A Kind of Grace Read Free

medal stand, not on an ambulance stretcher.
    I was drained emotionally, too. Dominance, I'd learned over the years, brings both adulation and attacks. No sooner had the “greatest female athlete” crown been placed on my head in 1988 than the efforts to knock it off began. I faced unfounded accusations of steroid use, heard unkind remarks about my appearance, and read hypercritical reviews of my performances. I tried to endure it all with good cheer. But in truth, the sniping hurt me deeply. If, as the critics kept saying, I was only as good as my last heptathlon performance, I wanted the final one in Atlanta to be my best of all.
    But things started going awry in June at the Olympic Trials. I sprained an ankle, pulled my right hamstring, and battled a cold and an asthma attack during the meet and lost by three points to Kelly Blair, who performed magnificently as I struggled. It was my first defeat in twelve years. Then, just twenty-one days before the Olympics, the scar tissue gnarled around my right hamstring jerked away from the muscle while I was airborne over a hurdle. When the pain registered, I jumped and fell to the track, screaming in agony and rage. My leg had been obstinate since then. Each time I tried to blast out of the starting blocks or push across the shot-put ring in practice, the pain was excruciating. I hadn't been able to test the leg's strength, to employ it as I would have to in competition.
    Now, with the moment at hand and my therapist's fingers furiously kneading that scar tissue and all the other tortured muscle fibers, I winced and wondered. Was my hamstring strong enough for the task ahead? How would it respond when I called on it to help me get over 100 meters of track and hurdles, to clear the high-jump bar, to provide the power to throw the javelin and, after all of that, to run 200 meters at world-class speed?
    I had no idea.
    As I walked into the packed Olympic Stadium, the sky turned gloomy. Raindrops dotted my legs and arms as we lined up in front of the blocks for the hurdle race. The drops became sprinkles and turned quickly into sheets of showers. The starter called us to the blocks and I insisted to myself that I was ready. Staring down my lane at the arrayed hurdles, I focused on starting strong and moving steadily forward, one step at a time.
    I shot out of the blocks without pain. A good sign. I was in front heading into the series of hurdles. First, second, third, fourth. All cleared. So far, so good. Fifth, sixth … oh, God! The hamstring pulled as I stepped over the seventh.
    “Keep going,” I told myself. “Don't stop. It hurts, but there are only three left.”
    I gathered all my strength, and tackled the eighth. My cheeks puffing furiously, I gritted my teeth to cushion the pain as I landed. I pushed on to the ninth. Another deep breath, the jump, the wince, the exhale. One more. I gritted my teeth as I cleared it. Then, a grimace at the finish line. I made it! Not only was I still in the competition, I'd won the heat. Now, to get some help for my throbbing leg.
    Dripping wet, I grabbed my gear and hobbled toward my husband and coach, Bobby Kersee. I was panting and in terrible pain, but I stopped on the way for a brief interview in the downpour with Cris Collinsworth of NBC, who held an umbrella over us. Between gasps, I told him, “I want to stay positive, take it one event at a time and let my physical therapist get in there and dig out whatever's in the muscle.”
    We went to the coaches' room, hoping to use one of the massage tables. But they wouldn't allow Bobby inside, even though he was my coach, because he didn't have the proper pass. So, the three of us, Bobby, Bob the therapist and I, climbed a flight of stairs inside the stadium to the concession area, where we found a little-used handicap-access ramp. I threw down a towel and stretched out on my stomach. Bobby and Bob went to work with ice packs and massaging hands to quiet the spasms inside my thigh.