Breaking the Surface (27 page)

My parents didn’t like Tom, and he didn’t like them. My father had made it very clear that he didn’t trust Tom, that he thought he was an opportunist. My mother felt that Tom was ruining my career, and she accused him of trying to cut off her relationship with me. She even said all of this to
GQ
in a 1988 profile of me. She told the reporter that Tom didn’t let me answer my own phone and that he didn’t pass along messages from her, which was true. When the reporter asked her how long she thought the relationship between Tom and me would last, she said, “I hope until tomorrow.” That really upset Tom.

Tom’s goal was to drive a wedge between me and my parents. He claimed that my mother got off on my stardom and told me that she was a “whiny bitch” and a “star fucker.” He said that my father was a “control freak” who just wanted to tell me what to do with my finances. Tom would always put a negative spin on whatever they did, which made me think that maybe he was right. That made me feel awful, because I’d always counted on my mother, at least, to be in my corner. Deep down I knew she still loved me, but Tom’s remarks made me wonder.

It seems incredible to me now that I ever believed what Tom said, but he was still the person I trusted most, and I foolishly chose to see the world through his eyes—at least for a while longer. At the time this happened, I was still very dependent on Tom. I was attached to him, and I needed and wanted his approval. So I felt like I was being torn in half. I couldn’t imagine him not being at the Olympics, but I wanted my parents there, too. The only way I felt I could survive the dispute was to step aside. The Olympic trials were fast approaching, and I just couldn’t deal with it. I told my mother, “Mom, I love you, but you and Dad are on your own. Argue it out with Tom.” I washed my hands of the whole thing. It was the cowardly thing to do, but I was afraid to challenge Tom. So Tom went to the Olympics with me, and my parents watched it on television.

I got to the Olympic trials in Indianapolis about six days before the start of competition, which was four more days than we usually gave ourselves when we were going to a national meet. The trials were obviously very important and we wanted to be totally prepared. I wanted plenty of time to get familiar with the diving board and the pool.

I had a good workout the first day, but I woke up the next morning feeling pretty lousy. I went through my morning workout, and then Ron and I decided I should take the afternoon off and rest. The next day was horrible. I was achy and feverish, the whole nine yards. I was scared. I thought this was it, this was the HIV kicking in, it would all be over soon.

I stayed in bed all day and thought about what was going to happen. Would I recover and then be able to get through the trials? What if I got through the trials and got sick at the Olympics? Should I talk to my friends at U.S. Diving and let them know my situation so we could have an alternate there just in case? What if they decided I shouldn’t go to the Olympics because of the HIV? I couldn’t risk saying anything. I prayed it was only the flu.

During the night the fever broke, and the next morning I felt a lot better. I realized by then that a lot of other people at the trials had caught the same virus. Fortunately, with my surprisingly strong constitution I fought off the virus faster than some of the other athletes did. But it was scary, because with every sniffle or upset stomach, I couldn’t help but think it was the beginning of the end.

The next morning, with only one day to go before the trials were set to begin, I got back in the pool. I was so thankful to be diving again, and after getting through my list a couple of times, I felt confident that I’d do well in competition.

Everyone expected that I’d get two spots on the team, one for three-meter springboard and one for ten-meter platform, but I had some anxiety about how I’d do on springboard. If I was having a bad day, there was always the chance I’d wind up not making the team.

Despite my last-minute doubts, I did really well on springboard and platform, winning both with a comfortable lead. It was a huge relief to be past that hurdle, because if you make the team, you know that at least you have a shot at the gold. If you don’t get through the trials, it’s over.

Ron was also relieved. It wasn’t just that I’d won; he was also afraid that my fever had to do with the HIV. As if that wasn’t enough to worry about, while we were in Indianapolis, Ron’s sonin-law, Andy, committed suicide. He’d been suffering from depression for many years, but his suicide still came as a terrible shock to them. Ron and Mary Jane decided not to say anything to any of the divers, because they were afraid it would affect our diving. We all knew the whole family, including Andy, and it would have upset us. But it must have been a terrible burden for Ron to be there with us, not being able to say anything and having to be away from his daughter at a time of real crisis. Ron’s good at shutting out the world and focusing on what has to be done. That’s what he taught me, but it’s tough when something like that happens.

The six weeks between the Olympic trials and the trip to Seoul were pretty much a whirlwind. From the trials, we went right to New York to do one of the morning TV shows. From there we went back to Indianapolis to go through processing for the Games. We had photo shoots and paperwork to deal with.

From Indianapolis, we headed back to Florida and took a few days off. Then we started training again, six days a week. The goal with those final weeks of training was to build up to the Olympics and peak at the event. This was no standard six weeks of training. After the first three weeks at Mission Bay, we did an exhibition in Boca Raton. For the first time in my diving career, I almost missed an event because I was late.

John wanted me to have a gamma globulin infusion before I left Florida. After the exhibition, we were heading out for two more weeks of exhibitions across the country, then flying to Hawaii for a week of training. From there, we were flying to Seoul. John was concerned that I was going to a foreign country, where I’d be exposed to all kinds of bacteria and viruses, and he wanted to build up my immune system as much as he could before I left.

The only time I had a long enough break to get the infusion was between my morning workout and the exhibition. Gamma globulin isn’t just an injection. It’s a full infusion, and it takes time. I was angry with John for making me come in, because it was just one more reminder that things were different now. But I knew he was right, so I drove to his office after morning practice.

