Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rafer Johnson won the gold medal in the decathlon in the 1960 Olympic Games, posting a new Olympic record in the event. After the Olympics, he devoted his time to his family, his career, and helping others. To this end, he became a sports commentator, worked with Robert F. Kennedy, and served as Chairman of the Board for the Southern California Special Olympics. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, and has two children.

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The Best That I Can Be

Galilee Book

Chapter One

1

THE STARTING BLOCKS

Home is where one starts from ...

--T.S. ELIOT

      THE FIRST THING an athlete learns is the importanceof a good start. As a sprinter, I honed the ability tosettle comfortably into the starting blocks and focus my attentionradar-like, ready to explode the instant I heard the starter'sgun. If I hesitated for a split second I might be too far behind tocatch up; if I was overeager and tried to anticipate the gun, Imight bolt too early and have a false start. In the decathlon, agood start also means scoring well in the first of the ten events,the hundred-meter dash. Because it sets the tone for everythingthat follows, the race can have a disproportionate impact on theoutcome of the decathlon as a whole.

    My start in the race of life had mixed results. By all objectivestandards, growing up black in Texas in the late 1930s andearly 1940s would not be considered a good beginning. It was asif the starting blocks had been rigged and the running track inmy lane was ploughed up and uneven. Still, I somehow acquiredthe necessary tools to take advantage of the opportunitiesthat life would later present. Will I ever fully understandwhat made me a disciplined youngster and a determined adult?Looking back, I marvel at how I learned to give all I had toevery challenge; to compete hard and try to win, but to play thegame honestly and fairly.

    I was born in Hillsboro, Texas, a tiny town in a flat expanseof land about sixty miles south of Dallas. With rich soilfor growing crops and strong bodies to pick them cheap, thearea's economy revolved around farming. Most people livedand worked on farms; the rest provided services for the farmersand hired hands. My father, Lewis Johnson, was one of thosefarmhands. Six foot six, lean and handsome, he had learned atan early age to go wherever there was a day's pay to be earned--somethingthat was not easy to come by during the Great Depression.As a young man, he mostly picked cotton. People alwaysdescribed him as a hard-working, responsible, generousman who loved to have a good time.

    While working the fields around Hillsboro, he met a girlwith cheerful eyes and a round, endearing face with prominentdimples. Alma Gibson was three years younger and a footshorter than her beau, and his equal when it came to hardwork. When they got married, in 1932, unemployment was at anall-time high, the Dow Jones Industrial Average was at an all-timelow, and candidate Franklin Delano Roosevelt was pledginga "New Deal" for hard-pressed Americans. Dad was twenty,Mom was seventeen. Their first child, a daughter, became seriouslyill as an infant and did not survive. I was born next, in1935. My father named me after a childhood friend of his whohad died in grade school.

    For the first two years of my life, we lived in Hillsboro inthe home of my father's parents (my mother's parents hadpassed away before I was born). It was a good-sized house, butwith five of my father's nine siblings living at home, it wascrowded. Built on a corner property on the outskirts of town, itwas an old wooden structure with front and back porches and alarge back yard dominated by a vegetable garden. With no electricityor running water, we used oil lamps and an outhouse andpumped water from an outside well. Nearby was an open fieldand a network of dirt roads on which children could ride bicycles,run loose, and kick up storms of dust.

    A railroad worker in his younger days, my grandfather wasforced to retire early when he fell from a train and suffereddisabling injuries. To sustain the family, his children worked thecotton fields, chopping and weeding in the spring and pickingin the fall. My grandfather was a deeply religious man who hadread the Bible to his children on a regular basis. By the time Iknew him, though, his children were reading to him, for he hadgone blind from glaucoma. I used to marvel at how this sightlessman could work tirelessly and flawlessly around the houseand in his vegetable garden. The family work ethic was reinforcedby my grandmother, a strong, warm, loving woman whotook care of everything and everyone--including me, her infantgrandson, while my parents worked long hours in thefields.

