A Kind of Grace

by Jackie Joyner-Kersee

  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.

  I felt so sick and lethargic. I was hot one minute, then shivering with chills the next, during the high jump. I put the back of my hand to my forehead. I was burning up. Bob Forster kept handing me cold towels, telling me to wipe them over my body to stay cool. Waves of nausea came and went. Several times I got up to run to the bathroom, because I thought I was about to throw up. Then it was my turn to jump. I couldn't clear 6 feet. Now, I was really miserable. I started crying. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bobby approaching. I quickly wiped away the tears and cleared my throat. I knew if he saw me crying he'd get on me.

  I tried to pull myself together at the shot put, which didn't go so well either. I was well below my target scores. After the shot put I was in third place, behind the leader, Sabine Braun of Germany.

  Braun and I had a little feud going. Actually, she had a feud with me. I hate mind games and think they're a waste of energy. But I'm not going to be intimidated or back down from a challenge, either.

  She'd won the 1991 World Championships in Tokyo after I withdrew. On the victory stand, she'd raised a finger, declaring herself number one. That was fine. But in Barcelona in 1992, she'd gone too far. It was my turn to long-jump. I walked toward the starting line and she stepped in front of me and wouldn't get out of my way. I held my ground and we bumped shoulders. “Okay, so that's how you want to play? Fine,” I said to her in my mind. I jumped 23′ 3¼″, scored 1,206 points and clinched the gold medal in one fell swoop.

  Now, I wanted to win back the World Champion title. After the way she acted at the Olympics, the thought of losing a second consecutive world title to her was unbearable. But if I didn't do something fast, the contest would be over. I had to summon the energy to prevail in the 200. Sandra Farmer-Patrick came over to me and tried to make me laugh.

  At the gun, I just charged forward out of the blocks and kept charging until I got to the finish. I won the race in a pretty good time, which put me back in the lead, by a very slim margin, over Braun.

  But I still felt weak and uninspired at the end of the first day. One reporter thought he'd figured out the problem. At the press conference after the first day, he asked me if I was pregnant! I laughed out loud and said, emphatically, “No.” I told him I'd been hot and then cold out there and I was fatigued. At least he didn't ask me if I thought I was past my prime or if it was time to retire. I later found out that I had a slight fever that day, but Bobby and Bob didn't want me to know because they were afraid I'd blow it out of proportion, dwell on it and lose my focus.

  The next day, while preparing for the last three events on the warmup track, the fever was gone, but my blue mood was still clinging. I felt sorry for myself. I looked around the track at everyone warming up. I saw Gwen Torrence, Michael Johnson, Butch Reynolds, Quincy Watts, Carl Lewis, Mike Marsh and Jon Drummond. Each person was in his or her own little shell. No one mingled. Some people wore headphones as they jogged around the track stone-faced, looking straight ahead, making eye contact with no one. I'd have to fend for myself, find my own motivation and inspiration.

  I thought about all the times I'd cheered up other athletes when they were down or given them pep talks when they were nervous or struggling. And about people who'd done the same for me. I missed the old days, when Cindy Greiner and Jane Frederick and I chatted between events and during warmups. No one had come over to encourage me except my old friend Sandra Farmer-Patrick.

  Just then, Gwen jogged up behind me. “How you feeling today?” she asked.

  “Not so good, but I'm gonna try to get it together,” I said.

  “You can do it,” she said. “Remember, you're still JJK.”

  “All right, Gwen. Thanks a lot,” I said. It was the first time I'd smiled since that reporter asked me if I was pregnant.

  Then Quincy Watts, who'd won a gold medal in the 400 meters in Barcelona and was being coached by Bobby, walked over with Jon Drummond to check on me. Quincy and Jon are sweet guys. Quincy was suffering from a sore back after fall
ing in the shower a few days earlier. We ended up consoling each other. The show of concern from Gwen, Quincy and Jon touched me and pumped me up. It was as if they'd all heard my silent wish. They did more to cure me than any medicine could have. It turned around my whole outlook. It also gave me hope that sportsmanship lives.

  The heat was suffocating and the humidity was draining. I'd lost over five pounds the day before and it showed. I was so gaunt I'd been startled that morning when I looked in the mirror and saw my sunken cheeks.

