RUNNING SIDEWAYS

RUNNING SIDEWAYS

The Olympic Champion Who Made Track and Field History

PAULINE DAVIS
WITH T. R. TODD

ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Rowman & Littlefield

An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.

4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706

www.rowman.com

86-90 Paul Street, London EC2A 4NE

Copyright © 2022 by Pauline Davis and T. R. Todd

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Davis, Pauline, 1966– author. | Todd, T. R., 1980– author.

Title: Running sideways : the Olympic champion who made track and field history / Pauline Davis with T. R. Todd.

Description: Lanham, MD : Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, [2022]. | Includes bibliographical references. | Summary: “The inspiring story of Pauline Davis, a Bahamian sprinter who fought through poverty, inequality, and racism to compete in five Olympic Games and become the first female sprinter from the Caribbean to win Olympic gold. She would inspire an entire nation and go on to become the first Black woman elected to the international governing body of athletics”—Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021026088 (print) | LCCN 2021026089 (ebook) | ISBN 9781538155493 (cloth) | ISBN 9781538155509 (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: Davis, Pauline, 1966–. | Women sprinters—Bahamas—Biography. | Sprinters—Bahamas—Biography. | Olympic athletes—Bahamas—Biography. | Discrimination in sports.

Classification: LCC GV1061.15.D38 A3 2022 (print) | LCC GV1061.15.D38 (ebook) | DDC 796.42/2092 [B]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021026088

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021026089

frn_fig_002 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

For my Bahamaland

AUTHORS’ NOTE

The events recounted in the book are based on Pauline’s best recollection. While others might have slightly different reflections and views on the events, we have done our best to recreate the moments as accurately as possible.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I could write an entire book to thank the people that helped me reach my goals in life. You don’t go from the ghetto of Bain Town to Olympic gold to World Athletics without a great deal of support and encouragement. I have been unbelievably fortunate and blessed. Thank you to all who were a part of this journey.

In particular, I want to thank my incredible family—all my brothers and sisters—and of course my mummy and daddy, for all their hard love and steadfast support. Right alongside them is my vast, extended family, including my aunts, uncles, and cousins. I must thank my Coach Dad, Neville Wisdom, and the entire Wisdom family, for changing my life and setting me on the path, along with Carlton Williams, who loved, sponsored, and supported me for so many years.

Thank you to Sir Lynden Pindling. While I was not always aware of his support, he had an indelible impact on my life. Also thank you to Hubert Ingraham, who saved my athletic career during some very dark days.

To my “Golden Girl” sisters—Eldece Clarke, Savatheda Fynes, Chandra Sturrup, and Debbie Ferguson. Through thick and thin, we have persevered and stayed true to each other. Like all families, we might not agree all the time, but I love each and every one of you. Thank you for the impact you all had on my life.

A special thanks goes to Lord Sebastian Coe, and all of World Athletics, for their exceptional support. I am also very appreciative to Dick Pound for his participation and insights in this book.

There were so many amazing contributors to this book and those who have impacted my life, without whom none of this would be possible: Loren Seagrave, Paul Doyle, Don Myers, Wayne Williams, Terry Trundle, Dave Radaszewski, Manley Waller, Gwen Torrence, Jennifer Innis-Stephens, Annette Munroe,Frank Rutherford, Judy Whyms, Dawn Knowles, Jackie Dames, Alan Pinto, Fred Sturrup, Merlene Ottey, Grace Jackson, Nick Dean, Stanley Mitchell, Peter Ramsay, Laverne Eve, Victor Lopez, Amadeo Francis, Brent Stubbs, Elaine Thompson, Sharonda Lewis-Pryor, Flora Hyacinth and all my Alabama teammates, Donald Quarrie, Desmond Bannister, Rupert Gardiner, Chryste Gaines, Sharon Couch, Pascal Rollings, Enrico Dionisi, Sandra Giovanelli, Andy Norman, Cathy Freeman, Wilfred Meert, Glen Mills, Don Coleman, Donovan Bailey, Juliet Cuthbert, and Michael Johnson.

Thank you to the Bain Town Flyers, the Bahamas Association of Athletic Associations, the Bahamas Olympic Committee, the Nassau Guardian, the Tribune, the University of Alabama, Nike, Mizuno, Puma, the Bahamas Ministry of Tourism, the Bahamas Ministry of Youth, Sports and Culture, Palmdale Primary, Columbus Primary, D. W. Davis Junior High, L. W. Young Junior High, and Government High School. To all my past team-mates, training partners, and competitors—you know who you are, and what impact you’ve had on my life.

Lastly, I must thank the Bahamian people—they are my heart, my rock, and my ultimate motivation.

This book is for all of those who have struggled, or are still struggling, in the face of adversity. It is for all of those who have suffered stolen moments. I hope my story inspires you to keep going and never give up in pursuit of your dreams.

FOREWORD

How often in reading about the lives of others do we find similarities in our own personal odysseys?

In the first few pages of Pauline Davis’s estimable autobiography, Running Sideways: The Olympic Champion Who Made Track and Field History, I stumble upon such similarities. From almost before she could walk, Pauline was running—and very quickly. I have so often spoken to athletes who have also displayed the same passion in their early years. In Pauline’s case, it was to assert her place in a male-dominated neighborhood.

It was a path that Pauline unerringly took through her early years and into competition. Indeed, it was a lifelong journey that led her to the very pinnacle of athletics and then into the council chamber, where her unflinching understanding of right and wrong, of justice and injustice, has been her north star.

And even today, she has neither deviated from her path nor faltered. Like many others in my sport, I was aware of and have at times celebrated Pauline’s herculean achievements on the track. But it was not until reading Running Sideways that I had insight into the boulder-strewn nature of that path, from the adversity and social challenges of her youth bolstered by the undying love of her parents through to the unwarranted battles that she’s waged and won with myopic sports administrators.

Having served on the World Athletics Council with Pauline Davis and time after time witnessed her passion to do the right thing, I can now understand why those skirmishes would have taken place. I will be eternally grateful for Pauline’s steadfast support when I became president of World Athletics in 2015. Well-chronicled and globally damaging accusations about the conduct of the former leadership of the sport left us all hanging precariously on the gibbet of public and media opinion. And every so often, I would receive a message or even a phone call from Pauline, encouraging me to continue to fight the good fight.

Pauline has never been afraid to raise her head above the parapet where others have ducked for cover over the wide-scale abuse of performance-enhancing drugs in Russia, or the damaging indiscriminate transfer of national allegiance amongst athletes, and in her messianic belief that athletics is uniquely placed to reach out to some of our most challenged global neighborhoods, and her tireless lobbying to usher in the crucial reforms that helped our sport recover its reputation and equilibrium. Throughout, Pauline stood tall.

There are some who will read this book and marvel at the journey Pauline took from Fleming Street in Bain Town to Olympic and World Championship podiums, but they don’t know Pauline as I do. This is a book about faith, determination, focus, and God-given talent. It is also a book about a trailblazer in women’s sport, not just in The Bahamas, but on the global sporting stage.

Pauline didn’t just run races and relays, she carried the baton for hundreds of young girls who dream of becoming the next Olympic or World Champion, the thousands of female athletes who compete week in and week out in athletics and the millions that are yet to come.

Faith in both its narrowest and broadest sense has and remains Pauline’s north star.

And her spirituality is something I have long since sensed brings comfort and purpose to her daily duties and throughout her athletic career—the equanimity and belief that there is a higher calling.

So often in private conversations or more publicly in council meetings she has referred obliquely or directly to it and not in a hectoring or preachy way.

She expresses it comfortably because it is so much a part of her (like so many in the Caribbean).

Not for Pauline a torturous voyage into the moral maze.

In open debate, she is rarely swayed by the prevailing mood in the room if her faith and convictions do not necessarily accord with the view of others.

I have been privileged to witness at close quarters the unqualified love and affection bestowed upon her and so readily on show when I’ve accompanied Pauline on every type of occasion in The Bahamas. Whether it’s her front-and-center choreography of the Junkanoo band at the CARIFTA Games, where in all those environments I’ve never seen Pauline so naturally and enthusiastically at home, or in a rather more staid audience with the PM.

Nor is she ever afraid to uncouple from the herd.

It makes her a doughty opponent but also a steadfast supporter and friend. It also invariably makes her right.

All these attributes have helped her and maybe in large part unwittingly helped to blaze a trail for young girls in our sport both on the field of play and in the boardroom. And not just within the confines of her beloved Bahamas but with a global impact.

This book captures the essence of Pauline.

A free spirit, a woman of conviction, and an athlete blessed by her God with a sublime talent.

I know in years to come there will be other chapters written and lived. For the moment, I strongly advise any young athlete to read and cherish the experience and wisdom glowing from these pages.

They, and all of us, owe a mammoth debt of gratitude to a great competitor, a great champion, and a great friend. Thank you, Pauline, for sharing your story.

Lord Sebastian Coe, a decorated Olympian, has won four Olympic medals for the United Kingdom, including two gold medals in the 1500m at the Summer Games in Moscow in 1980 and again in Los Angeles in 1984. Beyond the track, he has served as chairman of the British Olympic Association and chairman of the London Organizing Committee for the Olympic Games and a member of Parliament from 1992 to 1997. In 2015, Lord Coe was elected president of World Athletics, headquartered in Monaco.

1

THE STARTING LINE

When I run, I often close my eyes. I close them so I can focus on the feeling of running, or I might lose it—that rhythmic pounding of my feet. As I get close to top speed, it feels like I’m floating. My legs come out from underneath me. So I have to close my eyes and concentrate, to make sure I don’t float. That’s how I stay grounded. I zone everything else out in the world, everything that is around me, so I don’t lose my place in time.

Even as a child in The Bahamas, people used to tell me I would run everywhere I went.

“Sweet Pea,” my mummy would say. She always called me that. “Sweet Pea, I need you to run to the store. You listen here to what I have to tell you.”

As a young girl, I was always playing in the yard, or somewhere down the street. We rented a clapboard wooden house with pink walls and white trim. We didn’t have power or running water. It was bare bones—sparsely furnished—but extremely clean. We washed our own clothes from the water we drew from the well. We polished the old wooden floors. My mummy wanted to see her face in them. So we would cut a coconut in half and let it dry on the front porch for hours, until it became rough and bristly, like a brush.

My mummy used to say, “When you are poor, there are lots of things to know.”

In other words, you find ways to get by with what you have. So I’d rub those wooden boards with the back of a coconut and make them shine.

When the branches of a coconut tree fell, we saved them to sweep around the house. And there were no dishes allowed in the sink. None of those things. You had to pick up and clean behind yourself, and so, I don’t know if I was special, but I always felt, as a young woman, like my mummy had to make sure I understood certain things.

We couldn’t afford much, but my mummy remembers one Christmas morning when she gave me a baby doll. First thing I did was remove the head. Then I removed the arms, and both legs. I only played with the stomach of that doll.

“Pauline, you need to put those legs back on,” my mummy said.

“No, Mummy, I’m going to be a surgeon. I need to learn how to operate.”

My mummy didn’t even laugh—she was taken aback. Here was her little girl, one of six children in the house, dreaming of surgery in the ghetto.

“OK, I help you all the way,” my mummy remembers saying. “I work as hard as I can to put you through college so you can be a doctor.”

Discipline, along with education, were paramount in my family. Full stop. My mummy was no-nonsense on those two things.

I can only imagine what was going through her head. Back then, on that Christmas Day, sending her daughter to college must have felt like an impossible task—like sending me to the moon. But I never felt limited as a child. My parents never made me feel like my dreams were impossible. They let me dream.

“Sweet Pea!” she called again. I would never keep her waiting for too long.

I jumped down from a mango tree and sprinted quickly to her side.

My mother, Merle Davis Toussaint, was a beautiful woman. Originally from Jamaica, she had long dark hair, striking dark eyes, and dark yet golden skin.

Her grandmother—my great-grandmother—was from India, part of a large group that immigrated from the Indian subcontinent to Jamaica in the late nineteenth century. My mother’s half Indian blood meant she had an unusual, exotic look about her, which I suppose I inherited. Even as an adult, I remember being stopped by strangers in the airport.

People would say, “You have Indian in your blood, don’t you?”

I was always lost for words when that happened. These were complete strangers coming up to me, after all. But it always reminded me of my rich cultural heritage.

My grandmother died when Mummy was just five years old. Her aunt looked after her from then on, and eventually brought her over to The Bahamas to start a new life. On that day, my mummy’s life changed forever. And I suppose, in a sense, so did mine.

Merle Davis Toussaint would stand there in front of our little wooden house, a few dollars in hand, two straw baskets, but no grocery list. She would sound off on everything she needed—and I had to memorize it, right then and there.

“I spit on the ground,” my mummy used to say, “and before that spit be dry, you’ll be back with all those things I just told you.”

“Yes, Mummy,” I would say dutifully, taking the money in my outstretched palm.

I wouldn’t even wait to see spit on the ground. I was rolling.

Off I’d go, sprinting barefoot down Fleming Street in my yard clothes. After all, it gets awfully hot in The Bahamas, where I was born and raised. That spit was already sizzling.

I was always running barefoot, even from a very young age. A big reason for that was we had only two good pairs of shoes—one pair for school, and one pair for church. There was no money for casual shoes. So I learned to run without them.

“You would go to school with two shoes on your feet,” my mummy would later tell me, “but come home with only one in your hand. The other be out in the street somewhere. I would say: ‘Sweet Pea, what happened to your shoes?’”

I’d sprint through the front door of the house and run into her arms, giving her a big hug. “Mummy! I was running!”

“You was running?” Mummy would say.

“Yes! I can run hard!”

I was only four or five years old when I realized I could run hard. And I never stopped.

Fleming Street, where I grew up, can be found in Bain Town, an old settlement on the island of New Providence. Unless you are from The Bahamas, you’ve probably never heard of it. Bain Town is located towards the interior of the island, miles from the idyllic white sand beaches, and the clear, bright blue water that made Nassau so famous among jet-setting tourists and wealthy homeowners. Back in the day, my ancestors didn’t look at beaches in that way—they didn’t see high-priced real estate with million-dollar views. Yes, they might have gone there to swim. But the ocean was dangerous, and not just because you could drown. Tropical storms and hurricanes were a reality for even the earliest Bahamians. So moving to the interior wasn’t seen as a bad thing—it meant safety and security.

In the early 1700s, The Bahamas became a strategic British colony and they began to clamp down on piracy in the region. And it would remain that way until 1973, when my country finally achieved its independence. So when I was born on July 9, 1966, that British influence could still be felt everywhere on the island, from the motorists driving on the left side of the road, to our British Parliament over on Bay Street, to the Bahamian police officers marching along in their crisp white blazers and bowler hats. I grew up seeing my country move from colony to nationhood, and in many ways, this colonial history helped shape who I would become.

After the American War of Independence, thousands of British Loyalists settled in The Bahamas on land grants. And they brought their slaves with them. But in 1834, when slavery was abolished in The Bahamas, my country became a haven for freed slaves.

At this time the population was divided—the Europeans stayed along the coast, and former slaves set up settlements in the interior, otherwise known as “Over the Hill.” That’s because there really is a hill, when you go a mile or two into the interior, where pirates, and later the British, built their forts to defend against invaders, spying them from afar. Beyond these forts is the community of Bain Town, one of these original slave settlements.

Even before Bain Town there was Grants Town, named after Sir Lewis Grant, a British army officer and colonial administrator. And over time, these settlements grew. Eventually, a successful Bahamian merchant named Charles Bain purchased the land beside Grants Town, which he sold off at reasonable prices to the slaves. Many years later these two communities amalgamated. Today, the constituency is known as Bain and Grants Town.

Fast forward to the 1970s, when I was growing up: Fleming Street was a long row of houses similar to mine—small, mostly wooden houses, some colorful and well kept, but others falling apart, or gray, aged, and beaten up by the salty, windy weather.

Sure, we were poor, but we never thought of ourselves as poor.

There was so much to do. After all, the world around me felt like a jungle. It was a lush, tropical playground, covered in fruit trees. Mangoes, sugar apples, mameys, sapodillas: these were plentiful back then; they grew wild just about everywhere we looked. So we would just roam the streets and eat what we found. Every backyard also had a garden—ground provisions, we called them. Irish potatoes, cassava, sweet potatoes, and callaloo (like spinach) were staples for us, all thrown into the boiling pot.

We lived off the land and had complete freedom. We let our imaginations run wild.

One of our favorite treats as children was “switcha”—or our version of Kool-Aid. Sour oranges also grew in everyone’s yards. They looked like limes. And we would gather them up in our shirts from the ground, or pick them from the trees, and bring them home. Squeeze into a cup. Just add sugar. We didn’t have ice, of course—but it still tasted amazing.

If we had a little money, we’d go to the corner tuck shop for fresh baked bread. They also sold sausage. You buy the bread. You buy the sausage. And you slam those two together with a little mayo—and bam. That was called Slam Bama Bread.

Fleming Street was a paved road, although there were plenty of dirt roads as well. And sometimes, we didn’t even use roads. So much of Bain Town was undeveloped back then. If we really needed to get somewhere fast, every child knew how to step off the street and “cut through the bush.” Somehow we all had internal compasses back then. We knew if we entered here, we would pop out there.

There was no playing in the house, so our whole lives were outside. We used to do relay races up coconut trees, I remember. Each team would line up—ready, set, go! We’d sprint to the tree and climb it. The object of the game was to pick a coconut and let it fall to the ground. You’d slide down to the bottom and the next person could go.

My friends used to say to me: “How you get up there so quickly?”

I shrugged. Being fast just came naturally to me.

Even as a child, I was always a competitive person—I wanted to win. One game we played a lot was marbles. Those big, fat, juicy marbles, we used to call them. But only the boys played that game. Not that it mattered to me—I forced my way in there. I mean, growing up, I liked my dresses, and I enjoyed getting dressed up and looking pretty. But I was also a tomboy. I went anywhere the competition took me. I liked being challenged.

My daddy was a bit concerned at times. He’d watch from our front porch, see me surrounded by boys. There I was, in the middle, playing marbles and kicking their butts.

It was the same with soccer. Girls didn’t play that sport growing up—it wasn’t considered feminine. But that never stopped me. I wanted to play it so bad that I’d cut my hair, to blend in with the boys, so my teachers at school wouldn’t recognize me. Or so I thought.

“Pauline! Is that you? I know that’s you!” Judy Whyms, my physical education teacher, would scream at me from across the yard.

I’d sprint off the field, and see her running behind me. Sometimes the boys would give me a heads-up and I could escape without getting caught.

Later on, she’d say, “Pauline! Girls don’t play soccer!”

“Mrs. Whyms, you didn’t see me,” I’d respond, innocently. “I don’t play any soccer.”

If you told me I couldn’t do something, it only pushed me harder. This mentality would serve me well.

As children, we tried just about anything to entertain ourselves. We didn’t have many toys—we had to make up our own fun. So we climbed trees. We played kick the can. It wasn’t a bad time. It was a happy time. Sure, there were things I wanted, and things I couldn’t have. But we had the necessities. We had everything we needed, not what we wanted.

As I sprinted barefoot down Fleming Street, past all those small wooden houses, I kept all the items Mummy told me to buy in my head. I ran hard down the road, my eyes often closed, those straw baskets swaying on my wrists. I opened my eyes, only for a moment, just to get my bearings on the street. I saw old folks up ahead, sitting on the porch.

It wasn’t easy for me to slow down, but the elders stopped me in my tracks.

“Good morning, ma’am. Good morning, sir,” I would say, hurrying along.

That was standard. You had to do that. We didn’t have much in Bain Town, but we had respect for our elders. Everybody in Bain Town knew you, or knew your family.

It was a village that raised you. The matriarchs and patriarchs of Bain Town—those oldest in the community—often did the most for the children. My best friends’ grandmother, Ms. Mary, would often call me in for some soup, or whatever she had on the stove.

I never knew what her full name was—she was just Ms. Mary, a big, solid woman who knew every single one of our names. And most days, her kitchen table would be filled with children, all fresh from running around the neighborhood with abandon. At that moment, we were all her children, with a bowl and spoon in hand, slurping her soup.

That was how it was—people looked after each other. If I have it, and you don’t, I give it to you. Like I said, I didn’t know I was poor—but I also did know, in a way.

What I mean is, you knew you were growing up in the ghetto. That much was clear. But you were surrounded by so much love, it didn’t matter. There was no crime back then. The impact of the drug trade of the 1980s hadn’t settled in yet—a tragedy that claimed so many young men, and destroyed so many families. There was never any violence in my day. The kids came and went in other people’s houses. There were no locked doors, and you could venture out as you pleased. If an adult from a neighboring community saw you and didn’t recognize you, they might ask where you are from. They would probably tell you to head back home. And sometimes, they would walk you home themselves.

Adults were protective of the children, and it didn’t matter if you were theirs or not. They would look after you and make sure you were OK. If you weren’t doing what you were supposed to be doing, you’d get a spanking. And if they spanked you, you couldn’t go home and tell your parents, because then you’d get another spanking.

Like my mother, my father never fooled around with discipline.

Lincoln Abraham Davis grew up on Long Island, one of the Out Islands of The Bahamas, about two hundred miles southeast of Nassau.

My father had a very deep voice, and he didn’t speak much. But when he did, he liked to crack jokes. When I say he didn’t fool around with discipline, that’s not to say he didn’t care for us. He was kindhearted. He taught me how to cook. My daddy would take us to the beach on the weekends and buy us ice cream.

During the week, when my daddy was at work, we weren’t allowed to go to the beach on our own. So we’d wait until he left for work—usually at least two hours, just in case he came back. Then, a group of us would head to the beach to play. No Bahamian parents let their kids go into the ocean alone—that was a big no-no. On the way back, you better make sure you clean yourself with fresh water, especially behind your ears.

Any Bahamian parent can find the salt behind your ears. And if they do, you better be prepared for a whoopin’. That’s what we called it back in those days.

The tamarind tree, indigenous to Africa, produces brown, pod-like fruits. Those were fine—it was the branches we feared. These trees have long, thin, but strong branches, with foliage that looks like green ferns.

“Go get the switch,” my daddy would say.

Every Bahamian child knows what “the switch” means. They’ve all had to do it at some point. Whether you have salt behind your ears, or something else altogether, gettin’ the switch means one thing: off you go, head down, to rip off a tamarind tree branch. And don’t bring back a small branch—they’ll just send you out to get a bigger one.

So you look at this tree, and you try to decipher . . . which branch am I going to pick?

I used to walk to that tamarind tree—it was the only time I didn’t run.

My daddy was in the restaurant business. He worked at the Bridge Inn, at the foot of the Paradise Island bridge. Like today, tourism was the main industry back then.

The Montague Beach Hotel was a big deal, along with the British Colonial Hilton. Those buildings felt like castles at the time, filled with tourists, mostly from America, or perhaps Britain, Canada, or parts of Europe, with money to spend. My daddy mostly worked as a chauffeur for the boss of the Bridge Inn—a rich white man. He would often take the boss’s children to school, for example, and if the boss didn’t need anything, my daddy would help out at the restaurant. But I remember his boss was a kind person. My daddy worked for him for many years. He looked after our family, so much so that he and his wife would become godparents for my younger sister and brothers.

They had a big place over on Cable Beach, one of the more affluent areas of Nassau, and we’d be invited to come use the pool. I remember their helper would make us sandwiches. Sometimes, when they traveled back from Florida, they’d bring us clothes.

Years later, I remember they bought our family a black-and-white TV, when we got power in the house. We were among the first on the street to have one.

They were wonderful people—we felt like their children.

Of course, growing up, you could also feel that divide between those who lived Over the Hill and those who could afford to stay in hotels, or live along the coast. That history lived on. Although, to be honest, we also felt that divide within our own community. Keith’s Chicken Shack was just down Fleming Street, owned by the Aranha family. It was a popular place for chicken and fries, and things like that. Their house was in the back, connected to the store, and our yards touched—separated by a wall. I would be in the backyard, pulling water from the well to wash my clothes, and I could see the lights on in their home. They had electricity and plumbing right next door. That was a huge luxury, and an exception for Bain Town back in those days. The parents had children around our age—but they never played with us. They lived a completely different life, because their grandfather owned Keith’s Chicken Shack and a gas station on the corner.

Many years later, one of the sons approached me on the street, congratulating me on my success. He shook my hand, and asked me if I remembered growing up next to him. The fact I grew up poor didn’t seem to matter much at that point. But it did matter on Fleming Street.

Panting and sweating, I screeched to a halt in front of Butler’s Food Store. It was a one-story building on Baillou Hill Road, just at the end of our street. Rice, corned beef, a shot of salt, and cooking oil—I had it all in my head. I was always very polite and went about my business.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” I handed the clerk my mummy’s money and stuffed the items into the straw bags.

And off I went again, running back towards home, down Fleming Street, that spit on the ground still fresh in my mind.

Mummy often sent me off to the store on Sundays, because that was the biggest meal of the week. Sunday was a time of family, of celebration, and a time to thank God for our blessings. We might have some goat meat then, or beef, fish, maybe some conch or lobster. No eat good no other day, but you eat good on Sunday—that’s how we thought back then.

Above all else, The Bahamas is a Christian nation. And I grew up with exceptional Christian principles and traditions from day one, even by Bahamian standards.

On Sundays, I would sometimes go to church with my daddy, who was a Baptist. But my mummy was different altogether—she was a Seventh-Day Adventist, a faith distinguished by its observance of Saturday as the Sabbath and most sacred day of the week. This lasted from sunset on Friday to sunset on Saturday. So my mummy would do all her cooking on Friday. There would be none of that once the sun went down. I remember, on Saturday morning, we would get up and go to church. When you are going to the House of the Lord, you better look good. And the fanciest clothes I owned—by far—were for church.

My mummy used to do a bit of sewing, and she would make me dresses. Or she would even hire a seamstress to make me something special. We would walk hand in hand to church, clicking in our church shoes, with my little hat on my head, tied in place with a rubber band resting snug under my chin.

When we got home, around one in the afternoon, we would eat something that my mummy had made the day before, and study the Bible. We might sing, or visit other people’s homes for prayers. And then we would read the Bible again, until sunset.

So Sundays, after church with my daddy, was a more relaxed time, especially after all the chores were done.

As I opened the door to our home, mummy’s groceries in hand, I might hear the soulful vocals of Otis Redding, or the gospel of Percy Sledge belting from our little red record player. It looked like a suitcase, with those 45 rpm vinyl records, and I was so in love with it. Sure, there was plenty of discipline in my family. But we also celebrated everything—especially if someone brought home good grades, or won an award at school.

My mummy would be toiling over a big boiling pot, preparing our Sunday dinner. I’d watch her running this way and that, out to the backyard to uproot something else for the pot, like the callaloo or sweet potatoes, juggling children all the while. My daddy might be out there dancing with the children, old floorboards creaking under their feet. He’d convince my mummy to come out and dance with him, and show the children how it was done.

Our house was always bubbling with activity. There were seven children in the family, and I was the third oldest behind my sister Izona and my brother Peter.

Behind me was my brother Pete, who was four years younger than me. Then there was Martin, six years my junior, but we all called him by his middle name, Otis. That happened all the time in our neighborhood. Usually someone would have the same name as another child, so you would just go to the middle name. Or maybe someone just liked his middle name better, so they went with that and it stuck. My sister Lisa—born 10 years after me—was an even more unusual case. From day one we all called her Lisa. But when my mummy brought her home with the birth certificate, we saw her legal name was Lecia. I guess they spelled it wrong at the hospital. And finally, there was my youngest brother, Dionysus—eleven years younger than me—but we all called him Nelson. Clearly, names were not the most important thing in that small, clapboard house in Bain Town.

Love was, and we were all very much loved.

Sure, we were also on a tight leash. When you grow up in the ghetto and your parents have aspirations, life can be harsh.

I placed my mummy’s groceries on the kitchen table—and beside that was a book and the belt. Those two items were a constant presence in our home, and a clear reminder of the choices we had growing up.

Like all children, when I came home from school, I wanted to go out with my friends. My mummy would be sitting there, waiting on me. I would go into my room and put on my yard clothes. But before I could do that, Mummy had other ideas.

“Where you going?” she would say.

“Oh, into the front yard,” I’d respond, already in stride.

“No, you ain’t.” She grabbed my arm. “Let’s go.”

Mummy led me to the table. Right at my seat was a book, and beside that, the belt. She didn’t need to say anything. Pick one of them up—it was my choice.

I took my seat, and picked up the book.

Then my mummy had something to say.

“You better sit here. You gonna read this book. You gonna write what you read,” Mummy told me. “And later, you go outside to play.”

It was often a different book. I don’t remember one in particular. But I do remember the task—it was dead simple. You read, and then you write it out.

That was my routine as a child, day in and day out. My mummy saw the book and the belt as a way to get us out of our circumstances. To make sure we could read and write, and to ensure we had discipline.

In hindsight, she describes it this way: “When I speak with people I know now, they look at Pauline, and they look at my kids, and they say, ‘Oh, if I have to do it over, I take a page out of your book.’ ‘My page was too dirty for you,’ I say. My page was too dirty, because it was too hard. I wanted to do things for my children, to get them where they want to go.”

The book and the belt wasn’t for everyone. These days, that kind of parenting is even frowned upon by some people. But those people probably didn’t grow up in Bain Town.

Looking back, I thank my mummy for those dirty pages. I’m not sure I would have become the person I did without them. Education aside, it made me fall in love with reading. And it taught me to be alone—to enjoy spending time with myself. That barefoot girl from Fleming Street, in a clapboard house with no plumbing or electricity, who spent hours and hours at the kitchen table with the book and the belt, was learning more than just how to read and write.

I didn’t know it at the time, but in the future, I would have a lonely path. When people look at decorated athletes, all they see is glory. They only see the finish line. But my path would often be a solitary one, and full of sacrifice, and discipline—traveling on my own from city to city, from country to country, all the while representing my tiny country, by myself, to the world. The ability to be myself, and be happy about it, was so crucial, now that I look back. Books would be my trusted companion on this journey.

Those dirty pages grounded me. They kept me humble.

I felt the weight of responsibility early on. As one of the oldest, it was my job, along with my older sister, to walk the kids to school. I knew how to run that house and keep it clean before I was ten years old. And by the time I was a teenager, I was a woman. I would sometimes go into the garden and dig up the callaloo. Boil it down and feed the kids in the house, when my mummy and daddy were busy. Before long, even I would be putting that belt on the table, teaching my younger siblings how to read and write.

All those kids in the house also meant we drank a lot of water. And the well in the back wasn’t for drinking—that was for washing the clothes, or cooking. In the corner of our living room I could see our buckets—bone dry. And that wouldn’t do at all, especially for Sunday dinner. It was my job, along with my older sister, to make sure there was drinking water in the house.

You see empty buckets, you go fill them—or you get the switch.

So, while my other siblings danced, I had one more job to do.

Back out I’d go, buckets in hand, to the “government pipe.” That’s what my mummy called it. People also called it the government tap. For those of us in the community without running water, and that was most of us, it was how we survived.

The government tap was just down the road, about 150 meters away—the perfect distance for a sprint. I came out of the house, made a left, and I was flying. Yes, I ran everywhere I went. But there was another reason for my sprinting. This was no leisurely jog.

You see, the government tap wasn’t my favorite destination in the world.

Like I said, Bain Town back then was a village, and it was a safe community, overall. Nobody was going to hurt you, rob you, or do you physical harm. But for me—a young woman about to be a teenager—it could be uncomfortable at times.

Technically, I was still a child back then. But I had the body of a woman.

My yard clothes would be little shorts, with a little top. Or sometimes my mummy would put me in dresses. As I got older, though, and I developed, my parents put me in big clothes, baggy clothes, so I wouldn’t attract so much attention. When I wore a dress, my mummy insisted I put on some shorts as well. After all, she was very modest herself. No jewelry. No earrings. No makeup. We were a Christian family. We lived by those principles.

I knew, along the way to the government tap, that there would be boys waiting for me—“bad boys,” we used to call them. They would be out playing in the street, or hanging out in the trees. Again, I don’t think they ever meant me any physical harm, but they sure weren’t shy about feeling me up.

“Come here, you big bungie girl,” they would say, referring to my posterior.

And I wasn’t having any of that.

Each time, you just hoped they weren’t there.

One foot in front of the other, sprinting those 150 meters down Fleming Street, I kept my eyes shut, as usual, cracking them open just a sliver to look around. So far so good. The government tap was on the side of the road. It was a long, black lever. You had to crank it up—and prime it—before the water came gushing out.

Grinding to a halt, in my bare feet, I tossed my buckets on the ground and started pumping, flashing a glance or two around me. No sign of the boys yet. Maybe this will be one of those easy days, I thought. I won’t be bothered.

So I started pumping, long strokes up and down. A few strokes in and the first dribbles of fresh water started to fall into my bone-dry buckets. It didn’t take too long when the water got going. A minute or two later, my buckets were full. And now came the hard part.

Two open buckets in hand, filled with sloshing water, I needed to sprint home.

I was about to close my eyes and make a run for it when I saw the boys round the corner, in my periphery. I knew what I needed to do—I didn’t even hesitate. Deep breath. I lifted up those buckets and fell into a dead run, back down the street, and it felt like I was floating again. I closed my eyes so I could concentrate, one foot in front of the other. I got into my rhythm. I could hear the boys behind me, laughing and screaming.

“Come here, Pauline! Come here, you bungie girl!”

No way they would catch me. But this wasn’t a simple footrace. I wasn’t coming home with empty buckets—I’d be liable to get the switch. I didn’t want to spill a single drop.

Ever sprint, as fast as you can, with two open buckets of water? It ain’t easy.

Of course, in such a situation, you don’t think too hard about technique. You don’t think at all. You do whatever you have to do to get the job done. As I ran from those boys—down Fleming Street, in the heart of the ghetto—I was twisting my body to the side. It just came naturally to me. How else would I protect the water?

There I was, hands close to my chin, my body cocked to the side.

I was sprinting sideways.

I mean, I had no clue. Remember now, my eyes were closed. And I suppose I mentally felt I had to do that, to turn my body and twist it to the side when I ran. It was a level of comfort for me, so I wouldn’t spill a drop of that precious water.

Dwight Marshall remembers it well. He was one of those “bad boys” who chased me that day. Years later, he grew into a good man, though—one of my best friends, in fact.

He grew up just down the street. And like me, he studied, unlike so many others in our community. Many of those other boys chasing me would lose in the race of life. Many of them would end up dead, years later, casualties of the drug era that infected our neighborhoods in the 1980s. But not Dwight. Turns out, he was a gifted athlete, too—a basketball player. None of our parents could afford college. Sports was the ticket out.

So he hit the books, played basketball, and years later attended Florida Memorial University, on scholarship, and en route to becoming Dr. Dwight Marshall.

“She was just on the run—nobody was going to catch her,” he remembers.

“But she never followed any of the techniques of running. Her hands and arms, they were all up in her face when she ran, her whole body off to the side, like she was running sideways. It was almost a daily thing. ‘Here comes Pauline. We gotta chase Pauline.’ It was impossible to catch her, though. And here she was, doing it with the buckets. You take the water out of her hands, now that’s a different gear. Nobody was catching Pauline.”

To save time, at the end of that 150-meter dash home, I would sprint off the street and turn, cutting through my neighbor’s yard.

“That’s the reason you could run the curve on the 200 meter so fast,” Dwight laughs.

That little girl had no clue what was in store for her. She had no idea that, one day, Bain Town would be replaced by the bright lights of a stadium, packed with thousands of people, screaming and dissecting her every stride. That millions of others would be watching on their television sets, or listening to the radio, from all corners of the world. Those dusty streets of Fleming Street would eventually become a rubber track. Those buckets, a baton. Nobody is chasing her—she would run down the most elite sprinters on Earth.

Much would change for the girl who ran sideways.

These are my roots—my dirty pages, if you will. I was a girl who learned to run barefoot, weighed down by buckets of water, twisted and bent, sprinting through the ghetto on the island of New Providence, in the tiny nation of The Bahamas.

I had the weight of responsibility, not to mention the weight of those two full buckets of water. And in a way, I have always felt chased. I’ve always had something to prove.

Years later, that girl would straighten out. She would go on to set world records, win gold medals, and shatter glass ceilings for women of color. But first, there would be a grainy videotape recording, and a coach who couldn’t believe his eyes.

2

A PEARL IS FORMED

I had just arrived home from school when I heard a knock on the screenporch door. After throwing on my yard clothes, and folding my school uniform on the side of the bed, I ran into the living room—but then stopped in my tracks.

There, through the screened-in door, was a man I didn’t recognize.

That was a problem. First off, this was Bain Town. As I said, it was a village that raised me—a tight community. You knew all the adults, and the adults knew you. But this man? I had never seen him before in my life. The other problem was my daddy wasn’t home from work yet. And Mummy wasn’t either. I was fourteen years old at this time, and for years, from the time I could speak, my parents had drilled in me—never speak to men you don’t know. So I was startled and cautious when I saw this tall, slender figure at my door.

“Pauline? Is that you?” he asked, squinting through the screen.

Hearing his voice broke my trance. It gave me a burst of courage. I marched through that living room and stood at the door defiantly.

“My daddy ain’t going to like this,” I said sternly.

“Is your daddy home?”

“No, my daddy ain’t home. You better come off this porch right now.”

He hesitated for a moment, as if to say something more, but then stopped. I think he could see something in my eyes—that I really meant it.

So he nodded slowly and didn’t say another word. As he turned to leave, the wooden floorboards creaked beneath his polished leather shoes. I gathered myself and got a better look at him. He was clean shaven and wore freshly pressed slacks and a collared shirt. He looked respectable—an educated man. I watched as he stepped off my porch and turned the corner out of view, just like I asked him to.

He must have been just out of sight—perhaps standing on the street corner. Or maybe he went and sat in his car. Whatever the case, about an hour later, I heard voices and footsteps out on the porch, while I was in the kitchen making something to eat.

I dashed into the living room to welcome my daddy home. And there, right beside him, was the same man from before.

Yes, he did what I asked him to do—he stepped off that porch. But he clearly wasn’t leaving until he spoke with my daddy.

We locked eyes again, but this time my tone was different.

“Good afternoon,” I said softly.

He nodded and smiled in my direction, although I could tell, in that moment, he was locked in a serious conversation. He was here to speak with my daddy, not me. So I went back into the kitchen, then stepped into the backyard garden. I could still hear the faint murmur of conversation as I pulled up potatoes for our dinner that night.

Staring into space, there were a million thoughts in my head. I was surprised by this mysterious man at the door. But I also knew someone was looking for me.

* * *

The mornings before school were a frantic yet focused time. My older sister and I would wake up early—usually around six, or earlier—to rouse the four younger children in the house, and help Mummy get them ready for school.

Izona made sure the children had food in their bellies. Mummy would prepare the lunches. As for me, it was my job to ensure the kids went to class with a clean and ironed school uniform. We didn’t have much, but we had pride, especially in our education. I remember that heavy, metal iron, with a small door where you inserted the coals. I would hang that iron over the fire until it got blazing hot, and use it to press the clothes.

The year was 1980 and although I was a teenager by now, it was a delicate task I knew how to do by the time I was nine years old.

Our younger siblings went to different primary schools, so my sister and I would split up and walk them to school. It was a long trudge, and half the time the kids would be sleepy and irritable. You had to drag them, or sometimes I’d lift them up on my shoulders, the hot Bahamian sun rising before us.

That was a big reason we had to wake up so early—it took almost an hour to walk them to school and get myself to class, over at L. W. Young High School.

For those that don’t know Nassau, L. W. Young was located in the eastern part of New Providence, in an area known as Fox Hill. It was such a long walk from Bain Town that by the time I dropped my siblings off, it was a race against time to make it to class. Which was fine by me, because I’d run everywhere I went anyway. If I was on time, I’d stick to Wulff Road, one of the main paved streets back then. If not, I’d have to cut through the bush, and try my best to keep my pressed uniform clean.

But even then I was fast, or at least fast enough. I was never late for class.

That morning I arrived at the gates of L. W. Young just before the school bell sounded. While it was a good school, I’d be lying if I said I was truly happy there.

Based on where I lived, I was supposed to attend Government High, which at the time was the crème de la crème of high schools in The Bahamas. It was the best for everything, whether it be athletics or academics. Two former prime ministers went there—our founding father, Sir Lynden Oscar Pindling, and later, Perry Gladstone Christie—along with a long line of other politicians, doctors, lawyers, and community leaders.

Just a few months before, my daddy had visited Government High to enroll me for the year, only to make a grim discovery—my school records had gone missing. Everything I had done until that point—gone.

And I wasn’t the only one. I would later discover that many students, mostly from my neighborhood, and mostly from poor backgrounds, had missing records, too.

Entry into Government High was competitive. Like I said, it was the top school. And in order to narrow the field, sometimes it was easier if some students simply didn’t qualify due to “lost” or “damaged” records. Something tells me that children from privileged families didn’t have the same problems.

Remember those neighbors of mine, the ones who owned the Keith’s Chicken Shack? I can tell you—they had no problem being admitted into Government High.

So it was a bitter disappointment for me and my family. It meant that at L. W. Young I would not have a desk. I had to do my work in my lap, along with all the other children who had “lost records” and fell through the cracks.

It was disappointing, yes, but even then, disappointments only added fuel to my fire.

As the school bell sounded, I worked my way through the sea of bodies, focused on where I needed to go. Suddenly, a young man jumped out in front of me.

“Pauline! Good morning!”

It was Frank Rutherford, an upperclassman at L. W. Young. I rolled my eyes and kept going—this wasn’t the first time I had attracted his attention.

Just a few days before, I had been running in the field behind the school. All the students would be divided into houses, which went head to head in competitions throughout the year. And there was no greater competition in The Bahamas than track and field.

