A Kind of Grace (37 page)

Inside the tent, Leroy Burrell was lying on a massage table getting a rubdown. I climbed onto the table beside him and said hello while my therapist began wrapping my ankles. Leroy looked over, saw my right thigh and my ankles and laughed. “Gosh, Jackie,” he said. “You're all bandaged up. You look like the walking wounded.”

I was pretty worried, so the repartee and good wishes helped calm me. As soon as I got down off the table and tried to jog around, though, my leg went into spasms. I thought the bandage might be too tight. I asked Bob to rewrap it. As he finished, it was time to get on the bus and ride to the stadium. Inside the bus, the other athletes sat on the seats, while I stretched out on the floor. I wanted to keep the leg extended and loose. At the stadium entrance, the officials checked our bags, equipment and shoes and lined us up to walk onto the track. I took a deep breath. This was it.

Just that week, Kenny Moore had written an essay for
Sports Illustrated
about the Centennial Park bombing. The piece recounted his experiences as a member of the U.S. marathon team during the 1972 Olympics in Munich, where Palestinian terrorists killed several Israeli athletes. He discussed the indomitable athletic spirit and what he called the essential lesson of sports:

Everyone suffers. It's what you do with the suffering that lifts and advances us as a species…. Athletes turn pain into performance
.

I was certainly suffering now. Not just physically, but emotionally. I so badly wanted this Olympic experience to be joyous. I wanted to give my best performance in front of an American audience on American soil. I was so disappointed, so heartbroken that it wasn't turning out the way I'd envisioned. Here was one last chance—six jumps—to salvage something from these Games.

I instinctively grasped the essential lesson and applied it to my predicament. I didn't care if my leg blew up. I wasn't going to quit on myself because of a hamstring problem. I'd told Bobby that morning, “I won't leave the track on a stretcher like I did in Tokyo in 1991. If I have to shed blood out there, I will; but I'm staying until I take all of my jumps.”

When I walked onto the field that night, a thunderous ovation began. I studied the arena for the first time. It was vast, with three tiers of seats. Beneath the darkened sky, thousands of camera flashes illuminated the stadium like so many twinkling stars. The crowd of 80,000 was standing and cheering for me now. I couldn't stop smiling as I looked and listened. My heart was pumping. A flood of adrenaline shot up from my toes to my fingertips. It gave me goose bumps. The affection from the crowd flowed into my pores and turned to pure energy. I felt courageous. I wanted to get out there and give it my all because I knew they were on my side. They were pulling for me as hard as I was pulling for myself. It was the most invigorating experience I've ever had on the athletic field.

I loosened up on the runway after putting on my spikes. After locating the spot I wanted to start from on the runway, I nailed my marker into the ground next to it. The painful throbbing in my leg matched, beat for beat, the pleasant pounding in my chest. I sat down and banged on the bandage with my hammer, trying to beat the spasms into submission and loosen up the tightening muscle. I mixed some Powerede and water together and took a few sips. Then I dipped two fingers into a jar of Icy Hot and tried to slide some of the ointment under the bandage to keep the leg warm. I got up, walked around and shook the leg out, blocking out the feeling of desperation creeping up on me.

The first jump was terrible. I don't know how far I went, but it was nowhere near long enough. “It's going to be a long night,” I thought. Then I caught myself. “Don't get down on yourself. You have six jumps. If it means you're going to have to slowly work your way through it, then that's what you'll do. Let's just take it one jump at a time.”

After the third jump, I was in sixth place at 22′ 6¼″. Three tries left.

The fourth jump felt pretty good and I was hopeful, until I saw the line judge raise the red flag signaling a foul. I don't know what happened on the fifth jump. When I landed and got up, all I could do to keep from being frustrated was to laugh. It was pathetic. “Oh my God, Jackie!” I said to myself, trying to shake things up. “Is that all you have to show the world?”

I walked over to the fence to get some guidance from Bobby before the last jump. He was way up in the stands and had to walk down to a tiny railing that was still a long way from me. We had to shout to hear each other.

“Is it too fast?” I asked.

“Yeah, slow it down. Build in the middle and accelerate at the end,” he said.

He turned and climbed the long flight back to his seat. I was struck by how calm he was. Not a trace of excitement or panic. Al was sitting near the railing where Bobby spoke to me. He held his breath each time I stood on the runway, terrified that my leg would blow up at any minute. Mr. Fennoy sat in one of the four far corners, in what would be the end zone in a football stadium. He'd been clocking my runs with a stopwatch to monitor my timing down the runway. But he put it away to watch the final attempt.

As I walked toward my marker, I was oblivious to the crowd's gathering roar, the flashbulbs going off all around me, the camera lenses pointed in my direction, the thousands of live eyeballs and the countless millions of others staring at me through TV screens.

I saw only the strip of Mondo in front of me and the pit of sand beyond it. All I heard was the conversation I was having with my soul. “Well, Jackie. This is your last jump in the Olympics. The ultimate test of everything you believe athletics is about. You have to bear down and focus on the execution. The pain is going to come, but you have to block it out and persevere. Here's where you show them your character and your heart.”

I tapped my right foot behind me and whispered, “Come on Jackie.” I gathered my hands, put my legs in motion to run. I was racing down the runway, bringing my knees up. As I prepared for the last four strides, I told myself, “If this leg pulls, then it just pulls!” I attacked those last four steps, planted my right foot and launched. I tried to hold myself in the air as long as I could.