  I nailed the long jump, 23′ 1¼″ Braun couldn't reach 22 feet. Then I gave it all back on the javelin. Braun's throw sailed 175′ 4″ ; I couldn't do better than 143′ 7″. She led by seven points. During the three-hour break before the 800, I went back to the hotel and sat in a bathtubful of cold water. And I drank water constantly. Sitting in the tub, I thought about what I had to do. I had to beat Braun in the 800 by 0.6 seconds. I had to risk dehydration, exhaustion, asthma, cramps, a muscle pull—everything—to win that race. She didn't seem to be nearly as tired as I was, but I had to run like it was the first event of the meet.

  I was relieved when I stepped out of the hotel to board the van to the track and felt a cool breeze. The sun had set and the night air was energizing. Sandra came out to the warmup track with me and talked the entire time. She had an endless supply of funny stories. I loved her for it. Finally, it was time to run. “Sandra, I have to give this 800 everything I have,” I said.

  “Then go do it,” she said.

  The crowd was very partisan, waving German flags and screaming wildly for Braun.

  I moved to the inside lane after the start. Braun was right behind me, just over my shoulder. I played it cool, trying to make her think I was tired. After the first lap, I charged out. She didn't follow. She was tired. I got so excited I almost went out too fast. I started wheezing on the back-stretch. The asthma was kicking in.

  “Okay, Jackie. Here it comes,” I thought. Immediately I began feeding my mind one positive thought after the other. “Just keep pumping your arms. It's not that bad, so keep going. You can make it. You're not going to have a full-blown attack. You have enough air. You've got this thing won. Don't lose it now.”

  Braun was gaining on me with 300 meters left. This was it, now or never. “Just run as hard as you can in this last 200 meters, Jackie,” I said. “If she comes up and catches you, she deserves to win.”

  As I reached the line, in fourth place, I took a quick glance over my shoulder to see if Braun was still shadowing me. I didn't see her. I turned sideways and bent over to try and control my asthma and saw her coming up to the finish line. I'd won. She was 3 seconds behind me. Bobby rushed to me and handed me the inhaler. He and Bob stood around me, along with a doctor, as I tried to catch my breath. It took ten minutes for my body to calm down. Meanwhile Braun and her German teammate took a victory jog around the track.

  I was still recovering when Braun came over, hugged me and raised my right arm toward the crowd. They jumped to their feet and cheered wildly for me. I was ready to collapse from exhaustion. But I relished the moment. I was delighted about the way I'd fought for that victory.

  In the press conference afterward, I was determined to write my own headline for this story. I wasn't going to let the journalists be the judges this time. “I have to say this is my greatest triumph, considering the competition and the ups and downs I was going through. It was a test of strength, a test of character, and of heart. If I really wanted it, I had to pull it together. I will enjoy this one.”

  Back at the hotel I ran into Wilma Rudolph in the hallway. She kissed and hugged me and told me how proud she was. We agreed to talk the next day. Wilma and I had met a decade earlier at a Women's Sports Foundation Awards dinner in New York. That night, we embraced and began talking and laughing as if we'd known each other all our lives. From that moment on, she was no longer just a role model, she was one of my closest friends and like a second mother.

  The next day in Germany, I sat on the sofa in her room and unloaded all the frustration and sadness that had been building inside me since 1988, the same way I used to do with Momma. “I don't know, Wilma, I just feel sometimes that winning isn't enough for people anymore when it comes to me,” I said. “If I don't break a world record, it's a disappointment. If I don't score over 7,000 points, it's mediocre.”

  She smiled sympathetically. “That's what happens when you're on top,” she said. “People are gunning for you. You can't let it get to you, though. You have to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to it.”

  “I'm doing the best I can. Why do they have to be so harsh?” I asked.

  “Forget about trying to please them,” Wilma said. “Remember why you're doing this. You have to want this for yourself.”

  I always enjoyed our talks so much. Wilma was so wise. I wish we'd had more years together. Sadly, she died of brain cancer a year after I saw her in Stuttgart.