The field had plenty of rocks in it, so you had to watch out, especially when you were running barefoot. We would create our own start and finish lines using piles of school shoes, or clothing, or rocks we’d find in the field. And there I was, sprinting barefoot back and forth across the field in my school uniform, skirt and all. It was seemingly like any other day. Except, unknown to me, I had someone watching me—Frank.

You see, Frank was not your typical upperclassman.

Ever since primary school, Frank had been an athlete. His mother—Yvonne Hanna—had been one of the best junior sprinters in the country during the 1960s. He was also a gifted sprinter, but perhaps an even better high jumper and long jumper. These talents made Frank captain of his house at L. W. Young.

One day, as they prepared for a house competition, a teacher realized that Frank’s club, Columbus House, didn’t have anyone to participate in the triple jump.

So in stepped Frank. He wiped the floor with the competition. And with that, a fire was lit beneath him, and he just kept jumping. He trained so much that he caught the eye of Lyndon Sands, a Bahamian triple jumper on scholarship at the University of Houston. Lyndon discovered Frank, showed him his techniques, and set him on the path.

Suffice it to say, Frank’s athletics exploits are known by each and every Bahamian. Like Sands, the man who discovered him, Frank would also attend the University of Houston and set the school’s triple jump record for men—a mark he maintains to this day.

In 1987, Frank would become the first athlete from my country to medal at the International Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF) World Indoor Championships. It was only the beginning in a long line of athletic firsts. In all, he would attend three Olympic Games, with his crowning achievement coming in 1992, when Frank won The Bahamas’ first individual medal, a bronze, in the triple jump.

For our tiny nation, it was a historical feat, and one that would make him, in many respects, the father of track and field in The Bahamas. Of course, on that rocky field behind L. W. Young, he had no idea what awaited him in life.

And he definitely didn’t know he was about to make a discovery of his own.

“Back then, Pauline was just a raw talent,” he remembers. “Even Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles could see it. She wasn’t the fastest sprinter yet, but there was just something special about her. She wasn’t just fast—she made it look so natural and effortless.”

Raw is right. After all, I hadn’t given much thought to my running, or the fact that I sprinted sideways, with my hands held up around my chin, swaying side to side, my body crooked to the side, as if I was still carrying those buckets of water.

I just ran—and gave it everything I had. Maybe that was what he saw.

At the time, Frank didn’t make himself known to me. He bided his time. Later that day, I first noticed him in class. Upperclassmen like Frank were asked to fill in for the teacher at times. He would sit at the front of the class, at the teacher’s desk, and occasionally get up to walk among the students, to see if we needed any help with our assignments.

“Hello, do you need any help?” he asked kindly.

I looked up from my chair. With no desk to write on, I had to lean forward, neck bent low to the ground, as I wrote in my workbook.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

So he left and sat back down. I noticed he didn’t ask any of the other students if they needed help. Not long after, he got up again, strolling between the aisles, until he once again stopped right in front of my chair.

“Are you sure I can’t help you?” he asked.

This time I got a little sassy. “No, I told you, sir. I don’t need your help.”

Looking back, I think Frank was just sizing me up. Because the next day, as I came through the front gates of L. W. Young, he was there again. So when he called my name, and said good morning, I had no patience for him.

“First of all, my daddy don’t let me speak to no men I don’t know. Leave me alone!”

But he followed me towards class.

“Look, I saw you run yesterday, Pauline. My coach wants to speak with you.”

I blew him off and kept right on marching towards class. But to Frank’s credit, he never gave up. He was there at the gate the next morning, waiting for me at the start of school.

“I’m sick and tired of you!” I said, slipping past him. “I don’t want to be bothered.”

“I spoke with my coach!” he blurted out. I stopped to listen, my back still turned. “He said for you to tell me where you live. He will come and see your daddy.”

Without looking back, I yelled, “Fleming Street. Bain Town.”

I thought it would get him off my back. Off I went to class—and put it out of my head. I didn’t think this coach would actually find me, let alone show up on my porch that afternoon.

* * *

Around the time Frank saw me run the field behind L. W. Young, that very same coach was hunched over in his office, watching a grainy black-and-white videotape, over and over. He rubbed his tired eyes and rewound the tape. He just couldn’t make sense of it.

At first, the video didn’t seem out of the ordinary. I mean, Coach Neville Wisdom always took videos of his athletes’ races—it was part of his coaching protocols, to critique their performance and figure out how they could improve. In this case, he had recorded Eldece Clarke, the most promising young female sprinter in The Bahamas, and the pride of an elite track club known as the Bain Town Flyers.

Yes—that Bain Town.

Founded in 1968, the Bain Town Flyers was formed to provide some of the poorest children in The Bahamas a chance to rise above their circumstances. It was an outlet—a chance to aspire to something greater. Unlike many other sports, running requires only two things—your left foot and your right foot. In many ways, track and field is the great equalizer. Anyone can participate. And for these children, the poorest of the poor, it offered focus, discipline, pride, and a sense of achievement.

These were the humble principles on which the Flyers club was founded. Of course, the original members had no idea the pride they would bring a nation.

At some point in the 1970s, the program had become defunct. Without the constant presence of strong leadership—a custodian and guardian—the club could never survive. Dr. Norman Gay, the member of Parliament for Bain and Grants Town at the time, understood how important the Bain Town Flyers had been for the children of his constituency.

So he approached Coach Wisdom about revitalizing the club.

After all, Wisdom was a former athlete himself, having attended Mankato State University—now called Minnesota State University, Mankato—on a partial athletic scholarship. His brother, Gerald Lloyd “Jerry” Wisdom, was actually one of The Bahamas’ earliest Olympians, competing in the 4×100 relay and the long jump in the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City. So Neville had the athletic pedigree. But beyond that, he was already a seasoned track coach and senior master at Government High—that castle on the hill for me, so to speak.

The school that I aspired to attend.

Coach Wisdom would take the Bain Town Flyers to unimaginable heights. In truth, to say he was simply a coach is a huge understatement—he was a father figure and rallying force for an entire generation of elite Bahamian athletes.

Under Coach Wisdom’s leadership, he would be known as “Dad” to literally hundreds of children from the Over the Hill communities. His mother—Dorothy Wisdom—was known as “Mom” to many (“Mum Wisdom” to me). And it was so much more than athletics. Led by Coach Wisdom and his family, an entire crew of surrogate parents became part of this network—the Bain Town Flyers—providing these children with anything they needed, whether it be food, shoes, or emotional and spiritual support. And, of course, there was always the running. Each morning a Government High school bus, complimented by a fleet of parents in their own cars, would fan out in different directions to fetch members of the club, so they could train in the early mornings and afternoons and be part of this community—this fraternity.

There was Warren Lavarty, a member of Parliament and cabinet minister, picking up the crew in the east. George Murray, another giant and parental figure in the running community, fetching kids in the south. It was an extraordinary, coordinated effort. They were miracle workers, really, and completely selfless.

But there was another reason for all this effort—Coach Wisdom believed that the best talent in the country could be found in the poorest areas.

Or, as Coach Wisdom would say, “the bowels of the country.”

Take Judy McDonald. A few years before I was discovered, Judy had been living in the very heart of the ghetto, with only her blind grandmother to raise her. But she was a gifted athlete—Coach Wisdom could see that. One day, he saw her on the street during the day, and immediately figured she was playing hooky from school. Coach Wisdom picked her right off the street and took Judy back to her grandmother. He told them both he would enroll Judy into Government High and serve as her mentor. Years later, that young lady would attend Hampton University in the United States, one of the country’s top African American institutions, on a full track scholarship. Judy would return home years later to become a senior officer in the navy, with the Royal Bahamas Police Force.

“For me, he was the greatest coach on earth. He is like a father to me,” McDonald reflects. “I just love that man. The opportunity he afforded me—to get out of the ghetto, and make a life for myself. I owe him everything.”

There were so many others, such as Colleen Hanna, who also came from poverty. She would become the first Bahamian to win the 100 meters at an NCAA Division I school. Or Livingston Marshall, also from the Bain Town Flyers, whose athletic talents would help catapult him to the College of William and Mary, an Ivy League school, en route to earning his doctorate.

“He is a special man,” Marshall told a radio morning show in The Bahamas in August 2020, on Wisdom’s seventieth birthday. “I can’t thank him enough. All the times he pushed his hands into his pocket to help me, and so many other people. He was always an advocate and a strong, consistent supporter for individuals such as myself. If you were willing to listen, he would make it happen for you. I have no idea how him and his group supported so many of us. I’m talking about hundreds of kids from Over the Hill. And so he has had a tremendous impact on us and a truly remarkable run in producing great athletes. I wasn’t a great athlete, but I decided to reward him by getting a PhD.”

The Bain Town Flyers was not just about running. It changed lives. Girls and boys with little hope in life could suddenly dream of something better.

Athletics was the ticket out, the chance to do something extraordinary.

Frank Rutherford, the man who helped discover me, was also a product of the Bain Town Flyers, under Coach Wisdom’s tutelage. Had he not seen me run in that field behind L. W. Young, who knows where my life might have headed.

As Coach Wisdom squinted at that video recording, for whatever reason, I stood out to him. I have no idea why. Like I said, Eldece Clarke was his initial focus—she was the star, decked out in running sprints and a proper school uniform, with a polished technique. As for me, I couldn’t have been any more different. There I was, a distant fourth behind her, completely barefooted, and running in the most peculiar way—sideways.

“Her body movement was from side to side, and her hands were all over the place,” Coach Wisdom remembers. “It was almost as if she was fighting herself to get to the finish line, from beginning to end. Her arms were swaying from side to side. But she was just very fiery and feisty. You could see she had some innate talent that could be refined.”

Coach Wisdom told me he used to play the video at practices, when a group of Bain Town Flyers were in the room. He would ask—does anyone know this girl? The answer was always the same—no. Until one day, Frank was in that room.

And he knew exactly where to find me at L. W. Young.

I sometimes wonder—had I not run sideways, would Coach Wisdom have noticed me on that videotape? I mean, I didn’t come in second place behind Eldece, giving this promising young athlete a run for her money. I didn’t even place third. I was a distant fourth.

In many ways, it’s miraculous that he ended up on my porch that afternoon.

“Pauline, come in here, baby,” my daddy hollered from the living room. Just as my mummy always called me “sweet pea,” my daddy always called me “baby.”

I peeped my head around the corner of the kitchen.

“That’s it, baby. Please come here and have a seat.”

I slid into my seat reluctantly—polite but also shy and nervous, eyes mostly to the ground, casting up quick glances at the mysterious man across from me.

“Coach Wisdom here,” he paused, turning to him for emphasis, then back at me. “He has apparently been looking for you for quite some time. He believes you are special. He thinks you can be a phenomenal athlete.”

“But Daddy,” I blurted out, dumbfounded, “I only run on a sports day.”

I can only imagine what Coach Wisdom thought of me in that moment. At this point, Wisdom had a reputation—he wasn’t accustomed to being turned down. And yet here was this girl, living in the ghetto, who not only ran sideways, but seemed to have no interest in his coaching. Whatever raw talent Frank and Coach Wisdom saw in me, they spotted it way before I did. I had no clue what I could become.

“She just didn’t know what she had inside her,” Frank explains of my reluctance. “Coming from those circumstances, like I did, it’s understandable. Someone had to expose me to it, and believe in me, so I could believe in myself and see what is actually possible.”

Up until this point, I knew I enjoyed running, and part of me wanted to run competitively. But I used to do all kinds of sports back then—field hockey, volleyball, netball, softball, and basketball. Like I said, I would cut my hair just to play soccer with the boys. It was clear I had a competitive fire somewhere inside me, although it never occurred to me that running was any more important than these other sports. And looking back, I wasn’t exactly a standout in those early years.

Just two years prior, when I was in grade seven, all the boys and girls gathered together in the gym at D. W. Davis, the school I attended before L. W. Young.

Dawn Knowles, the coach, called out the names of those who had been chosen for the track team, and who would do which event. It was agonizing, listening to her list all of those names. It wasn’t until she reached the end that I truly realized—I didn’t make the team. And I cried. I cried so hard, until Knowles came over to comfort me.

I recall begging her for something, anything. I just wanted to be part of the team.

“I liked her spirit,” Ms. Knowles remembers. “You know, coming in as a seventh grader, she wasn’t as strong as some of the eighth and ninth graders at the time. It would have been really unusual for a seventh grader to be ahead of them. But she had a spark. She was just so willing. She wanted to be a part of it, no matter what. Looking back now—who would have thought? Pauline became an icon. Every time I think about it, I still get goosebumps.”

Ms. Knowles made me an alternate on the 4×100 team. But mostly, I became a gopher—fetching every little thing for those who made the team.

“Pauline, get me some water!”

“Pauline, get my shoes!”

I was just happy to be out there. It bothered me that I wasn’t running, but I was still excited to be part of the team.

“During lunchtime, she would always come looking for me, trying to figure out when was practice,” recalls Jackie Dames, the captain of our house and a member of the track team. “She was always in my face: ‘When is practice, Jackie? When is practice?’ So what stood out then was her enthusiasm. She was determined despite not making the team. It didn’t deter her, at all. She was just as determined the next year.”

I did make the team the following year, along with my first year at L. W. Young, when Frank discovered me on the field. But again, it was just any other sport for me—I never considered myself a runner. I competed in the house competitions. As part of the school team, we would have a day where we went and competed against other schools.

But just like I told my daddy and Coach Wisdom—“I only run on sports day.” It never went beyond that. I never thought it could.

“But baby,” my daddy persisted, “this man believes you are special.”

And that was the problem. At first, I didn’t believe I was special. As Frank said, for you to become something special, you also have to believe it. You have to want it. Fortunately, I had people that believed in me long enough for me to come around.

After that first meeting, the stage was set. Coach Wisdom was no longer a stranger or a mysterious man. He thanked my daddy for his time and shook my hand, and we walked him to the front porch. Just before he left, my daddy pointed to the window on the right—“That’s where Pauline sleeps,” he said.

The next morning, Coach Wisdom would come calling for me—at four o’clock sharp.

So he had my daddy’s blessing. But that was only half the equation. You see, there was another reason for my hesitation. I knew—Mummy never wanted me to run.

Remember the book and the belt?

For my mummy, education was everything. She didn’t want her daughter out there running around in no hot sun. From the time I dismantled that new doll on Christmas morning and said I wanted to be a surgeon, my mummy’s goal was to get her girl to college. I don’t think it occurred to her, at the time, where this running could take me. I can’t really tell you how my daddy convinced my mummy—I wasn’t in the room for that conversation. I just remember he came into my room that evening and sat beside me on the bed.

“Baby, now listen,” he said. “Now, I had this conversation with your mother. Your mummy don’t want you to do this, and you know how she go. I’ll have no leg to stand on if you let your grades slip. So here’s the deal, OK? This is the deal. You gotta keep your grades up, OK? Promise Daddy. Because if those grades drop, your mummy gonna yank you, and there ain’t nothing I can do about it. Your grades drop, that’s it.”

I nodded in agreement. School had never been the issue for me.

But getting up at four to go with Coach Wisdom? That was another matter altogether.

The next morning, I heard a knock on the bedroom window. And each time he knocked, I would groan and roll away from the window. Another knock. I’d throw my pillow on top of my head and ignore him, until he finally went away.

For almost two weeks this racket went on. The champion inside of me was still sleeping. She wasn’t ready to come out.

Fortunately for me, Coach Wisdom never gave up. That, and I also shared a room with my sisters. One day, my oldest sister had enough.

“I’m tired of this man coming,” she moaned. “He coming every single day!”

Rising from the covers, Izona literally kicked me out of bed. That was the trigger—and it was the only way to get rid of him. So, groggy and disoriented, in the pitch black, I threw on some clothes and staggered my way to the front door, remembering at the last moment not to let the screen door slam, so I didn’t wake up the whole house.

I saw a silhouette waiting behind the wheel, the car engine purring. Rounding the front of the vehicle, I shielded my eyes as harsh headlights tore through the darkness, until I reached the side door and collapsed into the backseat.

Nobody said a word—it was too early for conversation. As Coach Wisdom backed out onto the street, I saw a dark figure across from me. She muttered something and cozied up against the other car door. I couldn’t really make out her face at the time, but she would become my companion every morning—Eldece Clarke.

The same Eldece who was Coach Wisdom’s prized athlete from Government High. The same girl who was in that grainy videotape, where I came in a distant fourth.

At that moment, it finally dawned on me where I was. Yesterday I was a barefoot girl in the ghetto, completely unnoticed. That morning, I was in the back of Coach Wisdom’s car, just me and Eldece. We weren’t packed into a school bus, or being picked up by one of the many volunteer parents and coaches.

I realized I was special. I belonged to Coach Wisdom now.

We drove for several minutes in silence. There was nobody else on the roads. My mind drifted in and out, eyelids flapping. I hadn’t learned how to slip in a few extra minutes of sleep before practice, like Eldece.

Suddenly, Coach Wisdom’s car came to a screeching halt.

“Out you go,” he hollered back to us.

Eldece snapped to attention—she seemed to know what to do immediately. So I simply followed. Back then, Coach Wisdom used to drop us off at the old Police Training College, and we’d have to run more than two miles to the practice site at Goodman’s Bay. In those early days, I really thought he was crazy. I thought my daddy was crazy, too. I mean, I should have been in bed. I should have been up in an hour to two, to help get the other children out of bed and walk them to school. But life was starting to change. My priorities were different. Now, there was only the road, my two bare feet, an end goal in front of me.

I just couldn’t see it yet—literally.

So we ran in the middle of the street and not a car in sight. Coach Wisdom’s headlights felt like they would bore a hole through my back. His car was right on my heels. And it wasn’t because he was driving fast—I was lagging behind. Eldece was way up ahead, and I brought up the rear. I was running, but not very fast. In the beginning, I almost tried to convince him—and myself—I wasn’t what he thought he saw.

I was just a girl from the ghetto—a girl who ran sideways.

And then there was a crash—the sound of bent steel and broken glass. I couldn’t see a thing, but I knew it was up ahead. It was enough to jolt me out of my headspace, away from my brooding and self-doubt. I only thought about what was ahead.

Suddenly, I was in a dead sprint, into the darkness without thought or prejudice. It didn’t make much difference. I often ran with my eyes closed, anyway. I sprinted so hard that I finally caught up to Eldece, who was on the side of the road. Panting hard, hands on my sides, I saw the headlights and faint outline of two cars that had collided, and two men surveying the damage. Fortunately, nobody was seriously hurt that morning.

Somewhere in the confusion I felt a bony tap on my shoulder.

“I thought you couldn’t run,” Coach Wisdom said, grinning knowingly.

From that moment on, I knew I could run. I started to believe.

* * *

Those morning practices were in darkness, with just the moonlight and perhaps the earliest rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon.

They would always begin the same, after that 2.5 miles or so from the Police Training College: with members of the Bain Town Flyers congregating at the Cable Beach Golf Course. Today, it is the site of a megaresort known as Baha Mar, and a signature Jack Nicklaus course. But back then it was rustic—mostly bush—with a rough trail that had been carved around the golf course and lake, from the endless pounding of feet.

Not to say that path was easy to find. I mean, it was pitch black—you had to know how to maneuver around that path. Over time, I learned it by heart.

On those first mornings, it was just following the leader, the only sounds our huffing and puffing, and the croaks of bullfrogs.

That was our warm-up—and for Eldece and I, our second warm-up—to get the blood pumping. With that all finished, the group would meet at Goodman’s Bay, a picturesque stretch of grass that spills onto a beach that goes on for miles.

At this point, we’d divide into three groups—the sprinters, the jumpers, and the long-distance runners. So much of those early mornings was just conditioning and technique. It was the afternoons, after school, that we headed over to the stadium to practice actual block starts and race the 400, 200, or 100, repeat intervals.

Of course, I was just learning the ropes on those first mornings. And getting to know the other athletes. Because that was all we really had—each other.

There was no fancy equipment you might find at some other track clubs or gyms. We improvised with what we had around us, which was fine by me. It wasn’t that different from growing up in Bain Town, sprinting around that neighborhood, doing coconut tree relays with friends. Our workout was how I used to play.

For weight training, we used our bodies. Find a partner. And then you physically lift the other person and run, if you can, to the other end of the field. With waves crashing in the distance, we’d then leap up and grab tree branches and do pull-ups.

Our gym was the world around us.

“We improvised in order to improve their arm action, with respect to encouraging development of their fast-twitch muscles,” Coach Wisdom explains. “I used to have them go into the bush and quickly pick leaves off the tree, as fast as they could, to improve their hand-eye coordination. These were the kinds of activities and competitions we had our athletes go through.”

Our biggest luxury was the beach, but not for swimming, relaxing, and sunbathing. We often sprinted on sand. Coach Wisdom figured that if you train mostly on sand, it’s gonna get a whole lot easier when it’s time to run on a smooth surface.

It’s incredible, now that I reflect back—here we were, a bunch of kids from the ghetto, hanging from trees, lifting each other up, and picking leaves from bushes. Sure, it was basic, but it worked. And we were committed. I looked around me in those early days and understood I was now part of something special—something important.

Little did we know, but several of us would soon be on the world stage, competing with the very best athletes in the world.

We might have been limited in equipment, but not in our aspirations.

“It’s important to understand that, at this time, The Bahamas had never come close to winning an Olympic medal in track and field,” Coach Wisdom says. “So when I was telling these children—‘Look, you can win an Olympic medal,’ it was so far out of this world, out of the realm of possibility.”

And yet we believed it, somehow. The path had been set before us.

My country’s first Olympics was in 1952, in Helsinki, Finland. Our tiny nation sent a total of seven athletes to that Summer Olympic Games, but it wouldn’t be until the following Summer Games (1956), in Melbourne, Australia, that The Bahamas would experience its first taste of victory. Two Bahamians, Sir Durward Knowles and Sloane Farrington, took home the bronze medal in sailing—a sport my country came by honestly. We are an island nation, after all. And they would keep that going at the 1964 Summer Olympic Games in Tokyo, when Sir Knowles, this time with Cecil Cooke, won a gold medal in the same event.

It was a great accomplishment, to be sure, and those medals will forever be etched into the annals of my country’s Olympic history.

At the same time, those two wins seem distant for the average Bahamian.

Remember now—The Bahamas didn’t achieve its independence until 1973. When those men stood on that podium in 1956 and 1964, it was “God Save the Queen” playing as the Union Jack rose to the rafters, not “March On, Bahamaland.”

Lift up your head to the rising sun, Bahamaland;

March on to glory, your bright banners waving high.

Those are sacred words for my people, just as “O say can you see” are in “The Star Spangled Banner.” They are the pride of a nation. The opening lines of both anthems are similar—you are looking at something. Your people. Your identity. And for The Bahamas, it was the fulfillment of a dream, when we finally achieved nationhood.

At its heart, the Olympics is really about that—nationhood, and competing to see who is the best in the world. You see it on display, from the Opening Ceremonies, when athletes march onto the field, proudly waving to the crowd and displaying their country’s colors, to that ultimate moment on the podium when your anthem is played.

But Bahamians wouldn’t have felt that pride during those Olympic Games in the 1950s and 60s, at least not in the same way. How could they? They would have felt those medals belonged to the British Empire—to the queen—not to the Bahamian people.

As a sport, sailing was also less relatable and accessible to the average Bahamian, especially in those days. But track and field? We can all relate to that—we all know what it feels like to run fast. We all feel that rush as the athletes fly towards the finish line. In America, it’s American football. In Canada, it’s hockey. And in much of Europe, it’s football, or soccer. For The Bahamas, track and field runs through our veins—it goes deep down in our souls. More than any other sport, track and field is part of our culture, our national character.

And it’s not just a Bahamian ting, as my people would say.

In 1972, Austin Sealy, president of the Amateur Athletic Association of Barbados, founded the first ever CARJFTA Games, or the Caribbean’s equivalent of the Olympics. The competition is fierce. National pride is on the line. Here you have not just the best of The Bahamas competing, but the best of the best from all across the region—The Bahamas, Bermuda, Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago, Martinique, Grenada St. Kitts-Nevis . . . and, of course, our biggest rival, Jamaica.

The history of this competition goes well beyond sport. The CARIFTA Games were formed to mark the transition from the Caribbean Free Trade Association to the Caribbean Community, or CARICOM, designed to promote economic, political, and social integration among fifteen member states. It was as much about international relations than anything else.

Where sports meet politics—the lines blur.

We all knew how important track and field was. You feel it from a very young age, when the most promising are identified as children. First you had the house meets, where just about anyone could participate. And if you had talent, you might get noticed, and you could perhaps be chosen for the school team. And then there were the track clubs, like the Bain Town Flyers—that was the next level. And we weren’t the only game in town. The Ambassador Track Club, the T-Bird Flyers, and the Pioneers Track Club—these names were synonymous with track and field excellence. They, too, were practicing every morning, before the sun came up, all vying for a chance to represent the country.

Peering around Goodman’s Bay, squinting into the darkness, I saw dozens of young athletes, just like me, grunting out those pull-ups on tree branches, grimacing as they carried someone on their back across the field—cheered on by coaches, and by adults volunteering their time. I truly realized I wasn’t running on sports day anymore. I was part of a tradition now, an institution—something much greater than myself, something that cut to our very pride as a nation. If I trained hard enough, and was fortunate enough, I could have the weight of my nation on my shoulders.

International competition aside, even high school championships were a huge deal—they were a national event.

Athletes would arrive at the stadium like heroes, following in the wake of colorful parades—dozens of people in elaborate Junkanoo costumes, made of paper-mache. If you’ve never seen Junkanoo, just think one word—energy. Bahamians dance in rhythm to the deep pounding of goombay drums made of goatskin, huge wooden barrels strapped over shoulders. Others follow with cowbells in hand, that constant baseline shuffle. And then there are the whistles, a high-pitched call rising over the top. Somehow, all these sounds meld and become harmony. The Junkanoo Rush washes over you, gets your blood pumping. Cheerleaders and a flail marching band come next.

Every single school had one of these processions, leading their athletes to victory.

Everybody and their mama came to the stadium to watch. Bahamians planned vacation days around the competition. Inside, more than eleven thousand people packed in together, standing room only, and it was simply electric—the constant cheers, drum beats, and cowbells, the hush of anticipation as runners prepared at the starting line, and the slow, gradual rumble as the race went on, ending in total, collective hysteria in Thomas A. Robinson Stadium.

Every Bahamian knows that name—Tommy Robinson.

Tie was one of those athletes who set the path before us and gave us hope.

After that bronze medal in sailing at the 1956 Games in Melbourne, plenty of Bahamians would climb that mountain and punch their ticket to the Olympics. But no track and field athletes had yet reached the summit and achieved an Olympic medal.

From 1956 to 1968, Robinson competed as a sprinter in four Olympic Games for The Bahamas. At the 1968 Summer Olympic Games in Mexico, he was part of a 4x100 team that made it to the semifinals. Despite never winning an Olympic medal, he was a legend in my country, and an inspiration to an entire generation of track and field athletes. Robinson did win a gold medal at the Commonwealth Games in 1958, another gold at the Central American and Caribbean (CAC) Games a few years later, all the while winning major competitions at the collegiate level with the University of Michigan. In 1985, he would be inducted into the University of Michigan Athletic Hall of Honor.

There would be many other trailblazers, such as Bernard Nottage, Leslie Miller, Dudley Parker, Norris Stubbs, and Coach Wisdom’s brother, Jerry Wisdom.

Until finally, thirty-six years after Sir Durward Knowles’s first medal, Frank Rutherford would go down in history as the first Bahamian track and field athlete to win a medal in the triple jump. On the evening news in The Bahamas, sports journalist Phil Smith described how Frank had shaved his head for the 1992 event in Barcelona, Spain, “to get in the frame of mind he wanted to be in.” Who knows, maybe it made him more aerodynamic and contributed to that leap of 17.36 meters, narrowly missing out on the silver, captured by Charles Simpkins of the United States at 17.60 meters.

Although, really, Frank just believed in himself. It was his time.

The night before his event, Smith described on the nightly news how we spoke with Frank while he relaxed in his room, playing PAC-MAN. As his character gobbled up those ghosts, he told Smith, “Believe me, this is my year. This is my time to shine.”

“He is obviously a proud man today,” the news anchor told Smith that night, a few hours after the medal was draped around Frank’s neck. “What do you think this is going to do for the other members of The Bahamas Olympic Team?”

Smith didn’t hesitate in his answer.

“Pauline Davis . . . 22.44, that’s a new national record for The Bahamas in the 200 meters, and she is going to the semifinals. Pauline told me today that Frank definitely motivated her, and she is going to run faster than ever before in the 200 meters.”

And it was true—Frank was an enormous leap for us, in more ways than one.

I wouldn’t win an Olympic medal in Barcelona. It wasn’t yet my time. But Frank showed us all what was possible, because he was just like me, from the ghetto, running on a beach and doing pull-ups from trees. Like Coach Wisdom said, it is difficult to overstate the dream that was the Olympics.

“The entire team is pumped up,” Smith concluded in that interview.

“Frank told me they all had a press conference after accepting the bronze medal, and the US press asked Frank about becoming the first Bahamian to win a medal in track and field, and he made sure he told them one thing: ‘Stop thinking about The Bahamas as only a tourism destination. From here on in, you’re going to see the colors of aquamarine, black, and gold.’”

And that is the point, dear reader.

I come from a country traditionally known for world-class beaches, not athletes. From a bird’s-eye view, our islands just south of Florida can be easy to miss—a sprinkle of sand on a vast ocean. Approximately 350,000 souls now populate these islands I call home. But it would have been far fewer back in those days.

Think of it this way: Tampa, Florida; New Orleans, Louisiana; and Cleveland, Ohio. All of these US cities have around the same population as The Bahamas.

I come from a country they call “the pimple on the butt”—athletes from other countries would say this to me, believe it or not. Little dots sprinkled down the bottom or backside of North America. Not the best description for one of the most beautiful places on Earth, but there you have it. We are insignificant—that was their point. But I believe God gave us all talents and gifts, regardless of where you were born. People would tease me and laugh, but all of it would motivate me, in the end. Like I said, it adds fuel to the fire. You might say, “I’m from that country, but I’m going to whoop you in front of the world right now.” I wanted to make sure I beat them down right there.

Imagine you come from a small town, where everyone knows each other. But it’s your country. So it’s you against the world. You have a chip on your shoulder.

We were David. The whole world, and in particular the United States, felt like Goliath.

In the fall of 1980 when I joined the Bain Town Flyers, something special was happening in The Bahamas. We were not just a product of our past, but also a bridge to the future. The seeds that had been planted by those before us were finally beginning to grow, and soon, they would bear the sweetest fruit imaginable.

Our passion for the sport. Our endless early morning practices. The dedication and resourcefulness of our athletes and coaches. It would all pay off in the end. Today, there are more than eighty track clubs in The Bahamas. The country has won sixteen medals in the Summer Olympic Games.

While that might sound impressive, it doesn’t give the whole picture.

When you adjust by population, my country has won the the most medals at the Summer Olympics in the world, with Hungary in second and Finland in third. Following the 2020 Summer Olympics in Tokyo, The Bahamas has achieved sixteen Olympic medals—eight of them gold—or roughly 56 medals per million people.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

For us, in those early days, there was far more work to do—our own mountain to climb. One day, we would not just be on that Olympic podium, but at the top of it. Someone would see the Bahamian flag, not the Union Jack, raised to the rafters of a packed stadium. He—or she—would lift up their head to the rising sun, and hear our anthem played.

The search was on for that first truly world-class sprinter. And even more so—that first female world-class sprinter. Up until this point, plenty of Bahamian men had made the Olympics. Where were all the women? For Wisdom and other top coaches in The Bahamas, there was a race to find that shining star. And not for just The Bahamas, but the entire Caribbean. The men already had their glory. Before the phenomenon of Usain Bolt, there was Arthur Wint, known as the Jamaican “Gentle Giant,” who won the gold in the 400 meters in the 1948 Summer Olympics in London. Next came Jamaican Donald Quarrie, gold medalist at the 1976 Summer Olympics in Montreal, Canada, in the 200. And then Hasley Crawford, from Trinidad and Tobago, who at those same Olympics captured the gold in the 100. Sadly, the women of the Caribbean were mostly absent from the history books.

One exception was Merlene Ottey, born in Jamaica in May 1960, who would have a storied athletic career. While the Olympic gold medal eluded her, between 1980 and 2000 she would win three silver medals and six bronze, along with many other medals, including golds in the World Championships and Commonwealth Games. Grace Jackson, another Jamaican, won the silver in 1988 at the Summer Olympics in Seoul, South Korea.

Both women would become mentors to me—giants in women’s track and field—and close friends.

The point is, no woman from the Caribbean had achieved the ultimate prize in track and field when I was starting out.

Ottey in particular was the model for young female sprinters like myself. And there was reason to believe The Bahamas was poised for a breakout. Around this time, Colleen Hanna set a new 100-meter record at her Division I school, Iowa State University.

These were still distant dreams for me, of course, in those early days.

Standing there in the dark at Goodman’s Bay, panting after our run along the golf course, I looked around for Coach Wisdom.

Before I could take on the world, he’d have to straighten me out.

“Pearl, come with me, please,” he whispered behind me.

I didn’t turn around at first. Why would I? He didn’t call my name.

“Hey, Pearl. This way!” he called.

Finally I looked behind me—I saw Coach’s Wisdom’s slender shadow walking away.

“I called you Pearl because you were special,” he later told me.

“Yes, you were a diamond in the rough, but we couldn’t call you a diamond. Pauline and pearl go together—it had a nice ring to it. But also, this is The Bahamas. We don’t have diamonds here. We have pearls.”

Wild pearls are extremely rare—you can search hundreds, even thousands, of mussels, oysters, and clams and never find one. A pearl starts as a speck of sand, which is actually an irritant for the mollusk. So, over many years, the mollusk oozes and secretes a special fluid to coat that little bit of sand, to protect itself. It might happen millions of times in nature, but very few become that smooth, shiny, perfectly round gem.

That was me back then—the speck of dust. And Coach Wisdom was the oyster. Despite all my protests and excuses, all my impediments, he was sticking with me.

He had to know whether his nagging feeling was right.

The question was—could he really mold me into a pearl?

I followed his shadow through the field, away from the other athletes. After all, I was here now. After nearly two weeks of Coach Wisdom knocking on my window, I finally got out of bed. My daddy told me I could trust him, and there was no turning back.

With the group well behind us, Coach Wisdom stopped and waited for me to catch up.

“Coach, are you OK? Why are we over here?” I asked.

Coach Wisdom reached into his pocket and pulled out something long. He held it up, dangling from his hand. Was it a rope? I couldn’t see it very well in the darkness, but as I looked closer, I realized it was an old necktie. I just stared back at him. If I thought he was crazy before, you can imagine what was going through my head at that moment.

“I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the other athletes,” Coach Wisdom recalls. “And I had to find a way to correct your technique, in terms of getting your hand and arm action going properly. Your body and arms were crooked to the side. So I would tie your left arm to your body so you couldn’t move it—to force you to run straight.”

The way Coach Wisdom figured it, if I could focus on straightening out one side of my body, the rest would come.

It wasn’t the first time coach had to deal with an unusual situation.

Before Colleen Hanna shattered that NCAA record, she had refused to run in shorts. You see, her family was particularly religious and didn’t feel running shorts were appropriate for a young lady. So for years, she ran in a skirt.

“It took me two years to convince them to let her run in shorts,” Coach Wisdom says.

My problem ran much deeper—it was more than a simple article of clothing. It’s unbelievable, when you really think about it—there we were, alone in the moonlight, and my coach was tying one arm behind my back. But I let him do it. I had complete trust in him. It’s not that it hurt or anything—it just felt really strange. And off I went, running back and forth in the darkness with Coach Wisdom, all by ourselves on that field.

He would stand on one end, with me on the other.

“Ready? OK, go, Pearl! Run!” he’d scream.

I’d sprint to him, one hand tied behind my back, trying to focus on keeping my upper body straight, and practicing the techniques he taught me.

With just him and me training, I could really concentrate. He was right—I did feel embarrassed that I ran sideways, especially after I was recruited by the Bain Town Flyers and touted as some great athlete. They used to laugh at me, point at me. Sometimes I would hear them talking, just loud enough so I could hear.

“That girl ain’t going to become no special world class,” I’d hear them say.

“She ain’t going to do anything. He wasting his time with her.”

I’d suck my teet—as a Bahamian would say—and move on.

What was I supposed to say? I was a respectful girl by nature. My mummy and daddy taught me never to talk back. And I was just a kid.

Sadly, this was a lesson I learned early on—when you start to do great things, people will want to knock you down. And sometimes, it will be the people you least expect. Funny enough, some of my harshest critics would be Bahamians, not competitors from other countries.

In terms of elite track clubs, our closest competitor was the Pioneers. The Bain Town Flyers were at odds with this club in more ways than one.

We were divided by class. Pioneers wouldn’t have to worry about shoes for their feet. Those athletes lived in homes with running water and electricity.

Tommy Robinson was a member of the Pioneers. Even Coach Wisdom had been a member. But not everyone shared Coach Wisdom’s open-mindedness—his desire to seek talent “in the bowels of the country.” Classism and snobbery, sadly, would play out in dramatic ways during my career.

Back then, as a fourteen-year-old girl, I just remember feeling new, and self-conscious, as Coach Wisdom tried to teach me how to run straight. It was really difficult in the beginning. I was just a speck of sand, an irritant that coach was trying to craft into something special. He did the believing for us both in the beginning.

And fortunately, he wasn’t my only fan.

There was a wall that went around Goodman’s Bay. We did exercises on it, but also, adults and other passersby would sit on that wall and watch the athletes on those early mornings. It would attract all kinds of people. And one of our most noticeable spectators was none other than Sir Lynden Pinching, the first prime minister of The Bahamas.

In truth, he was so much more than that. He was the father of our nation—the man who would lead us to independence on July 10, 1973. His face is on our one dollar bill. The international airport in Nassau bears his name.

Put simply, Pindling is our George Washington.

From 1973 to 1992, Pindling and the Progressive Liberal Party (PLP) would lead our nation from British colony to full nationhood. He would inspire an entire generation of Bahamians—especially people of color—to reach new heights within society.

So Pindling showing up at morning practice was a bit intimidating, to say the least.

I remember early in my training, we were all doing jumping jacks by the beach. There we were, sixty or seventy strong, all in a line. Pindling would often sit on that wall and just watch, and perhaps sometimes talk to the coaches. He didn’t typically chat with the athletes. But suddenly, after our jumping jacks, Pindling came and stood next to me.

“Little lady,” he said, “your coach told me you drink too much water. You need to stop drinking so much water.”

And it was true. I was always glug, glug, glugging.

He said it with a smile on his face—he was only half serious.

“Yes, sir,” I said immediately. “I will, sir!”

He just winked at me and left. It was the first of many times he would single me out, and I never understood why. In the weeks and months that followed, while walking to school, or running off to the store, I would sometimes see him on the opposite side of the street, surrounded by security and his entourage.

I would keep my head down—Keep walking, I thought. I mean, this is Sir Lynden Pindling, the most powerful man in The Bahamas. Somehow he would spot me from across the street. Pindling made a point to always cross the street and say hello.

“Hello, little lady,” he said on one such occasion. “Are you training hard?”

“Yes, sir,” I blurted out. I was so intimidated and tongue-tied.

I never understood all the attention.

Years later, I would discover just how much he watched over me.

“One morning I was sitting on the wall,” Coach Wisdom remembers, “and Sir Lynden sat down beside me. ‘Hey Coach, what’s new?’ he said. He always asked me that, and took an interest in the athletes. I remember pointing into the crowd. A group of them were doing wind sprints back and forth across the field. ‘You see that young lady?’ I said. ‘Not that funnyrunning one,’ Sir Lynden responded. ‘Yes, sir,’ I responded. ‘She is going to be a star.’”

According to Coach Wisdom, Sir Lynden asked, “What can I do?”

“You can buy her a pair of sprints,” coach told him.

I was oblivious to all of this—I had no idea they even had this conversation. But I do remember getting those shoes, the most exquisite pair of yellow-and-black Adidas sprints, from an “anonymous donor.”

For someone who ran barefoot, it was like receiving a pot of gold.

“Really, Coach? I get to run in these?” I could hardly believe they were mine.

“Yes, they are for you.”

“Oh my goodness. Thank you, Coach. Thank you!”

“They aren’t from me, Pearl.”

“Then who should I thank?” I asked urgently.

“Don’t worry about that now.” He smiled. “The person just wants you to keep training, and keep working hard.”

It wouldn’t be the only gift I’d receive. Running outfits and other equipment would follow—whole bags of things.

My silent benefactor would play an even bigger role in the years to come. In some ways, it would turn out to be both a blessing and a curse. But back then, I didn’t ask too many questions. I mean, it was all so new. I was overwhelmed as it was.

All that mattered was my training—and my private sessions with Coach Wisdom and his worn necktie. He would always knock on my bedroom window at four o’clock, and before long, I’d be springing out of bed before he even arrived.

Once he sorted out one side of my body, he decided to tie up my other arm.

“Ready? Set? Go, Pearl!’’ Coach Wisdom screamed.

“Once I got her running straight with each arm, I put the necktie back in my pocket. We started working on her technique with both arms,” Coach Wisdom recalls. “In sprinting, there are four focal points—the knees and the elbows. It was a very gradual but important part of her training. You teach kids these fundamentals with their running style, because when you have the focal points moving correctly, it makes you much more aerodynamic.”

Sometimes, Coach Wisdom had me wade into the ocean up to my chest just to demonstrate it. The resistance of the water helped me feel how my body was moving.

I don’t remember one single moment where it clicked—I didn’t suddenly rip off that necktie, those shackles, and suddenly run perfectly.

It happened gradually. It took work, real work.

