A Kind of Grace (27 page)
T
he heptathlon is such a rigorous competition, it completely drains me. Even in reasonably good weather—no humidity, moderate temperatures—I lose about five pounds over the course of the two-day competition. In conditions like those in Houston I've sometimes lost almost ten pounds during the forty-eight-hour period. I'm also on the brink of dehydration by the end of the 800 meters, which is why Bobby rushes to me with water as soon as I'm finished. Add to that strain a long-jump competition a few days later and it's almost too much for one human body. But my love for the long jump blinds me to the perils.
Bobby has a completely different attitude. Because the risk of injury is so great in the long jump, for many years he resisted the notion of my competing in the event while I'm competing in the heptathlon. But in 1987, after much begging from me, he relented.
Even I knew I was flirting with disaster by trying to long-jump at the Pan Am Games in Indianapolis in August, just two weeks before the World Championships. I would surely have to withdraw from the Worlds and miss the chance to defend my number one ranking if I pulled a hamstring, twisted an ankle or worse in the long jump. So I promised Bobby that at the first indication of injury or pain, I would withdraw. I adored the conditions on the track in Indianapolis. They were ideal for long jumping. The weather was mild. The sand was soft. The runway was Mondo.
I couldn't wait to jump. Because Bobby was so reluctant to let me do it, I felt like a ten-year-old girl again, sneaking a jump while the coach wasn't looking. I guess I was overanxious. On my third run, I charged down the runway so fast I had to slow up to find the board. I jumped 23′ 9½″ and won the competition. The photographers, seated on a bench inside a trackside pit that resembled a baseball dugout, began packing up their gear for the night and shuffling off the field. But I still had a jump left. Bobby held his thumb and index finger about an inch apart and pointed away from the starting line—a signal to move the start of the run back a smidgen. As I walked back to the start line, Tony Duffy, a photographer who lingered in the pit, asked if I was taking the last jump. I said yes. He set up, and so did I. Running as hard as I could, I attacked the runway, pumping my arms and trying to lift my knees to my throat. I planted my right leg without looking and came down some 24 feet later. The officials huddled around my landing spot in the sand. Someone put a yellow mark in the spot where my heels sunk in the sand. Another pointed a telescope-like object containing an optical laser at the yellow mark and peered through the eyehole. More huddling. Another official-looking man arrived and pulled out a steel tape. The rules required a steel tape measure to confirm all world records. My heart leaped. I watched the ten men study the area for several agonizing minutes more. One of them finally came over to me and said, “Jackie, you tied the world record. I couldn't stretch it.” I had jumped 24′ 5½″, which equaled the record held by Heike Drechsler of East Germany.
I was elated. And so glad I had been selfish, just this once, and insisted on competing in the long jump. This one was for me. I raised my arms and cheered for myself. On that calm August night, I'd leaped all the way from my porch railing to the top of the world, and the feeling was fine.
I get such satisfaction from competing in individual events. Not only does it alleviate the boredom of just doing the heptathlon, it puts a new set of challenges on my plate. I have to hold my own against the very best specialists in the world, which means my performance must reach a higher level than that demanded in the heptathlon. From time to time, I've also competed in the 100-meter hurdles and the 400 hurdles. I like testing myself that way. It's fun.
But with the 1988 Olympic Games in my sights, I turned away from such diversions after 1987 to concentrate on the serious business of trying to win gold medals in the heptathlon and the long jump. We arrived a few days early in Rome, the site of the 1987 World Championships. Our first day there, Bobby and I spent a harrowing morning driving through the city streets on our way to tour the Vatican. The traffic is crazier than anything I've ever seen. Cars got tied up and drivers would jump out and start shouting at one another, in the middle of an intersection. I was relieved when we arrived at the Vatican in one piece. While Bobby read the panels and brochures describing the history, I studied the artwork and the sculpture, imagining the patience and dedication it took to craft something so perfect and beautiful. It was inspiring. It reminded me of the process I went through to break the 7,000-point barrier in the heptathlon.
The competition was held in Olympic Stadium, site of Wilma Rudolph's triumph during the 1960 Games. But it was the upcoming 1988 Games that were on everyone's mind.
