More Precious Than Gold

In the concrete belly of Olympic Stadium, Jonathan Edwards is running at full throttle, a boxed silver medal in the crook of his arm as if it were a football. It is Sunday, one day after Edwards finished second in the triple jump. He has come to the stadium only for the medal ceremony, and now he must rush to catch a flight home to England. He sees me and slows; a full, joyous smile creases his face.

"Congratulations," I say. "You should be proud."

"I am, I truly am," he says. "Very much so."

Sometimes a crack develops in the thick wall that exists between writer and subject, and a sprig of friendship grows through, connecting them. I spent four days with Edwards last December at his homes in Newcastle and London, reporting a feature story. In the summer of 1995 he had broken the world record in the triple jump three times, revolutionizing the event. His story was doubly attractive because he was a humble, modest man of such deep Christian beliefs that he had once refused to compete on Sundays. He revealed himself as the antithesis of the modern athlete—warm, feeling, genuine. During that visit I held his sleeping infant son, Nathan, in my arms. He asked to see pictures of my children and astutely identified my five-year-old son, Kevin, as mayhem afoot, a quality I had already seen in his three-year-old son, Sam.

We visited again in May, before a meet here in Atlanta, and by then it was clear that the weight of expectation and celebrity had cut profoundly into his joy. I saw him once more, at the British training camp in Tallahassee, Fla., three days before the opening ceremonies. His self-doubt had deepened to the point that he had nearly walked away from a June meet in Madrid without taking a jump, and at that point he considered leaving the sport indefinitely. Edwards talked that day in Florida about fear, about the crowd that would sit in Olympic Stadium for the final, cheering for Americans, about the loneliness of being the favorite. He recalled that I had said to him in May, "This should be the greatest year of your life," and he promised to try to make it so. But as always, he hoped for the best and feared the worst. When an editor called me with the news of the bombing in Centennial Park, the first athlete I thought of was Edwards. His event was that night, and surely his fragile psyche would be shaken.

On that night U.S. jumper Kenny Harrison, a brilliant athlete, owned the competition, bouncing 59'¼" on his first jump. Edwards struggled. He fouled on his first two attempts, but he jumped 56' 2½" on his third attempt and then 58'8" on his fourth, for the silver medal. He spoke afterward of the insignificance of the competition in light of the bombing, and of his delight at finishing second. He complimented Harrison.

There is a shoe-company billboard in Atlanta that reads: YOU DON'T WIN SILVER, YOU LOSE GOLD. It is only advertising, but nonetheless it affirms the poisonous notion that there is first, and that everything else is last. Jonathan Edwards fought through his own weakness and fear, and won a silver medal. As he stood in the tunnel that Sunday evening, his eyes glowed with satisfaction.

"My best to your family," I said.

"My best to yours, as well," he answered.