For all great athletes, nothing is a quick fix. It takes dedication to truly become something great. And the desire and spirit to go beyond. I suppose, if anything, that was my one constant—what set me apart. It was the reason Dawn Knowles decided to make a spot for me on that track team, even though I wasn’t quite good enough. And it was the reason Frank noticed me in that field behind L. W. Young, and why Coach Wisdom cared about this feisty, barefoot girl who came in a distant fourth on an old videotape.

I was just a speck of sand—but deep down, they saw a pearl.

They saw a champion.

3

THE GOLDEN GIRL

The following year, in the summer of 1981, another unexpected visitor would arrive at our doorstep in Bain Town—and completely change my life.

I had wonderful parents growing up. My daddy was an excellent provider. My mummy ran a clean house, looked after us, and really both my parents kept me on a tight leash. Without their discipline, I may never have got out of the ghetto or had the mental drive and toughness needed to become a champion. I didn’t know they had marriage problems.

I do remember, one day, Daddy coming home and Mummy screaming at him in the kitchen. As I rounded the corner, I saw her rush my daddy. He picked her up right off the ground. My mummy was a little pepper pot—she got emotional sometimes.

“No, no, no,” he said, sternly. He held her up in the air, staring up at her face. “None of this stuff gonna happen in front of my children.”

She calmed down after that. Somehow, they kept us sheltered from their problems.

The day my parents split up would be no different.

We were all out of the house, off playing somewhere around the neighborhood, as we did so often back then. Mummy was home, washing and tidying up in the kitchen, when suddenly, she heard that aggressive clack—the front screen door. Whomever it was, the person didn’t even bother to knock. Standing there, in my mummy’s home, was a young woman, and a baby cradled in her arms. The way my mummy tells it, I can only imagine the scene—her staring in disbelief, looking from this young woman to the baby in her arms, and then to my daddy, who then emerged from the bedroom, frozen in his tracks.

“This is your husband’s baby,” the woman said finally, shattering the silence.

She said it with an attitude—a sassiness—as if she owned the place. She was looking for a fight. The situation could have gotten ugly very fast. But my mummy didn’t react—she looked at the lady, the baby, and my daddy, and didn’t say a word.

Sometimes, saying absolutely nothing can be more powerful. My mummy brushed past my daddy and went to the bedroom to pack her things.

“Merle, what are you doing? Why are you packing?” my daddy demanded.

“I’m leaving you,” she said, plainly.

“Leaving me? Where you going? You ain’t got no money.”

Mummy kept right on packing, barely looking up at him. “I know one thing,” she said. “I’m leaving this house today. And I ain’t never coming back.”

My mummy stuffed a bag full of clothes and left the room as quickly as she could.

“Well, you ain’t taking my children with you!” my daddy screamed.

She stopped short but didn’t turn around. “No, because I don’t have no money to take care of them. You right about that. But I will be back for all six of my children.”

Then she left. And true to her word, she never returned to that house. But there was a reason she emphasized she’d be back for all six children. As my mummy would tell me later, even Izona, my older sister, felt like her own child, even though she was technically my daddy’s child from a previous relationship. She always talked about how she had six kids.

I don’t know where she went to live when she left, or even how she supported herself. I just know when we got home that day, it was just the kids and my daddy. You don’t ask too many questions when you’re a child. Life had to go on—and it did.

But one day, my mummy would return and make good on her promise.

* * *

Even before that fateful summer, my life was moving in a different direction.

Every single morning, I would jump from my bed and be ready for Coach Wisdom. After months of his correcting my technique, it soon became obvious that his confidence in me was not misplaced. I got better every single day. Every practice I was stronger, more confident. Of course, I still had a long way to go. I wasn’t exactly blowing away the competition, and in truth, we didn’t go to a lot of meets or competitions back then. Those early days were more about building a foundation of fundamentals, habits, and discipline.

Nevertheless, by March 1981, Coach Wisdom was already preparing me for my first major competition—the CARIFTA Games, which took place in Nassau that year. After months of intensive training, he had me in a situation where I could compete at a high level. But I missed the tryouts for CARIFTA due to illness, with a very bad flu.

In a way, it would foreshadow things to come. I would struggle with this kind of illness for most of my life, sometimes with devastating effects—but more on that later.

For me, as just a fourteen-year-old girl, missing my first CARIFTA didn’t feel like a major disappointment. I was young, and it was just one of those things. You accepted it and moved on. And really, back then, my fife was changing far beyond athletics. As the training continued, Coach Wisdom was becoming my “coach dad.” He was a father figure to me—a support system—and his family became my family.

After practice, or on the weekends, I found myself spending time at his family home, run by the matriarch—his mother—Dorothy Wisdom, who immediately became “Mum Wisdom.”

It was a stark difference from our clapboard home in Bain Town. The Wisdoms were firmly middle class, with a clean, spacious house in Nassau in an area known as Highland Park. The house had running water and electricity, which in itself felt like a huge luxury at the time. In that house, everything just seemed bigger—the furniture, the rooms, the ceilings, the door frames. Coach Wisdom’s father, who had passed, had been a manager of Nassau’s largest radio station. Mum Wisdom was retired, having served as a civil servant with the Ministry of Health. Andrea Wisdom, Coach’s sister, was a teacher just like her brother, and she quickly became what I’d call my “sister mom.”

I was Coach Wisdom’s tiny speck of sand, soon to be his pearl, and I quickly realized this transformation went beyond the track. The Wisdoms brought me into their world. They created a protective shell around me so I could grow to become something special.

So even before my parents separated, the Wisdoms’ home was a safe place to land.

When Mummy left, I was fortunate that I had these other people around me—all of these mothers and fathers to lift me up and provide guidance. I stayed in our house with my daddy and siblings long after Mummy was gone. It took a long time for them to settle the terms of the divorce and for Mummy to get back on her feet. But, as in the past, it was a village that raised me, although that village had now expanded beyond Bain Town.

I was slowly moving up in the world.

In September of 1981, Coach Wisdom successfully enrolled me in Government High—the so-called castle on the hill that, for me, seemed impossible to penetrate. Whereas in the past I had been rejected due to my “lost records,” Coach Wisdom’s status as a senior master ensured my spot. Government High was the best school in The Bahamas at the time, so clearly I would now receive a much better education. No longer would I have to write things down on my lap, without even a desk to work on. But the significance of leaving L. W. Young went beyond that. Suddenly, I wouldn’t just see Coach Wisdom early in the morning for practice, or visit his mother’s home now and again. I was now fully in his orbit—and his influence.

Coach Wisdom’s steady, invisible hand could be felt from the start. In fact, he didn’t even enroll me into grade 11, which would have been my natural next step. He decided to have me redo grade 10, not because my scores were poor, but just so he could have even more time with me before college. Because that’s exactly the aspiration he had for me—college, and beyond.

Coach Wisdom would do whatever it took to protect that vision.

Judy Whyms, my physical education teacher at Government High, remembers that when I wasn’t cutting my hair off so I could play soccer with the boys, I had talent for many other sports, including volleyball.

“When we were picking our school team for volleyball, I put her name down. She was good, man. A very good spiker,” Whyms recalls. “She had that elite jumping ability. I remember one day we were practicing in the gym, and Coach Wisdom showed up and gave her that eye. And when she saw that eye, she would say: ‘Oh, Mrs. Whyms, I have to leave now!’ I never saw her at another practice after that.”

Undeterred, Whyms tried to save me, her new star player. She showed up at the principal’s office to plead her case.

“I didn’t get far with that,” she laughs. “It was clear she was spoken for. Any other sports would interfere with her running track and field.”

Letting go was hard for her. Whyms was a great coach in her own right, having won many high school titles in volleyball, basketball, and other sports over her thirty-plus-year career. And while she may not have coached me at a competitive level, Whyms never melted away or gave up on me. She remained my physical education teacher until I graduated and continued to be one of my biggest cheerleaders. I immediately felt that support at Government High—all the teachers had pride, and so the students did, too. When we wore the school’s colors, the blue and white, it made us feel important—like we had a tradition to uphold.

These high standards in high school helped set the tone for who I would become.

“I tell you what, I really like to win. And she was the magic lady,” Whyms adds. “So instead of damaging her, I moved her off, and let her do track and field. I bent over backwards so she could focus on that. But she was the top. She ranks right at the top, of all the kids I worked with. I could never put her down. And she was a person you would always want to coach, because she was a very coachable person.”

Coachable—yes. Coach Wisdom knew that, and like I said, he was laser focused on my future. It wasn’t just at school that Coach Wisdom kept an eye out for me.

As I grew a bit older, I got a pair of roller skates. My friends and I used to skate up the old trail on the weekend, all the way up to the cemetery. We’d spend so much time there that the sun would start to go down. And I knew, if I didn’t get back home before dark, I’d definitely be in for a whoopin’ from my daddy.

On the way home was a big hill in Bain Town known as Hospital Lane—and at this point we’re rolling, full speed ahead. One mistake and I’d be in trouble. So I’m trying to concentrate—I’m crouched down, in race mode—and all I can hear behind me is beep, beep, beep.

There weren’t a whole lot of cars on the road in Nassau back then, not like there are today, so I’m thinking—what’s this guy’s problem?

And I’m telling you, that car ran me right off the road, forcing me into the bush. I was so mad. But when the car stopped in front of me, out stepped Coach Wisdom.

“Girl, you better get off those skates!” he yelled. “Let’s go!”

Suddenly, my anger melted into shame. He didn’t want me to do anything other than run. Period. He was constantly watching me. Sometimes he’d drive through my neighborhood, just to see what I was up to. On that day, he simply opened the car door and pointed. My skates were confiscated, and that was the end of that.

During that first year at Government High, training only got more intense. And not only was I getting better at my craft, but other people in the sports world started to notice. Although we had our morning training at Goodman’s Bay, we usually had afternoon practices at Thomas A. Robinson Stadium, which was just a stone’s throw from Government High.

“I would go by the stadium now and again, just to have a look at some of the athletes,” says Fred Sturrup, a legendary sports columnist in The Bahamas. Sturrup has been in the media business since 1965, and started writing his columns in 1967.

“That’s when I first started to see Pauline. She was so raw. When you watch athletes going around the track, you look for fluidity, and you watch for form. She seemed awkward, in those early days, but what I really noticed was her resilience. She would continue with a lap around the track when her group would have stopped. I have observed her for a very long time and seen many athletes come and go. What stands out about Pauline is her determination. This incredible spirit to continue and drive beyond.”

Similar to Coach Wisdom, Sturrup subscribed to the philosophy that some of the best talent could be found in the poorest places.

“You could just see that she really wanted it. And it had a lot to do with her background,” he explains. “So she wanted to move beyond that. She figured out very early that this would be her outlet to move beyond and get a better life herself.”

Of course, at that age, I wasn’t thinking too much about college, the Olympics, or smashing world records. But definitely—I did have something to prove. Growing up in Bain Town, with the adversity I felt early in my life, only spurred me on to find that extra gear. That extra will to win. And in January 1982, I was ready—and experienced my first real taste of victory.

Gimmie no bread. No bread.

Gimmie no meat. No meat.

Just gimmie that beat. That beat.

The magic beat!

That cheer vibrated through Thomas A. Robinson Stadium for the High School National Championships. When you’re fifteen, eleven thousand people watching your every move might as well be a million. I’ll never forget the parades to the stadium and the frenzy of the fans as I emerged, wide-eyed, from those gates and onto the track. Athletes from Government High were known as “the magic women and men,” and so “the magic beat” spurred us on and made us feel invincible. In that first year, I won the 100 and the 200 meters for the Junior division and never looked back, cementing my place as the top up-and-coming sprinter in The Bahamas.

Eldece Clarke, Coach Wisdom’s older protege, continued her run as the country’s top senior sprinter in the same categories. We both qualified for the CARIFTA Games, taking place in a few months’ time in Kingston, Jamaica.

In many ways, Eldece was like my big sister, and we’d have an important and complicated relationship throughout my life.

When you grow up as an elite athlete, your world becomes smaller. Between school, practice, and competition, there isn’t time for much else. And those you tend to socialize with are in that circle as well, experiencing the same things.

Forever linked through Coach Wisdom, Eldece and I would only become closer with time. Although she was a Bain Town Flyer like me, she lived in a concrete home with utilities. I thought she must be filthy rich, because she always dressed to the nines. One thing about Eldece, she ain’t never stepping out unless she looks good.

When I went to her house—usually in a frumpy old top, pants, and tennis shoes—she’d look me up and down and shake her head.

“You gotta be kidding me,” she’d laugh.

So off we’d go into her bedroom, and she’d fix up my hair, do my makeup, and dress me up like her. I was a tomboy back then and didn’t give much thought to those things.

“I was like her big sister. We were really, really close,” Eldece says. “There were times when I didn’t want to train. She was more gifted. She loved the sport of track and field, and where I was lazy, she would always encourage me to do well and see the bigger picture. So I was her big sister as it relates to certain things, but as it relates to sports itself, I feel she encouraged me to want to reach greater heights.”

Eldece helped me explore my feminine side. I mean, we were young women, and doing the things that teenagers do. But as an elite athlete, it wasn’t always so simple. When I was coming through the system, older women would front up on us. Or, in other words—they’d get up in our face, and tell us to cover up. Our athletic bodies were unbecoming, not the way a woman was supposed to look, in their view.

You can imagine dealing with that as a young athlete, and as a teenager, no less, during a time when we were just discovering ourselves. And because of that, we often chose not to expose ourselves much outside of the arena. It haunted us female athletes for quite some time.

Having older women telling us to keep covered up was a funny feeling.

Back then, in the early 1980s, women just didn’t exercise like they do today, especially in The Bahamas. It was far more conservative. Powerful bodies were not a show of strength. Typically, when I went to the gym, it was mostly men there, and very few women. It’s incredible to see how society has changed—women are exercising, going to the gym, and celebrating their bodies. That was unheard of for me, as I came up through the system.

My early success also intensified some of the jealousy and bitterness other athletes had displayed from the beginning. It seemed that the more promise I showed, the more I was perceived as a threat.

Now, before I go any further, let me say this—I love my country, The Bahamas.

While I’m a citizen of the world, I’m also a very proud Bahamian. Everything I have done in my life has been for that country. Even after winning my Olympic medals, I felt in my heart and soul that they didn’t belong to me. The very thought brings tears to my eyes. Because I feel like I never could have done it without them—the Bahamian people, my village.

Athletics have brought this small collection of islands untold pride. I felt that every day, from the people in my inner circle who supported me, to the thousands of anonymous fans who watched me, cheered me, or stopped me on the street just to give me a hug of encouragement.

Sadly, this unconditional love didn’t always extend to the track and field community.

The fact is, nobody figured I would arrive at this point. Not much was expected of me. And in The Bahamas, where you come from matters sometimes. An invisible line was drawn, and you knew to stay in your lane.

“You had a situation where track and field at the onset was crafted by the upper echelon in society among the black population, partially represented by the Pioneers Track Club,” Sturrup explains. “The Pioneers were the standard and everyone looked at it to achieve and bypass. Quite frankly, when the Bain Town Flyers got to the point where Wisdom took it, his athletes were doing better than everyone else. There was no choice but to notice them.”

The local federation for track and field, known as the Bahamas Association of Athletic Associations (BAAA), traditionally had been dominated by the Pioneers. Successive presidents of the association wore those colors proudly. So there was a feeling that the organization was politicized, and tilted towards those who had that connection, and to those who came from a more affluent part of society. Of course, it was the BAAA that decided which athletes would represent the country on the national team, whether it be the Olympics or the CARIFTA Games.

Frank Rutherford, my country’s first Olympic medalist, describes it this way: “If you were a Bain Town Flyer, you had to be exceptional, and win, to be considered.”

I always understood this—you had to be even more of an achiever to get noticed and cross over that invisible line. You couldn’t be borderline and miss the qualifying standard by an inch. You had to outright blaze that time and far surpass. And when I did, that wasn’t always welcomed by those in privileged positions.

“You can imagine, I am a privileged child,” Coach Wisdom says. “I have the best uniform and equipment, and access to facilities. And then I have to compete with a child who does not have those types of opportunities. If you beat me, that can result in a lot of animosity.”

In other words, I always felt acutely aware that I came from the other side of the tracks.

“You know she going to get herself pregnant,” I’d hear them say. “You know she going to have children with all these different men.”

You listen to people say these things, just loud enough so you can hear. It wasn’t only other athletes my age—it was also rival coaches and officials. I used to think to myself, Well, they ain’t talking about me. They must be talking about someone else. You keep it to yourself and let it add fuel to your fire.

Early on, the fact that I was half Jamaican also made me the source of ridicule, usually behind my back. “Halfie,” “Jamaicie”—they would beat me down and minimize whatever promise I showed, simply because I wasn’t a “pure” Bahamian.

That kind of thing didn’t matter to most people. But for some people in The Bahamas, it did, even though plenty of people I knew came from a mixed heritage.

Fortunately, I also had Coach Wisdom in my corner, encouraging me and propping me up. Sometimes, in the morning darkness at Goodman’s Bay, he’d sit me down and tell me how gifted I was. We just need to get down to business, he said.

“Boy, Pearl, these people. I don’t know what their issue is,” he’d say, shaking his head. “They can’t see your talent. But you know, we’re gonna show them.”

And then there was Prime Minister Pindling, my silent benefactor, who would take even more of an interest in me as time went on.

“Oh, you better watch out for her,” I’d also hear fellow athletes whisper, again just within earshot. “You know she got some friends in high places.”

I heard that one all the time—and had no clue what they were talking about.

Friends in high places? Coach Wisdom might he a senior master at Government High, but he ain’t in no high place. That’s what I’d think to myself. As a young girl, I was sheltered from this fact, that the most powerful man in the country was in my corner. But with power comes politics, rumor, and innuendo, and his favor only amplified feelings of jealousy, or even animosity, from those with different political leanings.

I never had much time for politics—I just wanted to run. A couple years later, in my senior year in high school, Coach Wisdom told me in the car that he planned to go into politics. I cried like a baby. I wept and pleaded with him to reconsider.

“Why would you want to do that?” I cried.

I was so inconsolable that Coach Wisdom had to pull over to the side of the road to calm me down. He gave me a hug and explained that there are good people in politics. That it is a calling, and sometimes you can make a positive difference.

My words and emotions wouldn’t sway him. He would go on to become a senator, and later a cabinet minister under the Perry Christie administration, Pindling’s protege, within the Progressive Liberal Party. I’ll get to that later. I suppose, as a child coming from the ghetto, I never felt like my neighborhood was helped by politics. Sitting in that car with Wisdom, the whole political class seemed far off and distant, elite and uncaring. I didn’t feel represented. But I was a kid, too. I didn’t understand the wider world.

Likewise, I didn’t understand that Prime Minister Pindling was in the shadows, watching over me. And even if I did, I probably wouldn’t have fully grasped what that meant, and how it could change the way some people treated me. Besides, these were simpler times. Again—friends in high places? We might have been elite athletes, but we weren’t exactly living the high life.

We were dirt poor. In those days, the Bahamian track and field program had to scrape and claw for every little bit of funding, especially when it came to competing abroad.

“We had nothing. Absolutely nothing,” remembers Coach Wisdom.

“When we won the 1980 CARIFTA Games in Bermuda, I was given $1,000 to carry a full CARIFTA Team. I remember on my way to the airport, I stopped by the bank on Cable Beach and emptied my bank account. I’d take the scolding from my wife when I got back home. I mean, we had to do it for the kids.”

Not everyone was fortunate enough to acquire new running spikes, like me.

“Things were so lean then, I would have someone run the 100 meters. I’d be waiting at the finish fine, and we’d carry them [the shoes] and bring them back for someone else to wear,” he adds.

Think about that for a moment—funding was sometimes so low that athletes had to share shoes. Meanwhile, we were competing against the world, at an elite level, vying for regional titles and Olympic berths. It’s just how it was back then—simpler times, as I said. It was the grass root of Bahamian track and field, as we fought for international recognition.

Heading to Jamaica in April for the 1982 CARIFTA Games, my first major international competition, resources were slim. That is somewhat of an understatement.

I remember staying at a school just outside Kingston, where they set up makeshift quarters for us to sleep in. There was one big room where all the girls slept, and another for the boys. Except, there weren’t enough beds for all of the coaches and athletes.

“I slept on a step outside the actual dorm room,” Coach Wisdom remembers. “I put my suit bag on the ground, as a pillow, and slept there.”

The lengths our coaches went to allow us to compete knew no bounds.

And it gets worse. For whatever reason, that school was also a farm, and it smelled awful.

I had become an early riser, often getting up even before the morning training. True to character, I woke up first that morning, leaping over Coach Wisdom on the steps, and took a walk around the grounds. There were farm animals in pens, but also wandering around the fields and buildings. As I returned to our dormitory, I recall one of the officials carrying a full bucket of milk for our breakfast, and putting it on the fire to boil. That was a big part of our morning meal, along with white rice and powdered eggs.

We all looked at each other with dread—this wasn’t the kind of food we were used to eating, especially just before we had to perform against the best track and field athletes in the Caribbean. And the stench of the farm didn’t help.

After this meal, we marched out of the barracks, decked out in our tracksuits and Bahamian colors, and waited for our transportation to arrive. And I’ll never forget it—lumbering around the corner came a huge army truck, supplied by the Jamaican military, to shuttle us to the stadium. We piled into the back of that wobbly truck and held on for dear fife.

There we were on the scenic roads of Jamaica, swaying back and forth, the roar of the army truck’s engine in our ears. All of a sudden, we could smell smoke. Our eyes darted this way and that, until finally we saw it billowing from the front, and flames licking up the sides of the vehicle towards us. Fortunately, we weren’t moving particularly fast. We all leapt from the back and into the bushes.

It’s a miracle none of us got hurt—only a few scratches and bumps.

We stood there on the side of the road in our black, aquamarine, and gold, the colors of the Bahamian flag, waiting for another army truck to arrive.

Now, looking back, I suppose it is funny, in a way, to think how bad the conditions were, and what we had to endure. We were genuine trailblazers for what was to come. For today’s athletes, of course, the situation is quite different. Top athletes are identified very early. Today’s best runners receive scholarships to private schools. When they compete, these athletes stay in beautiful hotels and have dedicated coaches, nutritionists, and physiotherapists watching over them. Many will have endorsements and all the best equipment en route to a free ride at a Division I college or university. And, quite frankly, that’s the way it should be for our elite athletes. They give everything. They offer so much of themselves to become the best in the world. They bring pride to a nation.

For us, in the back of that army truck in Kingston, Jamaica, in 1982, it just shows how much track and field meant to us, and to The Bahamas. It was like going to war.

There would be struggles and hardships, but it was worth it in the end. We did what we had to do.

When we got to the track, the whole team was exhausted. We were competing, but performing horribly. The Jamaicans were putting a royal beatdown on us—going one and two in most heats. One and two. One and two. Our Bahamian sprinters were passing out and lying on the ground like swatted flies, just dropping right on the grass, stunned and exhausted. Sure, the Jamaicans always fielded a great team. But I also think it was our diet and circumstances. Our bodies and minds weren’t prepared to go up against the best, and believe me, getting beat down by the Jamaicans was always personal.

It was a rivalry for the ages—and one that continues to this day.

Imagine this—the Boston Red Sox versus the New York Yankees. The Los Angeles Lakers going up against the Boston Celtics. Joe Frazier duking it out with Muhammad Ali. Or, on an international level, Canada clashing with the Russians in hockey, or Italy sparring with Spain or Brazil in football. Pick your analogy. Either way, it was epic.

The Bahamian and Jamaican rivalry in track and field transcended the sport itself There was serious pride on the line.

“The rivalry is like no other,” explains Grace Jackson, the Jamaican silver medalist in the 200 meters at the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, South Korea—and a lifelong friend and competitor.

“You have to understand the history and personality of the two countries. The Jamaicans believe they are the best. Who do you think you are? You think you can beat we? So our people are known for their confidence and swagger, especially in the Caribbean. And then slowly, The Bahamas becomes a force to be reckoned with. They were putting together quality teams that could go up against Jamaica.”

If you look at the history of the CARIFTA Games, the Jamaicans dominated. Of the forty-eight CARIFTA Games staged through 2019, Jamaica has won a whopping forty-three times. The Bahamas has won four times. And Bermuda just once. Trinidad and Tobago, Barbados, Martinique, Grenada, and others have all had success at these games, with gold, silver, and bronze medals. But winning the entire games? That’s another level, and determined by which nation achieves the most gold medals that year. Pound for pound, the Jamaicans have mostly come out on top.

Think of them as the Americans of the Caribbean.

You could make the argument that the Jamaicans were superior athletes. Maybe they identified them earlier and had a better development program. A big part of it, however, was also just a numbers game.

At this time, Jamaica already had well over two million people, compared to just 220,000 or so in The Bahamas.

“We had been in the leadership role as Jamaicans for a long time,” Jackson adds. “We had a very structured high school championship and development system. The competition was very high level. Our dominance at CARIFTA was simply because of that, and our larger population. And yet, The Bahamas had developed their juniors something similar to us—they were up and coming and developing their own people internally.”

We were the little sister or brother, always nipping at their heels. In 1982, we were going toe to toe with the Jamaicans, having won the 1980 and 1981 CARIFTA Games. So there was even more pressure and greater expectations than before.

We still had a lot to prove. At this time, no track and field Bahamian had yet won an Olympic medal—it would be ten more years until Frank Rutherford achieved that in Barcelona, winning the bronze. The Jamaicans had already tasted Olympic victory many times, beginning with Arthur Wint in 1948.

And of course, in more modem times, we all know the exploits and dominance of Usain Bolt, and his standing as likely the best sprinter of all time.

Even in the 1980s, Jamaica was a powerhouse, producing some of the best track athletes in the world. Like the Bahamians, Jamaicans had a passion for the sport. It always felt like there was so much at stake. And the fans followed them to all their competitions. Whenever the CARIFTA Games came to Nassau, you could count on the Jamaicans carving out a rowdy section of the stadium, their noise and intensity sometimes rivaling the Bahamians’.

They were exuberant for their athletes, and ruthless to ours.

At the same time, unity was possible. Our countries are locked in a shared passion for track and field. As people of the islands, we embrace that common identity. So when it came to the Olympic Games or World Championships, the whole Caribbean became one, and we’d cheer for each other and celebrate our mutual successes.

But that was light-years from our minds at the 1982 CARIFTA Games. We were on their turf—and it was all business. CARIFTA usually takes place over Easter weekend. On Good Friday, most of the athletes tend to relax and go to church. Saturday was our first day of competition, and we underperformed. Sunday didn’t go much better for us, and it looked like 1982 would be a year to forget for The Bahamas—until something unexpected happened.

By Sunday night, back at the school, news was spreading that a plane had arrived from The Bahamas, filled with food and carrying chefs. Sure enough, provisions arrived later that night—parachuted in, if you will—and we went to bed well fed, with more than a few Bahamian favorites in our bellies. I suppose word got out to the powers that be. The Bahamians needed a boost. Of course, we still had to jump on those army trucks the next morning after breakfast, but at least this time we felt prepared to do battle.

In the end, The Bahamas finished second to the Jamaicans in those Games, taking home thirty-eight medals, thirteen of which were gold.

Our athletes performed especially well in the field events, with Laverne Eve from The Bahamas winning the coveted Austin Sealy Award for the most outstanding athlete for her three gold medals in the shot put, javelin, and discus throw in the Junior (under 20) category. In the Youth (under 17) category, Nicole Taylor won two golds in the shot put and discus, and Jean Minus won gold in the javelin.

As for me, in my first major competition as a Youth, I managed two silver medals, in the 100 and the 200 meters, falling both times to the Jamaican Laurel Johnson.

Eldece Clarke would take home a bronze in the 200, in the Junior category.

I would have to wait for my first big victories. But the 1982 games gave me that first taste of competition. Let’s not forget—it had been barely a year since I started training with Coach Wisdom, his necktie tied behind my back so I wouldn’t run sideways. And months before that, as a barefoot child in Bain Town, I could never have imagined that stadium, those sights and sounds, or actually having a medal placed around my neck. It was an incredible feeling of validation. It was empowering and reassuring that if I worked hard—harder than anyone else—I could achieve something great. I could prove all the doubters wrong. And I could rise above my circumstances. After Jamaica, Pauline Davis was firmly established as one to watch, but I wasn’t satisfied—in fact, I was fired up mad after those Games.

We had a little meeting afterwards.

“I don’t know about the rest of y’all, but this ain’t gonna happen next year!” I screamed, pacing in front of the other athletes. “Next year ain’t none of these Jamaicans beating me. We need to put that in our minds. They gave us a royal beat down, and we got to get it together.”

I was just fifteen, and yet I felt that competitive fire welling up in me. It would set the tone for what was to come. It was the source of my power.

For me, competing wasn’t good enough—I had to win.

“No way in hell next year, when we go back to The Bahamas, is that gonna happen again,” I told the team, shaking my head. “So we got to train hard and whoop their butts next year, OK? I ain’t going to take this spanking again.”

It was a relentless determination and fearlessness that would set me apart from other Bahamian athletes. Sometimes, as you shall see, my passion and opinions would also create rifts with my fellow athletes. Not everyone can handle such intensity.

“Pauline had more of a personality of a Jamaican than a Bahamian, if you ask me,” Jackson laughs, thinking back to even my earliest days. “I think her mother being Jamaican, some of those characteristics came out in her. She wasn’t afraid of using who she was. And so she would take on the Jamaicans because she knew she could beat them. Jamaicans are not afraid to go out and take on anyone, anytime, whether they have done it before or not.”

I was growing up in more ways than one.

While we were in Jamaica, many of the coaches had their eyes on me as an emerging sprinter. But the fact that I was developing into a woman—and a shapely one at that—also did not go unnoticed. In other words, I was voluptuous, with very pronounced curves. Some of the coaches thought I would never make it just because of my body type.

“That girl has cowbells,” I’d hear them say, snickering to themselves.

It’s no secret that the fastest sprinters tend to be lean and aerodynamic, not curvy. And, from a very early age, I was really a child in a woman’s body. If you were to see my face, or hear me speak, I looked and sounded like a teenager. The rest of my body was more mature. I suppose Coach Wisdom had heard some of these comments, because when we got back to Nassau, Andrea Wisdom, my “sister mom,” took me shopping—the next day.

We went up and down Nassau, looking for a sports bra. It was surprisingly hard to find one back then. Tike I said, there weren’t a lot of women performing regular physical fitness back in the early 1980s, and certainly not at an elite level. At least not in my country. We must have searched a dozen shops, until finally, we did find one—a red, industrial-looking sports bra. It was an ugly thing. But who would really see it? From then on, Andrea and Coach Wisdom told me to wear it every single day. Train in it. Sleep in it. I had to make it like my skin, so during competition I’d feel comfortable.

Before meets, I’d actually tie myself up with a cloth first, and then put on the sports bra, just to keep myself in place. So that red bra followed me everywhere. I would hand-wash it, wring it out, and put it out to dry. Rinse and repeat. It was as important as my shoes.

There were so many coming-of-age moments during this time, and not all of them pleasant. Later that year, in the summer of 1982, the Bain Town Flyers went to the Miami South Classic, an annual track meet in Florida. It was my first time competing in the United States. Somehow, Coach Wisdom always found the money for us to attend multiple events. Whether it was his own money, or the donations of parents or Prime Minister Pindling himself, I never knew. I was a child, really, and my job was to run.

As I said, Eldece and I had become closer over the last year or so. She was older than me, so Eldece always competed in the Junior division—we never went head to head.

That would change at the Miami South Classic. I don’t know whether there was just a mistake or I got moved up because of my times, but I found myself in her heat, with me lined up on one end of the track, and her on the other. At the time, I didn’t even notice. At some of these competitions, you show up when called, run your heart out, and afterwards you head off to the side, because more people are lining up behind you. And as it turns out, I beat all the runners in that heat—Eldece included.

It was a whirlwind day. After competing in Florida, we had to catch a flight to Grand Bahama for another competition the next day. And I suppose some people had been talking. This time, we were lucky enough to stay in a hotel. I ran up a flight of stairs and headed down a long hallway to my room, when I saw Eldece coming my way.

“Hey girl,” I called to Eldece cheerfully.

“Don’t ‘Hey girl’ me!” She got right up in my face.

“What’s wrong with you?” I backed up. “What’s your issue?”

By now a couple other teammates had gathered around to watch the fireworks. At first, I actually thought she was joking. Eldece was my best friend on the team. And I hadn’t yet thought of us as being in competition, mostly because she was older and in a different division. I was up and coming, but she was still The Bahamas’ top sprinter.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she huffed and puffed, poking me in the stomach. “Let me tell you this! You ain’t never going to beat me again. I can tell you that!”

Now, I’m from Bain Town. From a young age, we were taught how to stand up for ourselves. When you push up on me, I’m going to react. And I did.

“Oh yeah?” I poked her back. “The day you can train harder than me is the day you can beat me. And you can never train harder than me.”

The coaches broke it up before things got any worse. We stopped speaking to each other for a while. I went and did my thing, and she went and did hers. Coach Wisdom chewed her out a bit, saying she should be ashamed of herself—being the older sister. And really, that was the point. We were like sisters. We’d have our ups and downs, but at the end of the day, we loved each other. Our lives would be linked forever.

My confidence was now at an all-time high. In July I turned sixteen, and I went into the 1982 Central American and Caribbean Junior Championships with laser focus.

That moment with Eldece, combined with CARIFTA months before, gave me a chip on my shoulder. I’d be ready for those Jamaicans this time. Ain’t no way they gonna beat we again. So I trained even harder.

I went into the CAC with the mentality to run my competition into the ground.

I don’t think I was the only one. “The Magnificent Nineteen,” as our team would come to be known, marched into Bridgetown, Barbados, with a purpose. So many elite Bahamian athletes were coming of age at this time, just beginning to show their promise.

For the men, we had Joey Wells, Michael “Boy Blue” Newbold, and Troy Kemp—all of whom would make their mark not just regionally, but also in the Olympics and World Championships. For the women, it was Eldece Clarke and myself carrying the load.

“It was a demonstration of Bahamian sports power,” Coach Wisdom explains. “We had emerging young people that were doing things where their natural ability and desire to win superseded even anyone’s natural expectations.”

Of course, our circumstances always kept us humble. Like in Jamaica, we stayed in a school, not hotels. I recall that there were makeshift showers outside, made with tin walls. It was first come, first served. As you can imagine, it was especially uncomfortable for the girls. I only made the mistake of showering during normal times once. It’s hard to bathe when you know the boys around you are peaking through those thin tin walls.

I’d wake up at three in the morning to bathe from then on.

It was these little things that made you remember you were competing in a man’s world. Before competition, I wrapped myself in a cloth before putting on that red sports bra—my game day ritual—physically and mentally preparing myself for the track. Next, I put on the colors of the Bahamian flag. Quite literally, I was a one-woman army for The Bahamas heading into the CAC in 1982, especially for my age category. I was a different athlete now, even compared to Jamaica just a few months before. I flipped a switch and steamrolled the competition—taking home the gold in the 100, the 200, and the 400 meters.

What I remember most was just running from event to event—feeling happy and confident, as if I’d been doing it my whole life. I knew this was what I wanted to do. So it felt effortless. I ran so fast that I felt like I was floating, so I would close my eyes, as I usually do, to stay grounded. It was just like I was running back on the streets of Bain Town, those water buckets swaying from my hands. Except now I was free. There was nothing to weigh me down. They used to laugh at me when I’d run sideways. Head and body cocked to the side, eyes closed, my arms swaying to the side. But no longer.

It didn’t feel like a big deal at the time. Like I said, I was just enjoying myself. It was only later that I realized what I did.

Coach Wisdom even put me in the long jump—and I was no field athlete. Didn’t matter. I won the gold in that, too. I remember Coach saying he wanted me to do the shot put, but he backed down because I started to cry. I saw all of these huge girls from Cuba. I had just finished winning a gold in the long jump, which was a huge deal for me, being a natural sprinter. And now you want me to try shot put?

I think the whole team was simply on a high, and we were running up the score.

“Boy Blue” Newbold won the gold in the 100 and the 200. Wells took home the gold in the long jump, but also the silver in the 200. Eldece bested Jamaica and Trinidad and Tobago to win the gold in the 100 for the Senior division. And there were so many other Bahamian athletes on that team who contributed en route to a historic medal count. The Bahamas was victorious that year at the CAC, with fourteen gold medals.

As for me, my four gold medals placed me in elite company—by myself. No athlete from any country had ever won four gold medals at the CAC.

Again, I didn’t really understand the significance of it until after the fact.

Athletes and coaches from other countries started greeting me, crowding around me, giving me hugs and asking me questions. Racing officials wanted to shake my hand, telling me I had a bright future. The media coverage soon followed.

Behind my back, I started to hear new whispers.

“There you go, Bahamas. You got your one. You finally got your one.”

For the first time, a female sprinter from The Bahamas was making serious waves.

When we arrived back in Nassau and stepped off the plane, there were crowds of people cheering, handing me flowers, and taking photos. That’s when they first called us “the Magnificent Nineteen.” And I was officially dubbed the “Golden Girl.” The local papers and radio stations started calling me that. And it stuck.

That was my life on the track. Off the track, my future was far from certain.

* * *

Between school, my intense training, and all of these early competitions, I didn’t have much time to think about the situation at home. I missed Mummy, of course, and we spoke on the phone every so often. But I was once again kept sheltered from the problems between my parents. By the time I got home from the CAC, that was no longer possible.

Mummy wanted her children back.

Somehow, over the course of many months, my mummy had made her way to Florida, where she had installed herself and got a job working at an assisted care facility. Meanwhile, my parents had been discussing the terms of their separation. With six children to raise, it was ultimately decided that she would take the girls in Florida, and Daddy would keep the boys in The Bahamas.

Now, I might have been the country’s rising track star—the newly minted “Golden Girl”—but I was also just sixteen. I was still a child, and if my mummy called, I would come running. In my heart, I was the same barefoot girl on Fleming Street in Bain Town, rushing home with those groceries before the spit dried on the pavement.

After the fanfare at the airport, the photos, the flowers, and all the interviews and newspaper articles, this was the real news that greeted me. The only news that really mattered. And I didn’t question it. I started preparing for my new life in the United States.

Now I had to break the news to Coach Wisdom.

I’m sure you can imagine his shock. Here we are, having just returned from Barbados, and after years and years of searching and coaching, he has finally discovered his star athlete. One who could potentially compete for a World Championship and stand on that podium at the Olympics. Here was a man who had watched me at every turn, carefully and meticulously curating my life in so many ways. And now I’m suddenly leaving? I’m sure, for him, it felt like all the work, all the potential, was about to go down the drain.

I tried to explain to him—my parents made an agreement. I had no choice. I had to follow my mummy’s wishes. So Coach Wisdom did the only thing he could do. The next day, he was on a plane to Miami, to convince my mummy to let me stay in The Bahamas.

I wasn’t there, of course, to see it all go down.

He sat down in her living room for hours. Apparently, Mummy was adamant. I’m a girl, she is my mother, and she can’t leave her child behind. She belongs with her mother. I’m sure images of that scene in Bain Town, that young woman with the baby on her doorstep, and her parting words to Daddy, were flashing in her mind.

But in the end, Coach Wisdom had one ace up his sleeve—education. He knew how much my education meant to her. Just think of that book and the belt. Or that doll she bought for me at Christmas, when I dismantled it and said I wanted to be a surgeon. If there was one thing she wanted for me—and for all her children—it was a proper education.

“I know you want Pauline to go to college,” Coach Wisdom told her. “But if you move her from The Bahamas, I can’t guarantee she will get the same attention and training. That will get her a full scholarship to a top university.”

You see, up to this point, my mummy knew I had talent. But I don’t think she ever envisioned just how good I was, that it was possible to get enrolled in a top college or university and receive a free education, simply for running. Now he had her attention. Only it didn’t solve her biggest problem—she wanted a woman to raise me. Ideally her. Or, perhaps, she wanted me out of that house in Bain Town.

“Why don’t you give her to me?” Coach Wisdom declared.

“What do you mean, give her to you?” my mummy asked, taken aback.

“Let her come live with me.”

“With you?”

“Not with me exactly, but with my mother, Dorothy Wisdom.”

And that was how it happened. The compromise.

Before school started in the fall of 1982, I entered the Wisdom family home in Highland Park not as a visitor, but as their daughter. It was an easy transition. I already felt at home there, with Dorothy, or “Mum Wisdom,” and Andrea, my “sister mom.” Except this time, I walked into my very own room. I didn’t have to share it with any of my siblings. I had my very own bed, and my very own desk, with a lamp on it.

It was a life-changing moment for me. Gone were the days of the ghetto, that clapboard house with no running water or electricity. From here, there was no looking back. I was the “Golden Girl” now. But I would never forget where I came from. To this day, I always proudly tell the world—I am Pauline Davis, from Fleming Street in Bain Town.

4

COMING OF AGE

While it was clear from an early age that I was an elite sprinter, like all children I had other dreams.

My first dream was to be a doctor, back when I was a child dismantling that doll given to me by Mummy at Christmas. That faded over time. Then, I wanted to be a stewardess. Growing up on an island, I saw endless planes flying overhead, filled with tourists from all over the world. They came to enjoy my country’s world-class sun, sand, and sea, but left for destinations unknown. It was on those outbound flights that I imagined I was a stewardess, exploring the globe to experience different cultures and ways of life. As I got older, I changed my mind again—I didn’t want to be a stewardess anymore. I wanted to be a diplomat, and work at an embassy representing The Bahamas.

I might have grown up on a tiny island in the Atlantic, in a ghetto with no electricity or water, but I always had that desire to explore.

Whether it was stewardess, diplomat, or world-class track athlete, I suppose there was one common denominator—travel. I knew very early on that expanding my horizons beyond the shores of my beautiful country was a priority. And people. I loved meeting new people—and helping people. I suppose that’s where the doctor idea came in.

Track and field would be my passport to the world.

So far in my life, I have been to 177 countries. Yes, I count every single one. I’ve never forgotten where I have been, nor where I come from.

