A Kind of Grace

by Jackie Joyner-Kersee

  It was impossible not to notice the stark differences between track in the U.S. and Europe. The crowds abroad were routinely larger, more enthusiastic and more knowledgeable. At the Mount San Antonio College Relays earlier in the spring, the first major track competition of the year in the U.S., the crowd watching our event had shrunk to a dozen coaches by the time we started the 800 meters. In contrast, at the Gotzis Invitational in Austria, the promoters delivered enormous and enthusiastic standing-room-only crowds, even for the heptathlon. Despite blustery winds, cold temperatures and rain, the stands were filled to capacity, around 20,000 people, during both days of our competition. And they understood the competition. Everyone had been given a program listing our personal bests and the standards in each event. I remember the thrilled faces of the children as I competed. It was such a revelation to see them celebrate and wave their programs wildly when I broke Jane Frederick's American record and won the meet with 6,841 points. It was gratifying and exciting to be appreciated that way.

  Next stop was the inaugural Goodwill Games in Moscow. I was excited about the trip to Russia. I couldn't wait to observe life behind the Iron Curtain. As a child, like other American kids, I'd heard so many horror stories about what it was like in Communist countries, I wanted to see for myself. I expected to see men in trench coats, fedoras and sunglasses in alleys and on park benches, as well as frowning, uniformed Russian policemen stalking the streets. I had no idea how they treated American citizens over there.

  The reality, surprisingly, wasn't far off from those caricatures. Security was as tight as an Ace bandage. We were escorted to a car at the airport, and as we drove along the highway into downtown Moscow, we saw security guards along the side of the road, for miles and miles. Not until the car passed Red Square and the Kremlin did I start feeling somewhat at ease.

  I was immediately struck by how seriously the Russians took everything. There was an attendant on every floor, checking keys each time we got off the elevator to go to our rooms. Our hotel was clean and nicely furnished, but the room was about the size of a closet. When more than two of us wanted to hang around and talk, we sat outside in the hallway because we couldn't all fit comfortably inside. Creepiest of all, I felt like the walls had ears. I kept hearing strange noises as I walked around. When I talked on the phone, there was an almost constant clicking sound in the receiver. I was sure the line was bugged.

  We all were afraid of getting sick. The threat of diarrhea was ever present, U.S. track officials had warned us. After experiencing a day of dining Russian-style, I stopped eating the food and started subsisting on bagels and bottled water.

  Everyone ate the same dish at mealtime in the hotel restaurant. No choices. No substitutions. On the first morning there, we were served a tasty breakfast of chicken and rice. When the waiter walked in with the same chicken and rice dish at lunch and again at dinner, I knew something was wrong. The food had been hot at breakfast. By lunch, it was warm. At dinner, it was cold. Sure enough, the second day of the heptathlon, I developed diarrhea and a queasy stomach.

  Bobby arrived the day after I did, without the credentials or hotel room American track officials had promised to provide. A liaison to the event organizers who met him at the airport helped him get to the hotel. There, one of the American chaperones gave him a pass for the stadium and put him on the shuttle bus.

  Meanwhile, we endured a steady stream of logistical snafus at Lenin Stadium during the meet. They changed the starting time for our event after we'd left the warmup track and were waiting to go onto the competition track. There were nearly a dozen of us crammed in the tiny waiting space.

  There was a real Cold War atmosphere in the room. The Russian competitors mostly kept to themselves. They were very cliquey, not at all friendly. We knew they were under strict orders from their coaches not to mingle with athletes from the West. Every move they made was monitored and they could be severely reprimanded if they showed any friendliness. After learning about the strict system under which they lived and competed, I didn't criticize them for their attitudes and actions. I actually felt sorry for them that they had to suppress so much of their personalities. I couldn't imagine living and competing under such restrictions.

  I chatted with my teammate Cindy Greiner, whom I'd known for years from the collegiate circuit. As we waited in the cramped area, our muscles started to get cold. We all jumped around and bent over, doing anything to keep our legs and arms loose.