  That advice—so obvious in a way, yet so meaningful, coming from Wilma—was her priceless, final gift to me. She'd given me the new perspective I was seeking, a way to cope with the pressure of expectations. She also reminded me of something very important that I'd forgotten. I'd become so wrapped up in earning everyone's respect and approval, I'd lost sight of the reason I started jumping and running in the first place—because it satisfied something within me. My performance in the heptathlon the night before had pleased me because I had to fight for it. I didn't care what the papers said. I knew it was special.

  30

  At Death's Door

  The asthma attack I suffered at the World Championships should have set off alarm bells. My condition was getting worse. The attacks were coming with increasing frequency. That year alone, I had three serious attacks, including the one in Stuttgart during the 800 meters.

  I'd anticipated an attack in the spring of 1993, when I returned to Eugene—the site of a 1991 attack during the NCAA Championships—for the U.S. National Championships. But fortunately I didn't have one. We'd taken a lot of precautions. I was taking my medicine. Also, Bobby and I consulted with a doctor there, who told me to wear a mask over my face while competing to protect my lungs from the thick pollen.

  People teased me about the mask. Someone called me Darth Vader. Another athlete asked me if I'd become a surgeon during the off-season. Even though I knew the consequences of not wearing the mask were grave, I actually toyed with the idea of not putting it on because of the ribbing I was getting. It was probably the only thing that could protect me from a severe, perhaps even fatal attack, but I foolishly felt embarrassed and self-conscious about wearing it.

  But I knew I needed to do it. I also knew Bobby would kill me if I didn't. So I wore it. Track & Field News ran a photograph of me in the mask in 1993. I wore a similar one at the 1995 Championships and again was pictured in the magazine.

  On Mother's Day that same year Bobby and I visited his best friend, Dave Harris, and his family at their home in Whittier, California. We all went out to eat Chinese food that night and I ordered the corn soup. It was scorching hot that day, but I was in the mood for soup. With every spoonful I swallowed, I got hotter and hotter. I gulped down several glasses of water during the meal and by the time the check arrived, I felt awful. I was so hot. I used the inhaler several times in the car on the drive back. Back at Dave's house, I went to sit by the pool hoping that I could ward off an attack if I cooled off. But after a few minutes I realized I wasn't getting better. I started wheezing. I got up and tried to make my way into the house, when the heat wave surged through me. I inhaled several shots of Ventolin through the inhaler. It wasn't helping. In fact, it seemed to make my chest and throat close even faster. I could feel my windpipe shrinking by the second.

  I tried to call Bobby. But I couldn't summon my voice— the only thing coming out of my mouth was a whisper. I don't know why it came to mind, but in a speech class at UCLA, the professor told us that it's not always the loudest person who gets heard; sometimes, it's the quiet voice that
people hear. I thought if I just kept saying Bobby's name in a whisper, he'd eventually hear.

  “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby …”

  Dave's son heard me and came to find out what the noise was. He ran inside and got Bobby, who rushed me to the hospital. The doctors made me stay overnight for observation again. I tried to get them to release me. But Bobby insisted that I stay. He was getting tired of my irresponsible behavior, the episodes and the close calls. “This is the best thing for you,” he said. “You're hardheaded and you don't take your medicine.”

  I didn't change my ways until November, after I returned from Germany. I don't think I'd completely recovered from the attack at Stuttgart or the exhaustion. Yet, I hit the ground running. We flew back to L.A., stayed there a few days, then flew to St. Louis. For the next few weeks, I was engrossed in planning the annual fund-raising dinner for my foundation. I always invited celebrity athletes to join me at the dinner. Monica Seles, whom Bobby and I had known for a year before her stabbing, had agreed to attend. It would be one of her first public appearances since the attack. We hoped her presence would generate excitement about the event and the foundation's work. But for Monica's sake, we tried to minimize the hoopla.

  There were a million details to finalize the day before the dinner. Monica and her father were due to arrive at my house, where they were staying for the weekend. Val Foster had driven me to the radio station to do a promotional spot for the dinner. I'd been struggling to adjust to the constantly changing climates, first the humid, then breezy conditions in Germany, then the warmth of L.A., and now the chilly temperatures in St. Louis. When we came out of the radio station, the cold air hit me and I told Val, “Whoa, I can't keep going like this or I'm gonna get sick.”