In the summer of 1983, having just turned seventeen, I had already been to four—-Jamaica, Barbados, Martinique, and the United States of America. It is important to understand, dear reader, that not all Bahamians are afforded such opportunities, especially those who come from the other side of the tracks, so to speak. For many Bahamians, a significant trip abroad is to Florida for shopping, taking advantage of the many restaurants and malls. It’s practically a rite of passage for Bahamians, and a special treat we all look forward to.

But in August of that year, wide-eyed with wonder, I would blow this benchmark out of the water when I attended the 1983 World Championships in Helsinki, Finland.

Shortly after we arrived and got settled, our hosts took us to a field near the stadium, surrounded by a thick wood. Our small Bahamian team and various other athletes were stretching and getting ready for some light training before competition the next day. As I stretched, staring off into the distance, I saw little eyes poking out from the shade of the woods along the fringe of the field. I squinted and saw there were several boys and girls playing, running between trees, although really all their focus was on us, the international athletes on the field. They were fascinated—and quite frankly, so was I.

You see, like I said earlier, I am a people person. Perhaps it was the way I was raised in Bain Town—the village—where you just get to know and support those around you. Or maybe it is also something about my personality. Or both. Whatever the case, those little boys and girls kept staring at me, hiding behind trees and playing shy.

So I motioned to them—and invited them to come out of the woods.

They didn’t respond at first. Curious and cautious, a girl was the first to poke out, slowly. These children were much younger than me. I would say around ten years old, or less. I don’t think they had ever seen someone of color before. Or, if they had, they were still fascinated by how different I looked compared to them.

The girl had platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, and like most people from Finland, she was very pale and fair. In many ways, we couldn’t have been any more different.

The truth is, I was discovering her just as much as she was discovering me.

As the girl approached, tentatively, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t speak Finnish, and I had no idea if she spoke English. Turns out, we didn’t need words. I reached out and took her hand, and placed it on my cheek. She smiled and started rubbing it.

“It’s my real color!” I told her, laughing. She smiled back and kept rubbing, harder.

“No, no, it’s my real color. It’s not coming off!”

After that, a few other boys and girls came out to give it a try, before running back into the woods to play. I went back to my stretching and training. I’m not sure why the children focused so much on me in particular. Part of it might have been my age—I was still just a kid, so I looked a little bit more like them. But I was also welcoming. Out of all those athletes on the field, I was the only one motioning for them to come out of the woods.

My dream of exploring the world was coming true.

Up until this point, I was used to competing against other kids. Teenagers. Now, at the 1983 World Championships, I was suddenly up against adults, some of them twice my age. Meanwhile, because I was a minor, I wasn’t permitted to go anywhere on my own. Elaine Thompson, a former track athlete herself, would be my faithful shadow—and my official chaperone—wherever I went during these early competitions.

Most people assumed she was my mom.

Suffice it to say, I felt humbled at Helsinki Olympic Stadium, the largest venue of its kind in Finland and site of the 1952 Summer Olympic Games.

In some ways, I blended in perfectly. Although I was far from reaching my full potential, I was elite enough to be there and compete with the best. If you were to look at me from the back, or perhaps the side, you might think I was an adult, because my physique was already well developed. But my face, and how I spoke, betrayed my true stage in life.

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, sir. No, ma’am. No, sir.”

That was me in Helsinki that year—eyes like saucers as I met some of the most legendary athletes in the history of track and field.

First there was Carl Lewis, who, along with Usain Bolt, is perhaps the most famous and decorated track athlete of all time. It is impossible to overstate his dominance in sport. Lewis won nine Olympic gold medals—perhaps most notably four golds in the 100 meters, the 200, the 4X100 relay, and the long jump at the 1984 Summer Olympic Games in Los Angeles. He even won an Olympic gold medal in the long jump over four different Olympic Games. In other words, he was the best in the world at this event for sixteen years, while still dominating in others. Of course, all of this is in addition to his trove of medals from the World Championships, the Pan Am Games, and the Goodwill Games, smashing world records along the way. Sports Illustrated has called him the “Olympian of the Century”—I would call him my friend.

Prior to the World Championships in Helsinki, Lewis had not yet exploded on the international scene. We had actually met a year or two before, in Nassau, at the Walter Wisdom Track Classic. He came to The Bahamas as a young athlete to compete in this track meet, although even then we knew he was a big deal.

He was and will always be a friend of The Bahamas. Lewis actually attended the University of Houston, the same alma mater as Frank Rutherford, the first Bahamian to win an Olympic medal in track and field. Lewis was finishing up at the University of Houston just as Frank arrived, but they would always have that connection as fellow elite leapers.

When I first met him at that track meet in Nassau, I was completely mesmerized. First of all, he is very tall and imposing. And then, when you watched him on the track, he was simply amazing to behold. That stride. That form and technique. It was flawless.

My awe carried over in 1983, when he waved and greeted me in Helsinki.

Oh my god ... he knows my name! I screamed to myself, on the inside, keeping my composure but silently jubilant.

It was just the beginning of a lifelong relationship. Like I said, we would grow to become dear friends over the years as he rose to stardom—fame didn’t seem to impact him at all. I was one of the few people who had the opportunity to ride with him in his car. His private driver would show up at the stadium, and he would beckon me to hop in with him, and drop me off at the hotel—always kind and friendly, always a gentleman.

Meeting Lewis again in Helsinki was just one of many thrilling moments for this teenage girl from Bain Town.

In my first heat in the 100 meters, I lined up against Evelyn Ashford, an American track and field legend in my book. For years, she had been regarded as the nation’s top female sprinter, if not the best in the world. One year later, she would win the gold medal at the 1984 Summer Olympic Games.

As clearly as I remember Ashford, I also recall how I felt—I was freezing. As an athlete from The Bahamas, I wasn’t accustomed to colder temperatures. And that’s putting it mildly. When I walked through that tunnel at Olympic Stadium, I was literally trembling. It was August in Finland, but that day was cool, dreary, and drizzly. Dripping with cold rain, and filled with nerves, I somehow managed to finish third in that heat. And after we crossed the finish line, something unexpected happened.

“Great job, Pauline!” Ashford said, placing her arm around my quivering shoulders.

I was shocked—and once again, thrilled. She knows my name?

In the years to come, Ashford and I would become good friends on the track circuit. I have fond memories of the two of us sitting together on the sidelines.

“Pauline, can you get some chocolate from my bag?” she’d often ask.

She loved her chocolate. We used to play a game where I’d hide it from her. I’d rummage around in her bag, only to secretly grab the chocolate and tuck it away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t see no chocolate in this bag,” I’d say.

“Girl, don’t make me hurt you,” she’d respond.

And we’d laugh—it was a game to us, back then. The kind of game elite athletes would play with each other on the circuit. To be honest, I was actually looking out for her, even though she was my elder. I didn’t think she should be eating all of that chocolate.

Even at that age, I was a bit different from the others. An old soul, I suppose. I never felt tempted to eat sweets, like chocolate. I’ve never had a drop of alcohol in my life—never smoked. I’ve never even drunk coffee. For whatever reason, I didn’t feel tempted by any of it, or have the desire. Growing up, we didn’t have sweets, alcohol, or coffee. I wasn’t raised with those things. But I do have one bad habit—cheesecake. I remember my daddy used to bring a cheesecake home from the restaurant where he worked every time one of us did well in school or won an award, or whenever there was a reason to celebrate.

Ashford wasn’t the only sprinter watching over me.

Later on, another incredible American sprinter, Chandra Cheeseborough, also offered a few words of encouragement, and handed me my first pair of running tights. Was it that obvious I was freezing? Who knows— maybe she was just being kind. What I did know was that other athletes seemed to know my name.

As the youngest athlete at the 1983 World Championships, I got noticed by the media. And I suppose it helped that I was from a tiny country like The Bahamas—a nation that had yet to produce a standout female athlete. So there I was, fielding interviews on the track with local television stations and newspapers. The entire experience was a funny mix of awe and humility, combined with the feeling that I was doing something special.

Or at least I had the potential to be special—I was very aware, in the presence of these great athletes, that I had a long way to go.

I learned a lot about myself during this time. The sensibilities I was taught growing up in Bain Town, in particular respect for my elders, was a big reason, I think, why these seasoned track athletes welcomed me so warmly into the international running community. I might have been the new kid on the block, but I never acted like it.

Even my routine before a track meet reflected my bubbly yet laid-back style.

I always made sure to get plenty of sleep the night before a race. First I’d get a massage, just to get loose, and then I’d hang my feet up in bed and read. I would meditate, and sometimes talk to myself. Yon worked hard for this, I’d repeat to myself. You can do this.

Up early the next morning, my mind frame was different at the track. Yes, I was focused, and would be chatting with myself—that internal monologue to pump myself up. But I also became quite social. Even at the starting line, I would turn to my competitors with a smile.

“How you doing?” I’d say, bubbly and talkative. “Have a good run! Good luck!”

It used to drive some of my Bahamian teammates crazy.

“Pauline, you getting on my nerves!” they’d say. “They don’t want to talk to you!”

And it’s true—most runners ain’t into that. Some of them would ignore me.

Maybe it was how I relaxed. Chatting with people, whether it was those children in the woods or world-class athletes, just came naturally to me. Although, the moment that starter said the words “on your mark,” it was time to lock in. My mentality shifted completely. I was like a computer running a program. Solely focused on what I needed to do. Those were the ranges of my personality at track meets.

Beginning at the World Championships in Helsinki, I realized just how much I loved that international connection—it verified what had I felt all along. This aspect of my personality would serve me well in my running career and beyond.

I was a long way from Bain Town. Although I wasn’t quite ready for the podium on the international level, I saw there was a whole world to conquer.

* * *

Sure, I may have been the “Golden Girl”—the Bahamian up-and-coming phenom, globetrotting in Europe and making friends with the world’s top track athletes.

But really, I was the same old Pauline. There was plenty at home to keep me humble.

Life with “Mum Wisdom” was carefully choreographed. Every day, I would wake up at four-thirty, just before Coach Wisdom rolled into the driveway to take me to practice at Goodman’s Bay. After that, he’d bring me back to the house so I could quickly shower and have some breakfast, and then Andrea, my “sister-mom,” would drop me off at school. Well, not exactly at school. She was a teacher at Carmichael Primary, which was on the way. She used to pull over on the side of the highway, on the corner, and I’d walk to Government High. In the afternoon, Coach Wisdom would pick me up after school, and it was off to the stadium for more practice. Then it was dinner at Mum Wisdom’s house. If I didn’t have too much homework, I’d help cook. Sit down at the table. Say your prayers. Have dinner. Homework. And then it’s up at four-thirty the next morning to do it all over again.

Success is not an accident. I learned early on you have to work for it.

It was also around this time that Coach Wisdom got me my first job—at McDonald’s. It was always understood that I needed to work. After all, I was a high schooler now, and college was right around the comer. In The Bahamas, under the British system, you have to sit a series of exams to achieve your General Certificate of Education, otherwise known as your O Levels, if you want to apply to post-secondary education. And the exams weren’t cheap. So Coach Wisdom approached an old friend, a gentleman by the name of Carlton Williams, about hiring me at McDonald’s for the weekends, so I could pay for my education.

Sporting that retro maroon McDonald’s uniform, with stripes on the sleeves and a paper-boat hat on my head, I treated that job like the track.

I was usually assigned to the grill. But I wasn’t satisfied flipping my own burgers. I’d end up flipping burgers in the other work stations, too, and dropping those fries in the sizzling oil, and doing just about anything else to get those orders out on time.

“Pauline turned out to be one of our star employees,” Williams recalls. “It is no surprise that she became a star in track and field as well. She excelled in everything she wanted to do. She was just that type of person. She hustled from when she got in the door to when she left, and outworked everyone else in sight. Actually, the rest of the staff didn’t like her very much, because she was showing them up. Even as a young person, Pauline was a born leader and a born star. That is what made her stand out from the crowd.”

Williams is very kind—to be honest, I was just so grateful for the opportunity. I kept my head down and did what I needed to do.

I have been incredibly fortunate in my life to have people like Williams believe in me. As it turned out, Williams also grew up in the ghetto, in Bain Town, only to rise above his circumstances and become a successful business owner.

That was incredibly inspirational to me. And beyond the paycheck, it was a relief to have something to think about other than track. Well before I became a household name, Williams was there. When I needed a bit of extra help, whether it was workout gear, equipment, or a few extra dollars, I could count on him.

Williams would become family—my village.

I would never forget it. Even today, with Williams well into his nineties, our reunions begin with a big hug, usually with a running start from me.

Of course, amid my intense schedule, international competitions took priority.

A few months before those World Championships in Helsinki, I traveled with the Bahamian National Team to Martinique for the 1983 CARIFTA Games. Located in the eastern Caribbean, this small island is similar to The Bahamas in some ways. Heavily dependent on tourism, it has a population of around four hundred thousand, mostly of African descent. If you bump into someone on the street, you might mistake them for a Bahamian—until they open their mouth.

Whereas The Bahamas was a British colony prior to 1973, Martinique is known as a “special collectivity” of the French Republic. The official currency is the euro and the people are considered full French citizens. Much like The Bahamas, the buildings, cuisine, and culture have that colorful Caribbean flare—but with a European twist.

During the CARIFTA Games, people would approach me and immediately begin speaking French, assuming I was also from the island.

In April 1983, I was still only sixteen years old. I would turn seventeen in July prior to the World Champions that August. And yet I found myself, as my country’s top sprinter, thrust into the Junior division, reserved for more senior athletes, even though I still technically qualified as a Youth.

Eldece Clarke had always been my big sister on the Bain Town Flyers—ever since those first early mornings when Coach Wisdom picked us up before practice at Goodman’s Bay. But she had moved on to Hampton University on a full scholarship. Technically, Eldece could have still competed for her country in the CARIFTA Games, although it’s not unusual for athletes to move on once they reach college and university.

At this CARIFTA, I very much stood alone in the female sprinting category.

My counterpart in the field events was Laverne Eve, a dominant athlete who once again captured three golds for The Bahamas in the shot put, discus, and javelin, en route to winning her second Austin Sealy Award for the most outstanding Caribbean athlete. In many ways, Eve and I would always be at odds—a rivalry, if you will. She was part of the Pioneers Track Club. I was a Bain Town Flyer. In high school, she would attend St. Augustine’s College, one of Government High’s main rivals. She did field events—I was track.

“We were both very competitive,” Laverne recalls. “She likes to win. I like to win. Pauline was always very, very driven. And self-driven, I would say. She wanted it, and she went for it. That was the bottom line.”

While Laverne and I often found ourselves on opposite ends, our lives would also be in sync well into adulthood. For a small country like The Bahamas, she and I would be among the few, if not the only, representatives in the Olympic Games, or on the European track circuit. Laverne would grow to become a dear friend, companion, and confidant.

On the men’s side, Joey Wells returned in the Junior category, and won a silver in the 200 meters and a gold in the long jump at these CARIFTA Games. Michael “Boy Blue” Newbold was the star in the Youth category, winning the gold in the 100 and silver in the 200. After our second-place finish at the CARIFTA Games in Jamaica the year before, we were all hungry to take home the title for The Bahamas, especially given our resounding victory at the CAC Championships the year before.

As for me, I finally achieved my first gold medal at a CARIFTA Games, in the 200, but fell short in the 100 by winning the silver.

Looking back in the history books, it was shockingly close—Marie-France Loval, of Guadeloupe, narrowly won the gold at 11.68 seconds. I clocked in just one hundredth of a second behind, at 11.69. It was hard to lose by such a margin, although at the time you don’t question it. You accept and move on. As a young athlete, I learned to take my losses and keep moving. I do remember stumbling out of the blocks on that race, and being upset at myself for losing. I felt I could have walked away from those CARIFTA Games with two golds.

Nevertheless, these CARIFTA Games were a huge success for The Bahamas. We ultimately won fourteen golds compared to eleven by Jamaica, avenging our loss from the year before.

It was a tremendous boost for me personally, as well, heading to Helsinki a few months later.

But none of it—and I mean, none of it—would matter if we didn’t perform well the following year. The 1984 CARIFTA Games would be staged on our home turf, in Nassau, The Bahamas. We may have won in Martinique, but that royal beatdown in Jamaica in 1982 was still fresh in our minds.

It was time to return the favor.

There was just one problem—a tom hamstring. It happened in January 1984, during a typical, routine practice, just a couple months before official tryouts. You feel that rip and time flashes before your eyes as you tumble to the ground. I’d miss those tryouts completely. As the top female sprinter, the prospect of losing out on those CARIFTA Games, on my home soil, was a massive disappointment, to say the least.

Coach Wisdom took me to all the local doctors in Nassau. Sadly, we were only met by shaking heads, side to side. They wrote me off completely. No way I could compete in CARIFTA that April, much less compete on an elite level in the future.

You must understand, at the time, this was an injury that could potentially put you out for the rest of your athletic career. That’s what they said, back in the day. It was devastating. Even officials in The Bahamas said the same thing—I was finished.

But then something unexpected happened. Coach Wisdom said there was a doctor in Orlando, Florida, who wanted to see me. It happened totally out of the blue. I had no idea how we’d pay for it. As a seventeen-year-old, those thoughts didn’t cross my mind. Before I knew it, we were on a plane and in the examination room of a top-rated physician.

It was only later in life that I figured it out. My silent benefactor was at it again—Prime Minister Lynden Pindling.

I received treatments and physiotherapy over several days. In the end, Coach Wisdom and the doctor determined I had a severe tear, but I could get better.

They didn’t write me off. I had hope.

We returned to Nassau with laser focus. Every morning, six days a week, Coach Wisdom rolled up his mother’s driveway at four-thirty. I suppose, at this point, we were all in. It was a family affair. There was no turning back now.

Off we’d go, heading for Goodman’s Bay, except this time we’d be headed for the salt water—I wasn’t strong enough to sprint on dry land.

It was back to our roots, really, when Coach Wisdom had used the salt water to teach me the fundamentals, when I still ran sideways. There we were, in darkness, sloshing away in the shallow water just off the beach—six days a week, religiously. And not just in the mornings. We’d be there in the afternoons, too. Our usual training was completely replaced by rehabilitation, day in and day out, without fail.

Most Bahamians, and anyone who frequents The Bahamas, will swear on the therapeutic qualities of our ocean. The healing properties of salt water go back thousands of years and actually cross over to many different cultures.

One has to look no further than the Greek or Roman baths in antiquity, or the ancient civilizations that took advantage of the medicinal qualities of the Dead Sea, which borders modem-day Jordan and Israel. Even today, tourists from all over the world visit this site to float in its therapeutic waters. Companies extract its salt for medicines and elixirs.

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the French and English, especially the aristocracy, believed in the power of salt water to cure ailments, whether respiratory issues or skin irritations, and to reduce inflammation, stimulate circulation, and ease stiffness and muscle cramps.

It even has a name—thalassotherapy, derived from the Greek word for “sea,” is in fact the practice of using seawater as a form of therapy.

I can’t say for certain that the magical waters of The Bahamas healed my tom hamstring—I don’t have medical proof. Maybe it was the gentle resistance of the ocean and those smooth, gradual movements. Either way, it was fitting to be back in the water—Coach Wisdom’s Pearl—trying to smooth out those rough edges.

For three months this went on. I’d see my teammates training, preparing for the big show in Nassau. And like I said, the tryouts came and went. Until one day, in early April 1984, just weeks before the CARIFTA Games, we arrived at Goodman’s Bay and Coach Wisdom stopped me from walking onto the beach, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Pearl, we’re not going in the water today,” he said, stone-faced, a mark of determination in his voice.

I stared at him for a moment in silence.

“Really, Coach? You sure about this?” For about ninety days, day in and day out, I had been training in the salt water. It felt like an eternity. Returning to dry land seemed terrifying, at first.

“Yes, we’re going to run on the grass today,” he replied.

I followed him to a long patch of grass nearby.

“Now, Pearl, I’m going to wait for you over there,” he explained, pointing. “And I’ll hold my hand up in the air like this. When I lower my arm, I want you to sprint towards me. OK?”

I nodded nervously and watched him stride about 200 meters or so ahead. Finally he stopped, staring right back at me, and raised his hand in the air—then dropped it.

And I take off, eyes closed at first, but when I open them, I see Coach Wisdom running towards me. So I start to panic: is there something wrong? But as he gets closer I see that he’s smiling. We practically run right into each other, except he lifts me up, high up in the air, and spins me around.

“Oh my God . . . you did it! You did it, Pearl!”

I looked down at his eyes and they were filled with tears. So of course I started crying. He placed me back on the grass and we both laughed.

“Oh! I need to tell my parents! I should call Mummy and Daddy!” I screamed excitedly.

“No, no, Pearl,” Coach Wisdom said, firmly. “It is our little secret, OK? You can’t talk to anyone about it right now. I’ll tell you when it’s OK to talk about it. But not now, OK?”

I was confused. But then it dawned on me—the CARIFTA tryouts were over. The Bahamian team set. While the prospect of competing was exhilarating, it wouldn’t be quite so simple. Coach Wisdom would have to do some serious maneuvering. And potentially call in a few favors.

Did Prime Minister Pindling intervene?

There were a lot of things that happened back then that I didn’t know the answers to.

What I do know—a week or so later, I was taking part in a tryout for the CARIFTA team, made especially for me, with three other girls from the Bain Town Flyers participating. None of the other runners that had already qualified for the team participated. I think, to get me on the team, we needed outside proof of my recovery. Something to show I was truly ready to put on those Bahamian colors.

So with other Bahamian coaches watching, I lined up against those three other athletes and won without a sweat, “qualifying” for the CARIFTA team.

That said, there was no guarantee I would get to run.

Coach Wisdom told me I’d be placed on the team as an alternate—it was L. W. Young all over again. Was I on the team or not? Of course, the situation was quite different now. Looking back, it is hard to imagine the country’s top sprinter not being included on the team, especially when there was so much at stake.

I tried to stay patient. After all, I was lucky to even be in a position to compete. And I was well aware of the jealousy surrounding me, which had already followed me for years. Don’t forget— I missed the standard tryouts. I had always felt a bull’s-eye on me, but now it seemed that much bigger.

It didn’t take long for that reality to hit home.

The thirteenth CARIFTA Games kicked off in Nassau on April 21, 1984. And the whole island was ready to explode. I tried to stay away from it. I needed to remain focused. Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to sleep at a farm, or use outdoor, makeshift showers. As it turned out, I’d be in familiar territory. Athletes were placed right at Government High, just steps from Thomas A. Robinson Stadium. And wouldn’t you know it? I was assigned to my very own homeroom—they set up bunk beds for all the athletes.

Sounds serene, doesn’t it? Sadly, it didn’t quite work out that way.

It started out as my usual routine. I was lying down on my bunk with my feet up, reading a book, as I always did before a competition.

All of a sudden, one of the other female athletes approached my bunk.

“Who do you think you are?” I remember her saying. “You miss the trials and now you’re on this CARIFTA team?”

I ignored her—and stuck my nose in my book. But I didn’t get too far with that. That girl stepped up and poked me hard in the side.

“Have you lost your mind?” I shouted.

And then she poked me again. At that point I’d had enough. I pushed her right back, and now we’re in a big fight. All her friends jumped in the fray to separate us. Next thing I knew, chaperones and coaches spilled into the room.

Much was said after that incident—finger-pointing on both sides.

Fortunately, CARIFTA 1984 wasn’t my first rodeo. My reputation spoke for itself. I never sought trouble—ever. But if you come and lay a finger on me? I find it hard not to respond, like that incident with Eldece Clarke a year before. I am from Fleming Street, in Bain Town, and you don’t put your hands on me.

And that wasn’t even the end of it. Prior to competition, that same athlete pulled another stunt.

“I remember having to defuse a situation where a team member was so jealous that she took Pauline’s underwear, put it on a stick, and ran around the quadrangle trying to make a joke of it,” Coach Wisdom recalls. “That’s how deep it was.”

In the end, none of that mattered.

What mattered was winning the CARIFTA Games on our home soil. The next evening, just before lights out, the team manager approached me while I was reading in my bunk.

“Davis. You gonna be running tomorrow. Get ready,” he said.

My eyes opened. I’m no fool— I knew what was coming. The 100 meters. He didn’t even need to tell me the event. I knew the schedule. The next morning—nine o’clock.

“The whole country was pins and needles,” recalls Coach Wisdom, who served as head coach of the Bahamian team that year. “We couldn’t fight wars with bullets and guns. The competition was athletics and it was very serious. That was our competition. We had to beat Jamaica.”

Let me be clear—for Bahamians, this was the World Series, the World Cup, the Super Bowl, and the Olympics, all wrapped into one.

Don’t get me wrong. I would have much greater exploits than the CARIFTA Games. But there was real pride on the line. These Games were personal.

It is hard to describe the mood and excitement at Thomas A. Robinson Stadium that greeted me the next morning. The air felt thick—like it was hard to breathe. I could barely hear myself think, so I had to talk to myself a bit louder to pump myself up. What I could hear was my heart pounding in my chest. In the stands, eleven thousand or so Bahamians were on their feet, screaming and hollering, not an empty seat in sight.

“For Pauline, it was like preparing a boxer for a championship fight,” Coach Wisdom says. “As a coach, you must gain the confidence of your athlete, where they agree with everything you say. ‘Here are the times you have run. This is what you have done to prepare. You are the best.’ You must psychologically prepare them by getting them to a point of agreement and comfort, where they truly believe they can best anyone.”

I lined up in that first heat—and blew away the competition. The crowd went ballistic. Heat two—same result. Every run felt like an out-of-body experience. Like I was there, but also watching myself do it.

I mean, I wasn’t supposed to be there. Not based on the injury I had. Not after missing those tryouts.

As I lined up for the 100 final, Prime Minister Pindling was there, along with his cabinet, seated in the first row. Beside them were dignitaries from the International Association of Athletics Federations, now known as World Athletics.

In another lane was Eldece Clarke, who had come home from Hampton University to compete. She wasn’t going to miss this moment, in front of our home crowd.

When the gun sounded, I got off to a great start. It all happened so quickly—11.08 seconds, to be exact. Stretching over that line, I heard these words thunder over the loudspeaker: “Oh my goodness! Pauline Davis has just broken the world junior record in the 100 meters, with a time of 11.08 seconds!”

The stadium went berserk. In those moments, like I said, it feels like you are almost watching yourself, along with everyone else. There is almost a detachment, or disassociation, because it’s all coming at you so quickly. I do remember Victor Lopez and Amadeo Francis, two internationally respected track and field officials, making their way down to the track to further examine the photo finish.

After a few minutes, both officials indeed confirmed for the crowd—“We have witnessed a new world junior record.”

Needless to say, I was floating. Light-headed. Winning the gold for your country at the CARIFTA Games is one thing. Achieving a world record? That speaks for itself. But doing these things in your homeland? That’s difficult to put into words. We went one and two in the 100 final, with Eldece capturing the silver. Given our history together, and everything we had been through and sacrificed, it was a truly special moment.

Little did I know, it would be soon taken away from me.

To establish a world record, protocols must be followed. You need a proper wind reading and photo finish, for example. And the track must be officially measured, to ensure it is the exact distance. After that, the information has to be sent to the IAAF head office, in London, England, for approval.

I recall the officials telling the Bahamas Association of Athletic Associations how to package it for authentication.

But somewhere along the way, everything fell apart.

“I was there when Pauline broke that world record mark,” says Lopez, who would serve not only on the IAAF Council for two terms, but also as head coach of Rice University’s track and field program for almost thirty years.

“I saw it with my own eyes. But for some reason, it was not ratified. They claimed there was a malfunction with the electronic system, so it wasn’t recorded and submitted properly. It’s hard to say what happened exactly. Pauline and I agree on this: the time was so fast the Bahamian people couldn’t even believe it. It was amazing. Pauline is one of the best sprinters in the history of the sport.”

Coach Wisdom agrees on this point as well. “We were so unprepared and everyone was just so shocked ... to take the necessary steps to establish it as a world record,” he explains.

I respect the thoughts of my mentors, but I have other suspicions as well. I know I broke that record. We all saw the time up on the screen—11.08 seconds. To have this record “lost” and “not recorded” seems unbelievable to me. And unacceptable.

Afterwards, my race was officially logged as a hand time. The only race at those CARIFTA Games with a non-digital time. And then, after the fact, other races were also recorded as hand times, perhaps to remove any suspicion.

Did certain Bahamian officials tamper with my record?

Sadly, I believe that answer to be yes. Throughout my career, dear reader, there has been a target on my back, whether it was because of my background as a Bain Town Flyer, my no-nonsense personality, or my political affiliation with Prime Minister Pindling, even though as a teenager I was oblivious.

“Coach Wisdom was a stern-minded person,” Lopez adds. “He later went into politics. And I don’t know if some people didn’t get along with him. The fact she lost that record is very strange.”

You might recall that the BAAA had traditionally been dominated by the Pioneers Track Club.

Did they have something to do with it? With no smoking gun, it will have to remain a mystery. Whether it was a deliberate sabotage or error in submission, my world junior record would be lost, my time forever etched in the history books at 11.1 seconds, two hundredths of a second slower.

But we move on. Fortunately, I didn’t find out it had been lost until later on. I had other fish to fry at these CARIFTA Games. A couple days later, I won the gold in the 200 meters, taking down Gillian Forde from Trinidad and Tobago with a time of 23.80 seconds. Remember now, the winner of CARIFTA is awarded to the country with the highest number of golds—not the total medal count. So it was tragic for us when, thereafter, we fell short with the silver in the 4X100 relay, losing to archrival Jamaica.

Heading into the final day of competition, it was incredibly close—Jamaica was up, nineteen gold medalists to our eighteen. We had done better in other areas, with twenty-two silvers to their nine and sixteen bronze compared to fifteen for them. It was a moot point, though. If we couldn’t even out that gold medal count, we’d lose—in front of our home crowd.

That afternoon, Coach Wisdom got a call from the entire cabinet of The Bahamas.

“Sir Pindling and others were on the phone, and they wanted to know if we were going to win,” he recalls. “I assured him we would.”

As Coach Wisdom would put it, “there was a lot of stress.”

Only one event remained that could turn the tide and be that wild card, allowing us to leap to nineteen golds—the 4x400-meter relay. After the call with Sir Pindling, Coach Wisdom met with his assistant coach, Tommy Robinson. Yes, that Tommy Robinson, whose name was inscribed on our national stadium.

“I remember saying to Tommy: ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’” Coach Wisdom says.

I wasn’t supposed to be in the 4X400 relay. Heck, I wasn’t supposed to be in any of the events. A month or even weeks earlier, the thought would have been nearly inconceivable.

“We realized we had to put Pauline on the team. I knew our anchor leg position was weak. If we didn’t have a talent like her, we couldn’t win,” remembers Coach Wisdom.

These plans were completely unknown to me. I sat there in the stands with other members of our national team, barely able to sit still, excited and nervous like everyone else. The jammed stadium was an anxious mix of thunderous cheers and occasional silences, but always with a collective roar washing over us, like waves crashing on a beach.

Suddenly, one of the Bahamian officials came up to me and told me to follow him onto the field. At the time, I didn’t know what to think. I was taken completely off guard. I saw ahead of me Coach Wisdom, Tommy Robinson, and the other coaches huddled together. Coach Wisdom saw me approach—I could see it in his eyes before he even pointed at me.

“You’re running, Pearl,” he said, turning back to his coaches.

Heart in my throat, I peeled off my track suit and started warming up as quickly as I could, stretching and running up and down the track. I was coming in cold. People would later tell me the crowd was going nuts, although I can’t say I remember—I was in a total zone.

“Pauline had one unique quality that great, super performers have,” says Lopez, who watched from the stands that night. “She was so confident. Nobody was going to beat her. You could see that in her face. Pauline is a lovely, beautiful, tame person. But when she puts on the uniform to compete, she is a beast.”

Even until the last moment, the coaches were still moving chess pieces. At one point, they shifted me to the second leg. Then they reversed it, and suddenly, I was anchoring again.

“You’ve done your training,” Coach Wisdom told me before the gun. “You can do this. We need you to run the best race of your life.”

No pressure, right?

Ironically enough, he had prepared me for this moment. One secret for all his athletes, he later told me, was preparing us for overperformance. Coach used to have his triple jumpers compete in the 200. Not because he thought they could win—but because it gave them “internal fortitude.” And belief. So when they had to perform the triple jump, it was easy by comparison.

Similarly, while the 400 had never been one of my specialties, we often ran it as part of my training regime.

“The 400 is the backbone,” Coach Wisdom explains. “It was the secret to being a successful sprinter. If you are able to successfully manage a 400, the other two events become a matter of systemic skill training. If you are not physically prepared to run the 400, you won’t be able to run the 100 and 200.”

Just before that gun sounded, this was my mentality—I need to run this like a 200.

As the anchor, you have the privilege, or perhaps the burden, of watching the whole race play out. And it was gut-wrenching. Jamaica and Trinidad were leading. In fact, we were in fourth place when I finally got the baton.

And I was gone.

It was at that moment I’d discover my next gear. All elite sprinters have it. It’s the difference between being good and being great. For me, it comes from deep inside—I can feel it, deep under my belly button. This final race unleashed the fire within.

I have very little recollection of those next moments. I barely remember passing anyone. I was delirious.

Brent Stubbs, a cub reporter for the Tribune, one of The Bahamas’ leading newspapers, was in the stands that night. He and I had known each other for several years, really from day one, when I started off as a barefoot girl sprinting around L. W. Young. He joined the Bain Town Flyers as a long-distance runner, only to suffer an injury in his senior year in high school. After that, Stubbs gave up on athletics and decided to become a writer.

It turned out to be a great decision—he’d go on to serve as a sports reporter and later sports editor for thirty years.

“We, as a country, had never witnessed a performance like that. It was unbelievable,” he remembers. “When she got the baton, she was at least 200 meters behind the leader. I tell you no lie. You could not write a better script. It was magnificent. Somehow, she passed the leader on the final homestretch, and the crowd reeled her in.”

I do remember how my legs and arms felt as I fell over the finish line. I was limp—utterly spent—and the next thing I knew, athletes and coaches were piling on top of me. Fans were spilling out onto the field. Amid the noise, bright lights, and confusion, all I wanted to do was collapse on the sidelines from exhaustion.

I looked up to the sky and thanked God, trying to keep my balance as people piled on.

I slowly registered what had happened—I had passed all three of my competitors in just one lap. My country secured the gold medal tying us with Jamaica. And because we had more silver medals, we won the 1984 CARIFTA Games.

“Pauline came through, and really forever endeared herself to the Bahamian people that night,” Coach Wisdom says. “She carried the reputation of a nation on her shoulders. To me, it was her biggest race ever. It is a huge turning point in her career.”

It took a long time for officials to finally clear the field for the closing ceremony. By then, I had recovered myself somewhat. My teammates and I were just enjoying it now, jumping around on the sidelines and playing crazy. It felt like a complete dream, really, for this girl from the ghetto, who ran sideways, to now be in this position. After all the adversity. All the struggle. And yet the best was still to come.

“And the Austin Sealy Award, awarded to the most outstanding athlete of the 1984 CARIFTA Games, goes to . . . Pauline Davis!” the announcer screamed.

My teammates hoisted me up and carried me to the stage.

Up ahead, there was Prime Minister Pindling, waiting for me, with the biggest smile I’d ever seen. He handed me the Austin Sealy trophy, that giant silver cup, and it felt bigger than me.

When I raised it into the air, the prime minister whispered in my ear.

“Oh, little lady,” he said, as he always called me, “you make me so proud. You have made this nation so proud.”

5

THE CRIMSON TIDE

In the summer of 1984, I was one of the top junior female sprinters in the world. Now eighteen, and a senior in high school, I had conquered the Central American and Caribbean Championships, emerging as my country’s “Golden Girl.” I had attended the World Championships as one of the youngest athletes in its history. And now, in The Bahamas, I had sealed the win over our Jamaican rivals at the CARIFTA Games, en route to winning the Austin Sealy Award as the Caribbean’s best athlete.

Everything was as it should be—or so it seemed.

With a resume like mine, most high school athletes would have a big decision to make. What’s my next step? Where should I attend college?

Typically, this process would begin many years before. Elite athletes are identified, scouted, and courted in their early teens. In the lead-up to graduation, they field constant phone calls from recruiters. Coaches and scouts visit their homes and convince them why their program is the best choice. Shirts, sweaters, and hats with the university’s emblem are left on the kitchen table. Finally, these athletes are invited to visit the campus and given the grand tour, taking in the sights, sounds, and highlights of the city.

Tuition is all expenses paid, of course. A full ride. The only question is—where should I take my talents?

My recruitment wasn’t quite such a fairytale.

In fact, by August of that year, just a month before school started, I had no clue where I would go to college. Zero. Seems almost inexplicable, doesn’t it? And yet, for the girl who ran sideways, life would never be in a straight fine.

Allow me to back up for a moment.

After the CARIFTA Games that April, I became a celebrity in my country. People stopped me on the street, hugging me and taking photos. The gratitude and pride of a nation was there to see on their faces. And to this day, nothing gives me more pride than sharing my victories with the Bahamian people. But the fame never went to my head. After all, my life was far from glamorous. That summer, I continued my work at McDonald’s, scrounging up enough money to pay for those O Level exams so I could go to college. I even took on a second job, in the evenings, as a front desk clerk at a hotel on Cable Beach.

I took nothing for granted. And quite frankly, I couldn’t afford to.

Oh, and add to that—I had been selected to represent The Bahamas at the Summer Olympic Games in Los Angeles, kicking off just three months later, on July 28.

Between training, my two jobs, and studying for exams, it was an exhausting time. A whirlwind, to say the least. It pushed me to my limit in every way possible. I barely remember the moment when Coach Wisdom told me I had qualified for the Olympics. I think, at the time, my nose was stuck in a book, studying hard for college entrance exams. Which I ended up passing, by the way, with a distinction in English.

I didn’t give too much thought to where I’d go to college. Remember now: up until this point, my life was heavily structured. Coach Wisdom and his family controlled everything. When I trained. When I ate. When I prayed. I assumed Coach Wisdom, my second dad, would tell me when we had an offer from a top US school. He was in charge of that process.

I did know two things, though. First off, Coach Wisdom had told me, a year or two earlier, to never sign anything without reading it. That stuck with me. And second, I wanted to attend a college in the Southeastern Conference (SEC).

And I’d done my research. The SEC—Louisiana State University (LSU), Mississippi, Auburn, Kentucky, Georgia, and Alabama, among others—seemed to be the best of the best. And that’s where I wanted to be. With the best.

But again, I was so overwhelmed that summer, I barely had time to think about it, especially with the Summer Olympics on the horizon. So off I went, at the tender age of eighteen, to the Games of the XXIII Olympiad, with no idea of where I would end up that September. I also left without Coach Wisdom, who wasn’t selected by my athletic federation. Frank Pancho Rahming, from the Ministry of Youth, Sports and Culture, and a coach on the Pioneers Track Club, got the nod and filled out his coaching staff accordingly.

As you can see, Bahamian politics was alive and well.

It was difficult for both of us. As a young athlete, you grow accustomed to a certain way of training. You get used to all the little things, in terms of how your coach prepares you for competition, both physically and mentally. With all due respect, this coaching staff could never measure up. And I wasn’t the only one with a connection to Coach Wisdom. Other members of that Olympic team, such as Eldece Clarke and Joey Wells, were also very close with him. It was a big adjustment, especially for a teenager going into her first Olympics.

That didn’t stop Coach Wisdom from flying down to Los Angeles on his own dime. Shortly after I arrived at the Olympic Village, he managed to track me down. I was on the practice field when a teammate called me over and pointed to a nearby fence. There, on the other side, was my loyal coach, watching me train.

I sprinted over there immediately.

He imparted a few words of wisdom, so to speak, and asked how I was feeling, and whether I was eating properly and getting enough rest.

In the coming months, we’d definitely have our arguments and differences. But I will always have love and respect for my original Coach Dad.

I certainly needed the moral support.

Sure, a year earlier, those World Championships in Helsinki had helped prepare me for the international stage. But the Summer Olympics was a whole new level.

The Olympic Village at the University of Southern California (USC) campus was sprawling, filled with athletes from all around the world. Growing up in a small place like The Bahamas, I never thought much about my color. Similar to my time in Helsinki, it was around this time that I truly came to appreciate I was black. And that person is white. And they are Arabs, Asians, and so many other shades of people. It was a huge world out there and I was only just finding my place.

Soon after arriving in the village, I walked into the cafeteria with other members of the Bahamian team. Of course, my chaperone, Elaine Thompson, was in tow.

As we entered the cafeteria, we all stopped in our tracks, staring in awe at a table absolutely piled with food. To us, it was like a scene from “Jack and the Beanstalk,” because sitting all around that table were some of the biggest and tallest men I had ever seen in my life.

“Are y’all really gonna eat all this food?” I blurted out, my usual bubbly self.

One of the giants turned to me and smiled. “What’s that accent? Where are y’all from?” he asked.

“Oh, we’re all fom The Bahamas,” I replied.

“Really? I’m originally from Jamaica!”

We exchanged a few pleasantries, mostly about the islands, before someone else asked the question we were all thinking.

“So what y’all do?” Eldece inquired.

“We’re basketball players,” he said. “Let me introduce you to my friends.” He turned and pointed to the person sitting across the table. “This is Michael Jordan.”

Jordan lifted his head, flashed a smile, and tucked back into that mountain of food. We knew who he was, of course, but it was no big deal. The Olympic Village was bursting with elite, famous athletes at this time. And the world’s most legendary basketball player, and perhaps the biggest sports celebrity that ever lived, hadn’t quite reached superstar status in 1984. Turns out, that friendly gentleman from Jamaica was Patrick Ewing, the future eleven-time NBA all-star for the New York Knicks.

Most people don’t know, but before all of that, he was born in Kingston, Jamaica.