For the first time in my career, when I landed in the pit I didn't know if the jump was good enough. The judge at the foul line raised a white flag, signaling it was fair. Then, the electronic scoreboard flashed 22′ 11¾″. I had leaped into third place and a spot on the medal stand.

I had to wait a few moments for the rest of the competitors to take their final jumps. But I thought my leap would hold up because the three athletes who were also vying for third place each looked at me wearily after my jump as if to say, “I can't believe you jumped that far!”

When the final results were posted on the scoreboard, the crowd went nuts. I was so overcome with emotion, I wanted to personally thank each person in the stadium. I was so grateful for their support. I went over to Al and hugged him. He was elated, simultaneously laughing and crying. Then, as we left the track, the line of athletes swung past Mr. Fennoy's section and I ran to his open arms and hugged him. I looked at him just the way I had after finishing near the back in my first race as an eleven–year–old, and said the same thing I had that day.

“I tried.”

He clutched my head in his hands, pressed my forehead to his and said, “As far as I'm concerned, that was a gold medal performance.”

I felt the same sentiment from the cheering fans as I walked around the stadium. They were treating me like a record-breaker and a world-beater, even though I was neither, simply because they knew how hard I'd tried. So many times in my career I'd been made to feel that because I didn't win and didn't win big, nothing I did mattered. But this time, every inch of it mattered. This time, third best was just fine. Those ovations that night in Atlanta fulfilled and satisfied me more than any others I ever had. I left the stadium waving to the crowd, with tears streaming down my cheeks. Bobby was waiting at the edge of the track, as always. We hugged for a long time.

“That was the most courageous thing you've ever done,” he said. “I know you were in pain, but you didn't give up. This is a medal to be proud of.”

I was proud. As the bronze medalist, I led the procession to the awards stand. When the medal was placed around my neck, I felt I'd received the highest honor of the competition.

While the national anthem of Nigeria played in honor of the gold medalist, Chioma Ajunwa, I realized that the essential lesson of athletics has also been the essential lesson of my life. The strength for that sixth jump came from my assorted heartbreaks over the years—the loss of my mother, the disappointing performances, the unfounded accusations, the slights, the insults and the injuries. I'd collected all my pains and turned them into one mighty performance. And I had, indeed, been uplifted by the result. I showed the world that the little girl from East St. Louis had made something of herself. She was a woman, an athlete, with character, heart and courage.

I shall forever cherish my beautiful bronze medal from the 1996 Games. It is my reward for having learned the essential lesson and passing the tough test. It had been a most joyous Olympic experience after all.

32

Dear Momma

Dear Momma,

As I've sifted through my memories and organized my thoughts for this book, you've been constantly on my mind. You were
so
important to me when I was growing up, and your influence on me continues—in ways I'm not sure I can fully express. It seems that everything I've ever done somehow relates back to you, to something you once said or did.

I've felt your spirit with me during both happy and sad times. On graduation day at UCLA, I heard you applauding as I received my history degree. You were somewhere in that crowd on the streets of East St. Louis during Al's and my victory parade. I bet you cried at the sight of Al escorting me to the altar to exchange wedding vows with Bobby. And yours was the voice I heard as I walked to the line that final time in Atlanta, telling me to have faith in myself.

So many times I've tried to imagine what you would say about the things I've done, the life I'm leading and the person I've become. Since you aren't here to tell me, I decided to write this letter and share some of my thoughts with you.

I know I sometimes muttered at you under my breath and resented your rules. But I'm so grateful now for the way you raised me. Without the discipline you taught, the wisdom you imparted and the sense of hope you instilled, I wouldn't be where I am.

When I was just a little girl, you planted the seed that even though I was black and a female and from a family for which nothing came easy, I could achieve great things in this world. The key to success, you said, was to set goals, and not be deterred by hardship or distracted by temptations.

I realize now that I owe a big part of my success in the heptathlon to you. It's a lot like life, that event. It's a seven–piece puzzle that must be put together, even on days when the pieces aren't falling neatly into place. You, Momma, gave me the three most important tools I needed to contest that event successfully: fierce determination, an appreciation of hard work and unwavering faith.

On the personal side, I've been very fortunate to have Bobby in my life. I think you'd like him. He's a good Christian man. We have a very happy, very comfortable life together. But it's not money or cars or houses that I care about. It's the love that Bobby shows and the support he's given regardless of where I place in the standings—whether I'm the world record holder or the sixth–place finisher at the World Championships or even just Jackie the Joker, a girl from East St. Louis. He is my security, always looking out for my best interests and protecting me—at times, even from myself. I feel blessed to have him as my husband.

All in all, I'm happy with who I am and with what I've accomplished. And I'd like to think I'm a success.

My biggest fear is that I haven't lived up to
your
expectations. The one thing I've never wanted to do was let you down. That's why whenever I feel lost or perplexed about something, I try to think of what you'd want me to do. Some people who've judged me—as a person and as an athlete—have made me feel like I wasn't pretty enough or that I wasn't good enough. Each time, I thought, “Am I good enough for Momma?”

I hope that every time you look down on me from heaven, that—no matter how I look on the outside—you always see beauty within me. If you do, Momma, then I'm a success.

Thank you for everything. I miss you.

Love,

Jackie