    Drawn by the demand for farmhands as New Deal programsput some money into the pockets of hungry Americans,my father moved us briefly to Oklahoma. He picked sugar cane;my mother cared for me and gave birth to my brother Ed.When I was three and Ed was two we moved back to Texas,settling in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas. There my brother Jimand sister Erma were born. My youngest sister, Dolores, wasborn in Houston, where we spent part of every summer at thehome of my mother's aunt, Dollie Ann, and her husband, Aubrey.Aunt Sweet, as we called her, had raised my mother afterher own mother died, and she raised Dolores as well until werelocated to California. As a child I did not understand why mybaby sister did not live with us in Dallas. I assume now that it wasbecause four kids and long working hours were about all myparents could handle at the time. It's an enigma that still lingers.

    An all-black neighborhood west of downtown Dallas, OakCliff was nestled in a little valley formed by the Trinity River.Most of the hard-working people who lived there had jobs in oilcompanies, filling stations, or the paper plant nearby. Othersdid domestic and yard work in the white sections of town. Stillothers labored on construction sites. There was a lot of work inDallas as the depression lifted and mobilization for World WarII increased the demand for oil. The poor families of Oak Cliffstruggled and scraped, but they always put food on their tables.

    Except for the main arteries that ran to other areas ofDallas, the streets of the neighborhood were unpaved and withoutsidewalks. We constantly dragged either mud or dust intothe house on our shoes. The fragile wooden homes in theneighborhood were built close together on small lots. Duringthe six years we lived there, we rented three different houses.One of the moves was forced by a fire, which began in ourwood-burning stove. I remember the terror I felt as my parentsscrambled to rush us out of the inferno, and how heroic myfather was when, out on the street, he realized someone wasmissing and ran back inside. A few heart-stopping minutes laterhe emerged, dragging my sister Erma by her nightgown.

    My father worked for a man named John Eastman, whoowned a company that made drilling implements and otherequipment used by the oil industry. Dad was basically an all-purposehandyman. He worked on Mr. Eastman's cars, cleanedup around the office, did some work in the fields, served as achauffeur, and helped out--as did my mother--at the Eastmans'private parties. By all accounts, he was fond of his employerand liked his job. Apparently he was well liked in return,and was paid a decent wage. As my uncle Leonard put it, "Ifwhite people in Texas didn't like you, they'd let you know. Ifthey liked you, they'd go the limit for you."

    In addition to helping out the Eastmans on occasion, mymother supplemented the family income by doing domesticwork and sometimes wrapping gifts at a downtown departmentstore--all the while caring for her children and making sure wewere properly fed, clothed, and educated. Like most kids, I tookit for granted at the time, but I came to marvel at her selflessnessand indomitable strength.

    I'm told by older relatives that we were somewhat betteroff than most families in Oak Cliff. For example, we owned ashiny Model A Ford. I remember a drive to Houston when Irode with my uncle in the uncovered rumble seat that foldedopen just above the trunk. It was a bone-rattling journey but itseemed like a great adventure to me, and surely preferable tosqueezing into the front seat with my parents and my brotherEd.

    The house I remember most seemed big to me as a boy,but was actually cramped. My brothers and I slept in the samebed, with Ed and me pointed in the usual direction and Jimmybetween us facing the other way. We did not have electricity orindoor plumbing. I don't think anyone in Oak Cliff did. Wecarried buckets from a well for my mother to cook with, andused a dipper to fill our drinking glasses. We bathed in a metaltub, which was placed in the middle of the kitchen floor andfilled with steaming water heated in the stove. That stove alsoprovided heat in the winter. Kerosene lamps supplied light.Blocks of ice were hauled to our icebox for refrigeration. Wetrudged to the outhouse in all kinds of weather. I rememberthat outhouse well because Ed locked himself inside one day toescape punishment after he knocked Erma off the gate we usedto swing on and bloodied her head. Erma still has the scar fromthat fall.

    One of my most vivid memories is the time I nearly burneddown the house because my desire to help out got the best ofme. Our wallpaper was ancient and frayed. I thought I might beable to improve its appearance by burning off the frayed edgesthat curled out from the wall. I'd light a strand with a matchand watch it burn, enchanted by the pretty flame and intriguedby the acrid smell. Then I'd snuff it out. At one point, I failed toact quickly enough and the flame climbed up the wall beyondmy reach. I ran to the kitchen for a dipper of water. When Icame back, a large section of the wall was on fire. I stood asclose as I could and flung the' water. There was a hiss. Smokebillowed and filled the room. The flames were dead. I felt asproud of that water toss as I would later feel after an exceptionaljavelin throw. Naturally, my parents saw it another way. Ihad taken the precaution of hanging my mother's coat over thedamage, as if that could hide a huge black patch in the middleof the wall. I got beaten within an inch of my life.