Ewing introduced us to everyone at the table—including Mike Tyson—before we carried on to get our own food.

It was the island connection that made the exchange with Ewing so effortless. It’s something all athletes from the Caribbean come to experience at the international level. When it comes to regional competition, it’s warfare. But at the Olympics, we were like one big family.

You never lose that identity, maybe because, by comparison, those of us from the Caribbean know how small we really are in the world. Like I said earlier—“a pimple on the butt,” as some of the US athletes used to tease. As my first Olympic experience, it certainly felt that way in the beginning. Our whole Bahamian team was in shock and awed by the crowds and bright lights of the Opening Ceremonies at the 1984 Summer Olympics.

“This sure ain’t CARIFTA,” we kept whispering to each other.

The ceremony was a massive affair, with so many moving parts. I remember boarding a bus hours before it was even supposed to start. They take you to a certain point, and then you have to walk, until you get to a holding area with all the other athletes, where they sort you into countries. Fortunately, as The Bahamas, we didn’t have to wait too long to hear our name called. We were number eight, in fact, right between Austria and Bahrain. Which was a good thing—because I was trembling with nerves and excitement to get going.

I mean, I was still a young girl, by comparison. Bradley Cooper, a decorated discus thrower and shot putter, led the way with our Bahamian flag. And as I walked out onto the field at Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. “Intimidating” is not the word. Think of it this way—I was used to a stadium of around eleven thousand people. Now, gazing up into those rafters, it felt like I was staring off into the vastness of space, a million stars twinkling as cameras flashed in the darkness.

There were nearly ninety-three thousand people in that stadium. In 1984, that was 40 percent of my country’s total population. I had never seen so many people in one place. Not even close.

Funny enough, it was Wilma Rudolph who kept racing through my mind.

Rudolph was an iconic American sprinter who rode to fame in the 1950s and 60s, winning three gold medals in the 100 meters, the 200, and the 4X100 relay at the 1960 Summer Olympics in Rome, Italy. She was generally considered the fastest woman in the world. Not only did she smash world records, but Rudolph was also a civil rights pioneer.

During this time of major social change in America, she was a role model for black athletes and raised the profile of track and field for female athletes. I might have been born a Bahamian, but this American had a huge influence on me.

As a child, Rudolph tragically contracted polio, an infectious disease that affects your central nervous system, resulting in severe muscle weakness and paralysis. Rudolph would be disabled for much of her young life, so much so that she wore a leg brace until the age of twelve. As an African American woman in Clarksville, Tennessee, with limited means, it wasn’t easy for her to overcome this disability—but she did it. Somehow, she not only learned how to walk without a leg brace, but also became an Olympic champion.

My story is different. I had my own physical and mental barriers to overcome.

As the girl that ran sideways, raised in a clapboard house in Bain Town, I could relate to her struggle. Without a doubt, Rudolph was my role model. I wanted to be just like her. That evening, I imagined what she must have been thinking in 1956, at her first Olympics, when she was just sixteen. I said to myself, If Wilma Rudolph can overcome all of that, what’s stopping me?

I may have been intimidated as we marched around the field, but I was also hungry. Starving. I wanted what Rudolph wanted—and my time would come.

But Rome was not built in a day.

In Los Angeles. I competed in the 100, the 200, and the 4X100 relay. Stepping onto the track for the first time, amid those athletes, television cameras, and crowds, I found gravity to be a challenge. I thought my legs were going to give way. Like I was going to crash.

I never expected to reach the podium in those Olympics. My goal was to make the finals. And we did, in the 4x100 relay, with Eldece Clarke, Debbie Greene, Oralee Fowler, and myself. Eldece led it off. I wanted to anchor, but they told me I was too young. When I passed the baton on the third leg, we were in third place. Sadly, we finished sixth.

Individually, in the 100 and the 200, I had the same goal—reach the finals and compete for a medal. This time around, I would only make it as far as the semifinals.

It was disappointing, of course. We all wanted more. But in the end, it was just God showing us the way. Not yet, my children. Not yet.

My body and mind were simply overwhelmed. Looking back, it was a struggle putting one foot in front of the other, with everything else going on in my life. One day in the village, on my way back to the cafeteria, I fainted and crashed to the ground. Like I said—gravity was difficult.

Fortunately, a couple of teammates were there to help. They carried me to the athlete facility, where doctors monitored me for a few hours. In the end, there was nothing seriously wrong with me. I wasn’t sick or injured. High school. College entrance exams. My two part-time jobs. Training. The Olympics. And, of course, wondering and worrying about whatever would come next. I think all of these things weighed on me. And I crashed.

It was a relief getting back to The Bahamas, to be in familiar surroundings at Mum Wisdom’s home. But I also knew it was a false sense of security. I was getting older. My fife was about to change, although the future was still far from certain. Whereas before the Olympics I had all of these distractions, the college question was now looming large. Finally, Coach Wisdom showed up at the house.

“Pauline, I need you to sign this,” he said, slapping papers on the kitchen table.

I immediately knew what that meant—these were college admittance papers. Finally, I thought. This was what I had been waiting for.

“OK, Coach, let me read it,” I said, excitedly, pulling up a chair.

“You don’t need to read it, Pearl. You can just sign,” he insisted.

“No, sir. Of course I need to read it.”

“I’m your coach,” he replied, flatly. “And I’m telling you to sign it.”

For the last few years, Coach Wisdom’s word had been gospel. But something he said a couple years back stuck in my head.

“Coach, you told me I should always read every single word before I sign anything,” I explained, pointing that pen at him. “And I am going to read this document. You can have a seat, sir, and once I read it and understand what I am signing, no problem.”

Coach Wisdom was taken aback.

“I can’t deal with you!” he blurted out. “If you won’t sign it, then I got to go.”

And incredibly, he took off—with the papers in hand. I was left sitting there, pen in hand at the kitchen table, mouth open in shock. As an eighteen-year-old girl, I had no clue what to think. What I did know was that Coach Wisdom had arranged for all his top athletes to go to college. Eldece Clarke and Judy McDonald had gone off to Hampton University. Michael Newbold went to Jackson State. Frank Rutherford attended the University of Houston.

And here I was, one of the top female sprinters in the world, with nowhere to go?

Something didn’t seem right. With the clock ticking, I soon confronted him.

“Coach, where am I going to college?”

He stared at me, blankly. “You ain’t going to college. You ain’t finishing high school.”

What game was this man playing? Not going to college? Then what were all of those entrance exams for? All the tireless work he and I had put into my training these past few years?

Those thoughts raced through my head. But I stormed off, unsure how to handle the moment. Not only was he my coach, benefactor, and second father, he was also a senior master at Government High. What was a teenager to do? In many ways, my life was in his hands. He came back to Mum Wisdom’s house not long after—with the same papers, demanding that I sign them without question. And once again, I stood my ground. Ironically, the fatherly advice he had given me in the past came back to haunt him.

Looking back, I suspect Coach Wisdom had promised me to a particular school. Perhaps Hampton University, like Judy and Eldece? Those things happen often, where coaches have certain relationships with programs. Or maybe, because he had controlled so much of my life to this point, he simply wanted to direct this part of my life, too. He couldn’t let g°-

I’d never get a straight answer. Had colleges and universities reached out to Coach Wisdom? Which ones? How many? I was kept completely in the dark. My life, and everything I had worked for, hung in the balance. Until suddenly, fate intervened.

I was at home and the phone rang.

“Paw-line?” said the voice on the other end, a harsh southern drawl.

“Yes, sir?”

“This is Coach Wayne Williams from the University of Alabama,” he continued. “I’m calling you because nobody seems to know which university you’re going to. Have you decided, Paw-line?”

“Ummm ... no sir,” I said. “I haven’t really spoken to anyone.”

The line went silent for several moments.

“Sir? Hello? Anyone there?” I asked.

“Oh my goodness ...” He trailed off, in disbelief. “You mean you haven’t spoken with anyone? Well, Pawline, we think you’re one phenomenal sprinter. We would sure like to have you here at the University of Alabama.”

Amazingly, Coach Williams had just called on a whim—on the off chance I hadn’t committed yet. You see, up to this point, my status among the best programs in the United States was top secret. Nobody seemed to know my plans. Meanwhile, this was the mid-1980s. Communications were not what they are today, especially if you wanted to find someone internationally. There was no Facebook, Google, Linkedln, or Twitter. Coach Williams, assistant coach and recruiting coordinator at the University of Alabama, had somehow dug up a home phone number. It was a total moonshot—and it landed.

“Under normal circumstances, Pauline would have been heavily recruited by every program in the US,” explains Williams, who coached at Alabama for twenty-one years. “While there is no way of knowing the exact figures, I would say she was recruited by everyone in the SEC. And if I said a hundred schools wanted her, I don’t think that would be an exaggeration.”

And yet here was Coach Williams—front of the line.

It was a luxury he wasn’t accustomed to. Typically, among top programs in the United States, competition was fierce. And that was especially the case in the SEC, when it came to track and field. In Coach Williams's words: “You fight for everything you get.”

Although Coach Williams had never seen me run, he knew me by reputation.

In his role as recruitment coordinator, he would comb through publications ranking top track and field athletes from around the world. He also monitored results of the CAC and CARIFTA Games, knowing full well the Caribbean was always a hotbed for talent.

It wasn’t the first time Coach Williams showed resourcefulness.

Years earlier, while in the office looking through track and field news and statistics, he came across a shot-putter from Iceland who was ranked number three in the world. Not knowing a soul in that country, he reached out to the athletic federation in Iceland. Though it took some persistence, he was ultimately able to get the athlete on the phone and bring him to Alabama, on a full scholarship.

“That’s how the process works,” he says. “You find a name and do the research, often through the federations, and then you find people associated with them. I’m sure it was the same with Pauline.”

To this day, Coach Williams can’t recall the exact person who gave him Mum Wisdom’s home number—but thank God they did.

In addition to identifying talent farther afield, Coach Williams also had a reputation for recruiting closer to home. Take Calvin Smith, a former track and field star from Mississippi. Coach had recruited him years earlier to Alabama, and in 1983, he broke the world record in the 100 meters with a blistering time of 9.93 seconds. He’d also be the world champion of the 200 twice in his career. I figured if Coach Williams could recruit and train Smith, then he was good enough for me.

I just had one question. “Sir, what conference are you in?”

“What conference, ma’am? Why, we’re in the Southeastern Conference.”

“The SEC?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At this stage, the words “ah ha” went off in my brain. It was divine intervention. That’s what I really wanted—to go to a school in the SEC.

“OK, Coach,” I said, confidently. “Why don’t you just send me that 1-20?”

The 1-20, otherwise known as the Certificate of Eligibility for Nonimmigrant Student Status for Academic and Language Students, was just a fancy way of saying “Sign me up.”

“I . . . Paw-line . . .” he stammered on the phone. “Did I hear that right? You want me to send you an 1-20?”

“Yes, that’s right, Coach Williams.”

“Why, yes, Paw-line,” he said excitedly. “As soon as we get off this phone. I’ll get that to you right away.”

And that’s how it happened. With just a couple weeks before the first semester, Coach Wayne Williams sent the paperwork by FedEx to Nassau, The Bahamas. I read every inch of those documents, signed them, and sent them back right away.

It was official—I was now a student athlete at the University of Alabama. The Crimson Tide.

While I was bursting with excitement, there was still a big loose end. How was I going to break the news to Coach Wisdom? Turns out, it was easier than I thought.

A few days later, he showed up with those same documents, ready to have another go. But before he could even launch into his speech, I screamed, “Hey, Coach! Guess what? I’m going to the University of Alabama! In the SEC! Roll Tide, baby! Yeah!”

I swear, I thought the poor man was going to have a stroke.

“What you talking about? You did what?”

He could barely get a word out as he fumbled behind him for a chair. And I stood there, staring down at him, beaming.

“What do you know about Alabama?” he demanded.

I told him, “I might not know much, but I’m going to make it there, because I chose it.” Go hell or go high. He calmed down after a while. Next we got Coach Williams on the phone and had a chat. I think that also made him feel a bit better. It was decided that Coach Wisdom and I would make a quick trip to the University of Alabama as soon as possible. I would get my grand tour of a Division I school after all, albeit on a more accelerated schedule.

But first, I had a couple other phone calls to make.

The first one was to my mummy, although that one wasn’t much of a conversation. Most of the call was just her hollering, screaming, and crying. Not that I blame her. After all, my mummy’s dream was coming true. Back in the day, in Bain Town, she had no clue how we could ever afford college. All she knew was that education was my ticket to a better life. She simply believed—and willed it into existence. Remember those dirty pages? The book and the belt?

Without that discipline, I’m not sure I would have ever made it to college.

Once the divorce was settled, it must have been gut-wrenching for Mummy to watch me go with Mum Wisdom. It would be for any parent. But that was the way of things. My young life was filled with those sacrifices, these hardships, and the understanding that there was a greater purpose at the end of it. So my mummy’s euphoria—safe in the knowledge that it was all worth it—must have been an incredible feeling. Thus the uncontrollable emotion that spilled over onto the phone that day.

The next call was to my daddy, of course, whom I still got to see in Nassau from time to time. Before I left, my daddy gave me a big hug. He told me how much he loved me, and how proud he was. Then he pulled away, straightened me up, and placed his hands firmly on my arms.

“Do not accept anything from no man. Do you understand me, girl?” he said in his deep baritone voice, staring straight into my eyes.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Don’t go and get yourself into any problems. Don’t go and get yourself pregnant, you understand me?”

“Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

“Don’t make me walk on water from The Bahamas to come get you.”

Those words stuck with me. My daddy didn’t need to worry—I had changed so much from that little girl on Fleming Street. I was a CARIFTA champion now, an Olympian, and a soon-to-be star freshman at a Division I university. I had all the focus in the world and knew how to handle myself. At the same time, I really did know, in the back of my mind, that my daddy would walk on water to straighten me out, if it ever came to that.

In September 1984, I packed my bags and flew to Birmingham, Alabama. I didn’t have much to my name—just a couple of bags, filled mostly with training gear bearing the Bahamian colors. And, of course, that horrible red, industrial sports bra that Andrea Wisdom had bought for me so many years ago. Before I left, I gave Carlton Williams, my employer at McDonald’s, my Austin Sealy trophy, to thank him for all his support. What I lacked in material possessions I made up for in expectations—I carried the hopes and dreams of my parents, my family, Bain Town, and really, all of The Bahamas on my shoulders.

* * *

The University of Alabama is one of the South’s oldest universities, admitting its first students back in 1831. What began as a few remote buildings in the early nineteenth century had grown into a massive campus spanning nearly two thousand acres in the city of Tuscaloosa, almost sixty miles southwest of Birmingham. What stood out most about the university was its quadrangle. Full of trees, this twenty-two-acre central park forms the center of student life, where people study, play sports, meet and socialize, and stroll between buildings and classes. For someone coming from The Bahamas, it felt like a vast wilderness.

The quad is also where you’ll find many of the university’s oldest buildings, although most of the originals were destroyed during the American Civil War when the Union Army burned down the campus in 1865. The university had produced countless cadets for the Confederate Army, many of whom went on to become officers.

The University of Alabama’s Civil War past, and its place in African American history, isn’t immediately obvious to visitors, but it’s there.

For example, there is a cemetery near the biology building with two graves that belong to slaves owned by faculty members of the university. Those graves went unmarked for some 160 years, until a law professor at the University of Alabama, Alfred Brophy, wrote a paper entitled “The University and the Slaves: Apology and Its Meaning.”

The work was based on the diary of Basil Manly, the second president of the university (1837 to 1855), along with four other books. What it revealed, among other things, was that the university owned slaves, rented them from Tuscaloosa County residents, and approved the purchase of slaves. It even permitted students to bring their own slaves to school and claimed “that slavery was the natural order of things.”

The paper and the discussion it ignited brought about many positive changes to the university, including a proper marking for those two graves. In 2004, Jack Rudolph and William “Boysey” Brown were finally immortalized on an elevated bronze and black plaque.

The faculty senate even apologized for its role in the institution of slavery.

To be honest, I wasn’t aware of this history when I arrived. In fact, I graduated from Alabama well over a decade before all of this reconciliation even took place. I walked by that cemetery, oblivious to the history that lurked there. Nevertheless, when it came to race, the ghosts of the university’s past would still haunt me—but more on that later.

I didn’t arrive with any thoughts or bias about the past. I was laser focused on my future. When I stepped off the plane, overwhelmed and excited to begin this new chapter in my life, there was Coach Williams waiting for me.

He just stared at me in disbelief, like he was seeing a ghost. “Pawline?” he asked.

I don’t know why he was so mystified. After all, Coach Wisdom and I had done a quick tour of the campus a week or so before.

“Yes, Coach Williams. It’s me.”

“I just can’t believe it,” he said, giving me a hug. “I just can’t believe you’re here.”

That made two of us. While I had prepared myself for this moment, it was surreal walking through those athletic facilities, this time as an enrolled student.

There was room after room of weights and equipment—one for the football players, another for baseball, yet another for track and field, and so on. It was a far cry from our workouts at Goodman’s Bay, snatching those leaves from bushes as fast as we could, doing pull-ups with tree branches, and carrying each other on our backs.

What really got me, though, was the women’s locker room, when I saw a locker with my name on it—Pauline Davis. The very sight of it brought me to tears.

The University of Alabama might have nearly forty thousand enrolled students, more than a dozen academic divisions, and almost two hundred years of educational history, but athletics are the heart and soul of this proud institution, and that’s putting it mildly.

Of course, it begins and ends with football.

Some might call it a passion. Others would call it a religion.

In 1907, with Alabama facing a heavily favored Auburn University, torrential rain pelted the players on the field in a hard-fought game. A journalist at the time described Alabama’s offensive fine as a “crimson tide” because of their jerseys, which were stained red from the rain and mud. That description, and the colors, descended into university folklore. When someone does the Roll Tide cheer, it’s a nod to this history of grit and perseverance—an unstoppable force of nature.

Today, the Alabama football program is the stuff of legend. The Crimson Tide has won twenty-eight SEC titles and eighteen national championships and has eight former players in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. In 2019, Sports Illustrated ranked the university as the top college football program in history. And it wasn’t even close.

I may not have been a football player, but I understood the mantra—grit, determination, never give up. Defeat the odds.

This tradition of excellence trickled down to all the athletic departments. The fact is, when you suited up for the Crimson Tide, there were expectations, whether it was baseball, tennis, or basketball. And the track and field team was pretty good, too.

“Our program was at an extremely high level,” Coach Williams recalls. “And when Pauline came in, she made it go to a different level. Alabama was thought of around the nation as a premiere track and field program. People knew the kinds of athletes we had there.”

Calvin Smith was certainly the biggest name on the men’s side. But he wasn’t the only one. Emmit King, another sprinter, became the NCAA 100 meters national champion in 1983, the same year Smith broke the world record in this event. King was also an Olympian and gold medalist at the 1983 World Championships in Helsinki.

The women were equally impressive.

First there was Lillie Leatherwood, two years my senior and a phenom in the 400. A native of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, she became National Champion in this event during my first year at Alabama, in the 1985 NCAA Indoor Championships. The next year, Leatherwood accomplished the same feat, only this time she set a new collegiate record. I actually had met her for the first time, along with Smith, at the Summer Olympic Games in Los Angeles, where she helped Team USA win the gold in the 4X400 relay.

And then there was Flora Hyacinth, another child of the islands.

Although she was born in St. Lucia, Flo was raised in the US Virgin Islands. An accomplished long jumper and hurdler, she and I would become close friends and, at one time, college roommates at Alabama. Andrew Owusu, Keith Talley, Jan Johnson, William Wuycke, Liz Lynch, Quanesha Burks—these athletes, and so many others, past and present, have achieved world-class excellence at track and field, whether it be national titles, World Championship medals, Olympic medals, or all of the above.

From the moment I stepped onto that campus, I knew I was different. Not that I felt any different personally—it was more how others treated me.

There was a certain aura and mystique that followed athletes at the University of Alabama. And so much of it, as usual, surrounded football. Those players were like gods to most students at the university, and especially to those of the fairer sex. They couldn’t believe I knew all the football and basketball players. They’d gush about it, ask me questions, as if I had access to the players’ personal lives. To me, it was no big deal. From day one, I had free rein with these players, because I was around them all the time.

You see, at the University of Alabama, and at most Division I schools, athletes are set apart. We had our own study hall, with tutors there to help. We often ate together, sitting in a special section of the cafeteria reserved for athletes. And there were good reasons for this treatment. It built comradery. Fraternity. And with our intense practice and competition schedules, every aspect of campus life had to be carefully structured.

We even lived in specific areas of the campus. For me, it was the Crimson Towers, just a block or two from the quad, where they placed most if not all of the track and field athletes.

It was a bubble, in a way, choreographed so you could compete at the highest level.

That said, I was a long way from home. There were a few growing pains to start. During my first week, I recall heading over to the cafeteria on a Sunday for my evening meal. Remember now—in The Bahamas, we may not have had much, but we always ate well on Sundays. It was a special time to feast with family. And here I am, surveying the offerings in the cafeteria, and my heart drops down to my feet. All they have are hot dogs, hamburgers, and fries.

I sprinted back to my dorm to call Coach Williams, bawling on the phone.

“Coach . . . Coach . . . hot dogs and hamburgers ... I can’t eat that ... I don’t eat hot dogs and hamburgers for dinner on Sunday,” I cried.

Within minutes, Coach Williams came flying through my door to save the day.

That night, for my first Sunday dinner at Alabama, he took me to a beautiful little restaurant, just the two of us, where I enjoyed roast beef, mashed potatoes, and greens.

I may have been in university now, but I was still just a teenager, and living on my own for the first time. From day one, Coach Williams and his wife treated me like family—picking up right where the Wisdoms had left off. I remember well how Lady Williams, Coach’s wife, used to have me over for dinner on occasion, and insist on baking me cookies.

“Paw-line, what kind of cookies do you like, baby?” she’d ask, in a similar southern drawl.

“Oh, Lady Williams, I don’t really eat cookies,” I’d explain. “But if I ate one it would probably be oatmeal raisin.”

And that’s exactly what she baked.

Their support meant the world to me—I’m not sure I would have made it there without them. As a foreign student from The Bahamas who didn’t really know a soul on campus, navigating those two thousand acres at the university was intimidating. In the beginning, I’d end up roaming the vast buildings, hallways, and classrooms, trying to figure out where I was supposed to be.

Funny enough, being hopelessly lost helped me discover where I needed to be.

“Excuse me? Can you help me, please?”

I turned and saw a woman, about my age, a few inches shorter than me, with dark hair and eyes.

“Do you know where Mary Burke is?” she asked in a strong southern accent.

“I’m sorry,” I laughed, “but I’m a little lost myself! Do you know where the student center is?”

“Oh my, what’s that accent of yours? Where you from?”

“I’m from The Bahamas!”

“You’re from The Bahamas! That’s far! I love your accent. Keep talking! Say something!” She smiled.

I didn’t know it at the time, but Sharonda Lewis-Pryor, of Birmingham, Alabama, would grow to become one of my very best friends. Together, we both figured out where we needed to go that day. And we’d be inseparable during my years at the University of Alabama.

“My first impression of Pauline was her dedication to her country and her family,” Sharonda says. “I understood right away that she was a very hard worker. And her country sent her here to do a job. Because her family and many others sacrificed a lot for her to run. I am like that with my family, so we connected immediately.”

Sharonda grew up in the projects with her siblings, single mother, and grandmother. She told me stories about how, when her mother went to college classes at night, she and her siblings sometimes had to tag along while she studied. Like me, Sharonda grew up with very little. Also like me, there was a will to overcome these circumstances. Her mother would become a nurse, just like my mummy in Florida after the divorce.

And now, here we both were in college. Sharonda studied accounting and mathematics, and would go on to serve as an auditor for the US federal government.

Back then, our future at our feet, we just supported each other. Most days we would go for walks in the park, ending up on a bench to talk and give each other advice. Through Sharonda, I ended up meeting other friends, which formed my main network outside of track and field. Later on, we’d all go to football games, “pit rallies,” and parties at all the fraternities on campus, where we’d dance for hours.

In my second year, she would even become my roommate for a year. I owe Sharonda so many things, including my life. But I’ll get to that later.

Back then, she was a support system, a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic ear, and someone to laugh with. She even helped me with my American English.

“Even though Pauline obviously spoke English, she carried a dictionary around with her,” Sharonda recalls. “She would have this dictionary but she used to still spell some things in British English—like ‘honour’ or ‘colour.’ So we’d always help with her papers. That’s just one of those little ways we helped Pauline in those early days get settled.”

I entered Alabama as an English and communications major, with a minor in business. I might have been there to run, but I took pride in my studies, and I had to keep up my grades for my scholarship. English had always been my strong subject—from the book and the belt—although when I arrived at Alabama they asked me to take a whole series of entrance exams on a variety of subjects, including chemistry. I’d never taken a chemistry course in my life. It was all multiple choice, so I guessed my way through that exam.

A few days later, I met with my academic advisor, Ms. Morris, to go over the results. I was scrolling through the classes I’d be taking in my first semester, and what did I see? Chemistry 103.

“Ms. Morris, I’ve never taken a chemistry course in my life,” I explained, a bit distressed.

Ms. Morris shuffled around some papers on her desk, appearing equally confused. Never taken a chemistry course in your life? How can that be possible? At the bottom of her stack, she produced my chemistry exam.

“Pauline, you achieved 98 percent on your chemistry entrance exams,” she said, mystified.

I can’t explain it—eeny, meeny, miny, moe. That’s all it was. She couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. To this day, it’s hard to fathom how I achieved such a score. Nevertheless, I insisted it would be a disaster to put me in chemistry. So we compromised on biology instead.

It wouldn’t be the only awkward situation when it came to my academics.

One of my first classes at Alabama was Sociology 101. Generally, I liked to sit at the front of the class, but that wasn’t a good idea in this instance. In sociology, you learn all kinds of things about human society and its behavior. To kick off this class, it was all about slavery. And I lost it—I was a bucket of tears every class. The professor would show videos and images of American history, from the Ku Klux Klan, Jim Crow, and LA riots to the rise of the civil rights movement. Simply put, we didn’t leam those things in The Bahamas. I couldn’t believe that people were so cruel.

So there I was, hysterical and shaking at the front of the class. Other students—including many who were white—tried their best to console me. My professor was also very understanding.

Perhaps I was naive back then. As I said earlier, the World Championships and Olympics really opened my eyes to the world, that there were people of all colors, races, and creeds. In The Bahamas, I didn’t know what racism was. I was sheltered, in a way. From day one, I grew up in a village based on Christian principles, where all people were created equal under God. My white godparents—and my daddy’s employer at the restaurant and hotel—always treated us as equals.

I thought of myself as Bahamian, not black.

“So where are you from?” students would inevitably ask me, after hearing my accent. And, of course, I’d proudly tell them I’m from The Bahamas.

Sometimes, they’d look at me puzzled. “Why do you say you’re from The Bahamas?”

“Because I am,” I’d explain. “I’m not American. I’m a Bahamian.”

“Why don’t you say you’re black?”

And my mouth would fall to the floor. There’d be a long, pregnant pause. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re black. You’re a negro.”

I realized very early on that differences sometimes mattered. People were eager to place you in a category based on the color of your skin. Not everyone—but some people. The fact that I came from another country only made things worse.

“So how did you get here?”

“What do you mean, how did I get here?” I’d ask. “I came on a plane. Into Birmingham.”

The Bahamas is just fifty miles off the coast of Florida, and yet you’d think I came from the jungle on the other side of the world.

“So you live in a hut? How did you get here from your hut?”

These were serious questions. I didn’t let it bother me. I often played along.

“Oh, yes. I hved in a hut,” I’d explain with a straight face. “You know, we have ropes in our huts. And can fly from tree to tree.”

And they nodded with fascination, believing every word. I suppose, in the fall of 1984, I was as ignorant about racism and segregation as they were about the outside world.

Of course, there were also many people who were understanding, open-minded, and supportive.

After a few rough sessions of sociology, my teacher asked me to stay back after class. Every professor tends to know who the student athletes are, especially when they’re international. My professor sat me down.

“It’s clear this subject matter bothers you,” she said. “I would imagine, coming from The Bahamas, you’ve had a very different experience.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I nodded, wiping my face. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

She told me it would probably be best if I didn’t continue with the class—and I agreed. I was under enough stress and pressure already. So they assigned me a WP—withdraw pass.

All of my professors, coaching staff, and the university as a whole were incredibly supportive of me during my time at Alabama. It was the world they couldn’t control, especially when I ventured outside the gates.

“People would call us names,” Sharonda remembers. “You heard the N-word now and again. I made sure Pauline understood that not all people are like that. That’s often because of their parents, and how they were raised. Sometimes we would go to the mall and people would follow you around, especially if you had a bag. You’re black, so they assume you don’t have money to buy what you’re looking for. They assume you must be stealing. I would let others know: Pauline isn’t used to this. She is here to run.”

For better or for worse, the sting of racism would impact my time in Alabama.

Like I said, because I was a student athlete, I’d often be around the football players. On one occasion, the quarterback of the football team asked if I wanted to join him in a study group—just the two of us. Now, I don’t have to tell you, dear reader, what a huge deal this would be for the average student at the University of Alabama. It would be a fairy tale for some, a Cinderella story where the prince has invited you to the ball.

For me, it was no big deal. He was a great guy, and I saw him often at study hall, with all the other athletes around.

But this time, he came to my apartment at the Crimson Towers. We studied for a while, and then he suggested we take a break. He took me to a popular restaurant beside a lake, not far at all from campus. We actually ate on the hood of his car, just talking and looking out over the water. When we finished our food, it was time to hit the books. He came around to open the door for me, and gently pushed me onto the car. He landed his lips right on mine—and I’m thinking, What’s happening here?

I pushed him away—and asked, “Can you take me home now, please?”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” he asked innocently.

“What did you just do?” I asked, gesturing to my lips.

“Well, I like you,” he shrugged.

As the quarterback of the most legendary college football team in America, I don’t think he was accustomed to rejection.

“It ain’t a good idea, OK?” I insisted. “I’m from The Bahamas. You’re the quarterback. You’re white, and I’m black. I have no intention of going back to The Bahamas in a body bag.”

We spoke about it all the way back to the Crimson Towers.

“Why would you say that? I’ve dated black girls before.”

“Well, you might have,” I said, “but you ain’t dating this one.”

He dropped me off at the Crimson Towers, and I walked back up to my apartment—alone. He tried to contact me a few times after that, but I wasn’t responding to any of his advances. To be clear, I liked him a great deal. He was never forceful or rude. He did what many young men would do in a college, and 99.99 percent of the time, the girl on the other end would have kissed him back. But I didn’t feel like I was in a fairy tale. Was I making too big a deal of it? Who knows how it would have worked out. The point is, while I may have been naive at first, I learned very quickly where I was, who I was, and that I needed to be cautious. He was too high profile. The fans of the Crimson Tide were notoriously fanatical. I didn’t want any part of that. I wasn’t taking any chances. As Sharonda said—I was there to run.

Sometimes, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t avoid a racist attack.

Early on, just a few months after I arrived, I was walking down the street in Tuscaloosa when I had an egg thrown in my face from a passing car. They yelled the N-word—and told me to go home. They probably had no idea what home meant for me. I suspect they couldn’t have even found it on a map. Those moments are incredibly hurtful. But I was Pauline Davis, from Bain Town, and I had come to Alabama with a job to do.

Nothing was going to stand in the way of my dreams.

From the first practice, my track and field career was all consuming. Like I said, I was joining an already strong program where we’d be expected to compete for SEC and NCAA titles every year. I’d be competing in the 60 meters, the 200, and the 4X400 in the indoors, and the 100, 200, 4x100, and 4x400 in the outdoors. Whether it was the SEC or NCAA Championships, each had its own separate competition for indoor and outdoor, with the first—the SEC Indoor Championships—kicking off in February.

“Pauline always carried herself extremely well,” Coach Williams remembers. “Going to a track meet on a Saturday, she fixed herself up like it was the high school prom. She fixed her hair . . . put on makeup. She just looked very polished. And her preparation was always down to a T. I don’t know if I ever saw her intimidated by any competition, whether it was her freshman year or the Olympic Games. Mentally, physically, emotionally . . . she was connected to what she was doing.”

Where I didn’t feel comfortable, in the beginning, was the weight room. When I got there, I couldn’t even lift a bench press, regardless of what you put on it. And I fought it for a while. To me, I was a girl, and lifting weights didn’t seem like a girly thing to do.

“Now Paw-line,” Coach Williams used to say. “I understand you’re not used to this type of thing, but you’re gonna learn to get it done, OK?”

I relented in the end. And before long, those cowbells I had for breasts faded away, which meant I didn’t need industrial bras anymore. I put my faith into Coach Williams, although that wasn’t so easy for Coach Wisdom to accept.

When I first arrived at Alabama, I knew Coach Wisdom was upset. He was unusually quiet from the start. Maybe it had to do with my decision to choose Alabama. Or perhaps he just missed that close connection we had. What I do know is he might not have been calling me—but he was sure in touch with Coach Williams.

I walked into Coach William’s office one day and saw he was on the phone. So I sat down and waited—and listened. It didn’t take me long to figure out they were talking about me. Coach Wisdom was telling him this and that, about how to train me, and what we used to do. I could immediately tell Coach Williams was feeling uncomfortable.

I sprang out of my chair. “Coach, hand me the phone, please?”

I held out my hand for a few moments. Coach Williams just stared at me before slowly placing the receiver in my palm.

“Hello? Coach Wisdom? It’s Pauline,” I said. “You can’t be serious, sir. You calling my coach in Alabama, telling him what to do? You released me to him, sir. So please allow him to coach me.”

“But Pearl, I ...” he blurted out.

“Please don’t call him like this again, sir.” And I handed the phone back to Coach Williams, who had turned pink with embarrassment.

If Coach Wisdom wasn’t talking to me before, you can imagine the situation after that. I suppose my leaving for Alabama was hard on him—in many ways, I was his little girl. He never had a daughter. But we both had to move on for me to reach that next level. Besides, Coach Wisdom would come around. Every so often, I’d see his brother, Jerry, at track meets.

He’d always give me a funny smile. “You know who sent me, right?”

“Yes, I know.” I’d smile. Coach Wisdom would always find ways to keep tabs on me.

The stage was set in 1984 for a successful college track and field career—until an old injury resurfaced. Not long after beginning my training with Coach Williams, I tore a hamstring. It happened early enough in the season that I thought I could come back and compete. I went to the doctors, received treatment. And when you start running again, you train “just below the pain,” trying to get back to a point where you might reach full strength.

The truth is, my fainting at the Summer Olympics in Los Angeles was a warning of things to come—I was in way over my head, and pushing myself far too hard. The pressure of university and the expectations of Alabama were a lot to handle as a freshman. Throughout my life, I would also struggle with awful menstrual cycles, during which my entire body went into convulsions, spasms, and cramps. I often found myself at the clinic for this reason.

And yet I pushed and pushed, training below the pain, until I reinjured myself. My entire first year of competition would be a write-off, from a track and field perspective.

Here I was, full of anticipation, and hyped as Alabama’s new star athlete. It was a huge disappointment, although I knew I could come back stronger—the CAR.IFTA Games in Nassau had taught me that. The good news was my injury happened early enough that I had plenty of time to recover before the next season.

As fate would have it, a tom hamstring wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to me at Alabama. Not by a longshot.

6

PEAKS AND VALLEYS

I entered my second year at the University of Alabama healthy, focused, and ready to make up for lost time. Fortunately, because I hadn’t formally competed the previous year, NCAA rules allowed me to defer and make the 1985–1986 season my “freshman year” of eligibility. That turned out to be a blessing. So much of my first year was just finding my feet and feeling comfortable with my new surroundings. And let me tell you—after that I came out firing.

My work ethic and intensity quickly gave me a reputation in practice. “Badass freshman,” my teammates used to call me.

In the late fall of 1985, I finally got to participate in my first real competition at Louisiana State University, one of our biggest rivals in the SEC. After a year on the bench, this badass freshman rolled people out—I immediately started winning my heats and races. Major competition didn’t start until February. But these early performances gave me tremendous confidence going into that season.

They also raised a few eyebrows.

The next weekend, our team was on the road again. I emerged from the Crimson Towers and headed for the team bus. Slung over my shoulder was my school bag, weighted down by several books. Swaying from my other hand was a gym bag stuffed with clothes, spikes, my uniform, and running gear. And as I approached the bus, I glanced up and noticed something amiss—there were three men wearing suits at the base of the stairs.

It was unusual, but I didn’t think much of it.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully, brushing past them.

One of the men stepped out in front of me.

“Pardon me, sir.” I was always very polite. “Excuse me? I’m trying to get on the bus.”

“Pauline Davis?” he asked, stone-faced.

“Yes, sir.”

“You need to come with us.” He reached out to lead me away, but I stepped back.

“Pardon me, sir, but no. I ain’t going with you,” I snapped, allowing my school bag to slip down to my feet. “What is this all about? Where is Coach Williams?”

Right on cue, Coach Williams stepped down off the bus behind them. He appeared equally frazzled, yet reassuring at the same time.

“Paw-line,” he said, stepping between the suits. “You need to go with them, OK?”

I was still having none of that.

“Coach Williams, sir, my daddy told me don’t go no strange places with men,” I replied with defiance. “I don’t know them. Who are these people?”

The suits tried to wedge themselves between us, preventing Coach from even speaking with me. Coach Williams turned and raised a hand to them, pleading patience.

“It’s OK, Paw-line, I promise. You can go with them. Y’all going to see the athletic director,” he explained, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Fine, let’s go,” I said, picking up my bags.

“I can’t go with you, Paw-line. But it’ll be OK. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

I peered over his shoulder—those three men in suits were locked in and staring right at me, sternly. Athletes on the bus were now watching the scene unfold from their windows. I didn’t like it, but I also didn’t have much choice.

So off we went, one of the suits leading the way and the other two behind. Within minutes we arrived at the office of Alabama’s athletic director, the legendary Ray Perkins.

In 1983, Perkins succeeded Paul “Bear” Bryant as head coach of the Alabama football team and athletic director for the university. Prior to that, he was an All-America wide receiver for the Crimson Tide and went on to play for the Baltimore Colts in the National Football League, winning a Super Bowl in 1971. He then served as an assistant coach of the New England Patriots and the San Diego Chargers, before achieving a head coach position with the New York Giants. Nevertheless, he described the head coaching position at Alabama as his “dream job.”

Perkins would be inducted into the Alabama Sports Hall of Fame in 1990, and named a SEC Football Legend in 2019.

Of course, at the time, I didn’t care much for his resume. As we marched into his office, my mind spinning, Perkins extended a hand to the chair in front of his desk.

“Have a seat, please.”

I fell into the chair and let my bags crash to the ground. The suits moved in front of me and took positions on either side of the desk, while Perkins settled into his chair and took a deep breath, straightening up his crimson tie with white dots.

“Now, Pauline,” he began, shuffling a few papers on his desk, “these men are from the NCAA head office. They just need to ask you a few questions.”

The official closest to me got right into it. “So how did you get to Alabama?” he asked.

“How did I get here? 1 flew here,” I replied somewhat indignantly. Maybe I’d been asked that question by too many students, ignorant of The Bahamas’ place in the world. No, I didn’t live in a hut. Although that wasn’t quite what this NCAA official was getting at.

“No, no,” Perkins interjected softly, running a hand through his short brown hair. “He means how did you come to be a student athlete here at the University of Alabama.”

Looking back, I can see why there was so much suspicion. I mean, my entire recruitment was shrouded in mystery. Under normal circumstances, there would be a process where colleges could at least make their pitch. None of that happened, as far as I know, under Coach Wisdom. Then, I flew under the radar in my first year, missing competition with that hamstring injury. Fast forward to 1985, and here I am blazing a trail and competing like a badass freshman. I guess it aroused enough suspicion for one of our division rivals to call the NCAA. My recruitment was so quiet—maybe Alabama had committed a rule violation, they thought.

The NCAA was no stranger to recruitment scandals. Whether it be the fierce competition, school pride, or the big business behind college sports, various programs across the United States have been caught coloring outside the lines, sometimes in notorious fashion.

Right around this time, for example, Southern Methodist University was riding high as one of the best college football programs in the country. The NCAA had begun investigating the Mustangs in the early 1980s for alleged payments to players and their families, enticing them to sign up for the team. Eventually, it was discovered that a giant slush fund had been created, and systemic bribes were doled out to players over the course of many years. The NCAA inflicted the dreaded “death penalty” on the Mustangs—prohibiting them from participating in the 1987 and 1988 seasons. To this day, it remains one of the most well-known recruitment scandals in college sports, immortalized in the ESPN documentary Pony Excess.

I had no clue about all this history. And I had absolutely nothing to hide.

So I told them everything—how my recruitment went, Coach Williams’s phone call, how I had always wanted to run for a team in the SEC. I basically plucked the University of Alabama out of thin air, I said. I chose Alabama on a whim. By the time I’d finished, the officials’ mouths hung low. I guess it wasn’t a typical recruitment story—but it was the truth.

“And why do you have all these Nike shoes? And Nike clothes?” another official asked, undaunted.

Nobody had searched my bag. How would they know all of that? Whomever complained about me had obviously given a full report.

“Nike clothes?” I asked, confused.

“Yes, you wear a lot of Nike products. Where did it all come from?”

I shook my head in disbelief. For years, I had worn Nike shirts, pants, socks, and shoes and carried Nike bags. By this time, Nike sponsored our equipment on The Bahamas’ Olympic Team, all decked out in the colors of the Bahamian flag. I might not have had much, but my Bahamian running gear ranked high up on my list of prized possessions.

“From my country, sir,” I said, plainly.

“Your country?” he scoffed.

“Yes, sir. I also compete for The Bahamas.”

“And the team gave you this stuff?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, dutifully.