There should have been more than enough time to get to John’s office, do the infusion, and get back in time to dive. But they had trouble with the machine, and it took a lot longer than the two hours it should have taken. I was watching the clock the whole time, getting more and more panicked. I was never late, and I didn’t know how I’d explain where I was. What was I going to say—that I was getting a gamma globulin infusion because I was HIV-positive and had a low T-cell count?

As soon as the needle was out of my arm, I ran for the car and drove like crazy. I ran into the pool area, and everybody was relieved to see me, because they were afraid I’d been in a car accident. I wanted to say, “I wish that’s all it was.”

I’d been in such a rush that I’d forgotten to stop at home and get my suit and chamois. Luckily, someone had an extra suit for me to borrow, but I didn’t have my chamois. That might not sound like a big deal, but it’s unheard of for a diver to forget his chamois. It’s basic equipment. Ron took me aside and said, “Don’t worry, we’re holding. People are still coming in. Just calm down.” He was the only person who knew where I’d been.

I got through the exhibition just fine, but mentally, I didn’t know where I was.

Even without the added burden of HIV, Ron and I knew that getting through the 1988 Olympics—and coming home with two gold medals—was a much bigger challenge than it had been in 1984. I still had a good chance of winning, but a lot had changed in four years. To start with, I was four years older, and most of the divers I was competing against were a lot younger. My strongest competition on platform, Xiong Ni of China, was half my age. Some of the divers were calling me Grandpa.

It wasn’t just that my competition was younger. They were also better than they were in ’84, especially the Chinese. They’d been studying my techniques, and now they were doing the same difficult dives that I’d counted on in Los Angeles to give me a substantial edge. In other words, the competition had caught up.

On top of that, I wasn’t in the same peak shape I’d been in four years earlier. My body had changed. It wasn’t that I’d gotten heavy, but I’d gotten bulky as my body matured. That’s my Samoan heritage. In 1976 was skinny. In 1984, I was just about right. And by 1988, I was a little bulky.

These factors were out of my control, but what I
could
control was my training, and it wasn’t nearly as focused or consistent as it had been in the years leading up to the ’84 Olympics. Back then, I’d spent nearly a whole year training. I was very single-minded. After ’84, my world really opened up and diving was only part of what was going on in my life. I was busy with lots of things other than diving, from public speaking to Speedo appearances. I always seemed to be running to my next appearance, and I never had enough time to train for competitions. I was still winning, but the difference was that now I always felt unprepared. I’d get three months of concentrated training during the winter, and then, in the off season, I’d get two or three days here and there, depending on my appearance schedule.

Tom and Ron wound up struggling over how much time I got to train. Tom wanted me out there as much as possible making money. Ron wanted to make sure I was prepared for competitions, and sometimes he’d have to rein Tom in. Finally, they came to an agreement that I could have at least six weeks to get ready for a competition. But then something would come along that was too good to pass up and Tom would insist that I do it. That happened a few times where it really hurt my performance. One time I hit my hand on the board during a dive, and then in April 1987, I came in second—not first—in all three events at the U.S. indoor diving championships in Baton Rouge. That was it. Ron put his foot down and insisted that there were no exceptions; I had to have the six weeks of training before every major competition.

Despite the fact that I had a lot more than six weeks of training for the ’88 Olympics, I just wasn’t as well prepared as I had been in ’84. I’d already won two golds at the Olympics and I knew what it was like to compete at that level. But whatever I gained from the ’84 experience didn’t make up for the fact that I wasn’t as focused going into ’88.

Then, as much as I wanted to deny it, there was the HIV. After I got over the virus at the Olympic trials, I managed to push my HIV worries to the back of my mind, but I couldn’t forget about it completely. I still had my AZT clock to remind me to take my pills every four hours, and there was John pumping me full of gamma globulin. I tried to act as if there were nothing to worry about, and Ron did the same thing. We didn’t want to alarm each other.

Still, there was plenty to worry about as the departure date for Seoul approached. To start with, I was scared about the drug testing they do at the Olympics. Would the medications show up in my urinalysis? Among other things, they checked for high levels of caffeine and steroids. Were any of the medications I was taking banned substances? I talked to John about this before the Olympics, and he made some calls. Fortunately, none of what I was taking was on the list.

What scared me more than anything was that someone would find out about my HIV before we left and stop me from going. I was also scared that they’d decide to implement HIV testing at the last minute. And then there was customs in Seoul. How would I hide all my medications?

Before I left home, I put my AZT in a medicine bottle that didn’t identify what the pills were. I left the rest of the medications in their containers. Unless you were a doctor, you couldn’t tell that they were prescribed for someone who was HIV-positive. When I got to customs in Seoul, the agent asked me what the pills were for. I was so scared that I could hardly breathe as I told him the pills were vitamins and antihistamines. He just nodded and continued going through my bags.

I was relieved to get through customs, but that wasn’t the end of it. I was also afraid of being found out during the Olympics. I had a room to myself, so at least I had some privacy. Normally, you’re two to a room, but because I had qualified for two different events, I got my own room. Still, when my alarm went off during the night, I shut it off as fast as I could. I didn’t want to wake anybody up.

The rest of the day was more of a problem. I was swallowing pills from morning till night. I was afraid all the pill popping would raise some eyebrows, but only one of the divers asked about it. I said it was aspirin for my shoulder. Funny thing is, when he asked, the pill I was taking happened to be aspirin.