped it tight with an Ace bandage and told me to stay off it for a week.
A Kind of Grace Page 16