    As kids, of course, we didn't know we were poor. No onetold us we were deprived, and as far as we could tell, Mom andDad made sure we had the basic necessities of life. Besides, wehad steep hills to ride our wagons down, riverbanks to rompalong and swimming holes to dive in, vines to swing from andtrees to climb, fields to play baseball in and chase each otherthrough, and even a cemetery through which to run at nightand scare one another out of our wits. And we had each other.Although everyone--even we kids--had to work hard, we hadfun at home; the love in our household was as tangible as thefurniture, just as it is now whenever I'm with my brothers andsisters.

* * *

    Every morning my mother would prepare a big breakfast--typicallyeggs and bacon or sausage--and then Dad wouldgo off to his job. After helping the younger kids get ready forschool, Mom would walk to the end of the block, cross TamaStreet, then continue through an open field and up to the topof a hill; there she caught the streetcar to the home of somewhite family where she did day work. After school, and all daylong during vacations, we kids were more or less on our own,although certain neighbors would keep an eye on us.

    It was long before television, of course, let alone videogames and computers. In our neighborhood we didn't haveclubs or gymnasiums with structured activities. We had no organizedsports either. I remember playing informal baseballgames in the open field behind the church, but strangelyenough, no football or basketball to speak of. We had rollerskates, wagons, homemade scooters, marbles, secret hideouts,open fields, and all the indispensable ingredients of childhoodfun: energy, friends, and imagination.

    I loved to play, and I loved to compete. Maybe I was simplyborn that way. I wanted to be the fastest kid on the scooter andthe first to reach whatever we were running to, whether theswimming hole or the candy store or the schoolyard fence. Ispent long hours shooting marbles in a circle and felt greatwhen I went home victorious, with my precious marble bag afew ounces heavier than it had been when I started out--and Ifelt awful when I trudged home with an underweight bag.

    To say I did not like losing is an understatement; it felt likea kick in the stomach. But my desire to win was balanced bysomething I must have learned at home: Always play by therules. Somehow I knew that there were consequences to playingunfairly, and that winning would not be satisfying if it wereaccomplished by cheating. Wherever it came from, this attitudestayed with me throughout my athletic career. For example,trying to guess when the starter would pull the trigger on thestarting gun was a common practice, but I considered it a formof cheating and I often saw it backfire when an overeagersprinter was penalized for bursting from the blocks too soon.

    Another lifelong philosophy was mysteriously transmittedto me in childhood: What matters even more than winning is toapproach every challenge with total and complete effort. Ilearned never to give undue attention to the score or to mycompetitors. Instead I focused on being the best that I could be.Later in life, that attitude would be reinforced and put intowords by gifted coaches; but from as far back as I can remember,it's what drove me. I did not lose often, and when I did itwas a big disappointment. But if I worked as hard as I could,and did everything in my power to win, I was able to live withdefeat. I would feel let down, but not down on myself.

    That attitude did not diminish by one iota my desire to winor my hatred of losing. It simply made me a stronger, morefocused competitor. It motivated me to prepare hard for eachcompetition, and to push myself when it would have been perfectlyacceptable to ease off. I believe it also made me a bettersportsman. I was able to root for others to do their best evenwhen I was trying to defeat them. Without that attitude, I wouldnot have been able to form durable friendships with teammatesand opponents alike, something I treasure more than all mytrophies.

    Apparently I showed signs of exceptional athletic ability asa child. My father once told Sports Illustrated, "He was awfulgood at running and throwing. Just his movements made youknow he was good at them." (My mother, on the other hand,used to tell people that she could outrun me.) If I did have agift for running, it must have been displayed on many occasions:when I had to chase down one of my brothers because hehad misbehaved, when we raced through the spooky cemetery(I was always the first one out), or when I galloped on my stickhorse. This was essentially a broomstick I imagined to be a dependablehorse like the Lone Ranger's Silver. I was a fast stick-horserider, but I never attributed that to personal talent: I justthought I had the swiftest horse around.