The biggest challenges for me in Rome were the conditions. First, 75-degree temperatures and 86 percent humidity during the heptathlon; then a dangerous, track-slickening rain in the long jump. I won the heptathlon with a score of 7,128 points, some 564 points ahead of Larisa Nikitina of the USSR. But by the end I was severely dehydrated and close to collapsing. Dwight Stones grabbed me for an interview on NBC Sports immediately after the 800 and I was so woozy from the heat that I couldn't comprehend what he was saying. I could hear him and see him talking, but I didn't understand what he was asking me. I have no idea what I said or whether I made any sense at all. I only remember being very dizzy and feeling faint. Bobby was waiting as soon as the interview was done. He handed me a bottle of water and doused me with another, then led me out of the stadium to the first aid area.
It took a day to recover from the effects of the heptathlon. It was tough. Bob Forster, my physical therapist, iced and massaged my legs twice. On the second day, I went out to the warmup track and jogged around at a leisurely speed to keep the muscles loose before the long-jump competition.
Sportswriters speculated that I couldn't come back because I'd been so drained by the heptathlon. But it never entered my mind that I wouldn't. Whenever I compete in two events in one meet, I always try to put the experience of the heptathlon behind me and move into the long jump as if it's my one and only competition. Even if I feel fatigued, I won't give in to it. On that jog, I kept telling myself, “You can do it, you can do it.”
The next day, I scampered through the rain to hit 24′ 1¾″ on my third leap. I thought it was a good, legal jump. But a frowning face appeared on the track's electronic scoreboard, indicating that officials ruled the jump a foul. In the stands, Bobby was frowning, too. And fighting mad.
I did a double-take at the referee. I wanted to say, “Hey, you can't do this! Why do you want to take my jump from me?” But I kept my cool and walked back to the starting area, figuring that if I had to jump again, I could do it. I wanted to focus on the positive, not on being upset and angry. That would only distract me and sap my energy if I needed to jump again. Besides, through their sustained whistles and howls, the boisterous 41,000 stadium spectators were expressing enough outrage for them
and
me.
Fortunately for all of us, instant replay had come to track by then and when a tape of my jump was shown on the screen, it showed clearly that my toe was a quarter of an inch behind the line. Upon reviewing the replay, the officials changed the ruling. No one jumped farther, including runner-up Heike Drechsler of East Germany, with whom I shared the world record. I was the heptathlon and long-jump world champion!
Bobby and I celebrated over pizza, cannelloni and my favorite pasta of all—tortellini—at a restaurant not far from our hotel. I sat on two plastic bags of ice that the waiter had graciously made up for me so that I could ice my hamstrings during dinner.
A photograph of me preparing to heave the javelin during the heptathlon appeared on the cover of the next week's issue of
Sports Illustrated
beside the billing: “SUPER WOMAN.” It was my first
SI
cover appearance.
I said
ciao
to Rome with my two gold medals packed safely away. No injuries. No upsets. Everything was falling nicely into place for the final push toward the Games in Seoul, South Korea.
After a few more meets in Europe, we returned to Drake Stadium at the end of the year to prepare for the Olympic Trials. The days were intense and exhausting. Typically I was at the track by 8:00
A.M
for warmups and didn't leave until dusk, at around 6:00. Mornings were devoted to endurance work, including timed, repetitive sprints and stair-climbing drills. The routine began at the end of the indoor season in April and continued until the Trials in July.
One memorable morning in May, I inhaled the aroma of the freshly cut infield grass as I stepped off the last stair at the end of a run through the stadium with Florence, Jeanette, Val, Alice and Al. It hadn't been terribly taxing. Bobby had spared us his usual five-minutes-around-the-whole-stadium sprint. I was slightly winded, but I would recover on the walk to the next drill. We'd all been through the pattern a thousand times before over the past three years.
Suddenly, there in broad daylight, I saw stars. Then I felt my throat closing. I stopped walking and bent over, my palms gripping my knees. I was wheezing. I couldn't get a breath. I was terrified. I started to cry. Al rushed over and asked what was wrong.