You see, it is against NCAA rules to accept money, gifts, or endorsements. But are they really going to kick up all this fuss over some running equipment from my national team? The interrogation went round and round for what felt like hours.

Finally, I looked at them and said, “You know I’m an educated woman, right? You keep asking me the same questions, but in different ways. And I’m gonna keep giving you the same answers.”

Finally, they let me go. There was no evidence to keep me, no basis to their accusations.

“OK, Coach Perkins!” I said as I turned to leave. “I’ll see you later. I’m gonna go win this track meet now!”

Perkins waved and shot me an amused grin.

And that was that. As you can imagine, when I got to the bus everyone was full of questions. I kept my head down and didn’t say much. Not that it mattered. Word soon spread like wildfire. And to be honest, I was beyond terrified. While I had done nothing wrong, my life was hanging in the balance. I could have lost my scholarship. Visions of my daddy walking on water from The Bahamas to come get me started swirling around in my head. I tossed my bags on the seat beside me, took a deep breath, and pulled out a book.

Track and field may only be a sport, but I always seemed to find myself in the political arena. It wasn’t the first time I’d had a target on my back. Nor would it be the last.

* * *

The team bus would be like my second home at Alabama. And when I say bus, it was really more like a camper, where we could stretch out and sleep on the road. Sometimes we’d drive all day and all night, shuttling all around the United States for competitions. Being an athlete while going to school was never easy. I had assignments from my professors, so I just crammed in as much as I could on the road. Occasionally, we’d be pulling back into Alabama on a Sunday night and I’d have an exam to write on Monday.

I fit in studying wherever I could. I’d often scout out a secluded, quiet spot in the stadium during competition, although I could still hear the announcer on that PA system, and the hollering and screaming of fans. Coaches kept an eye on the races and then gave me a little nudge—it was time to start warming up. So I slammed those books shut and switched gears completely, sprinting out onto the track to earn my scholarship. It was time to perform. Then it was back to the books, crashing into my quiet comer until the next time I was called.

I had no choice. It was focus or failure.

Not everyone made it. I remember my first roommate at the Crimson Towers, Tina. She was a hurdler and ultimately flunked out in the first year. That was never an option for me. Sure, there was academic support for athletes—they wanted you to succeed. But at the end of the day, you had to perform in the classroom as well.

My parents couldn’t afford my education. This was my shot. Go hell or go high.

After burning up the track in late 1985, I entered my first major Division I competition in February 1986 at LSU. The SEC Indoor Championships were my first big test at the collegiate level, and fortunately, I didn’t disappoint, achieving second-place finishes in the 60 yards and 300 yards (back when some indoor races were still measured in yards). Going into the last day of competition, Alabama and LSU were basically tied. Our division and state rival had a narrow lead. It would all come down to how we placed in the last event of the championship—the 4x400 relay.

It was the CARIFTA Games in Nassau all over again, And I felt sick as a dog.

As the competition went on, my health took a dive. I was running a high temperature. I felt weak. So I’m laid out on the sidelines, literally on my back, when suddenly, I felt someone tapping me on the shoulder. I opened my eyes and saw Coach Williams’s face.

“Paw-line . . . I’m so sorry,” he said, putting his hand on my brow.

“I know you ain’t feeling well. I can feel you burning up a bit. But I gotta use you.”

“Coach, you can’t be serious,” I mumbled, closing my eyes again and placing both hands on my face, trying to process what this man was saying. My protest was only halfhearted. Honestly, I didn’t feel like I had a choice. Here I was, on scholarship. The university and my country depended on me. I just couldn’t say no.

“I know. Again, I am so sorry,” he continued. “What I’m gonna do is come get you, OK? You just rest for now. You gotta go as is.”

“But Coach!” I screamed, removing my hands from my face, gesturing to the rest of the team. “You have other athletes! Use them!”

And then he said something I’ll never forget.

“Paw-line, I’d rather go with a sick you than a healthy them.”

That ended the conversation—as I said, I did feel a sense of obligation to perform, regardless of the cost. I rested up as best I could. But before I knew it, Coach Williams was back, announcing it was time for the race.

“If she had flat out said to me, ‘Coach, I can’t do it,’ then I probably would have left it alone. But Pauline was a competitor,” Coach Williams explains, thinking back to that moment. “As a coach, if you know you have a chance to win a title, especially in the SEC, you go for it. Those SEC Championships were just brutal—dog eat dog.”

I felt awful stepping out onto that track. The crowded stadium was a mix of cheers and gasps. By now word had spread among the LSU team and their fans that I was ill. They had practically started celebrating the SEC Championship. And yet here I was, back from the dead. Is this girl really going to run? I did get an energy boost from my teammates—they all rallied around me, slapping me on the back, trying to pump me up. Despite my condition, Coach Williams decided that I’d run the anchor leg. I took a bunch of deep breaths, focusing on the moment, reminding myself there was just one more mountain to climb, and then I could relax.

The gun went off—and Alabama was in the thick of it. I closed my eyes and my breath quickened as my teammates ran their hearts out. As my third teammate rounded the curve and prepared to pass me the baton, I knew we were behind. Don’t ask me by how much. I mean, I do remember the race, but the details are hazy. It was more instinctive. I kept my eyes closed most of the way. I focus better like that, just like how I used to run down the street in Bain Town. It was like I had some kind of internal radar, where I just knew where I was on the track at any given time. While I had that awareness, I don’t remember crossing the finish line. My next memory was waking up in my bed in the Crimson Towers a day later, with my teammate Flora Hyacinth standing over me.

“She totally spent what was in her system,” recalls Coach Williams. “She was wiped out. But we had good trainers and made sure she had fluids and electrolytes. But after that race, and on that bus, she was out cold.”

As I slowly came to, Flo filled in the gaps. After finishing the race, I fell into my coaches’ arms. They led me to the bus, where I slept the entire way home.

I sat up quickly in bed.—“But what about the race? Did we win?”

Turns out, we came in second place in that 4x400 relay, but ahead of LSU, securing enough points to win the SEC Indoor Championship.

The final totals? Alabama tallied 125⅓ points, compared to LSU’s 125. The difference was a three-way tie for sixth place in the high jump earlier that day, giving us that third of a point.

Although I hadn’t won individually yet, it was a huge achievement for the team. And we just kept rolling, winning the NCAA Indoor Championships one month later. We were riding high—and I was living up to that “badass freshman” label.

“This is really something special,” John Mitchell, head coach of the Alabama women’s track and field team, told the Tuscaloosa News. “It was really a super effort by everyone. This is a tremendous feeling, one a lot of coaches and athletes never get a chance to experience.”

But it wasn’t long before we got knocked down.

A couple months after that first SEC Indoor Championship, the program received some awful news. Liz Lynch, our superstar middle-distance and long-distance runner, was accused by the NCAA of accepting prize money from road races. Lynch told authorities she had no intention of violating NCAA rules, having collected the prize money based on some bad advice. Nevertheless, it was enough for the NCAA to disqualify her results.

The result was devastating—without her points scored, Alabama would lose its titles at the SEC and NCAA Indoor Championships.

For Lynch personally, she would be deemed ineligible for US collegiate competition and return to her homeland of Scotland that year. It shook us all up a great deal. And I couldn’t help but wonder—was this why those NCAA officials had pulled me into Coach Perkins’s office several months earlier? Because they were already investigating Lynch? Fortunately, Lynch landed on her feet. Despite losing her scholarship, she went on to have a legendary athletic career, winning the 10,000 meters at the UK National Championship shortly after returning home. And then, two months later, she’d win a gold medal at the Commonwealth Games in the same event. It was only the beginning of a long and decorated career, including a silver medal at the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, and a gold at the World Championships in 1991.

While losing those two championships was painful, there was no time for us to feel sorry for ourselves. Later on that spring, at the SEC Outdoor Championships, I finally notched my first individual victories, winning the 100, 200, and 4X100, en route to our team taking home yet another conference championship trophy.

By the end of the 1985—1986 season, Alabama had won two SEC Championships and one national championship. The fact two of those had been revoked meant little to me. I was brimming with confidence and motivation. I was already a five-time All-American, rapidly learning and growing under Coach Williams’s tutelage. Meanwhile, that summer, at the 1986 Central American and Caribbean Games, I blazed two more trails, winning gold medals in both the 100 and the 200 in Santiago, Dominican Republic. It seemed like only a matter of time before I would take my place as a national champion in an individual event. I wanted it so badly—I pushed myself so hard—that I was blind to the disaster to come.

* * *

In January 1987, I nearly died for the first time. Yes, I say the first time, because I would knock at death’s door more than once. The second time, I believe I did pass on, at least momentarily—but that’s another story, for another time. My first brush with death was during my sophomore year at the University of Alabama. It was a day seemingly like any other.

The holiday season was over. I had returned from The Bahamas, ready for another semester, and of course another year of major competition. I hadn’t felt like myself for a few days before. After practice, I was unusually tired and found myself going straight to bed. I was congested and had a cough. But I didn’t give it much thought. I carried on like I always did.

One morning, I met up with my boyfriend at the time, Keith Talley, who was also a member of the University of Alabama track and field team. We went over to the auditorium to switch out some classes that conflicted with my practice times.

As we stepped into that auditorium, that was when it hit me—I shouldn’t be here.

My whole body was blazing hot. I thought I might pass out then and there. I knew I needed to get home right away. I asked Keith if he could switch out a class for me—and left. I don’t remember much about that walk home. My last memory was opening the door to my apartment and collapsing on the couch.

I have no idea how long it took Sharonda to find me. But thank God she did.

“I just remember coming home and seeing Pauline on the couch, face down,” Sharonda says. “That in itself was unusual, because Pauline was always on the move and full of energy. When I got closer and sat down on the couch, I could feel she was burning up. She was sweating profusely and not responding. So I’m panicking now, and step out into the hallway and start calling: ‘Pauline is sick! Help! We need to get her to the hospital now!”’

According to Sharonda, a few guys from the track and field team, our neighbors, came spilling into the room. They shook me, slapping my cheeks.

“Pauline? Pauline can you hear us?” they screamed.

Apparently, I opened my eyes at one point, but all they saw was white.

There was no time to call an ambulance. Fortunately, the student infirmary was only a couple of blocks away. Someone ran ahead and brought the car around. They hoisted me from the couch and clambered down the stairs, into the lobby, and placed me in the back of the car. Within minutes we screeched to a halt in front of the student clinic—they carried me right through the front door, hollering for help, setting off total mayhem among the doctors and nurses.

“It was a mad dash,” Sharonda remembers. “The doctors immediately placed her on a stretcher and rushed her away. They told us if we had been much later she could have died. In my mind, I was just praying. I was praying that my friend would live. And then after, when we knew she was going to be OK, I remember being so upset with her.”

As you know by now, I had a tendency to get sick. Part of it might have been the differences in temperature. Simply put—I’m from The Bahamas, and I never took the cold well. Another reason was I didn’t always look after myself.

Yes, I was diligent when it came to my training, my fitness, and how I ate. But I also pushed myself far too hard. And most importantly, I disliked hospitals and refused to take medicine.

“Pauline believed it would impact her running—they might drug test her and find something, even if it was just cold medicine,” Sharonda explains. “I used to tell her: ‘I get you love your country. But you’re no good to your country if you’re gone.’ We made her promise she would never do that again.”

The doctors diagnosed me with severe pneumonia and bronchitis. I was in the hospital for two weeks, although I have little memory of that first week.

Sharonda called members of the track team, asking them to come by the hospital and wait. And pray. I had told Sharonda never to call Mummy unless it was a real emergency. She had my little brothers and sisters to look after, and I didn’t want her panicking for no reason. I suppose this incident qualified. Sharonda said my mummy was ready to hop on a plane, but they told her no—“The doctors say she’s stable now. She should be fine. We’ll call you if anything changes.”

I was unresponsive for days. Sharonda and many of my other friends and teammates, including Coach Williams, held a constant vigil in the hospital waiting room. Why can’t she wake up? Why isn’t she talking? The doctors said I was still very weak. I wasn’t strong enough. Until finally, several days later, I moaned, groaned, and turned, slowly waking up to see Sharonda sitting in a chair beside the bed.

Sharonda beamed at me and sprinted out of the room to get the nurse.

I may have been out of the woods, but I was still very much lost. The truth is, I had no clue where I was, how I got there, or why I was at the University of Alabama. I could barely even remember I was a student athlete.

“We never understood it. We assumed it was something to do with the sickness. There were many things she couldn’t remember,” Sharonda recalls. “And I’m not sure the doctors understood it either.”

Whatever the reason, they said I had temporary amnesia. It was an incredibly confusing time. While I have little to no memory of it, at one point I actually left the hospital bed and walked two blocks, all the way back to my apartment, hospital gown flapping in the wind and IV still stuck into my arm. Now, in January, the temperature in Tuscaloosa is around 50 degrees Fahrenheit during the day, or 10 degrees Celsius. It drops to damn near freezing at night.

And there I was, shuffling the streets in my gown.

I didn’t have keys, of course. I walked right up to my apartment and knocked. Sharonda opened the door, and apparently I just fell into her arms.

Another mad dash later, I was back in my hospital bed—this time for good, until I recovered. Sharonda threatened me the best way she knew how.

“If this happens again, I’ll call your mummy and daddy and have them come look after you,” she said.

I suppose I always had a fear of hospitals. I wanted to look after things myself.

Sharonda remembers that, a year or so earlier, I was teaching her and a group of friends how to do Junkanoo, or Bahamian dance, at our apartment. With everyone dancing around and the music blaring, Sharonda managed to smash her toe on the furniture.

“Pauline took a look at it and wrapped it up. She said I’d be fine,” Sharonda recalls. “I listened to her. I went home a couple months later and my mom, who was a nurse, looked at it. My toe was broken and I had to have surgery. That was my friend Pauline. Like a momma, she was always trying to look after everyone else and telling us what we needed to do.”

Of course, during my illness, the only person I really needed to look after was myself. It took a while for things to click again. I left the hospital two weeks later still feeling weak, but overall on the mend. I’d lost a lot of weight. Coach Williams and doctors from the athletic department came to visit, trying to assess how my body was recovering. Believe it or not, my mind needed the most work—I was still awfully confused and murky on details.

They could have redshirted me, where I’d sit out that season. But remember, I’d already sat out an entire year due to that hamstring injury.

Despite my fragile condition, it was decided that I should start training. It would not only get me back into shape, but also help psychologically, in terms of getting my memory back.

And it worked—to a certain extent.

I got stronger every day, mentally and physically. That February, I missed the SEC Indoor Championships. But I did come back to compete in the NCAA Indoor Championships. I don’t think the program expected me to score any big points. It was just getting back out there and competing. Even then, those that knew me well could tell I was struggling. I wasn’t my unusual bubbly self—I didn’t talk much. Sometimes, the trainers would just be waiting for me at the finish fine. I’d collapse into them and find a place to rest.

It was a tough situation for everyone. After all, I was Alabama’s star track and field athlete. After a big 1986 season, it was expected that I’d be coming into my own, reaching my peak performance.

“Paw-line, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, baby,” Coach Williams used to tell me, apologetic as always. “But we gotta go through this. The doctors say we gotta keep running. I can see you’re not right just by looking at you. I can see it in your eye. You’re not the Pauline I know.”

Was it the right decision to keep going?

In the moment, you don’t really have time to think. And I was more than just embarrassed. I blamed myself for not competing at the level I was capable of. I spoke to my mummy and daddy on the phone. She reminded me of my goals, and how special it was to be at the University of Alabama. I was there for a purpose. Whether it was right or wrong, I always felt a responsibility not just to them, to my teammates, or even to myself, but to all Bahamians. I had to perform to keep this door open for others, so they might also walk through it.

I also realized how special my friends and teammates were, especially Sharonda. I had been close to death’s door. And she saved me. In the end, the ordeal helped me appreciate even more who I was, what gifts I had, and what I was capable of accomplishing. It hardened my resolve. When you’re an elite athlete, success at the very highest level is far more than your physical abilities. I had always been strong mentally. But this collapse, and my slow rise once again to the top, only confirmed—the mental side of competition is number one. You need mental toughness to be a truly great athlete; talent alone is not going to get you there. I was fortunate in that I had the combination of the two—that’s why I was so dangerous.

By May 1987, around four months after my illness, I was back in competitive form. At the SEC Outdoor Championships, I swept the board with first-place finishes in the 100 meters, the 200, and the 4X100, although as a team we finished a close second overall. We went into the final big competition that June—the NCAA Outdoor Championships—as a unified, healthy team hoping to bring home another national championship for Alabama. And wouldn’t you know it—the competition was held at LSU. Once again, our teams were essentially tied going into the final event, the 4X400 relay.

Coach Williams chose the order—it would be Flora first, then Sandra Latham, followed by myself and Lillie Leatherwood as the anchor. And it didn’t start well. Flora had done the triple jump just prior to the race and tweaked her ankle.

“I think we were dead last when I passed the baton,” Flo recalls. “It was my worst 400. I think my split was about 57 seconds.”

Sandra brought us up a bit closer to the middle of the pack. As she came around the curve, it was trench warfare waiting for that baton. All of the runners were jostling for position—you gain a little ground, they push you back. When running a relay, there is a designated area where you must accept the baton. Being outside of this area results in a disqualification. So here I am, in the heat of the race, knowing we’re behind. I try my best to line up with Sandra, right near the front of the line. Meanwhile, I have runners spilling over me, pushing me back, while I try to keep an eye on Sandra barreling in towards me.

Then, when I got that baton, I went flying. I pulled off a 49-second split—one of the fastest I’d ever done. By then we were in first, and Lillie finished the job. It should have been our moment. As Lillie crossed that finish line, we were all jumping around and screaming, knowing we’d just won a national championship. Suddenly, as we gazed up to the results screen above, we saw two big words in red: “Alabama—Disqualified.”

We dropped down to second place. It cost us the national championship.

“You talk about going from high on the mountain to down low in the valley,” Coach Williams laments. “Absolutely deflating.”

As the replay would show, I had about a half shoe over the exchange zone line—that was enough for a disqualification. And I wasn’t the only one. Two other teams also received violations in that bungle. It set off a firestorm of controversy, made worse by the fact that LSU won the race—and the championship—on their home turf. And the kicker? The line judge that called it was none other than a former track and field athlete for the LSU Tigers.

“It was absolutely horrendous,” Coach Williams says. “To me, it was like giving someone the death penalty for running a stop sign. Running a stop sign ain’t a good thing, but it’s not something you want to send them to the electric chair for. The fact is it was a very common infraction, but rarely called. Athletes are prone to do that. To me it was very picky. I had never seen that kind of minor infraction before and never seen it since. Most of the time they don’t even have an official there to make that kinda call. It was very exceptional. There was some home cooking there, in my view.”

Coach Williams and LSU coach Loren Seagrave exchanged barbs in the newspapers. “The Crimson Tide are crybabies.” We had lost fair and square, they said. And I suppose, in the most literal way possible, we did. But it was so much more complicated than that.

At the time I cried a lot. I cried and I cried.

After all I’d been through that year, I was knocked down by half a shoe. You could see in the replays—I was just trying to get position, but they kept pushing me back.

Call it unsportsmanlike, but our team refused to pick up the runner-up trophy that day. We left Baton Rouge and boarded the bus to Tuscaloosa. Our sports information director picked up the trophy for us and delivered it to Coach Williams’s office on Monday.

“I didn’t even tell any of the girls we had it,” he confesses.

My 1986—1987 season was over. I’d endured just about the limit of what my body and mind could handle, and despite my disappointments, I still had two more years ahead of me at Alabama. Throughout my life, I’d always be a late bloomer.

There were mountains left to climb.

* * *

In my junior year at the University of Alabama I was in peak condition. Technically, it was my fourth year at the university. But it was only my third year of competition. I hit my groove and put those injuries and illnesses behind me. And mentally, I was comfortable in my surroundings, whether it was the program and coaching staff or my close circle of friends.

There were times, outside of Alabama, when I would be considerably less comfortable.

It was around this time that I was getting increasingly noticed by the international track and field community. With an up-and-coming young sprinter from The Bahamas on his team, Coach Williams would receive calls, now and again, from meet promoters inviting me overseas to compete. Between my studies, practice, and competition schedule for the Crimson Tide, you might think I wouldn’t have time for anything else. And yet, somehow, I found myself heading off to Paris, France, all by myself, and all expenses paid, to compete.

The trip went badly right from the start.

I flew from Birmingham to New York, only to discover that my plane bound for Paris was delayed. As a young woman who had never been to the Big Apple, I had no desire to go outside the airport. The airline handed out some pillows and blankets, and I slept that night under one of the airport benches near the gate.

When I finally arrived in Paris, nobody was there to pick me up at the airport.

Fortunately, stashed away in my purse was the name and number of the meet promoter, which Coach Williams had given me. Charles de Gaulle Airport was a mass of confusion. Pushing and stumbling my way through the crowds, I managed to convert a few dollars in my pocket into francs, so I could make a phone call. To my surprise, the number I had was not for the meet promoter, but rather the hotel where I was supposed to be staying. And from there, things just got worse. I don’t speak French. I’m slowly trying to explain to the lady on the phone who I am, what I’m doing in Paris, and that I’m trying to find this meet promoter. Over the white noise of the airport, I can barely hear her voice. I think she might be trying to speak English. Encouraged, I tell her to slow down, when I hear an explosion behind me.

Spinning around, I saw my bag, a few feet behind me, engulfed in flames.

The receiver immediately dropped from my hand. I dashed to my bag to figure out what happened, but out of the comer of my eye, officers decked out in body armor and carrying machine guns scooped me up and dragged me away— kicking, flaifing, and screaming.

My heart pounding in my chest, they tossed me into a small, dimly lit room. The officers confiscated my purse and told me to sit down in a metal chair—and accused me of being a terrorist.

“Terrorist? I’m no terrorist!” I screamed. “I’m from The Bahamas. I’m an athlete here to run!”

“You’re not from The Bahamas,” one of the officers barked back. “Speak French! We know you can speak French!”

“I don’t speak any French.”

“We don’t believe you. Who sent you? Who sent you here?”

One of the other officers started yelling at me in French, as if I should understand. I held my ground and kept saying the same thing. I had no clue where I was, or why this was happening to me. Eventually, one of the officers got so infuriated that he picked me up and threw me against the wall, like I was a raggedy doll. I smacked my head and just lay there, afraid to move. My world shrunk in that moment—I thought they were going to kill me. As a young, black woman from The Bahamas, perhaps with a look and accent they didn’t quite understand, I felt like this could be it for me. And I’m telling you, they kept me there for hours. They didn’t bring me any food. They wouldn’t even let me go to the bathroom.

I would later be informed that all of this happened because I left my bag several feet away from me. How many times have you been in an airport, where they tell you, over the public announcement speakers, to always stay with your bag? We’ve all heard it. But I guarantee you, nobody ever expects to have their bag blown up, and to be hauled off and abused by police.

Huddled in that corner, in darkness, I prayed to God for a while. I made peace with myself in that moment. Was I being dramatic? It certainly didn’t feel like it at the time.

And then, finally, the door to that small room opened, a small crack of light spilling into the darkness. I held my head up to look.

“Pauline?” someone said in a kindly voice.

I said nothing, though. I cowered in the corner like a wounded animal.

“Pauline, I’m the promoter from the track meet,” he continued. “I’m so sorry for what has happened. I have come to get you.”

Again, I didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t trust a soul.

But as he kept talking, I started to come out of my shell. He spoke about Coach Williams, and how I was this amazing sprinter from The Bahamas, listing off all of my achievements at the CARIFTA Games and at the University of Alabama. Things that I had never told any of the French officers. Eventually, I got up, and he got me the hell out of there.

He would later explain that my bag, while completely in ashes, did have one surviving element—the metal spikes from my shoes. I suppose, based on that evidence, and the Bahamian passport in my purse, it was enough for the authorities to do a proper investigation. It would take a few phone calls to discover that all I said to them was true. It was shocking, really, what I went through. If this happened today, it might set off an international incident. What those officers did—whether it was motivated by race or not—was appalling.

I was young and naive, and didn’t really understand what had happened to me. As crazy as it might seem, my biggest concern was the track meet. The promoter told me the meet was actually that day. After being delayed in New York, and the drama that ensued at Charles de Gaulle, I was way behind schedule.

Believe it or not, we went straight to the meet. He didn’t force me to run—if I had said no, I don’t think anyone would have held me to it. I wanted to run. That was why I got on the plane. I always felt an intense need to represent myself and my country, no matter what it took. But what was I supposed to wear? The officers had blown up my bag, after all. After washing myself up in the stadium’s bathroom, I somehow managed to cobble together enough clothing and equipment from my fellow competitors. I went out there and competed in the 100 meters and managed to come in second place, losing to US sprinter Evelyn Ashford.

When I arrived at the hotel that night, there was a new gym bag waiting for me, loaded up with new sports clothes and equipment. Not that it made up for the misery they put me through.

Incredibly, it wouldn’t be the only traumatic experience I’d have on the international circuit while still competing for Alabama.

Not long after, I was invited to another track meet—this time in Italy.

After finishing the competition, the race officials dropped me off at Leonardo Da Vinci—Fiumicino Airport, just outside Rome. But along the way there had been a serious car accident on the highway. It took us hours to get through it all, so by the time we reached the airport, my plane had already left. Just as I had done in New York, I decided to wait it out in the airport and sleep on one of the benches until the next flight out.

You know that feeling when someone is standing over you?

Even with my eyes closed, I had that funny feehng. And when I opened my eyes, I didn’t see a face, but the barrel of a gun. Standing there was a uniformed officer, pointing a machine gun right at my face. I’m not ashamed to tell you, dear reader, what happened next—I released whatever was in my bowels, right then and there. This time, when he dragged me off, I wasn’t taken to an interrogation room. I was simply thrown into a holding cell, like a criminal. Unlike in France, where I couldn’t speak the local language at all, I had some understanding of what they were trying to say to me. At Alabama, one of my courses was Spanish. I had a basic knowledge of Romance languages, enough to piece together what they were screaming at me in Italian.

They claimed I was a prostitute.

How I ended up in this position, I really don’t know. I was held there for a long time, long enough for the officers to have a shift change. I suppose when new officers come on duty, they do the rounds and observe all of those being detained. The fact that one particular officer worked at this airport, and happened to be on that shift, is almost beyond belief.

“Pauline? Pauline Davis?! From The Bahamas?” someone said.

I lifted my head from the bunk, still lying there in my own filth.

“Yes! Pauline! You from The Bahamas, yes?”

I just stared at this man, my mouth wide open. A moment later, he ran off to speak with one of the officers, visibly excited, telling him who I was. Remarkably, this security officer recognized me—he had seen me run in the competition that week.

As you can imagine, it was a surreal experience. I was in total shock.

“Is there anything you need me to do?” he asked, after opening my cell.

I quietly told him the obvious—I needed to bathe.

So off he went, to get everything I might need. Towels, soap, shampoo—everything, and I bathed right there using the airport facilities. That same officer then took me to a restaurant, bought me lunch, and continuously apologized for what had happened to me. And on that next flight out, I was escorted to the plane, one officer on either side of me, right into a seat in first class. My fellow passengers couldn’t help but stare, and wonder. I can say with confidence that none of them could guess what I had just been through.

Like my experience in Paris, I simply moved on. I didn’t think about it much after the fact. Was I targeted again because of my race? The color of my skin or the way I spoke? Or was I just the victim of happenstance? The wrong place, at the wrong time?

Most important—would these things have happened to me if I was white?

I couldn’t control the world around me. I was so laser focused on my running at the University of Alabama that I just took it all in stride, especially after my setbacks in my first two years. Right out of the gate, in my junior year, I won the 55 meters and the 200 at the 1988 SEC Indoor Championships in February. It was a great start, but my eye was on the 200 at the NCAA Indoor Championships in March. There was a big missing piece in my resume—if I was ever going to be a national champion, now was the time.

Although I felt comfortable in mind, body, and spirit, the track was another matter. That yellow and orange indoor circuit in Oklahoma City—the shape of a tight oval—was just 160 meters in length. I’d never competed in these conditions before.

First off, it was strange doing a lap in the 200 with those incredibly sharp turns. Instead of a rubberized surface, it was made of boards, and the track was banked, or elevated, off the ground. The idea of a banked track is to simulate the feeling of a straightaway on the 160-meter surface and supposedly make it easier to navigate. But I was all over the place—slipping and sliding. I was off-balance in the preliminaries, particularly coming off those turns. I’d emerge into the straightaway with so much speed it felt like my body was in a slingshot, which was great, as long as I didn’t go flying off into the stands.

It also didn’t help that there were no blocks. We started on a curve and had to use our hands in a crouching start. Blocks were what I was used to—when you push off, you punch the knee forward and pull the track down underneath you. Without the blocks, you can’t start with quite the same momentum.

I was tentative in those opening heats, yet dominant at the same time. I knew I had the potential to walk away as a national champion, and I didn’t want to screw it up. The semifinal was a cautionary tale for me—I felt particularly wobbly on those boards coming off the curve. So going into the final, I had to remind myself to be careful. I even put in some extra practice on the curve before the final, just to be sure.

Eight women qualified for the 200 final, divided into two races. My race had the four runners with the fastest times in the semis: Angela Williams from Seton Hall, Mary Onyali from Texas Southern University, myself, and Carlette Guidry from the University of Texas. Years from then, three of us would go on to be decorated Olympians. Onyali, a daughter of Nigeria, was perhaps the top female sprinter from the African continent in the late 1980s and 90s, competing in five Olympic Games. She won a bronze in the 4X100 relay in Barcelona in 1992, and another in Atlanta in 1996. But my biggest competition was Guidry, an American, who had actually won the NCAA Championship in the 55 meters earlier that evening. In fact, she’d win a total of twelve NCAA titles in her career and be named the Southwest Conference Athlete of the Decade in indoor track and field for the 1980s. And at the Summer Olympics in 1992 and 1996, she’d take home gold medals in the 4X100 relay for Team USA.

Guidry was in lane five. I was in lane four. To win, I knew I had to run a great race—without slipping.

There was another twist at these NCAA Championships. One false start, and you were disqualified from the race.

Maybe I had that in my head. Or perhaps it was because I didn’t have blocks. Whatever the case, when that gun sounded, I didn’t get off to a great start. You could immediately see I was behind. The curve on the 160-meter oval track made it even more deceptive—it was hard to tell the true position of the runners until the final stretch. And that was where I shone. On the final straightaway, knowing I was behind, I kicked it into high gear. I rounded that curve at full speed, eyes closed, like a stone flung from a slingshot, just praying to hit its mark. All my worry and preparation didn’t matter. It all came down to raw ability, and who wanted it most.

“This is the last turn and this is where the action happens,” the TV commentator summed it up as the replay aired. “This is a strength race and Pauline Davis is getting stronger as they came off that last turn. Watch her just throw form to the wind as she cartwheels through the finish line. She knew she had it.”

It was a close call. I missed a step near the end, and barely kept it together as my body propelled over the finish line.

But there are no points for style. The commentator was right—I did know it. I crossed that line and slapped my hands together twice, huffing and puffing, and then threw a few fist pumps. With a time of 22.99 seconds, I won my first national championship in the 200 meters, and set a new NCAA record.

Guidry came in second, clocking in at 23.25 seconds, followed by Onyali at 23.57 seconds.

“A new national collegiate indoor 200-meter record from Pauline Davis,” the sideline reporter announced, with me by his side. As he said the words, I peered off into the distance, smiling to myself in disbelief. “Pauline, you’re from The Bahamas. You run for Alabama. What happened in your race out there? Do you actually run the race all out or not?”

It was such a funny question. Truth be told, while I did win and set a new NCAA record, I still feel I left a second or two on the table.

“For the first part of my race, I try to slow down a little bit when I’m going into the curve,” I explained, pumping a fist in front of the camera. “And then I try to shoot off the curve and get a good turn over. And go from there.”

“In your race right now, did you have thoughts of a NCAA Championship record? Did you think you could run that fast today?” he asked.

“I felt I could run that fast,” I nodded. “But I didn’t know how fast I could run on a bank curve and a board track. Because I had never run on a bank curve and board track before until yesterday, when I ran the prelims.”

“Did it pose any problems for you yesterday?”

“No, not really, it just felt a little funny when I was coming off the curve. It just threw me into the straightaway and I felt a little funny there. But today I was prepared for that,” I said.

Prepared enough, anyway.

“Nassau and The Bahamas are proud tonight for Pauline Davis,” he trailed off.

And in that moment, I did feel that pride—for my parents, for my country, but also for myself. Finally, after all my ups and downs, I felt like I had earned my full ride.

I went home to Tuscaloosa very much at ease with myself. I realized that, with just a year and a half of college left, I would miss the roots I’d planted there. In my sophomore and junior years I lived with Flora. And between her, Sharonda, and a close network of friends and athletes, the university felt like home. Every Sunday, I got in the habit of cooking dinner for the whole group. I guess that memory of burgers and fries in the cafeteria stuck with me. Anytime I came back to Alabama from The Bahamas, I’d be sure to pack a bag filled with conch, lobster, fish, and pigeon peas. Potato salad, baked macaroni and cheese, peas ’n’ rice, coleslaw, chicken, and ribs—all of these Bahamian foods, cooked with a Jamaican flare, made me miss home less, and it brought us all together at least once a week. It helped build my village abroad.

“Because Pauline and I were roommates, it was her idea to also cook breakfast together,” remembers Flora, who is now a chiropractor living in San Diego. “She took the first Sunday and it was a feast. And for my turn, it was horrible. I couldn’t even eat it. And Pauline sat there and ate it all. Then she gently sat me down and told me what all I did wrong. And what I could do better next time. Even though the food was horrible, she ate it to save my feelings and helped me do better. Pauline is a very kind person.”

The truth is, all the way back to that clapboard house in Bain Town, I’ve always loved to cook. When I started traveling the world on the international running circuit, I started collecting cookbooks. As long as it was in English, I’d buy it. At Alabama, my cooking got so popular that fellow track athletes used to drop bags of groceries off at my apartment the day before a big meet. I’d be up at three o’clock the next morning, cooking the entire track team breakfast to eat on the bus. To be honest, it was me that felt truly blessed—once again, I managed to find meaningful friends and relationships that helped guide me in life. And many of these friendships would endure well beyond the University of Alabama. Flo and I would find ourselves together often on the international running circuit for years to come.

In the summer of 1988, just before heading into my senior year at Alabama, I got another taste of that international life when I headed to Seoul, South Korea, for my second Summer Olympic Games. I was one of only four women on the Bahamian National Team—and the only female sprinter, with Eldece now retired. Laverne Eve and Shonel Ferguson represented our country in the javelin and the long jump, respectively. Lori Roberts represented The Bahamas in diving.

On the men’s side, we fielded twelve athletes, with such mainstays as Troy Kemp, Bradley Cooper, and Frank Rutherford competing in the field events. It was always hoped that one of us might bring home a medal. Our tiny nation was just beginning to find itself and truly compete at the highest level. But we were always well aware of how small we really were. As a means of comparison, the United States had 527 athletes competing in the Seoul Olympics—332 men and 195 women—and ultimately won ninety-four medals, thirty-six of which were gold.

It would be four more years until Frank Rutherford would take home that first individual track and field medal for The Bahamas, breaking through that high ceiling.

Personally, as a university athlete, I felt older and more confident compared to my first Olympics in Los Angeles. After all, it was the first international competition where I could leave my room without the watchful eye of Elaine Thompson, my faithful chaperone. Of course, Thompson was still around on behalf of the Bahamas Athletic Association. When we first arrived in Seoul, it didn’t take long for Eve and me to take advantage of my newfound freedom. Seoul is an exciting, exotic city, and neither of us had ever been to Asia. In between our training, we’d go out exploring—and shopping. We’d go dancing in the nightclubs until the early morning hours, tiptoeing back to our rooms.

“Pauline, is that you coming in at this hour?” Thompson would holler from her room.

“Ms. Thompson, go back to bed,” we’d yell back, laughing to ourselves. “We grown!”

And I was grown—and yet still growing at the same time. I may have been a young adult, but I still had much to learn as an elite track and field athlete.

The female sprinters were headlined by Florence Griffith (later Joyner, otherwise known as “Flo-Jo”), who is regarded by many as one of the fastest women in history. After winning a silver at the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles, she dominated in Seoul, winning gold medals in the 100, the 200, and the 4X100 relay. She set world records in the 100 and 200— remarkably, times that still hold up to this day.

To me, she would just be Florence, or perhaps Flo for short. Like Carl Lewis, I knew her both before and after fame. I would get to know Flo while competing on the European circuit. In feet, I recall a special moment in August 1986 in Zurich, Switzerland. We were both competing at the Weltklasse Zurich in Switzerland, an annual, invitation-only track and field event sometimes referred to as the “one-day Olympics.” Just prior to competition, I bumped into A1 Joyner at a jewelry shop. A1 was a star athlete in his own right—a product of Arkansas State University—and had won the gold medal in the triple jump at the 1984 Olympic Games.

“Pauline, what do you think of this ring? Do you think it’s pretty?” he asked me.

“Hmmm . . . it’s pretty,” I smiled. “But that ain’t a regular ring.”

“Shhh . . . I’m going to ask Flo to marry me. You don’t know anything, OK?”

My lips were sealed. And in October of the following year, they said their vows.

In 1990 she would give birth to their daughter, Mary Ruth. A1 would actually serve as her coach in those 1988 Olympic Games in Seoul. However, tragically, both Florence’s sprinting career and her life would be cut short. She retired from sprinting in 1989 to pursue other interests, and died nine years later in her sleep from an epileptic seizure.

Other legends at those Olympics were Jamaicans Grace Jackson and Merlene Ottey, both of whom I knew well, and East German athletes Heike Drechsler and Silke Möller. In the opening round of the 200, sixty athletes suited up for their respective countries. I was placed in the seventh heat, and ended up clocking in with a time of 23.08 seconds, good for twelfth fastest time and enough to be one of thirty-two women to advance to the quarterfinals. I was a bit faster in the next round, coming in at 22.92. The field was chopped to just eighteen of us in the semifinals. Similar to Los Angeles, my goal was to make it to the finals and compete for an Olympic medal. But in the semifinal round, fining up against the likes of Flo-Jo, Ottey, and Möoller, I would once again fall short. In fact, it was in that same round that Flo-Jo would set the world record pace at 21.56 seconds. She would go on to win the gold medal in the final, followed by my good friend Grace Jackson with the silver, and Drechsler with the bronze.

The 100 was very similar, with many of the same faces dominating the event. Except this time, we had Evelyn Ashford in the mix, the US flag bearer.

Sixty-four athletes entered the 100 with hopes of Olympic glory. I managed to win my heat against eight other competitors in the opening round, and continued this forward momentum into the quarterfinal before once again falling short in the semis.

It was yet another reality check for the newly minted 200-meter NCAA national champion. I just wasn’t quite ready. When you compete at the very highest level, all the stars must align—the right timing for both your physical and your mental abilities. The development of that supreme confidence and all-important killer instinct. Although I hadn’t reached my goal, I still felt special and pleased with my overall trajectory. Again, for The Bahamas, I stood alone as the only female sprinter. To make it to the semifinals was an accomplishment in itself. I left South Korea with my head up and my eyes on the horizon.

My senior year at the University of Alabama, however, came with a twist. Due to the timing of my final year of classes—credits I really needed to graduate—I couldn’t make the normal practice times in the afternoons. For nearly that entire year, Coach Williams and I trained one-on-one, always in the mornings and often two or three times in the afternoon, working around my class schedule. Not once did Coach Williams miss an appointment. Not once was he late. He never got paid an extra dime.

Our relationship had grown and evolved by my fifth year. Like Coach Wisdom, he was as much a father as he was a coach.

“Pauline was special,” Coach Williams explains. “She was a special athlete. And she was special to me. I wanted to give her every opportunity to succeed. I tried to go the extra mile for all my athletes, although I couldn’t have dealt with them all the way I dealt with Pauline. As far as minute to minute, hour to hour, I couldn’t have given anyone else that. There weren’t enough hours in the day.”

I did see my teammates on occasion, but mostly at track meets. Even then, there was Coach Williams, jogging with me on the sidelines, helping me with my strides and my stretches. I didn’t let anyone else rub me down and perform massages before a race.

So it was a more solitary time during my senior year. Not only did I not practice with the team much, but I also lived alone, off campus. In a way, I was preparing for my life after college.

But my training with Coach Williams was paying off—I was a perennial All-American, and posted several second and third place finishes in the SEC and NCAA Championships. But heading into my final major competition—the NCAA Outdoor Championships—I knew I wanted to end my college career with a bang. I was also in an excellent place mentally. By now, June 1989, I had already graduated from Alabama, although I missed the ceremony. I would have loved to walk across that stage and accept the diploma. I was at the SEC Outdoor Championship in Florida and I just couldn’t leave and be back in time to run the 100. I had signed that 1-20 documentation. I had made a commitment to Alabama. So it was just one of those things. Nevertheless, I’d achieved my mummy’s dream. Born and bred in Bain Town, this girl from the ghetto was now a college graduate and ready for the next phase of her life.

I felt loose. I felt free. And I also felt determined to make all the sacrifices—especially those of Coach Williams in that final year—worth it. Only issue was, because I had been training so much with my coach, I didn’t have a full grasp of where I stood against the competition.

I had a better idea of the 200. It was always my favorite race, and I’d competed in that earlier in the year. But the 400? I hadn’t ever participated in that event in a major competition, and yet Coach Williams insisted I go for it before I left Alabama. Truth be told, he tried for a couple of years to convince me to compete in that race. For whatever reason, the 400 came easily to me, stretching back to that big moment at the CARIFTA Games in 1984. The distance lent itself well to my training and workouts, where I always went the extra mile to sprint all out. As Coach Wisdom always said, the 400 was a baseline for everything else.

I suppose that mentality carried over to my final NCAA Championships in Provo, Utah.