    There was at least one moment when my throwing abilityraised eyebrows, literally. A family of brothers who lived up thehill had a fondness for picking on Eddie and Jimmy. One dayEddie came home crying. Like a two-man posse, Jimmy and Ijumped on our stick horses and rode off to avenge him. Wefound the thugs at home alone and held them hostage, throwingrocks at the house for half the day and threatening to useour slingshots if our enemies dared to show their faces.

    Having made our point--and getting very bored--I calledout, "Don't you ever put your hands on my brother again!" Westarted to leave but one of our enemies emerged from thehouse and taunted us. I wheeled and hurled a round, flat rockat him. It landed with a thwack just above his eyebrow--andstuck there. The rock lodged in his forehead. Blood ran downhis face. Amazed and horrified by the gruesome sight, I gallopedaway on my stick horse with my brothers at my heels.

    Someone with an eye for talent might have seen that throwand marked me as a future discus champion, quarterback, orrifle-armed third baseman. At the time, it was enough to knowthat those boys would never bother us again.

    Our unsupervised times were not all play, not by a longshot. My brothers and I had responsibilities that had to be fulfilledbefore our parents got home. On any given day we mightbe asked to straighten up the house, sweep the floors, make thebeds, or clean up the yard. Some of our chores were prettygrown-up, now that I think of it. To do the dishes, for example,we had to pump water from the well, carry it inside, light thewooden stove, heat the water, and fill the wash pan. We also hadto look after our baby sister, Erma.

    As the oldest I was naturally in charge. In part, that meantriding herd on my brothers to make sure the chores got done. Ibelieve that a lot of my future success can be traced to the self-disciplineI gained from being given responsibility at a youngage. To the extent that I developed leadership qualities, I canthank the lessons I learned from those duties. Without them, Idoubt if anyone would have made me a team captain, or studentbody president, or flag bearer at the Olympics.

    When necessary, I could be a stern taskmaster. "If wedidn't do what we were supposed to do, Rafer would put hisfinger in our face," Ed recalls. I seldom had to get tough withthe younger kids, but when I did it was for their protection andmy own self-preservation: If we didn't complete our chores,we'd get our tails whipped. Our parents believed in seat-of-the-pantsdiscipline. If you were told to do something, to be somewhereat a certain time, or to act in a certain way, you hadbetter comply or it could be whipping time. Dad would do itwith a belt; Mom would use a switch. Both hurt, and both madetheir point. But if I had to be punished, I preferred to have mymother do the job. When she lashed me, I felt as much love as Idid pain. It was like taking bad-tasting medicine sweetened withsugar. I was getting what I deserved; I was being taught a lessonand justice was being served.

    Dad hurt me a lot more than Mom not only because hewas stronger and his belt was fiercer than her switch, he alsooften seemed excessive. The punishment didn't always matchthe crime. Whereas my mother's strokes felt reluctant, like shehated having to do it, Dad's lashes had anger behind them.Sometimes he seemed to relish it; I thought he might even wantto hurt me. I realize now that he was venting his own frustrationand anguish, but at the time, all I felt was his rage. I was afraidhe might someday lose control and do some real damage.

    Although I've never laid a hand on my own children andwould never condone abuse in any form, the whippings I receivedpaid off in their own way. I was able to turn the experienceto my advantage once I realized something crucial: Painwas temporary, and I could handle it. While I was being punished,I would think, "My father can hit me as long as he wants,and tomorrow it won't even matter." I even said that to his facewhen I felt defiant.

    The ability to endure pain and still perform at a high capacitygave me a competitive edge. Sports is always referred toas character-building; a major part of that is learning to withstandsprains, twists, aches, bruises, cramps, spasms, soreness,cuts, scrapes, and unimaginable fatigue, while yet coaxing yourbody to do its best. Every sport entails physical and mental travail,but the decathlon is a veritable factory of pain. I nevercompeted in one in which pain was not a factor. But I knew thatan injury was an obstacle to success only if it prevented me fromexecuting properly--that is, if I could not move my legs, arms,or torso the way I had to. During my career I had to enduregrueling rehabilitation from injuries, and sometimes run andjump through searing pain. My only fear was that continuing toperform might cause permanent damage. The pain itself Icould deal with.

    Without my ability to withstand pain I could never havedone what was necessary to set world records and win a goldmedal. But long before I ever dreamed of becoming an athlete,I put this ability to good use. I saw that my younger brothersand sisters could not handle pain as well as I could. It hurt memore to watch them get whipped than to be whipped myself. Soone day, when my father took the belt to one of them, I toldhim to punish me instead. He responded by thrashing both ofus. Thereafter, I shielded my siblings by taking the blame forsome of the things they did. That way, I'd get the belt instead ofthem.