“I'm scared,” I said, my voice whistling. “I can't breathe!”
Al and Bobby tried to rush me to the car, but I kept grabbing their arms, stopping them. I didn't want to move too quickly. With every step, my throat tightened further. I was sure it would close completely. It was like trying to breathe through a coffee straw.
The doctors at UCLA Medical Center told me I'd just suffered a full-blown asthma attack. A very serious one. They immediately connected me to an IV containing antibiotics and the steroid prednisone, which works to counteract allergies and is frequently prescribed for asthmatics.
The drug poses two problems for me. As a steroid, it is banned in track competition. It's allowed during training, however. So, I had to stay out of competition while ingesting it and for several weeks afterward, until it was out of my system. But unlike most steroids, prednisone isn't a performance-enhancing drug. On the contrary, it breaks down muscle tissue and makes me weaker. That's the second problem. I feel healthier as an asthmatic when I'm on prednisone, but as an athlete, I feel lethargic and weak. I don't like any of its side effects, really. When the doctors give me high dosages immediately after a bad attack, my bones and joints ache and my eyes and face get puffy, as if I'm retaining water. But I haven't had the severe weight gain that a lot of people experience while taking it for extended periods. I'm never on it for very long and have taken it only when I'm in danger of getting a cold or the flu. My doctors have warned me that having an attack when I have the flu or a cold can be deadly, because an asthma attack while my lungs are congested and inflamed could suffocate me. The doctor prescribes prednisone for limited periods, to go along with whatever antibiotic I'm taking to quickly end the cold or virus.
It wasn't news to me that I had asthma. I'd taken Bobby's advice a few years earlier and consulted a specialist, Dr. Roger Katz, who told me I was asthmatic. Actually, Bobby made me go. “Asthma? What's that?” I asked Dr. Katz, annoyed by the notion that I, a world-class athlete in superb physical condition, might have some debilitating affliction. When he explained the condition and told me I'd have to take medicine regularly to control it, I shrugged. It didn't sound serious to me.
Dr. Katz prescribed several pills, including theophylline, and an inhaler containing Ventolin. But every year after that, particularly in the spring, the shortness of breath became worse and worse. Now, three years later, sitting in the emergency room bed, the doctors told me that my allergies to grass aggravated the asthma and had caused the attack.
I knew this latest incident would make Bobby overprotective. But I wasn't about to let that happen. Things were going too well for me. I was finally at the place I wanted to be in athletics. I was coming off my finest season ever, having settled comfortably into the top ranks of the heptathlon and the long jump. I was right on target for the 1988 Olympics and I hoped that great things were in store for me at Seoul.
The doctor said it was important that I take the medicine he prescribed. No problem, I thought, I can handle it. All I had to do when I felt sick was to stay relaxed, catch my breath, take the medicine. That would take care of everything. I left the hospital determined not to let asthma stop me.
Just before the Trials, however, I had another close call. This time I was at home. Bobby and I were living in Canoga Park, California. He wasn't at home but Val had stopped by. It's a good thing she did. I don't recall what prompted it, but I started getting hot and seeing stars. I began to panic, because I knew it was another attack. I started stripping off my clothes, trying to get air any way I could. I felt like the clothes were restricting my ability to inhale and exhale. I was working so hard to get every breath, my whole body was heaving.
I called for Val, who was in the living room. She found my inhaler, gave it to me, then called 911. The paramedic arrived and asked me questions about my condition that I couldn't answer. I tried and tried to convince him I was going to be okay. But he insisted on taking me to the hospital.
When Bobby arrived, he and the doctors scolded me for not taking my medicine. I promised to reform. And I did—for a few days. But as soon as I felt better, I slacked off. Later, I stopped taking it altogether, as if I were cured. I just wouldn't accept the idea that I had a serious illness that required constant pill-popping and being chained to an inhaling device. Just like in 1983, the only thing on my mind was Olympic gold.
Another Kind of Grace
A
fter Houston and Rome, I thought I was ready for any and all weather conditions at the Olympic Trials in July in Indianapolis. But standing on the track and feeling 115-degree heat rising from the rubber surface was like being inside a barbecue pit.
