A Kind of Grace Read Free Page A

Spectators watching us from their seats applauded and shouted encouragement. “We love you, Jackie!” “You're the best!” “Good luck!”
    Hearing them, I wished with all my heart that I'd be able to continue.
    The spasms eventually subsided. And after an hour-and-a-half rain delay, the heptathletes were moving to the high-jump apron. The nice people who'd watched my therapy session cheered as I made my way down to the field. I took a practice jump at a very low height and knocked the bar down. I knew I was in trouble. But I refused to surrender. I walked across the track to the stadium railing, where Bobby was standing. “It feels like it's pulling,” I said. “If I accelerate, I don't know what will happen. I'll try the next height and see.”
    I turned and walked away. As I crossed the track and reached the high-jump apron, I heard Bobby's voice over my shoulder. He'd jumped over the railing and was walking up behind me. “That's it, Jackie,” he shouted. “I'm not going to let you do this.”
    I knew if he was on the track I was already finished in the competition because he didn't have a pass. But I protested anyway. “No, Bobby, I want to try. Let me at least
try.
”
    He led me to the tent where the heptathletes had gathered. We sat on the grass. He looked at me and said, “I've watched you for twelve years give everything you've got. I'm no longer going to allow you to do this. It's time to go.”
    “Bobby, I just want to
try.
”
    “No, Jackie, this isn't a coach-athlete thing. This is your husband telling you it's time for you to go.”
    It was over. I sat there a good three to five minutes absorbing the impact, while Bobby told the officials I was withdrawing. I tried to hold back the tears, but they poured out of my eyes, down my cheeks. Bobby started crying, too. I leaned against him and put my head on his shoulder. He put his arm around me. We sobbed together.
    Ghada Shouaa, a Syrian heptathlete, came over and hugged me. Then she kissed me on both cheeks. She also kissed Bobby. That was the greatest compliment a competitor could have paid me. Sabine Braun of Germany came over and patted me on the back. It was a touching gesture considering our tense rivalry. I gathered my paraphernalia and walked off the track with Bobby. None of the spectators knew what was happening, so there was no reaction. We walked past a wall of reporters. I was too upset to talk. If I had tried to open my mouth and speak, I would have burst into tears.
    Bob, Bobby and I walked back to the hotel, just a few blocks from the stadium, in silence. With the track and field events underway, the streets around the stadium were deserted and deadly quiet. It was like being in a funeral procession. A funeral for my dead dream.
    Within minutes our hotel room filled with our friends: my high school track coach, Nino Fennoy, and his friend Toni; my aunt Della; my brother, Al, and sister-in-law, Florence; Bobby's best friend, Dave Harris, and his wife; my orthopedist, Dr. Rick Lehman; Bobby's sister Debra; Valerie Brisco, Jeanette Bolden and Valarie Foster, my assistant. Dave and his wife walked in wearing custom-printed caps that read, “ JJK STILL NO . 1.”
    As each visitor came in and saw me, there was a new round of hugs, kisses and tears. The room was filled with warm affection. After what we'd just been through, it was the perfect tonic for Bobby and me. What began as the worst of days was ending as the best.
    The phone rang nonstop, once the word got out that I'd withdrawn. Reporters wanted to interview us. I still couldn't talk about what had happened. Bobby agreed to go to the broadcast center for an interview with NBC's Dwight Stones. During the telecast, Tom Hammond and Dwight discussed my career, tracing the ups and downs. Their report showed scenes of Bobby yelling at me and comforting me, and replayed moments from my injuries and my victories.
    Tom and Dwight said such wonderful things. For the first time in my career, I