    Knowing I could handle pain also made me unafraid offights. In trying to protect Ed and Jim from harm, I got intoseveral scrapes. In most instances I was able to use either thethreat of force or fast-talking diplomacy to settle conflicts beforethings got out of hand. "He was a peacemaker for other kids,"my mother once told an interviewer. "When they got intofights, Rafer would stop them." I think my attitude toward paingave me the upper hand in negotiations.

    One day, before going to work, my father put some moneyon top of a dresser and told me to pay the bills when somemerchants came by to collect. I followed his instructions, butsomehow ran short of cash. When someone who did not getpaid complained to my father, Dad got enraged. I told him thatI hadn't done anything wrong and did not know where themoney had gone. He wouldn't listen. He nearly tore my rearend off with his belt. It was the first time I was beaten for nogood reason. Not only did the punishment not fit the crime--therewas no crime.

    Small as I was compared to this gigantic man, I warned myfather to never again beat me for nothing. My reward for speakingmy mind was another whipping. Later, Dad discovered themissing money behind the dresser. It had fallen during thecourse of the day. He never apologized. The sting of that undeservedpunishment stayed with me. It not only made metougher, it taught me the importance of justice. I began to lookat everything in terms of fairness and proportion, always askingmyself if my response to someone else's actions--and their reactionto mine--was equitable and reasonable. To this day, nothingupsets me more than being accused of something I didn'tdo, or seeing someone else get penalized unfairly.

    Just as I was too young to be conscious of our poverty, Iwas too young to understand discrimination or to know that ourchances in life were limited by the color of our skin. Texas wasnot Mississippi or Alabama, but Jim Crow was alive and wellthere. Segregation was a way of life where I lived; it was acceptedin most of the country, even in the armed forces thatwere fighting fascism abroad. The only white person I saw on aregular basis was Mr. Emmett, the proprietor of the grocerystore on our street, where my mother picked up the staples forour kitchen and we kids spent our pennies on candy. Mr. Emmettwas a pleasant, friendly man who treated everyone well. Atthe downtown shops we would run into white people, but I didnot know any white boys my age and I can't remember exchangingmeaningful words with any white adult besides Mr. Emmettwhile we lived in Texas. Neither can my brothers and sisters.

    Nor do I remember any racial incidents of the type that weassociate with the South of that time: no Klan rallies or cross-burnings,no lynchings, no one beaten up or humiliated byrednecks, no slurs or insults, no rigged trials. I'm sure suchthings occurred, but I was too young and too isolated to knowabout them. I do remember separate drinking fountains, withsigns reading WHITE and COLORED. I remember being led to theback of the streetcar on trips downtown, even though therewere plenty of seats up front. I remember separate sections (Negroesupstairs, whites downstairs) at the movie house, and separatebathrooms as well, but on those Saturday afternoons wespent in the darkened theater my only concerns were the cartoonsand the serials with characters like Flash Gordon and theLone Ranger.

    I don't remember thinking how absurd the racial divisionwas, or realizing the indignity that was implied by it: that onegroup, the one I belonged to, was inferior to the other. Not thatI was totally in the dark about racism. My parents and otherelders told us kids about the legacy of slavery, and made sure weknew about great African Americans like Booker T. Washingtonand Frederick Douglass. Not to mention Joe Louis. In thosedays, Joe was a god to us. I remember sitting around a radio onsomeone's front porch, listening with my father and his friendsto the broadcast of heavyweight championship battles. We sufferedwith every blow Joe received and we rejoiced in everypunch he landed. We celebrated his knockouts as if we'd slain awicked slavemaster ourselves. The fact that Joe's victories werevictories for black people as a whole was hardly lost on me orthe other kids.

    For the most part, we paid little mind to racial issues. Inthat time and place, segregation just seemed normal; it was theway things were, and that was that. Kids like me assumed thatthe whole world was that way, and the grownups chose not tochallenge the status quo. Recently I asked an older relativeabout those days. "We minded our business and tried to takecare of our own," he said. "We left the white people alone andthey mostly left us alone."