  Once the competition began, everything went smoothly. But I was apprehensive. I was still battling the demons of self-doubt that had undone me in Eugene in 1980 and four years later at the Los Angeles Games. A week earlier in Oslo, Norway, I'd been sitting in my hotel room with Val, discussing whether I was being unrealistic in expecting to run the 100-meter hurdles in 13 seconds. Bobby overheard me and started chastising me for the lack of faith in myself and his coaching. I knew he was right, but I couldn't help myself.

  I didn't see Bobby or hear his voice when it was time for the first event. That was unusual. He always let me know where he was at the start of a competition. No matter how loud the cacophony on the track, I could always pick up his voice and hear him shout, “Okay, Jackie, let's do it!”

  At the starting line, I stared down the track, past the precisely arrayed hurdles to the finish line, wondering how long it would take me to get there. As I stepped into the blocks, I remembered what Bobby had said to me that night, “Stop doubting yourself! You're ready to run this in under 13 seconds.”

  The gun fired and we were off. I crossed the finish line 12.85 seconds later, well ahead of everyone else. It was a new American heptathlon record and .59 seconds off the overall world record. I was thrilled. In the time it took me to clear the ten hurdles, my doubts had vanished. My eyes searched the stadium for Bobby. No sign of him. I listened for the familiar scream of triumph. Nothing.

  Inside the stadium concourse, he was running up the steps as the announcer was reading the results in Russian. He found an American journalist and asked how I'd done. When the reporter told him 12.85 seconds, Bobby broke into a big grin. He knew I'd scored 1,147 points. A very good start. He was still beaming when he emerged from the stadium entrance, wearing a suit and tie. He hollered and waved to me at the high-jump area.

  I jumped 6′ 2″ that day, which was truly remarkable considering all the trouble I had with the technique. The world record stood at 6′ 9¾″ and Bobby had set our goal at around 6′ 4″. But looking up at his smiling face in the stands, I knew I'd done just fine: 2,227 points. Inside, I knew it, too. I savored the feeling of accomplishment. It was another personal record. The minimum we expected was 6 feet. Those extra two inches bought me nearly 100 bonus points.

  I felt so confident and so relaxed. No rushing. No getting ahead of myself and thinking about the world record. Just moving serenely from one event to the next. I was entering that trancelike state I hadn't visited since the 1984 Olympic Trials.

  I was way ahead on points as I took the shot in my hand and tucked it between my jaw and shoulder. I put it 48′ 5¼″, another personal best and well within our target range. My total jumped 845 points to 3,072. No bonus points this time. I was disappointed that I hadn't thrown 50 feet, but I reminded myself that anything between 48 and 50 was fine because the high jump had given me a comfortable cushion. I wasn't in any danger of breaking any shot-put records. The overall world record was 73′ 11″ and the heptathlon world best was 68′ 8½″. But as far as my personal goals were concerned, I was right on target.

  The final event of the day, the 200 meters, lasted just 23 seconds for me. I'd shaved nearly a second off my previous best time! I was overjoyed with the performance. The time was 1.3 seconds off the world record. I'd racked up a staggering 4,151 points the first day, 216 points ahead of Anke Behmer, who was in second place, and 277 points more than Paetz, who was fourth.

  In the stadium, Bobby was beside himself, cheering and applauding wildly. He was standing beside Ted Turner, the preside
nt of Turner Broadcasting, who'd organized the quadrennial international competition. Turner envisioned the meet as a way to restore goodwill after the dueling Olympic boycotts in 1980 and 1984. His assistant had introduced him to Bobby.

  Ted was wearing a blue blazer, a blue button-down shirt and slacks. He was about to go down to the track to present an award and needed a tie. He turned to Bobby. “Can I borrow your tie?” he asked. “I'll give it back to you. They want me to give this award and I didn't wear a tie. I mean, nothing personal, but who the hell wears a tie to a track meet?”