When I lined up for that 400 final, I just remember it being effortless. I’d breezed through the preliminaries. And when I crossed that finish line—now an NCAA Champion—I was not feeling any personal elation or gratification. It wasn’t like the 200 the year before, when I’d felt a tremendous thrill of accomplishment. I mean, I knew I had won—and it was amazing. But what stuck out was the man running towards me, from the sidelines.

It was Coach Williams, of course, with tears streaming down his cheeks. Again, it reminded me of that moment, just prior to the CARIFTA Games in 1984, when Coach Wisdom hoisted me in the air after we had spent months in the salt water, rehabbing my hamstring.

“Even today, when I talk about Pauline I get emotional,” Coach Williams says. “When someone works as hard as she did ... it is a tremendous relief. And to help someone get that to that level, it was quite the moment.”

It was just him and I then—it was our big moment.

“You broke the collegiate record, Paw-line,” he screamed.

I stared at him in disbelief. And when I saw his tears, that was it for me. It doesn’t take much to get me going—I’ve always been a water baby. But emotion that day wasn’t linked to myself—it was for him. My excitement was his excitement. It is an incredible feeling, accomplishing something extraordinary thanks to not just your own sacrifice, but someone else’s. He grabbed me and hugged me, landing a big kiss on my cheek.

“I love you, Paw-line,” he told me.

“I love you too, Coach,” I replied. “I’m going to miss you.”

From that moonshot phone call he made in the summer of 1984 to now, it was the perfect ending to my collegiate career—if that had been the end. There was still one more race. I was never supposed to do it, but I would for my coach. The 4X400 relay.

Like I said, I wasn’t even on the 4X400 team going into those NCAA Championships. Not officially, anyway. A few weeks earlier, Coach Williams had asked me to join the relay team for a qualifying round, believing that if we made the NCAA Championships, Alabama would have a chance at the podium. So I ran. And we did qualify. However, there was lingering resentment from other members of that team. Maybe they resented that I wasn’t officially part of the 4X400 team, but they needed me to qualify. Or perhaps it had to do with my relative absence the whole year, training one-on-one with Coach Williams. Either way, going into that final of the 4X400, my beloved coach once again came knocking, just like he did when I was sick as a dog in my freshman year. The night before the race, he called a meeting.

“We all sat on the floor in a circle and talked for a while,” Coach Williams remembers. “We cried and we talked. Pauline didn’t want to run, but by the time we finished she was committed. I told them all, for a chance to win this, we need Pauline. When you talk in a group like that, you get it all out and there are no hard feelings. My next decision was who to take off the team so she could run.”

I was inserted at the last minute—and Coach Williams insisted I run the anchor leg. If we won, it would be another cherry on top. And to start, it looked like it just might happen.

“Our number three girl, typically she’d get near the middle of the pack and stay there, out of trouble,” Coach recalls. “But on the last turn, she moved up into the pack. And the next thing I know, elbows are flying.”

Somehow, the baton bumped onto the side of her leg and went flying. By the time she picked it up, the die was cast—it was hopeless. It was all the more tragic because, at the time, we were right in the thick of it. I believe we would have won that race—and another national championship title. But I walked off that field without even running. That was my final moment at the University of Alabama for the Crimson Tide.

I was upset but got over it quickly. My thoughts were too preoccupied with the future. Before I knew it I was back at my apartment, packing for my new life in Los Angeles. A job was waiting for me there with the Bahamas Ministry of Tourism. Meanwhile, I’d continue my training and travel the world on the track and field circuit.

My dreams, it seemed, were coming true.

“I will say this about Pauline—her impact at the University of Alabama was profound,” Coach Williams says. “Some people might look to her titles in the 200 and 400 as her major accomplishments. To me, her contribution was her presence and leadership on the team. She gave us such tremendous confidence. She elevated our team to the point where we went into every competition—whether it was a small meet on the weekend or a major competition—feeling like Alabama was in the house. We are here to do some damage.”

With a collection of SEC and NCAA titles, two personal national championships, two NCAA records, and a college diploma, I left Alabama with no regrets. Nevertheless, I did feel like I could have done more damage, so to speak. It was mission accomplished—I earned the dollars invested in me. I didn’t let my country down. But my injury and illness were huge setbacks. I couldn’t help but wonder—did I leave anything on the table?

In short, the challenges I experienced stand out just as much as the accolades. It was like what Coach Williams said at the 1987 SEC Outdoor Championships, when half my shoe over the line disqualified us—high on the mountain to down low in the valley.

Sometimes, the difference between success and failure is razor thin.

I was only just beginning my journey. And yet it was clear, by the time I left Alabama, that the road to glory would be full of obstacles. From day one, I had been no stranger to adversity. But the coming years would test my resolve more than I ever imagined.

7

FALL FROM GRACE

I was twenty-three years old, and the world was at my feet. After shipping my things to California, I flew to the West Coast to make sure everything arrived safely. But I wouldn’t stay long. It was the summer of 1989, and for the rest of the year, I’d be running up and down the world, representing The Bahamas.

California could wait. Not only did I have a great job lined up with the Bahamas Ministry of Tourism, and an apartment in Montebello, I would soon be training under the legendary Jamaican sprinter Donald Quarrie.

While Coach Wisdom and I had a few disagreements in college, he was still pulling those strings.

“When Pauline graduated from the University of Alabama, I told her she could probably coach me now,” says Coach Wisdom, who first met Quarrie at the Montreal Summer Olympics in 1976. “You are world class. So you need to be in a situation where you can have world-class everything. So I sent her to Donald at the University of Southern California (USC). There she could fine-tune her abilities, have opportunities, and get access to nutritionists, physiotherapists, and weight training.”

You need not look further than the solid bronze statue in front of Jamaica’s National Stadium to understand Quarrie’s status in the world of track and field. Before there was Usain Bolt, there was Donald Quarrie.

His biggest success was at the 1976 Olympic Games, where he won the gold in the 200 meters and a silver in the 100. With an athletic career stretching over twenty years and five Olympic Games, he would achieve a whole series of medals and accolades, including six golds at the Commonwealth Games and three at the Pan American Games. A graduate of USC, Quarrie now called California home, and so would I in several months.

But first, the world was waiting.

With my place in California secure, I boarded a plane for Nassau so I could attend tryouts for the 1989 Central American and Caribbean Championships, which would be held in San Juan, Puerto Rico, in late July.

I might have been one of the top female sprinters in the world, but I still had to go through the motions and qualify for the Bahamian National Team. We had a small but mighty team in Puerto Rico, headhned by myself and Laveme Eve for the women, and Troy Kemp, Frank Rutherford, and Antonio Greene for the men. Although we weren’t a threat to win the entire CAC, one particular event carried with it tremendous hype.

Fresh off my 400-meter NCAA championship and record time a month earher, I was the new young gun, considered by many to be the top female sprinter in the quarter mile. But to be the best, you have to defeat the best.

History would be made at this CAC. At this time, three of the fastest female 400-meter sprinters were myself, Grace Jackson of Jamaica, and Ana Fidelia Quirot of Cuba. Grace, five years older than me, was the Jamaican record holder for both the 200 and the 400, just coming off her silver medal in the 200 at the Seoul Olympics. Ana, on the other hand, was only a couple years my senior. She had rattled off a whole series of big wins in the 400, including golds at the 1986 CAC in the Dominican Republic, the 1987 Pan American Games in Indianapolis, and the 1989 World Cup in Barcelona, Spain. Where Ana would also make her mark would be in the 800. She would be dubbed the World Champion twice in this event (1995 and 1997) and take home the Olympic bronze in 1992, and a silver in 1996.

All of us from the same region, it was the first time that three athletes, male or female, would clash at the same CAC event for the world’s number one ranking.

This race was for all the marbles. It would solidify my place, emerging from Alabama, as a top athlete on the international track and field circuit.

The championship started off with a bang. I quickly advanced to the 100 final, and then grabbed the gold with a time of 11.25 seconds. I was feeling good—in both body and mind—and the 400 was just two days away. After the race, adhering to protocol, I had to submit to drug testing. I never enjoyed it in the best of times, and in this instance, I wasn’t finished until after midnight. As you can imagine, I was exhausted.

The athletes’ village was about two hours outside of San Juan. And as always, it wasn’t exactly the most glamorous affair. I’d seen worse in Jamaica and Barbados at those CARIFTA Games earlier in my career— cramped quarters, bad food, and makeshift showers—but the long drive was awful.

It was especially bad that night. I hadn’t eaten since the race, and nobody had stayed up and saved me any food. After a long, dark, solitary shuttle back to the village, I went to bed on an empty stomach. It’s hard to imagine that happening today—I was an elite athlete, vying for a number one ranking. These days, top athletes are pampered beyond compare.

But that’s how it was back then.

I woke up in my bunk the next morning not feeling well at all. The pressure of that 400-meter race the next day was all-consuming, nerves grinding away in the pit of my groaning stomach. I felt weak, tired, and somewhat abandoned. Fortunately, an old ally of mine called that morning and saved the day.

Of course, Coach Wisdom was also in Puerto Rico—my ever-present advocate, guardian, and coach dad. Technically, he wasn’t my actual coach at the CAC. That honor fell once again to Frank Pancho Rahming, of the Pioneers Track Club, who had also been my coach at the LA Olympics. And once again, Coach Wisdom found himself on the outside looking in. He only had to hear the sound of my voice on the telephone to know I needed help.

His next call was to Carl Brennan, the team manager, who was part of our track club, the Bain Town Flyers. He convinced Brennan to place me in a taxi right away. Coach Wisdom recited the address of the hotel he was staying at in San Juan, which was conveniently located just a stone’s throw from the stadium.

This was a temporary move to get me ready to compete. It was understood that after the race, I’d return to the village and join the other athletes.

Although in truth, I didn’t belong there in the first place.

My competition—Grace and Ana—were already staying in the same hotel. They had access to an entourage of coaches, massage therapists, and physiotherapists. Now, let me be clear—I never thought I was better than anyone else. Back home in Nassau, my friends and family used to tease me. “Pauline is always digging the sand,” they’d say. What that means is I always had to get low—I never built myself up or acted like I was above other people. Growing up in the ghetto, with a village that supported you, it was always about the collective, not the individual. I tried to keep a level of humility throughout my life.

“One thing I’d say about Pauline—she remained the same,” says Jackie Dames, the captain of the track and field team at D. W. Davis. The same team I didn’t make way back in grade school. “Sometimes, when people reach a certain level or achieve certain things, they kinda different. I’ve had that experience before in my life. They aren’t the same. But I can truly say she remained humble, even though she achieved so much.”

So when I say I didn’t belong in the athletes’ village, that’s not to say I was superior, as a person, to others. But I was, in fact, different. I had a job to do, and in that moment, I didn’t have the tools to succeed. Coach Wisdom, bless his soul, understood that.

Quarrie, who was also coaching me by this time, puts it a different way.

“It was the beginning of where athletes wanted to be more comfortable,” he explains. “In those days, there wasn’t enough money in track and field from a federation point of view. They did the best they could. And there was a turning point where athletes started thinking, ‘For me to do well, I need to have things a certain way.’ It wasn’t to undermine other athletes. For Pauline, and others, it was about advancing, and making sure she could do well.”

For me, a bed in a hotel room, access to physiotherapy, and a meal in a restaurant were huge luxuries—I was living the high life. Twenty years later, could you even conceive of top athletes not being surrounded by the very best, of everything?

I can promise you that today’s elite sprinters, such as Andre de Grasse, from Canada, and Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce of Jamaica, are not submitting to drug testing in the middle of the night and then crashing into their bunks hungry. Or any top track and field athletes in the twenty-first century, for that matter. As Quarrie said, the sport was now at a crossroads, where the best of the best, quite simply, started demanding the best. And when your competition isn’t afraid to go out and get it, you aren’t going to be left behind.

I packed a little bag, leaving the rest of my possessions at the village, and headed for the hotel. I shared a room with Andrea Wisdom, who had also made the trip. Frank Rutherford was there, along with Jerry Wisdom, Coach’s brother and a former Olympian. It was the support system I needed. They took me for lunch and I had a massage. And by the end of it, I was a new woman. By eight o’clock I was in my room with Andrea to get a full night’s sleep. It was how it should be—I had a team behind me, ready to vie for a world number one ranking for The Bahamas.

Unbeknownst to me, there was another team meeting a couple of hours away, back in the village.

Shonel Ferguson was a long jumper for The Bahamas. She competed in three Olympic Games, although she never medaled. Her major achievements had been many years earlier at the 1976 CARIFTA Games and the 1982 Commonwealth Games, where she won gold medals. She would not medal at the CAC that summer in 1989.

Ferguson, Rahming, and other members of the Bahamas Association of Athletic Associations noticed my absence from the village—and they weren’t happy about it. I have no idea what was said that night. I was now deep in my zone, my routine, and off to bed early. What I do know, based on what others later told me, is that they demanded I return to the village.

It is important to understand, dear reader, the level of tribalism at play.

Perhaps Rahming and others resented the fact that Coach Wisdom took the lead. He wasn’t even the coach, after all. Coach Wisdom had produced the top sprinter in The Bahamas, and now he was calling the shots, so to speak. We were Bain Town Flyers, from the wrong side of the tracks. They were Pioneers. Social and political affiliations played into the divide. While I didn’t fully understand it at the time, Coach Wisdom was also a senator now with the Progressive Liberal Party, and a friend of Prime Minister Lynden Pindling. Not everyone subscribed to the same party or point of view. These things matter in many places—and especially in The Bahamas, a country of just 350,000 people.

I won’t speculate or definitively say why there was such divisiveness, whether it was jealousy, bitterness, track club tribalism, or politics. That lies in their hearts. But I do know two things: one, I was kept sheltered and mostly oblivious to these differences, and two, all I wanted to do was run. My young life was at stake. My entire career. I suppose I also know a third thing: what happened next was a very sad moment for us all.

The following day, we had a short drive to the stadium. Coach Wisdom was sitting there beside me, pumping me up like I was a prizefighting boxer.

“You are prepared for this. You’ve put in the work. You can run through a wall.”

They were talking about the race on the radio. Everyone was anticipating this event and an estimated sixty thousand fans were in attendance. Those numbers didn’t bother me, though. Sure, you get jitters, but I’d been to two Olympics at this point.

“When we arrived at the stadium, I led Pauline into the holding area for the athletes. There was Donald Quarrie, who was managing Grace Jack-son, along with Ana and her coach,” Coach Wisdom recalls. “We were all getting our athletes prepared for this race. And just a couple minutes before going onto the track, a Bahamian race official told me, ‘Sorry, she can’t run.’ And honestly, I thought they were kidding.”

A few words were exchanged—I didn’t witness any of it. As I often did just before races, I found a quiet comer to put my feet up and read a book.

“The official went on about how she violated a rule,” Coach Wisdom says. “‘There should be equality.’ Eventually, the Puerto Rican officials said ‘Enough of this. Get your athletes on the track. We need to start the race.’”

Coach roused me in my comer and said it was time. As we were led out onto the track, everything appeared normal. I walked over to my lane and got to work on my blocks. The radio wasn’t exaggerating. That stadium was packed. Tens of thousands had come out to watch this showdown. After sprinting out of my blocks once or twice, I didn’t like how it felt. So I readjusted them and tried again. As I came out of the blocks a third time—now ready for the race—I could sense someone in my lane. Standing in front of me was Rahming. At first, I thought he was there just to check on my block adjustments.

“It’s OK, sir, I’m going to get this right,” I said.

He didn’t say a word. He marched straight past me without a hint of emotion, picked up my blocks, and took off in the opposite direction.

“Mr. Rahming, what are you doing?” I called in disbelief. But he never even looked at me.

So here I was, standing in the middle of the track, without blocks, and sixty thousand people were waiting for the race to start. Racing officials spilled out onto the field, conferring in tight circles and having animated discussions. Grace and Ana looked over at me, totally baffled, and I threw up my hands and shrugged. It was clear from the body language of CAC officials that they wanted the race to go ahead. Who wouldn’t? This was a historical moment in women’s track and field. A proud moment for the CAC and the countries it represented.

The process went on and on. At first I was just pacing, but after an hour or so, I sat down on the sidelines. Until, finally, one of the officials came over and told me—“Your country has disqualified you.” Not the CAC. There was no issue in their eyes.

My own country.

I find it very difficult to put into words how I felt in that moment. Angry, upset, embarrassed, humiliated—those adjectives will have to do. But they can’t substitute for the feeling.

When sprinting is your life, it’s hard to describe watching, from the sidelines, the race go ahead without you as your destiny, everything you have worked for and earned, is stolen from you. And for what? A night in a hotel room? A proper meal and a massage? The fact is, the BAAA could have let me run. Did we bend the rules? Yes, I can concede that, although Jamaica and Cuba had no issues with their athletes staying in a hotel.

“It was totally the wrong decision,” says Quarrie, who vividly remembers that moment. “But you see, in those days, it’s not like now where athletes have a lot more to say. Back then, it was ‘Do as I say,’ as far as the federations were concerned. The federation had a right to make their decision. It was just unfortunate there was no dialogue to discuss it.”

Did the punishment fit the crime? Absolutely not.

They could have disciplined me. And in hindsight, I probably wouldn’t have blamed them if they had suspended me after the race, or given me some kind of warning. Instead, they chose humiliation. In my mind, it was petty and vindictive. It was beyond the pale.

As for the race? Quirot won with a time of 50.63. Jackson surprised everyone with a time of 53.00 seconds, good enough only for third. Angela Joseph of Trinidad and Tobago came second, clocking in at 52.40.

Only a month earlier, I had broken the US collegiate record with a time of 50.18 seconds. Would I have won the race and secured the number one ranking in the 400?

I’ll let you be the judge of that.

When the race was over, I went back to the hotel, grabbed my bag, and returned to the village with my tail between my legs. Even after such humiliation, I swallowed my pride. I cried my eyes out that night, alone in my bunk bed. The next morning, as I did in the past, I blocked out the adversity and focused on my future. But there were more dark clouds on the horizon. Puerto Rico was just the beginning of a very dark time in my life.

I love my country beyond measure. Anyone who knows me understands that my national pride runs deep. And yet, the fact is, certain people treated me like dirt. They had a vendetta against me. This was not about The Bahamas—it was about themselves. From the very beginning, coaches and athletes would laugh at me because I ran sideways. This poor girl from the ghetto. What business does she have on the world stage? And when Coach Wisdom told them I’d be a champion someday, they laughed at him, too. Nobody from my country had produced a true champion. It should have been a proud moment for us all. After everything I’d been through—on the very edge of glory—I was struck down in front of the world.

* * *

While one part of my life was in tatters, on the other hand I was living my childhood dream.

I was still traveling the world as a top sprinter.

It was indeed the embodiment of a dream, not just for me, but for any Bahamian who ever laced up a pair of sprints. I was the first Bahamian sprinter, male or female, to join the international circuit. Laverne Eve and Frank Rutherford would also have that experience in the field events. But from a sprinting perspective, I carried the Bahamian flag on my own.

Because I was such a novelty, the International Association of Athletics Federations would invite me to all kinds of competitions. It also helped that I was sociable and made friends easily. I enjoyed the networking and meeting people as much as the running. The IAAF, now known as World Athletics, has 214 member countries—it’s bigger than the United Nations. An important part of its mandate is to promote track and field throughout the world and show diversity. As a woman from a small island country, I was a welcome addition.

After leaving Puerto Rico, I first stopped off in Colombia to qualify for the IAAF World Cup. From there, I set off to Zurich, Switzerland, for the Weltklasse Zurich.

I tried to leave my troubles behind me—and it felt good at first. In Zurich, I loved riding the trains downtown, and stopping off for a scoop of Movenpick ice cream. It reminded me of when I used to get ice cream with my daddy, when we went to the beach on weekends. It was a fleeting dream, however. Or maybe it was just the beginning of a nightmare.

I couldn’t outrun what had happened in Puerto Rico.

A couple weeks after my disqualification, I received a call from the BAAA. For my sins, I would be slapped with a lifetime suspension from track and field.

Yes, you read that correctly—a lifetime suspension.

The words “lifetime suspension” feel somewhat sugarcoated to me. Let’s say it as it is—it was expulsion. Plain and simple. Permanent exile. And I wasn’t the only one. Coach Wisdom, even though he wasn’t on the team, received a lifetime suspension as well. Frank Rutherford was disciplined, although he was still permitted to compete.

This action wasn’t about a night in a hotel room. My enemies were out for blood. They wanted to crush my spirit and destroy my athletic career.

A lifetime suspension? Who does that to one of their own? Devastated, I entered a deep depression—one that would last a very long time.

It was a horrific reality to grapple with. I had dedicated my entire life to sprinting. It defined who I was, and where I was going in life. When you love something so much, and it’s callously ripped from you, how do you go on? It was like they removed my very soul. Even today, writing these words gives me pain. How could they humiliate me like that? How could they do this to me? But as I get older, I realize it’s a pain I must endure, because I don’t want any other athlete to go through what I did. Nobody deserves this level of treatment. Nobody. I do feel that I must keep fighting for them—today’s young athletes—so they might never know such pain.

Only by the grace of God did I get through it. As we all know, even in our darkest hours, life does go on, whether we like it or not. Distraught and confused, I still had to figure out my next move. My head was spinning. I had just graduated from university. All of my things were in Los Angeles. And I was supposed to start a new job there in a few months.

First, I left Europe and flew to Florida, to spend time with Mummy. I needed that support—a shoulder to cry on. I also knew I couldn’t stay with her forever. Eventually, I made my way back to Nassau, to decide what to do with the rest of my life.

Although I dreaded returning home, it was the Bahamian people that actually gave me strength. I would see Bahamians on the street—people I had never met in my life—and they would speak with me, touch my shoulder, give me a hug, and say how proud they were. It made me realize that I wasn’t alone. Their love took away some of my pain.

I did a lot of praying for those few months. I lived with family, went to church, and otherwise more or less kept to myself. After my lifetime suspension, I hadn’t done any training at all. Why would I? I was drifting, treading water, until one day in early 1990 I received a phone call. It was a Bahamian track and field official, who abruptly told me to pack my bags— I was headed to the Commonwealth Games in Auckland, New Zealand.

Really? New Zealand? I wasn’t so easily convinced.

“Ummm . . . no sir, I’m not,” I replied with disdain. “I’m not going to any Commonwealth Games. Y’all forget you gave me a lifetime suspension, eh?”

“Your suspension has been lifted,” he said flatly, as if he was just telling me the weather. “You have to go.”

“What do you mean I have to go?” I snapped.

You might think I leapt for joy—but I didn’t.

I was furious for everything the BAAA had put me through. You prevent me from running, ban me for life, and then a few months later change your mind? Ship me off to the other side of the world to compete? Suddenly, all is forgiven? I hadn’t been training at all. And now you want me to go out there and perform against the best in the world?

“You don’t have a choice,” he insisted. “You already have the qualifying times from the summer, so they are expecting you.”

That phone call ended quickly. There were no pleasantries or assurances from me. I picked the phone back up and immediately called Coach Wisdom, who calmed me down and tried to convince me to turn the other cheek. This was an opportunity, he said, to get back on my feet. But he could tell my heart wasn’t in it. I was badly wounded. Frustrated. And confused. Why was this happening to me? Why the sudden change? Why now?

The phone rang again the next day. I would soon have my answer.

“Tittle lady?” said the voice on the other end.

Only one person called me that.

“Prime Minister Pindling?”

“Yes, little lady,” he continued. “Now, I know all the things that have happened. I spoke with Coach Wisdom and he told me that you don’t want to go to the Commonwealth Games. I also understand you haven’t been training. But I think it would be very good for you to go.”

I stumbled my way through the rest of the conversation. My mind was going off in so many directions. At the end of the day, of course, I agreed to pack for New Zealand. When the most powerful man in the nation calls you to run, you do as you’re told.

I can only speculate why the BAAA rescinded my lifetime suspension. Did the prime minister intervene? Or did they realize they had made a mistake? Perhaps the decision to suspend me was not shared by everyone in the association. The president of the BAAA at this time was Dr. Bernard Nottage, a former athlete himself, and lifelong member of the PLP— the same party as the prime minister. In fact, in addition to being a well-known physician in obstetrics and gynecology, Dr Nottage would have a successful political career for decades, serving as a member of Parliament (MP), senator, and cabinet minister. And where was Dr. Nottage an MP for most of his political career? Bain and Grants Town. And let us not forget—Coach Wisdom was a senator by this time, too. So I was surrounded by, protected by, and forever linked with, whether I liked it or not, the PLP political elite.

It was hard not to feel like a pawn. My fate was not my own. I was caught in the middle, my life hanging in the balance, swaying this way and that on the whims of others.

Nevertheless, off I went to New Zealand, once again wearing the colors of The Bahamas.

The motto of these Commonwealth Games was “This Is the Moment.” It was an apt slogan, with my athletic career seemingly back from the dead. Although, in my heart, I was still not whole. Far from it. The 1990 Commonwealth Games began on January 24 and included fifty-five nations, more than two thousand athletes, and 213 different events. New Zealand is incredibly lush, beautiful, and green, and it should have been an exciting time in my athletic career.

Some of my friends, such as Canadian high jumper Milton Ottey, tried to cheer me up. He could tell I was still very much disturbed by what had happened to me. Ottey, who had Jamaican roots as well, encouraged me to explore outside the village, to come along and see and do things. But I wasn’t in a very good mood. Considering what had happened to me in Puerto Rico, I just kept my head down. Whether it was real or imagined, I felt like people were watching and whispering. Critiquing and criticizing my every movement. So mentally I wasn’t at all myself. And physically I felt slow. Out of shape. I used to say, “You might beat me on the track, but you ain’t never out-training me.” I prided myself on that. For someone like me, who was always so prepared, it was insulting and unsettling to be out there competing after little to no training.

Add to that, I was the only sprinter representing The Bahamas. Nothing had changed since my lifetime suspension. It was ride or die with Pauline Davis, which only added to the pressure I was feeling. I should have never been put in this position.

The fact that I walked away with two medals at those games is miraculous.

I competed in both the 100 and the 200 meters in New Zealand, and somehow managed to win the bronze in both events—the only two medals my country would bring home from those Commonwealth Games. My friend and mentor Merlene Ottey, Milton’s cousin from Jamaica, would achieve the gold in both those races. I was genuinely happy for her. After we crossed the finish line, I put one arm around her and we trotted side by side in victory.

It was a strange mix of emotions, winning those medals. Heading into competition, I had no aspirations of the podium. Each time I advanced, I was surprised—and encouraged. The fact that I could still perform at this level verified my standing as a world-class athlete. But again, it was a mixed bag, because I also knew that, had I been training, two golds would have been likely. Just as it would have been likely to win that 400 in Puerto Rico.

At least my life was back on track. I had a future to look forward to—or so it seemed.

I landed in Los Angeles shortly after the Commonwealth Games to take up my position with the Bahamas Ministry of Tourism and resume my training, this time with Donald Quarrie.

I chose Montebello because it was quieter and somehow reminded me more of Nassau, even though it meant long commutes and battling that awful traffic into Los Angeles. I always had to leave extra early to make it to the Ministry of Tourism’s offices, located in a twenty-story building on Wilshire Boulevard. One morning, I was riding the elevator and a woman across from me was staring, looking me up and down without any inhibition at all.

“You’re very beautiful,” she said thoughtfully, tapping a finger on her lips, “but you’re too short.”

I was quiet at first, not quite sure how to respond. Until finally I said, “Excuse me? What am I too short for?”

She seemed surprised I asked, as if I should know. Apparently, a top modeling agency was also in the building, a few floors above us.

“Such a shame,” she continued. “But you can come up and take a few pictures, if you’d like. We can see.”

The elevator stopped—it was my floor. Suffice it to say, I never took her up on the offer. I had no aspirations for a modeling career. But it reminded me where I was, in the City of Angels—Tinseltown. Just before I left for California, Mum Wisdom and Andrea teased me that I would become an actress after a few months in LA, with my bubbly and outgoing personality. I also had the ability to memorize text very quickly, back from when my mummy made me copy endless pages at the kitchen table—the book and the belt.

The celebrity culture seemed to permeate everything in LA. Everyone thought they were a star. I had no time for such things—I just wanted to be an Olympic medalist.

I was there to train—but also to work. My role with the Ministry of Tourism was to visit travel agents in and around the city, bring them up to date on what was happening in The Bahamas, and encourage them to book their clients to come visit our beautiful islands. It fit well with my personality. I love meeting new people—and I love my country—so I didn’t mind the work. Although, it was definitely an exhausting time, even more so than attending classes at Alabama. Because most days and on weekends, I was training hard.

Quarrie, a coach of USC’s track and field team, took me under his wing. I was still working my way back to peak physical form. Psychologically, while I was getting better, I still felt disturbed and resentful from what had happened to me.

“Puerto Rico was a major setback for Pauline,” Quarrie remembers. “It was unfortunate, because that would have been a very big year for her. It took away from her making a bigger step going forward. When something like that happens, it does demoralize you.”

Coach Quarrie’s approach and temperament were exactly what I needed.

When it came to his reputation in the world of track and field, he was larger than life, especially for Caribbean athletes. In person, he was far more understated, the strong-yet-silent type who led by example more than words. He was an easygoing coach, in terms of his personality. I had far more independence compared to my time with Coach Wisdom and Coach Williams.

When it came to the training, though, he worked us hard, which was fine by me. Our workouts generally lasted four hours, and sometimes as long as six. As it turns out, Quarrie was coaching another athlete in California, my old friend Grace Jackson, whom I hadn’t seen since Puerto Rico. Fortunately, she and I made some new memories together in Los Angeles and became even closer.

“Pauline and I really stuck together in some of the work we did,” Jackson recalls. “I was a workhorse, and Pauline loved that. Sometimes we would even challenge the guys that were training with us, and if we beat them the coaches made them do extra work. And we would beat them. That was what was great about Pauline. We might have been afraid internally, but we were taking it on. The hill was never too high.”

At the beginning of the season, we would start with long runs and hill work. By around March or April, we’d move into gradual speed work on the track—intervals of the 100, 200, 300, and so on, while practicing block starts and relay handoffs and techniques. The goal for sprinters is to be in optimal shape by June, just in time for local championships and major meets in Europe, followed by the World Championships and the Olympics, depending on the year. I’d arrive at USC in the morning and Quarrie would put me through my paces, offering his advice and critiques. Then I was mostly on my own in the weight room for the afternoon.

Quarrie and his wife were also friends to me outside of the track. When I got to LA, I bought myself a little red sports car—and it was a stick shift. I had no clue how to drive it. I guess that was a testament to my fearless personality back then. If I wanted something, I just went out and grabbed it. Learning to drive manual wasn’t easy on those California hills, let me tell you. Fortunately, Quarrie stepped in and showed me the ropes. He had me over to his house now and again, and I’d babysit his little girls. They welcomed me into the family.

Meanwhile, Jackson treated me like a little sister. We’d visit each other’s homes and cook Jamaican food. She would often braid my hair. It was a time of healing, away from the trauma I had experienced from my lifetime suspension. I was busy, purposeful, and surrounded by people who cared about me and my development as an elite sprinter.

Sadly, I was lulled into a false sense of security. I thought I knew pain after Puerto Rico. Turns out, my detractors hadn’t finished with me. Soon, I’d hit rock bottom.

* * *

After my parents’ divorce, I didn’t see my daddy as much. I suppose, to some people, it was an unconventional upbringing—I moved in with Mum Wisdom, and Coach Wisdom, in many ways, became that consistent paternal figure. My daddy wouldn’t be there to drive me to school in the mornings, or pick me up after practice, or attend every track meet.

That said, I’ve always considered him my biggest inspiration.

In April 1982, after the CARIFTA Games in Jamaica, I was just starting to show promise on the international stage. As our plane came to a halt on the tarmac, I could see huge crowds of people down below, all screaming and waving flags to welcome us back to The Bahamas. We grabbed our bags and started filing our way to the exit. Then, teammates closer to the front started hollering to me in the back: “Pauline, your daddy here!”

My heart filled up right there to the brim. And sure enough, the moment I stepped foot on the jet bridge, I saw him down below, front and center amid a mosh pit of fans.

He was wearing a blue bush jacket. I think it was the closest thing he could find to sporting the Bahamian colors. And as I descended those stairs, he was beaming up at me, arms spread open, ready to take me into a big bear hug. I can still see it in my mind. He gushed over me on the tarmac, kissing my cheeks, spinning me around and rubbing his face against mine. Despite all the life moments he may have missed, he was there when it counted.

At the end of the day, it was Daddy who tipped the scales. He was the one who encouraged me to run, who convinced my mummy that we should put our faith in Coach Wisdom. If he hadn’t championed that cause, where would I have landed in life?

In the years that followed, it was Daddy who checked up on me at the track, now and again. He wasn’t the dad who dutifully stood on the sidelines during practice. But every so often, I’d hear from other athletes at the track, “Oh, your daddy was here asking about you.” He often seemed stern to people, asking questions in that baritone voice of his.

Let’s be honest—my daddy was intimidating to a lot of people. Friends and teammates used to joke around and call him Gaddafi, referring to the Libyan dictator Muammar al-Gaddafi. As I got older, I began to appreciate just how much he looked out for me, making it clear that nobody messed with his daughter. While nobody ever talked about it, there were times when Bahamian coaches made advances towards their young female athletes. He made sure that kind of thing would never happen to me. Of course, there was also the classism and ridicule I received from day one, whether it was my upbringing in Bain Town, the way I ran sideways, or the fact I was a “halfie” or mixed breed, with a Jamaican mother and Bahamian father. He couldn’t stop how some people treated me, but he kept it in check.

Whatever the case, I felt like Daddy was there. I could always call on him—my number one soldier. So when Daddy died, I thought I’d lost the war.

It happened in March 1991. That was when I got the call, while at the World Championships in Seville, Spain. Although I was back on the international circuit, I still wasn’t quite myself. I made it to the final of the 60 meters, only to finish in fifth place. They waited until I had finished competition before letting me know that Daddy was in hospital.

“You need to come home right away.”

Just a couple weeks earlier, I received another call that Daddy had been in a bad car accident. I don’t remember all the details of the crash. What I do recall is that they discharged him without a thorough examination. When he ended up back in hospital, they discovered he had internal bleeding, not to mention diabetes. He’d never been treated for this disease before.

According to family, Daddy had been in intensive care just prior to me flying back to Nassau. So when I saw him in the hospital, I was shocked to find him sitting up in bed, relatively alert and in good spirits. All he wanted to do was talk about me, not his health.

“How did you do in the race, baby?” he asked.

“Oh, I did OK,” I sighed, pulling up a chair beside the bed. I wasn’t happy with my performance, but it still felt good to be with him, talking about it.

“Just OK?”

“Yeah, I made it to the final.”

“OK, baby, well next time do better, OK?”

“Yes, Daddy, I will.”

He always had a way of making me feel like I had to do better without feeling badly about it. For a time, it was just us talking in that hospital room, as if he had recovered and would be home tomorrow. Eventually, the nurse came into the room and announced it was time for me to leave. Visitation was over.

“Daddy, I’ll come back later on to check on you,” I said, smiling.

But my smile was melted by his expression. He stared at me, not sternly but with seriousness, like he really had something important to say.

“I want you to promise me something,” he said. He reached out to me with both hands.

“OK, Daddy.” I slid my hands into his. “Anything.”

“Promise me that you’ll always take care of yourself. That you’ll always be in a position to take care of yourself. Because I don’t want anyone to abuse you,” he insisted.

My eyes burned with tears. “Daddy, you always say that.”

“Yes, baby,” he said, squeezing my hands, “but I want you to promise me.”

“Yes, I promise.”

“That’s my baby. Now give Daddy a kiss.”

I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and one more hug. As I did it, he whispered in my ear: “Remember that Daddy loves you, always. You are my daughter and I love you.”

By now the tears were dripping down my cheeks. I didn’t know what to think at that moment—like I said, he seemed fine. At the same time, his words were so fatalistic. I left the hospital that day and headed for my hotel on Paradise Island. When I stepped into the lobby, almost on cue, the receptionist called out my name, a telephone in her hand.

“Pauline Davis? There’s a call for you.”

I don’t remember much after that. I was told, later on, that I screamed and passed out on the floor, right then and there. My Auntie Patsy called to tell me Daddy had passed.

When I woke up, I was sprawled on the floor in the corner of the lobby. At some point, they hoisted me up and helped me to my room. I was confused and disoriented by what had just happened. Judging by his final words, had he been told his time was up? There was nothing more they could do? Did he just put on a brave face for me in those final moments? Or maybe it was a freak incident, where he went much faster than anyone expected. It doesn’t really matter now. All of us lose a parent at some point in our lives. We all react to it in different ways. As for me, I was simply gutted. Or, to put it another way—empty, as if I had lost part of myself For the longest time, I felt like I couldn’t go on. I didn’t even want to run anymore.

It fell to me to help make funeral arrangements. To make matters worse, my Auntie Patsy called a couple of days later with a confusing request.

“Pauline, they have to take over your daddy’s body,” she explained in an offhand way, like what she was saying was perfectly normal.

“Take over my daddy’s body? Who?”

“Well, your daddy was part of the lodge. There are some rituals they have to do for your daddy, so they need to take over his body.”

I had no clue what my Auntie Patsy was going on about.

She tried to insist and explain, but I cut her off.

“I love you, but I gotta go.” And I hung up the phone. I was in so much distress, I couldn’t handle the idea of someone “taking over” my daddy’s body.

What she was trying to explain to me, and as I would later learn, is that my daddy, unknown to me, had been a longtime member of the Prince Hall Freemasons, the African American branch of the North American Freemasons.

Prince Hall was a free man in the city of Boston back in the mid-to late eighteenth century. An early abolitionist and civil rights pioneer, he sought membership in the Freemasons.

This fraternal, secretive society, originally founded in fourteenth-century England, has long been the source of conspiracy theories, generally due to its rituals, restricted membership, and high-profile members. Conspiracies aside, Freemasonry at its core is a club, where members socialize, network, and interact with each other, founded under the principles of “liberty, equality, and peace.” You can see why Hall, a black man dedicated to advancing African American rights, and broader acceptance in society, would be so attracted to it.

Hall and fifteen others applied for admittance to Boston’s St. John’s Lodge, which at the time, of course, was an all-white organization. They were rejected. Fortunately, the Grand Lodge of Ireland was a bit more open-minded. In 1775, African Lodge No. 1 was formed, attached to the British forces stationed in Boston, with Hall as its first grand master.

Even today, not all Freemason lodges recognize the legitimacy of the Prince Hall Freemasons. But that didn’t prevent the movement from spreading, not just in North America, but throughout the Caribbean and even in Africa. Barbados, Guyana, St. Martin, St. Lucia, Dominica, and The Bahamas all have active societies.

In 2010, Prime Minister Hubert Ingraham of The Bahamas received an award from the society and made the following remarks: “Lodges have played a significant role in the lives of thousands of Bahamians all over our islands,” he shared, while encouraging members to foster membership throughout the country. “Like our churches, lodges and friendly societies have served both to bind people together and as instruments of community among people.”

More than two hundred years after the founding of the Prince Hall Freemasons, here I was in Nassau, my daddy dead, and apparently I had little choice but to comply with the lodge’s wishes. Two days after that call from Auntie Patsy, I got another from my Auntie Louise, one of my daddy’s other sisters. She told me that in the Commonwealth, there is a female version of the Freemasons, of which she was a member. She tried to explain to me what the death ritual was, and why it had to be done. By the time that call ended, I was feeling better, but noncommittal. It took another phone call from Auntie Patsy, who had always been my favorite aunt, to convince me.

“Pauline, this has to happen. I know you’re dealing with a lot. But it has to happen. It’s what your daddy would have wanted,” she insisted.

So I relented, too exhausted to fight any longer.

I took the time to explain all of this, dear reader, because I believe my daddy’s connection to the Prince Hall Freemasons explained a lot, in the end.

He may not have been rich in material wealth or possessions, but it gave him certain connections and status. None other than Sir Lynden Pin-dling was a member of this lodge. I couldn’t help but wonder—was that a reason Sir Pindling was in the background, always looking out for me? Members of the Freemasons are notorious for sticking together and looking after their own.

Two weeks later, we buried my daddy, and the outpouring of support was incredible, with members of his lodge coming out in droves to put him to rest.

My soul, however, was far from restful.

I wasn’t the same person after he died. Like I said, I felt empty, and my motivation and determination—typically my strongest attributes—were waning.

I tried to soldier on, living up to that promise I made at my daddy’s bedside. My first stop on the international running circuit was in Czechoslovakia, behind the Iron Curtain, around the time the country was transitioning from a satellite state of the Soviet Union to a republic. Prague was a beautiful but dreary place, which matched my mood at the time.

One evening, I drew all the curtains and headed to bed early ahead of competition the next day. As I was lying down on the bed, in the near pitch dark, I could feel my feet beginning to go numb. Cold spread slowly up my legs to cover my entire body. And then, in the corner of my eye, I saw a white glow emanating from the door. Turning my head, I saw it was actually like a white cloud—without human form—but I could see my daddy’s face. I was shivering, frozen in place, as he drifted towards me on the bed.

Although the cloud didn’t have form, I felt something take both my hands, just like when he held my hands in the hospital. But this time, I wasn’t comforted, or melancholy—I was terrified. It seemed as if he was trying to talk to me, but there was no sound.

I shut my eyes tight and started to pray, whispering the words “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to he down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul . . .”

When I opened my eyes, the cloud had disappeared. I sprung from my bed, flew out the door, and sprinted down the hallway to find Donald Quarrie, my coach, who had also made the trip to Czechoslovakia. I banged on his door.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

It was just an expression. He had no idea of the irony of his words.

That night I sat on the floor of his hotel room, tight in a ball, crying and moaning. Quarrie tried to calm me down by telling me a story of his own. He wasn’t too surprised by my experience. When his grandmother died, she also came to him shortly after her death. He told me that he believed me, and that was comforting.