    While black adults endured their lot in life with strengthand quiet dignity, racism infected their spirits like a virus infectsthe cells of our bodies. I'm certain it contributed to the onedark shadow that hovered over my home life: My father drankas hard as he worked. Alcohol might have been his medicine,his way of alleviating the daily indignities he faced--even at ajob where he was treated decently--and the frustration of knowinghe could never live up to his potential or lift his family'sprospects above the low ceiling that was set for people of color.

    During the week our home life was smooth, harmonious,and peaceful, but I came to dread the weekends. I never knewwhen my father would decide to blow his paycheck on boozeand set the place in an uproar. It was as if there were two ofhim: The kind, hard-working family man who showed affectionfor his wife and children, and the hell-raising drunk who wouldstay out till all hours and come home with a chip on his shoulder,slamming doors and roaring at the top of his lungs, readyto pull my mother out of bed and beat her at the slightestprovocation. Sometimes he didn't return until Sunday.

    To us kids, Dad's behavior was terrifying. He never unleashedhis drunken rages on us, but time and again we felt thestable foundation of our home being shattered as if by earthquakes.We felt our mother's agony too. No woman deserves tobe abused, least of all someone like Mom. They called her"Dimple" because of the cute little craters that formed on hercheeks when she smiled. And she smiled a lot. She was an upbeat,cheerful, outgoing woman, who seemed almost always tobe happy. As strong as she was well-liked, she was extremelyprotective of her children, ready to pounce like a lioness onanyone who wronged us. She was, in every way, a good womanand a wonderful mother. My inability to protect her from myfather's tantrums was agonizing. I felt helpless. It was not untilmy brothers and I were old enough to stand up to Dad that wewere able to put an end to it.

    My father's weakness for alcohol and the turmoil it causedmade a deep impression on me. It was a powerful lesson in hownot to be a man, and I vowed early on never to succumb to suchself-defeating, hurtful behavior. I have always respected mybody and treated it with care. I think I could fit all the alcohol Ihave ever drunk into three glasses.

    Aside from his drinking, my father was a fine role model.No matter what had occurred over the weekend, come Mondaymorning he was up early and at the breakfast table. Often he'dlook contrite and even apologize. Unfailingly he'd get to workon time, ready to give an honest day's labor. Once again he wasgood old Dad, and he'd stay that way all week. Come Friday,though, anything was possible.

    My mother was a model of consistent goodness. To mymind, her ability to remain warm, loving, and joyful in the faceof the harsh realities of her life was a greater achievement thananything I ever did in sports. My way of honoring her was topush myself to be all I was capable of being, and to do so withthe kind of integrity she valued. It was one way of giving somethingto the woman who gave me so much.

    The N. W. Harlee School was a rectangular brown brickbuilding, two stories high, with a scruffy schoolyard spread outbehind it. All the students, maybe fifteen to twenty per class,were black, as were ail the teachers. The ten- or fifteen-minutewalk from home took us over some open fields, across a smallbridge that spanned the Trinity River, and through the cemetery.

    Everyone in my family remembers me as an eager studentwho loved to read and was diligent about his homework. Ididn't start out that way. Like most of my peers, I valued thestreets and playing fields far more than the classroom. Thatchanged in the third grade, thanks to an exceptional teacher.Miss Bailey was a stout, dignified woman with great concern forthe welfare of her pupils. With dedication and persistence, thisgifted teacher stressed the importance of working hard and usingone's full potential. Miss Baily instilled in me a love of learningand a desire to do well academically. The spark she ignitedstayed lit all the way through college, and in many ways remainslit to this day.

    I had a friend named Curtis who was a good athlete and amischief-maker. To say he was an indifferent student is puttingit mildly. He never did homework and hardly paid attention inclass, finding every opportunity to disrupt a lesson with a jokeor a prank. I sat next to him, and I enjoyed it. He brought outthe naughty, fun-loving side of me that balanced the earnest,disciplined side.

    Curtis was the kind of kid an adult would call a "bad influence."I hesitate to call him that, since I joined him happily andeven initiated some of the troublemaking myself. The problemwas, Curtis had a way of going too far. I'd go along with him,only to find that our innocent fun had turned into trouble.Once, for example, he got me to climb up onto the roof of ourhouse. Then he decided that we should jump to the ground.Foolishly, I followed him, only to land on a board and end upwith a nail piercing my foot from bottom to top.