  Bobby's blue and red striped tie matched Ted's outfit perfectly. While Ted was down on the track, Bobby told Turner's assistant he needed a favor. He had no place to stay. When Ted returned and heard about Bobby's predicament, he got all riled up. “This is a disgrace!” he said. “Call the people at my hotel and get Bobby a room.”

  Bobby ended up at my hotel, though. The U.S. track people found a room for him. He wanted to be close by to counsel me that night, to work on my legs and to get ready for the second day of the heptathlon. But the hotel staff wouldn't let us stay in the same room, even though we were husband and wife. Only women were allowed on my floor, they told us. Bobby's room was on another floor. I couldn't believe what a weird place it was.

  Reporters and spectators were buzzing about the possibility of my breaking the world record, but Bobby and I stayed away from the subject. We focused on protecting my legs, icing and rubbing them down. That night, we discussed only our approach to the next day's events.

  If the strategy for winning the heptathlon is seven times more complicated than that for any single event, the calculus for breaking a heptathlon world record is forty-nine times more complex. To have any hope of reaching 7,000 points, I either had to score at least 1,000 points in each event, or get pretty close to it and find several hundred bonus points in selected events along the way. That was our plan; and so far, it was working. The throwing events were, as they had always been, my weak spots. It was hard for me to get 1,000 points in either the javelin or shot put. The best I could hope for was 850 points in both, and to pick up 1,200 or 1,100 in the long jump, the 200 and the hurdles to make up the difference. I'd done as well as I could in the 200 and the hurdles and come away with several hundred bonus points. The final piece of the puzzle was the long jump, the first event of the second day. If I did extremely well, the possibility of a new world record would be real.

  Anything past 22′ 10″ in the long jump would give me the 1,100-plus points I needed to stay on world record pace. And as it turned out, my first leap was textbook-perfect. It wasn't 21″, or 22′ or 22′ 10″. It was 23 feet, a mere 1′ 5½″ off Heike Drechsler's world record; 1,176 more points. Total: 5,327.

  If I could hold my own in the javelin and keep my wits about me through the trying 800 meters, my name would enter the record book. Up in the stadium, Bobby couldn't sit still. He paced. He ran up and down the stadium stairs, rubbing his hands together. As with the shot put, the world record in the javelin is out of my range. A British woman, Fatima Whitbread, had thrown it 254′ 1″ to establish the best mark. Still, on my first throw, I heaved it nearly 16 feet farther than I ever had before, 163′ 7″ : 6,184 points. I forfeited the other two throws and awaited the 800.

  I was just 816 points away from 7,000, a little more than one point for every meter I had to run. That was my thought as I headed to the starting line. Cindy Greiner, who was out of the running for one of the top three spots, walked beside me and said, “Go for it. You can do it. The 800″ s not going to be that bad.”

  Cindy, like Jane Frederick, was a great friend to me through the years and competitions. She wasn't blessed with extraordinary athletic gifts; but she had desire, heart and discipline, which made her an extraordinarily tough competitor. She was also among the most generous people I knew in track and field, a sport that is rife with envy and mean-spiritedness. No matter how she was faring, whenever we were in competition together, she always offered encouragement.

  My goal in the 800 was 2:10. I knew it would be a challenge. That time was 16.7 seconds off the world record, which meant I would have to really haul it the entire way. But if ever there was a moment to push myself, this was it. I felt comfortable with the pace through the first lap and Bobby shouted that I was on target as I started the second. As I finished the backstretch and hit the curve before the final straightaway, the announcer was telling the crowd of 25,000 that I was on pace to break the record. Alternating in Russian and English, he shouted “Go, Go! Go!” The crowd stood and cheered. There may have been only 25,000 people there, but they sounded like 250,000 to me. Being greeted by such enthusiasm coming off the curve gave me chills. I was an American athlete, competing in their country, beating their best athletes, and yet they really wanted to see me break the record. I finished in 2:10.02, good for 964 points. Total: 7,148.I waved to the crowd to express my appreciation. The announcer in the press box shouted, “It's marvelous! It's magnificent!” The ovation lasted several more minutes. Photographers, television cameras and reporters with microphones surrounded me. Bobby came flying onto the field carrying a water bottle. He made his way through the media throng and emptied it down my back. I was the first American woman since Babe Didriksen to hold a multi-event world record.