    It was clear to Miss Bailey that Curtis would not have apositive impact on my future. One day she told me point-blankthat if I wanted to do well in her class I would have to stopdoing the things my friend was doing. When the warning didn'tsink in, she split us up by making Curtis repeat the grade.

    Miss Bailey knew how to use rewards to reinforce goodhabits. For example, she would take students who did well onspecial trips. One glorious night a few classmates and I wererewarded with a trip to the Cotton Bowl to see a fireworks display.I remember it as a gray evening, with dazzling bursts ofcolor lighting up the night sky. I also remember being frightenedby some thunderous claps of sound, and Miss Bailey coveringmy ears protectively. Mostly I remember feeling very gratefulfor the chance to be there, and proud of having done wellenough to be in that select company.

    By showing me the pleasure of learning and by rewardinggood work, Miss Bailey convinced me that it paid to study hard.That, plus my parents' encouragement (they made sure I alwaysdid my homework), turned me into a good enough student toeventually win an academic scholarship to UCLA. I believe thatgood learning habits helped me in everything I did. In sports Ialways felt there was more to learn, and I looked for informationwherever I could find it--from coaches, teammates, evenopponents. Good study habits also helped me concentrate onthe field; I could block out distractions and stay focused onwhat I had to do at every moment, no matter what was going onaround me or what had happened a few minutes earlier. Thiswas invaluable in a two-day, ten-event competition like thedecathlon, especially in the glare of an international spotlight.Sometimes I wonder if I would ever have gained those advantagesif not for Miss Bailey.

    Life in our close-knit community centered around theBaptist church. The house we lived in during most of our timein Oak Cliff was actually connected to the church grounds. EverySunday morning we would stroll there down a narrow dirtpath between two of our neighbors' homes. After services, wekids would go from chapel to Sunday School. I looked forwardto that time; it felt less like a school than a social club, a gatheringplace for all the kids in the community. We would start outall together in a Bible class, then break up into different agegroups and spend the better part of the day playing games,reading stories, and singing religious songs. Later we'd returnwith our parents for evening services and, usually, more socialtime with our friends.

    It was not until high school that I understood the deepspiritual significance of Jesus' life and became a committedChristian. But even as a child, church had a major impact onme. I remember three things in particular about those Sundays.First, the music. The awesome power and passion that surgedthrough the church when the choir sang spirituals and hymnswas inspiration to the soul. Second, the sermons. I can't recallthe preacher's name, but the clear conviction in his voice andthe spirit of his message are still fresh in my mind--the messagebeing that life should not be, and did not have to be, the way itwas for people of color; that spiritual redemption could befound; and that betterment in the here and now could be hadthrough proper actions.

    Third, I remember the community itself. In retrospect it isclear to me that the people of Oak Hill tried to make up for theobstacles in their path by looking out for one another. My siblingsand I experienced it firsthand; our parents were at work allday, but the neighbors made sure we never felt ignored, alone,or endangered. It was understood that life could be better forall if everyone took responsibility for each other, and that ourown needs are best served when we contribute to the good ofthe whole. These became core beliefs of mine. Wherever fatehas taken me, I've always tried to recreate the sense of communitythat we had in that small Baptist church.

    Did I get off to a good start in Texas? If those years werethe equivalent of the first decathlon event, I would say that,thanks to a strong support system, my score was better than itmight have been considering the obstacles in my environment.Some mysterious combination of genes, upbringing, and communityenabled me to compensate for my disadvantages, just asa gritty sprinter might make up for lost ground with extra effortand a well-timed lunge at the tape. But my prospects for the restof the competition would not have been considered bright.From what I've been able to gather over the years, most of theboys I grew up with went on to lead good, decent lives, but wereseverely constrained from reaching their full potential by bigotryand inequality of opportunity. Others became small-timehoodlums. At least two died in prison. Another was stabbed withan ice pick during a brawl. Curtis, my best buddy and the classclown, was shot to death.

    I was lucky. When I was nine my family moved to California,where conditions for the next phase of my life were exceptional.To my everlasting gratitude, I was given the tools Ineeded to make up for the slow start.

Continues...

Excerpted from The Best That I Can Beby Rafer Johnson Copyright © 1999 by Rafer Johnson. Excerpted by permission.
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