  Despite all the mishaps during the trip, the feeling I got hearing that roar as I ran down the stretch during the 800 meters made it a wonderful experience. Ted Turner was criticized and made the butt of jokes for creating the Games, but I thought it was a wonderful concept. The reception I received from the Russian fans exemplified the spirit of goodwill he wanted to achieve. I was proud to have been a part of the first meet, and I've participated in the Goodwill Games ever since.

  Bobby and I left for London first thing the next day, hoping to finally get a good meal. When we arrived at the hotel room, bouquets and vases full of roses and other flowers were waiting for me, along with a greeting card reading, “SO, YOU DID IT!” that Florence Griffith had gotten everyone from our World Class Track Club to sign. We were in London to meet officials of ICI, one of our sponsors, and to meet Nigel Mansell, the Formula One race car driver also sponsored by ICI.

  Three weeks later, Bobby and I found ourselves in Houston for the Olympic Festival. I was tired and sore and eager to go home for a rest. But Bobby insisted that I was ready to break another record and told me not to squander the opportunity. The Houston newspapers were filled with stories about the world record. Everyone in the press corps wanted to know whether it was wise for me to compete so soon after exerting myself.

  It wasn't difficult getting motivated to compete, despite my initial reluctance. I wanted to keep competing against the best to prove that I was the best. Also, the fact that the event was on American soil made it important to me. I'm patriotic that way. I think it's more gratifying to win on American soil, in front of American fans. Plus, I had another reason for competing. My father and Coach Fennoy had come to the meet.

  I also viewed Olympic-type events like the Olympic Festival, Goodwill Games and Pan Am Games as great ways, in non-Olympic years, to expose more Americans to track and field in general and the heptathlon in particular. Whenever I try to explain the event to youngsters or non–sports fans, they're surprised to hear what's involved. I always urge them to come out to the track and watch the event. It's the only way to develop an appreciation for the skill involved, to realize that we don't just wander out, run the hurdles, have lunch and then come back and throw the shot and do the long jump. I believed then, as I do now, that because track and field competes against so many other more popular sports for fans' attention, greater exposure is the only way American audiences will ever become as enthusiastic about the sport as the Europeans.

  My flight from London to Houston had been delayed by several hours so I didn't arrive until 11:00 A.M. the morning of the first day of heptathlon competition. By the time I got to the track that afternoon to warm up, the temperature was reported at 102 degrees a
nd the humidity was oppressive. On the track it was 118 degrees. It was so hot, my hands blistered while holding the 8-pound, solid metal shot and again, while gripping the javelin.

  The Mondo track surface, which is even softer than Tartan, seemed to melt in the heat, turning from rubber into a gluelike sponge. It stuck to my fingers and burned my knees when I assumed the starting position in the blocks. It gripped my spikes as I ran. To counter the blast-furnace conditions, officials handed us a steady supply of cold, wet towels and bottles of icy, cold water.

  I was happy that the fans didn't desert us. In fact, 100 of them followed us around the corner to the back of the stadium to watch the shot-put competition on the first day. It was a tiny group, but their support cheered all of us. Cindy turned to me with a big smile on her face and said, “Isn't it nice to have all these people watching us?” Her comment said a lot about our low expectations.

  My score after the first day was just six points less than my first-day total in Moscow. Cindy was 392 points behind. On the second day, the heat had sapped my energy by the time we gathered for the 800. I needed to run 2:10 to improve on my record. But in that heat, I wasn't keen on pushing it. I took it easy on the first lap and was starting to labor on the second. But the announcer revved up the crowd of 17,000 as I started the final 200 meters. Hearing them, I got a burst of energy. “Okay, I'll run,” I decided. I crossed the line in 2.09 seconds. I was exhausted. But I'd added 10 points to the world record, raising the bar to 7,158.