Now, I do realize that not all of you will relate to this story. But I also know that I’m not alone. Belief in ghosts, spirits, and the supernatural is nothing new; it stretches back thousands of years, cutting across nearly every culture and religion.

In the Muslim world, for example, “jinn” are described as intelligent beings, of a lower rank than angels, that are invisible to the naked eye. In Chinese culture, “guilao” translates literally as “ghost man.” Belief in the supernatural is so strong that the Chinese even have a deity, known as Zhong Kui, dedicated to defending against these spirits. Portraits are hung of him in homes to ward off ghosts and spirits. Meanwhile, in the Caribbean tradition, they are often called “duppy” or “duffy,” particularly in Jamaica and Barbados. The word originated from Central Africa and refers to the soul of a dead human being.

Take your pick—millions of people have experiences or feelings they can’t explain.

We will never know for sure whether ghosts and spirits exist. There will always be those who believe, and those who do not.

What I know is neither me nor my daddy were at peace. And it wouldn’t be the last time I’d have such an experience. It happened again that summer, in 1991, a few months after he died. I was in Tokyo, Japan, for the World Championships. I was lying on the bed, just as before. I had the same numb feeling, beginning with my feet. He came to me again in a cloud-like form. I assume my daddy was there to comfort me—to tell me that everything would be all right. To stay strong. Unfortunately, it didn’t have that effect.

My personal struggles and depression translated poorly on the track. I came in seventh place in the 200 meters at the World Championships that year, far below my abilities and expectations. And the timing couldn’t have been worse, with the 1992 Summer Olympics in Barcelona right around the corner. When I look back at this time, I see that I was just surviving, really. In many ways, I was going through the motions—I had my job in Los Angeles, my coach in Donald Quarrie, and I was still competing at the highest level internationally.

However, deep down, I was a shadow of my former self. The truth is I was dealing with a great deal of loss. I think my daddy’s death, combined with the betrayal I experienced in Puerto Rico, just compounded and poisoned my state of mind.

I arrived in Spain for the 1992 Summer Olympics as one of fourteen representatives for The Bahamas, and once again our lone runner—male or female. Now competing in my third Olympics, I desperately wanted to get over that hump, and finally make my ultimate dream come true. I ran in both the 100 and the 200, breezing through the opening heat and quarterfinal. In the latter distance, I managed to set a new Bahamas national record at 22.44 seconds. But my time of 22.61 seconds in the semifinal wouldn’t be enough to advance, coming up three hundredths of a second short of Grace Jackson’s 22.58.

The 100 would be a nearly identical result—I’d miss the final by four hundredths of a second.

I began to wonder—was I even good enough? Would I ever win an Olympic medal? These questions began creeping into my mind, making me doubt my twenty-six-year-old self. Was this really the best I could do? I was stuck in a rut, although something positive did happen during my time in Barcelona—I met my future husband.

Well, actually, I met him for the very first time just prior to Barcelona, at a competition in the United Kingdom. I was on the phone in my hotel, chatting with my boyfriend at the time, who was back in The Bahamas. As I hung up, there was a knock at the door, and in spilled several Jamaican athletes. Ray Stewart, Cathy Rattray-Williams, Grace Jackson—these were all my friends on the international running circuit. Like I said, there were few, if any, Bahamians competing at this level in the 1980s and 90s. So I spent a lot of time with my Jamaican brothers and sisters. Except in that room, there was one gentleman I didn’t recognize.

He was tall, dark, and handsome, with a generous smile. Ray introduced us—his name was Mark Thompson, a Jamaican hurdler in the 400.

I didn’t think too much of it at the time. We met, and that was that.

“Hey, Pauline, you wanna come up to our room for some bun and cheese?” Cathy asked.

For those of you who don’t know, bun and cheese is a traditional Jamaican bread, but sweeter, with sugar, eggs, and sometimes vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg. And, of course, cheese slices on top. I was always eager for a taste of the islands on the road. They left, and just Ray, Mark, and I were in the room, with Mark somewhere in the background. Suddenly, Mark approached me again and reintroduced himself, as if for the first time. That was a bit strange. And then he did something really surprising—he gave me his room number.

I wasn’t having any of that. I kissed my teet, as Bahamians would say.

Ray and Mark left, and I settled in for a nap. When I woke up, I made a plan to head up a few floors to find that bread and cheese. All of the Jamaicans were staying on the same floor, so naturally it was hard to walk down that hallway without running into someone. That someone was Richard Bucknor, a Jamaican hurdler in the 110 meters. We fell into conversation for a while, until I told him, “Boy, I gotta go get my bun and cheese. I see you later.” No sooner did he go back into his room than he popped back out and begged me to come in for a moment. He had something else to tell me. And who did I find, sitting on the other bed in that room? Mark Thompson. So I knew from the very beginning that Mark had eyes for me.

In those early days, I found him more annoying than anything else. Part of it was my state of mind. I wasn’t too interested in a new romance. Mark never got the hint.

He pursued me constantly when we arrived in Barcelona.

He’d show up at the cafeteria, always choosing a spot beside me, even though those places were massive at the Olympics. I’d see him in the village on the way to my apartment, forcing me to start taking the long way around so I wouldn’t be bothered. My roommates even told me that Mark was showing up at the apartment, just to see if I was in. Truth be told, I had more than one admirer at this time, and I just clumped Mark in with the rest of them.

Finally, he did manage to track me down. Inside the Olympic Village, there was a quiet place to eat near the canal, right on a small beach. It was off the beaten path. I went there on my own to eat a few times, just to be alone in my thoughts and eat grilled shrimp and chicken wings.

Someone must have told him where I was, because there I was, looking out over the water, and his tall, slender frame comes into view, sliding into the open chair beside me.

“Man, I can’t believe I finally have the chance to speak with you alone,” he said, smiling. “Didn’t your teammates tell you I’ve been to your apartment?”

“They told me lots of people coming to look for me,” I said a bit dismissively, looking back out over the water. “So what did you want?”

“I just want to have a conversation with you,” he replied. “I want to invite you out.”

“Well, we having a conversation now,” I snapped back, biting the head off a shrimp.

I lowered my guard after a while. He was charming and good-natured, and as we got to talking, I realized I actually enjoyed his company. Considering my headspace at this time, I probably needed the distraction. When we finished lunch, we ended up walking down the beach and sat on some rocks beside the water, chatting about all kinds of things. We laughed, and for a while I forgot about all my problems. Then, out of nowhere, he leaned over and kissed me. And just one moment later, a wave surged up over the rocks and wet us right up.

We laughed even harder and jumped down from the rocks. It was a beautiful moment, in a way, allowing me to detach from all my worries. I found out he lived in Florida, not far from where my mummy lived. I also knew I’d see him at other international track meets. We didn’t leave Barcelona as an item or anything like that, but it set the table.

While I wasn’t completely myself, I returned to California—and my job—with a desire to keep going, as my daddy would have wanted me to. But soon, there were other forces at play well beyond my control. Back in The Bahamas, the political landscape was shifting. After holding on to power since 1967, Sir Pindling and the PLP were swept from office by the opposition, the Free National Movement (FNM), in the 1992 general election. It was a seismic shift not just in the political landscape, but also for all of society. By now, you may have noticed that politics had a tendency to creep into the world of track and field.

For context, it’s important to understand that, while politics can be intense in every country, The Bahamas is on another level. Some Bahamians wear their political colors—yellow for the PLP, red for the FNM—as if it defines them as a person. What we see in America today in the post-Trump era, between the Democrats and Republicans, has been the case in my country since we achieved independence on July 10, 1973. Not with any violence or insurrection—although equally passionate. Now, imagine, for a moment, that this political powder keg is not spread out over one of the largest land masses on Earth, disbursed among hundreds of millions of people, but on a series of islands with a few hundred thousand people.

What it creates is an explosive political rivalry.

Elections are like rock concerts in The Bahamas, with thousands of people coming out to political rallies and marches. Voter turnout had always been high. In the 1990s, nearly 100 percent of the population cast their vote when the FNM gained power.

The FNM’s historic victory in August 1992 heralded the rise of Hubert Ingraham, the second prime minister of The Bahamas, a lawyer and MP from the island of Abaco. Previously, Ingraham had been a member of the PLP, serving as its national chairman in 1976 and as a cabinet minister in 1982. Eight years later, he would cross the floor and be appointed parliamentary leader of the FNM following the death of Sir Cecil Wallace-Whitfield, one of the founding fathers of the party.

In fact, the FNM was founded by rogue PLP MPs in 1971, known as the “Dissident Eight.” By 1990, the FNM was defining itself as a more conservative party that was free from the allegations of corruption that had plagued the PLP in the past, particularly during the 1980s.

I suppose, right from the beginning, it was a political “family” divided. No love lost.

They say you don’t get to choose your parents and family. Likewise, from day one, I would find myself aligned with the PLP by default.

I’ve never considered myself a political person—I have never campaigned for either political party, or considered running as an MP, although I have been asked by both parties. All I ever wanted to do was run track, and up until the early 1990s, Prime Minister Pindling and Coach Wisdom had been my guardian angels. But those angels had fallen.

One morning, a few weeks after the election, I arrived at the tourism office on Wilshire Boulevard. When I opened those glass doors, the receptionist handed me a brown envelope. There were no alarm bells going off in my head. It never even occurred to me what was to come. I wished everyone a good morning, poured myself a cup of tea, and settled into my office.

When I opened the envelope, a hand flew up to my wide-open mouth—I had been fired from my job at the Ministry of Tourism, effective immediately.

Upset, humiliated, and in total shock, I frantically packed up my things. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. What this amounted to was a political earthquake. Bahamian society was cracking under my feet, and I was being swallowed up whole.

Like conch salad and the Junkanoo Rush, political victimization has been an all-too-common trademark of my beloved country. Both parties would be accused of it over the coming years—no one side is to blame. Sometimes, it happens because a position has been promised to someone else with party loyalties. Other times, it is simply out of blind animosity—you are not one of us. Even to this day, I am tempted to believe I fit into the second category. And I wasn’t the only one. Frank Rutherford, who had a job with Bahamas Tourism in Houston, was also given his walking papers. Certain officials made accusations that we didn’t perform at our jobs, and that was the reason for termination. I won’t speak for Frank, but I was proud of my work. For me, it didn’t feel like it was the FNM that rejected me. It felt like my country.

My lifetime suspension by the BAAA was painful, but at least I could come to terms with it. It was, by and large, the actions of a few key individuals. My dismissal from Bahamas Tourism was much worse—a true slap in the face, and this time, there was nobody there to save me.

After leaving the Ministry of Tourism, I drove through Skid Row, an area of Los Angeles known for its large homeless population. And I just lost it. I suddenly saw myself as homeless. Where would I live now? What would I do for money? I depended on my job completely to pay the bills and continue my training. I retreated to my apartment and shut the world out, barely leaving my bed for days. It was a serious depression. I was in a very dark place.

I loved my country with my heart and soul. So why didn’t it love me? Why me?

I kept asking myself this question, again and again, and yet found no answers. For nearly ten years I had carried the flag of The Bahamas on the world stage as our lone sprinter. It was all I ever wanted. And even after my lifetime suspension, I turned the other cheek and competed anyway, bringing home two more medals for my country. And now this?

I thought my athletic career—and life—was over.

After several days of depression, my daddy came to me again one night. Except this time, my feet and body weren’t freezing anymore. He didn’t come to me in the form of a cloud, but rather as a man, with proper form. I could see him clear as day.

“Baby,” he whispered, taking both my hands. “Get up. I taught you better than this. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I need you to get up.”

I just stared at him and said nothing, tears pouring down my cheeks.

“I am right here with you,” he continued. “You are not by yourself.”

Moments later, he was gone, melting from my hands. I glanced around the apartment in shock and disbelief of what I had just witnessed. I ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, standing there for a moment, taking a long, hard look at myself in the mirror. My trance now broken, I started to move around my apartment with purpose. I wouldn’t say I was invigorated, but it felt like an emergency—I had to get out of California, right then. There was no time to waste. I had no idea where my life was going, or what I would do for a living. I simply knew that I couldn’t hide from my problems in Montebello.

I booked my flight to Florida that morning. After that, it would be on to The Bahamas.

In 1981, at the age of 14, Pauline Davis was discovered by Frank Rutherford, a future Olympic medalist, and Neville Wisdom, coach of the Bain Town Flyers Track Club. Despite her lack of experience and unorthodox style, both saw an unwavering spirit and potential.

Credit: Merle Davis Toussaint

Pauline Davis, one of seven children, grew up in Bain Town, a poor neighborhood in Nassau, The Bahamas, known as “Over the Hill.” While they didn’t grow up with much, Pauline remembers a community where people shared what little they had.

Credit: Merle Davis Toussaint

Pauline Davis on her 16th birthday, with her mother Merle Davis Toussaint, and siblings. After her parents separated, Davis’s mother created a new life for herself in Florida, while Davis moved in with Coach Wisdom’s mother in Nassau, The Bahamas.

Credit: Merle Davis Toussaint

Busting a move: Pauline Davis as a teenager at her mother’s home in Florida.

Credit: Merle Davis Toussaint

Pauline Davis, far right, with several of her siblings at her mother’s home in Nassau. After her parents’ separation, the children would sometimes reunite in the summer.

Credit: Merle Davis Toussaint

Pauline Davis sprints the anchor leg at the 4×400m relay at the 1984 CARIFTA Games. Davis’s famous come-from-behind win would cement her place in the hearts of the Bahamian people and catapult The Bahamas to first place over bitter rival Jamaica. After the performance, she received the Austin Sealy Award for the Caribbean’s Most Outstanding Athlete.

Stanley Mitchell

In her first year at the University of Alabama, Pauline Davis was known as the “badass freshman.” She would live up to the label, becoming one of the most celebrated female sprinters to ever go through the program.

University of Alabama Athletics

From left: Judi Williams, Pauline Davis, and Coach Wayne Williams. Coach Williams would become a father figure for Davis during her time in Alabama, much like Coach Wisdom did throughout her childhood in Nassau.

Pauline Davis

Dr. Flora Hyacinth, right, former teammate and roommate at the University of Alabama, described Pauline as “very goal orientated.” “She knew what she wanted and she set her sights on Olympic glory, and achieved it,” she said.

Dr. Flora Hyacinth

Pauline runs down her competition at the University of Alabama. Louisiana State University, also in the Southeastern Conference (SEC) was always one of the university’s biggest rivals.

University of Alabama Athletics

Pauline Davis, far right, streaking up the inside track at the University of Alabama. Beyond her individual accomplishments, Coach Wayne Williams called her impact at the university “profound,” giving the entire women’s team a confidence and swagger no matter the competition.

University of Alabama Athletics

From left: Calvin Smith, former 100m world record holder, gold medalist, and two-time world champion, Lillie Leatherwood, an Olympic gold medalist, Kirani James, Olympic gold medalist and world champion, and Pauline Davis, two-time Olympic gold medalist. These track and field legends were recently immortalized on a special memorial at the University of Alabama.

Pauline Davis

From left: US sprinter Sheila Echols, Pauline Davis, and US sprinter Gwen Torrence at the Opening Ceremonies of the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, South Korea. All three athletes would go on to win gold medals at the Olympics. In particular, Torrence would be both a frequent training partner and rival for Davis throughout her career.

Laverne Eve

Carl Lewis, left, one of the most decorated Olympians in history, first met Pauline early in his career during a track meet in The Bahamas. Seen here at the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, South Korea, Pauline says he has remained a “friend of The Bahamas” ever since.

Laverne Eve

Pauline Davis accepts the silver medal in the 400m at the 1995 World Championship in Gothenburg, Sweden. After losing her job, the death of her father, and a long bout with depression, her performance in Sweden represented at upward swing for the future double gold medalist.

Stanley Mitchell

Pauline Davis, center, listens to Coach Lawrence Seagrave at their training facility in Atlanta, Georgia. In the background, Susan Walsh, the Irish sprint hurdler, also prepares for another day of training. In 1997, Walsh would become the first Irish athlete to reach a final in a major sprint category.

Paul Doyle

The dynamic duo: Lawrence Seagrave, right, and Paul Doyle, left, joined forces in 1998 to form their own training group. The two represented Davis’s most effective coaching staff, guiding her to two gold medals in Sydney, Australia.

Paul Doyle

At the 2000 Summer Olympics in Sydney, Australia, Pauline Davis was honored as her country’s flag bearer at the Opening Ceremonies. Her fifth and final Olympics, Davis would save her most dominant performances for last.

Laverne Eve

Laverne Eve, right, and the author at the Opening Ceremonies of the 2000 Summer Olympic Games in Sydney, Australia. Eve, a dominant athlete in the field events, became a close friend of Davis, as the two travelled the world together on the international circuit.

Laverne Eve

From left: Chandra Sturrup, Eldece Clarke, Debbie Ferguson, Savatheda Fynes, and Pauline Davis interviewed following their historic gold medal performance at the 2000 Summer Olympic Games in Sydney, Australia.

Laverne Eve

The Golden Girls: Savatheda Fynes, Chandra Sturrup, Pauline Davis, and Debbie Ferguson accept their gold medals in the Women’s 4×100m at the 2000 Summer Olympics in Sydney, Australia. Eldece Clarke ran in the preliminaries and served as the team’s alternate. With a time of 41.95 seconds, The Bahamas ended 16 years of US dominance in this event, becoming the smallest country, by population, to ever achieve such a feat.

The Nassau Guardian

Pauline Davis and the rest of the Bahamian national team arrived in Nassau after the 2000 Summer Olympics to a celebration the likes of which the country had never seen. Thousands gathered at the airport to welcome their arrival, followed by a parade through the city’s streets.

Peter Ramsay

After returning to Nassau following the 2000 Summer Olympics, Pauline Davis and the other Golden Girls visited many local high schools, including Government High, where Davis graduated many years before.

Peter Ramsay

From left: Annette Munroe (cousin), Auntie Patsy, Pauline Davis, and Izona Davis (older sister). Regardless of her successes and life abroad, family in The Bahamas remained a priority for the Olympic champion.

Annette Munroe

On July 11, 2010, Pauline Davis arrives at Government House, the historic residence of the Governor General in The Bahamas, to finally receive her Olympic gold medal in the Women’s 2000—ten years later.

The Nassau Guardian

Alberto Juantorena, the double Olympic gold medalist from Cuba and fellow council member on World Athletics, drapes a long-awaited gold medal around Davis’s neck.

The Nassau Guardian

Despite an emergency session of Parliament, Pauline Davis insisted on delivering Prime Minister Hubert Ingraham her Olympic gold medal in the Women’s 200m. Crediting Ingraham with revitalizing her athletic career, she requested he keep the medal in trust on behalf of all the Bahamian people. Today, it is kept at the Central Bank of The Bahamas.

The Nassau Guardian

In July 2010, Pauline Davis appeared in “Sideburns,” a popular editorial cartoon produced by The Nassau Guardian, to commemorate her gold medal in the Women’s 200m.

The Nassau Guardian

After retirement, Pauline Davis and her coaching partner, Nick Dean, dedicated themselves to training the next generation of Bahamian athletes. To this day, Davis continues to passionately coach and mentor young athletes.

Nick Dean

From an early age, Pauline Davis was taught to train in the salt water by her coaches. Today, at Goodman’s Bay, that tradition continues with the next generation of Bahamian athletes.

Pauline Davis

Dahlan Jamaan Al Hamad, left, President of the Qatar Athletics Association, and a council member with World Athletics, with Eldece Clarke, middle, and the author in Doha, Qatar, for the 2019 World Athletics Championship.

Pauline Davis

From left: Desmond Bannister, former president of the Bahamas Association of Athletic Associations (BAAA), Pauline Davis, Arlington Butler, long time president of the Bahamas Olympic Committee (BOC), and Alpheus Finlayson, former president of BAAA and the first Bahamian to sit on the World Athletics Council.

Pauline Davis

Coach Neville Wisdom, who first discovered Pauline in 1981, would have a profound impact on her life. As the president of the Bain Town Flyers, Coach Wisdom would change the lives of many disadvantaged youth in Nassau, The Bahamas.

Pauline Davis

History in the making: Lord Sebastian Coe, left, the president of World Athletics, at the Special Congress on December 3, 2016, in Monaco. The vote represented major constitutional reform for the besieged organization, ushering in a new era of transparency and integrity for global track and field. Lord Coe credits Pauline Davis, a long-time council member, as a fierce ally and advocate during this difficult time.

World Athletics

With the World Athletics headquarters located in Monaco, Prince Albert II, the Sovereign Prince of Monaco and the head of the Princely House of Grimaldi, remains a strong supporter and benefactor of this international organization.

Pauline Davis

Pauline Davis shares a moment with Svein Arne Hansen, former president of the European Athletic Association. In 2007, Davis became the first woman of color to serve on the council of World Athletics. After serving for 12 years, Davis was made a Lifetime Honorary Member, the second woman to receive such an honor.

World Athletics

From left: Frank Pancho Rahming, former coach of the Bahamian Olympic Team, Foster Dorsett, former president of the BAAA (Bahamas Association of Athletic Associations), Pauline Davis, Lord Sebastian Coe, president of World Athletics, Mike Sands, former Olympic athlete and former president of the BAAA, and Carl Oliver, former Olympic athlete and secretary of the BAAA, at the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing, China.

Pauline Davis

While she didn’t get to have children of her own, Pauline Davis has been a passionate advocate and educator of Bahamian youth, demonstrating through her life anything is indeed possible.

The Nassau Guardian

8

REDEMPTION

During difficult times in my life, I often sat by the ocean. I would find a quiet spot on the beach and listen to the crashing waves. I’d close my eyes, and then open them to gaze out over the water, those endless, electric shades of blue. Even in my darkest moments, I couldn’t help but feel blessed to live in such a beautiful country. I have been around the world, and nothing beats the natural, spectacular beauty of my islands, The Bahamas.

Those moments, of course, had to end. The realities of life were always waiting. Away from the ocean, The Bahamas now felt different. It was cold and uncaring.

I loved a country that didn’t love me.

When I arrived in Nassau, my spirit was nearly broken. Nothing I’d done in the past seemed to matter anymore. Those legendary performances at the CARIFTA Games, my championships at Alabama, those three Olympic Games and carrying my flag internationally for years, alone, as my country’s only sprinter—it all seemed worthless.

I didn’t return to The Bahamas right away after California. I couldn’t. I went where anyone would go after hitting rock bottom. I stayed with my mummy in Florida for a few months, trying to heal, surrounding myself with her love, her embraces, and her cooking, and drawing on her strength. It filled me with enough courage to face my demons in Nassau. When I got on the island, I stayed with my sister Izona for a while, and later Mum and Andrea Wisdom.

I was floating for months, in limbo, living on what savings I had left in the bank, with no real thought or motivation for the future. I must say, for the most part, the Bahamian people were there for me. People I knew, and often those I didn’t, would approach me on the street and say how much they loved me. That they were praying for me.

I was living in two worlds—one where I felt love and acceptance, and another where I was discarded and unwanted. It was life on a split screen.

It was plain to see, back then, that I wasn’t all there. My fire had been diminished. And yet, I hadn’t given up completely. The passion and determination that defined me as a sprinter were still somewhere within me. I learned during this time that I could place my emotions into locked compartments as a coping mechanism. I believe, whether you are a track star, a champion boxer, or an all-star basketball player, top athletes share mental toughness, or the ability to overcome obstacles, no matter how great.

Some obstacles were more literal than others.

In those days, there was one professional, rubberized track in the whole country, at the Thomas A. Robinson Stadium—and it wasn’t always easy to gain access to it.

Remember now, there weren’t very many athletes like me back then. There weren’t dozens of elite track athletes preparing for the international circuit, all clamoring to use that track. For many years, I was on my own.

Sometimes, they would open the stadium to let the schools and kids train, at designated events and times. But there was no real system in place for professional athletes like me. That meant I’d often be met with a locked gate.

“Oh, we’re not opening the track,” the security guard told me. “The track’s closed. You’re not allowed to train in there.”

Can you imagine that? Here I was, the country’s top sprinter, and unable to train?

Of course, I wasn’t going to let a locked gate stop me.

That wall at the stadium was at least six feet high—so I scaled it. I’d take a running start, leap, and pull myself over to the other side. Back in Bain Town, as a child, I used to race up coconut and mango trees. So, it was an easy climb for me.

There I was, in the middle of this locked stadium, training alone, when that same security guard confronted me.

“Get off this track! You can’t be on this track!” he yelled, stepping in my path.

“Oh yeah?” I screamed back at him. “Call the damn police. When you call the police, call the Punch. Call the Nassau Guardian. Call the Tribune. And call ZNS TV 13. I’m sick of this. I want the world to see what I have to go through to represent my country.”

I was fed up, listing every newspaper and media outlet I could think of. He looked at me in shock and then went back to his business.

Mentally, I was already hanging by a thread. I wasn’t going to take any more foolishness. On several occasions after that, I saw him sit right there and watch me scale that wall—and not say a word.

It was just a different time, back then. Track and field, on a truly professional level, was in its infancy, and it wasn’t terribly organized. There were limited resources and little consideration for athletes like me.

I might have been fired from my job, but I still managed to soldier on. Every morning, I’d jog to Goodman’s Bay and do some stretches before the sun rose, back to the place where it all began with the Bain Town Flyers. Except I was alone now.

Like I said, I was in a limbo of sorts, still competing but a shell of my former self.

My times were still good enough that I received invitations to track meets, sometimes in unusual places. On one trip, in Czechoslovakia, I was in my hotel room when I heard the strangest noise. Turns out, it was the phone ringing. Everything seemed different behind the Iron Curtain, back when this country was part of the Soviet Bloc. When I picked up the phone, there was a short delay, and suddenly I heard a familiar voice.

It was Phil Smith, the veteran sports journalist and broadcaster from The Bahamas, calling to check up on me and do a story.

I burst out crying, right then and there.

I was just so happy to hear a Bahamian’s voice. To know that someone back home cared.

For the first time in my life, I considered walking away. I actually thought about giving up my citizenship and sprinting for another flag. I certainly had no shortage of offers. During this time, I was fairly vocal about my displeasure in how I was treated. I suppose news got around. Before I knew it, several countries had offered me not only citizenship and a spot on their national teams, but even a monthly allowance for the rest of my life. I would have been on easy street. Maybe I should rim for the Americans or Jamaicans, They will accept me with open arms, I thought, and not cast me aside. These thoughts drifted in and out of my head, even though, in my heart, it wasn’t what I truly wanted. For the love of the rock, I stayed.

And then there was this dream.

It first started a year or two earlier, before the Barcelona Olympics—reoccurring and always in the same vivid detail. I’d be running track at some sort of competition, except it wasn’t just me. There were four other girls. We were sprinting full out in a relay race. I’d watch as the girls passed each other the baton and sprinted around the track, and there I was, waiting at the very end, as the team’s anchor. They’d hand me the baton and I’d take off, but I never finished the race. It always ended before I could cross the finish line.

I had this same dream several times, until finally it happened—we finished the race. I could tell we were in a massive stadium with thousands of cheering fans. Myself and four other girls were jumping up and down, yelling and screaming. And then, a few moments later, I realize we just won an Olympic gold medal.

Call it a premonition. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy. Or just call it a dream—it doesn’t matter. What matters is this dream kept me moving forward.

What made it so exceptional was that I recognized my teammates every time. Their faces never changed—Eldece Clarke, Chandra Sturrup, Savatheda Fynes, and Debbie Ferguson. I didn’t want to believe it at first. I kept it to myself. But after watching us win that Olympic gold medal, I decided to finally do something about it.

I was determined to speak with all of them in June 1992, in Nassau, a couple months before I left for the Summer Olympics in Barcelona.

Of all the girls, Eldece was top of my list. She was my best friend, my confidante, teammate, and companion, stretching back to that first early morning in Coach Wisdom’s car, where she dozed beside me in the back seat on the way to Goodman’s Bay. If anyone was going to believe this crazy dream, and back me up, it was Eldece. The only problem was—Eldece hadn’t laced up her spikes in years. After graduating from college, she had a son, moved in with her mummy in Nassau, and retired from track and field.

“Pauline, I finished with track,” she said, a baby boy on her lap. “I’m done with that.”

“Eldece, listen, we are going to win this gold medal,” I insisted. “I saw it in my dreams and you are part of the team.”

I don’t know what was more crazy—the fact I had a dream we would win an Olympic gold medal, or the belief she could come back after so many years and compete at the highest level. So much water had already passed under the bridge. The last and only time Eldece and I had run together at the Olympic level was at the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles, where we came in seventh place. And twelve years later, we were going to win it all? Because that was how long it would have to be. After all, we didn’t even have a 4X100 team yet. It wouldn’t happen in Barcelona. The earliest we could all come together would be the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta. I would be thirty years old. Eldece would be thirty-one.

I’m amazed she didn’t kick me out of her mummy’s house, right then and there, for coming to her with such foolishness. But there was always something special between us, from day one. Eldece would be my ride or die for many years to come. Years later, when we’d both finally retired from sprinting, she explained it best.

“Pauline, if I had to go to fight a war, I’m going with an army of two people,” she said.

“Army of two? Who goes to war with an army of two?”

“That’s all I need,” she explained, “just one other person.”

“And who is this other person you gonna take with you?” I asked.

She looked me dead in the eye. “You.”

“Me?!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, you Pauline. I coming to get you. It gonna be you and me fighting this war. And you know why? One thing I know about you, you’ll fight to the bitter end. And you ain’t gonna kill me, and then come back and say the enemy killed me,” she laughed.

That was just how it was between us, although in truth, I didn’t convince her at that moment. It took another conversation or two. Deep down, though, I think she knew her athletic career wasn’t quite over—there was still some gas left in the tank. According to Eldece, she had already dreamed about a comeback, even before we reunited. And her interest grew stronger as she watched coverage of the events in Barcelona.

“I was actually sitting down in my mother’s house watching the 1992 Olympics,” she remembers, “and I saw a young lady I had competed against as a junior athlete—-Juliet Cuthbert, from Jamaica. I saw her win the silver medal in Barcelona in the 100 and the 200. And then I saw Frank [Rutherford] win the bronze in the triple jump. I thought: Why am I just sitting here? They are out there winning Olympic medals. Why am I not getting involved?”

Eldece came around—she agreed to come along and talk to the other girls.

Chandra Sturrup, five years my junior, first made a name for herself as a member of the Bain Town Flyers. Like me, Chandra came from poor circumstances. She trained under Coach Wisdom after I left for the University of Alabama and immediately started turning heads as a gifted 100-meter sprinter, with a series of podium finishes at the CARIFTA Games and the CAC Junior Championships. Whenever I came home for the holidays, or on school breaks, I made it my business to learn about all the up-and-coming talent by attending practices and high school meets.

Later on, Chandra joined another track club—the Striders—after Coach Wisdom moved on to pursue his political career.

Nevertheless, he remained active in her life. In fact, after Chandra earned an athletic scholarship to Norfolk State University, her athletic career was nearly derailed when she got pregnant. You can easily lose your scholarship over such a thing. Coach Wisdom called the head coach at Norfolk State and convinced him to keep her on. It was agreed—Chandra came back to Nassau, had the baby, and left him with her mother so she could pursue her dreams. And she just blossomed from there.

Sassy and occasionally brash, Chandra had an understanding with me. In the future, whenever there was an issue on the team, she’d be the one to come talk to me about it first.

Chandra was still so young in 1992. Other than Eldece and me, they all were.

Savatheda Fynes was born in October 1974, making her eight years younger than me. Born and raised on the Bahamian island of Abaco, Sava came to Nassau for high school. She was coached by Evon Wisdom, Coach Wisdom’s brother, who first identified that spark. When I lived in California, he sent her to stay with me for a few weeks. So I brought her to practice and helped her attend a few track meets in the area, just to build on her experience. Unlike Chandra, Sava was very quiet—a woman of few words.

She was silent, yet deadly. We used to call her the “Quiet Assassin.”

Funny enough, one of the first things I noticed about her was the way she walked. She had parrot toe—that’s Bahamian speak for toes pointed inward. And she ran the same way. Now, I’d be the last one to judge someone based on an unorthodox technique. When I saw her run—boy, I lost my mind. That girl was fast.

What really stood out about Sava was her pure, raw speed. She was like a bullet train out of those blocks, one of the best I’ve ever seen.

When Eldece and I approached her about joining the team, she was coming off a gold medal in the 200 meters at the CARIFTA Games. She would soon be heading off to Southern University at New Orleans on a full scholarship, but she later transferred to Eastern Michigan University. She’d actually transfer again and finally graduate at Michigan State.

And then there was Debbie Ferguson.

The first time I met Debbie was many years earlier. I was twenty years old. She was just ten. I had flown back to Nassau from Alabama at the request of the Bahamas Association of Athletic Associations to take part in tryouts for the Bahamian National Team. And as I recall, I wasn’t too happy about it. Back then, I was mostly competing against myself.

It all felt a bit pointless.

Mike Sands, president of the BAAA at the time, pointed out it was good for the younger generation of female athletes to see me. He’d invite many of the promising young girls to come out and watch me run. And one of those girls was Debbie.

When I finished with the tryout and came off the track, I was heading down a hallway to the bathroom when I heard someone calling behind me.

“Ms. Davis! Ms. Davis!”

I turned to see a little girl sprinting to my side.

“Ms. Davis! May I have the pleasure of speaking to thee?” she said, sweetly. That was actually how she said it, trying to sound proper. But as formal as her words were, I could tell the girl was hyperventilating, eyes wide and full of nerves. “I just think you’re the greatest! The greatest ever! I want to be just like you! Just like you, ma’am!”

I bent down and smiled. I realized then that returning from Alabama was the right decision after all.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Debbie. Debbie Ferguson.”

“Well, Ms. Ferguson,” I said, in my own formal way, “I don’t want you to be just like me. I want you to be better than me, OK?”

“Yes, ma’am!” she said, beaming.

As I turned and began walking away, I looked back for a moment and saw her standing there in that same spot, frozen, watching me leave.

I don’t know how seriously she took my advice that day, although Debbie certainly didn’t disappoint. By the summer of 1992, when Eldece and I first started forming that team, Debbie was the number one female junior sprinter in The Bahamas. Some said she was the Second Coming. The heir apparent. And in many ways, her build, body, and style were very similar to mine. The parallels don’t end there. Debbie also grew up poor, the child of a single mother. Also like me, her talents and determination meant it was only a matter of time before she got noticed.

Debbie earned a scholarship to St. Andrew’s School, a private school in Nassau. She joined the Pioneers Track Club and became the protege of Tommy Robinson and Frank Pancho Rahming. I suppose that was where our similarities ended. This reality, unfortunately, would sometimes place us on opposite sides of the fence—but I’ll get to all of that later. In the early 1990s, Debbie was the new kid on the block, and in many ways, the future of Bahamian track and field, fresh off her first gold medal as a Youth in the 100 meters at the CARIFTA Games. It would just be the first in a long and decorated career.

Individually, we would all have our accolades and accomplishments. But together, we would soon take on the whole world.

With Eldece’s help, I called a meeting and brought us all into one room. As I told them why they were there, and explained my dream, they all started to look at me a bit sideways—which made sense, I suppose, given my reputation.

I could tell I was losing the crowd. Until suddenly, Eldece stepped in.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but whenever Pauline says certain things are gonna happen, it happens,” she told the girls. “We are going to win this Olympic gold medal.”

I’m not sure they believed in my dream, or even thought we could win an Olympic medal, but we convinced them to form a team. And that was enough. It was lightning in a bottle, really, these five poor girls from a tiny country floating in the Atlantic below Florida—the pimple on the butt, as the American athletes used to call us. I was the only girl in the group heading to Barcelona in a couple of months. Atlanta in 1996 seemed like an eternity. But what did we have to lose? There was a very long road ahead, but at least our journey had begun.

Fast forward to 1993, with me unemployed and depressed in Nassau. That dream and the bonds we had created the year before kept me going, even during the darkest times.

It was something, and someone, to hold on to.

However, forming a team is one thing. Training and competing are another. And in August 1993, we all desperately wanted to attend the World Championships in Stuttgart, Germany. Money was always a problem, not just for us individually but also for the BAAA. Put simply, there was none. Athletes and the federation relied on scholarships from the IAAF to send us to competition. Given my qualifying times, I was a lock to go for the female athletes. Troy Kemp and Frank Rutherford claimed two spots for men. If the other girls wanted to join me in Germany, we’d have to raise the money ourselves.

So what did we do? We went out together, on the street, to beg for a dollar.

Two Olympians and three of the top up-and-coming female sprinters in the country all gathered in front of the Mall at Marathon, the main mall in the capital, to solicit everyday Bahamians for funds. We were out there all day in that blazing hot sun. And while we did raise some money, it wasn’t nearly enough to send the team to Germany.

Drained, dejected, and disheartened, I flew off to Germany alone a couple of days later.

I might have had a dream of something greater—but at this stage, it was only a dream. I was lethargic in competition, still grappling with my circumstances and now feeling guilty that I had left the other girls behind. I managed to make the final in the 100 meters, finishing in eighth place, with Gwen Torrence of the United States achieving the gold over Irina Privalova of Russia. Now, mind you, that result still made me one of the top female sprinters in the world. But I was in a rut, falling well below my potential and expectations.

I was floundering, feeling unsupported and bitter by what had happened to me. Something had to give. Remarkably, my salvation would come from an unexpected place.

* * *

During a time when everything in my life felt scattered and unpredictable, my morning jogs to Goodman’s Bay were the constant.

It was quiet and dark and I could be alone with my thoughts.

I never went with anyone. And I didn’t tell anyone about my morning routine. So one day, shortly after my return from Germany, I was surprised when a stranger approached me in the early morning darkness, as if he expected me to be there.

“Ms. Davis, the PM wants to see you,” he said.

I was sitting on the grass, stretching. I looked up and squinted through the dark but could see only outlines, not facial features. By PM, he of course meant the prime minister, Hubert Ingraham. I didn’t feel scared or unsafe—Goodman’s Bay had never been dangerous like that. I did feel cautious, confused, and mildly annoyed that this mysterious person knew where to find me.

“Please go and see him in his office.”

I shrugged him off, muttered something noncommittal, and carried on with my run.

I had no interest in playing games. Why would the PM want to see me now? He fired me, or at least his government did. I was angry and ignored his request. Until, a week or so later, this mysterious gentleman showed up again.

“I told you to go see the PM, Ms. Davis,” he insisted. “You have to go see him!”

“Sir, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious, Ms. Davis. Please, go see the PM.”

And can you believe it? I ran off again, with no intention of following through with his request. It took this man showing up a third time for me to take him seriously. And really, that was just because he wouldn’t let me run off this time. As he approached in the early morning light, the gentleman didn’t say a word. He took my hand and held on tight.

“I am not going to let you go,” he declared. “We are going to wait until morning comes and I am taking you to see the PM myself.”

Now that he was up close, I could see the details of his face. “Sir, I don’t even know you.” The feet he was a stranger made the situation all the more bizarre. How did he know where to find me the first time? I had never seen him before in my life—and I never would again.

“I told you the PM wants to see you,” he said stubbornly.

“Sir, I don’t even believe you. He fired me. What does he want to see me for?”

“I know it is difficult for you to understand, but I need you to believe me.

You think I would keep coming here to find you if it wasn’t true?” he asked. He made a good point there. “Please just call the PM’s office and ask to be put through to his secretary.”

He released my hand and walked away.

I finished my run and stretch that morning, headed back to Mum Wisdom’s house, showered, and then finally decided to make the call. It was time to get to the bottom of it.

When I said who I was on the phone, the secretary’s voice lit up.

“Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed. “The prime minister wants to see you. Immediately. Give me a contact number, please. I’m going to set up an appointment and call you back.”

And sure enough, within minutes the phone rang.

“Come see him at eleven o’clock,” she said.

The prime minister’s office, located in the upscale neighborhood of Cable Beach, is a large estate with white columns and pink walls. I passed through a security gate and rolled up the long driveway—past a small pond on the left with a water foundation in the middle—and into a leafy cul-de-sac. It was intimidating at first, seeing a crowd of police officers right in front of the main doors, although everyone seemed to be expecting me.

“Yes, yes, Ms. Davis,” they said, ushering me through, “come right in.”

I was led down the hallway and into a small room, where the receptionist invited me to have a seat, saying the PM would be ready to see me soon.

It took only a few moments before I was beckoned into his office.

Prime Minister Ingraham might not have been tall in stature, but his personality was larger than life. Known for his bombastic and at times aggressive style, he never shied away from an issue. His direct, no-nonsense style gave him the nickname “Papa” among the Bahamian people. He ain’t taking no foolishness. Walking into the office, I saw him sitting behind his desk, head down, appearing to finish up some paperwork in his suit and bright red tie. As I got closer, his meaty head shot up, those large eyes widening.

“Ms. Davis,” he boomed, motioning to the chair in front of me, “please have a seat.”

Like I said, the prime minister was not one to mince words.

“I’ve been trying to find you for weeks now,” he said, launching right into it. “This island is only seven miles by twenty-one miles. Nobody seemed to know where you were or what was happening.”

Suddenly, I felt like a student in the principal’s office. Unsure of what to say, I sat there quietly, my hands cupped together, although he didn’t leave me with much of an opening to respond.

“Let me tell you something,” he continued, pointing a finger at me. “You, Pauline Davis, are not going to fail under my watch. Do you understand me?”

I sat there stone-faced for a moment, in total shock, trying to stay calm. But then it all came crumbling down. The floodgates opened and I started bawling, right then and there. He handed me a tissue and asked me to wipe my face. Feeling a bit better, I decided it was now my turn to go on the offensive. I didn’t feel like I had anything to lose.

“What do you mean, “fail under your watch?”’ I asked, my voice shaky. “You fired me, sir. You fired me. And now you say I’m not going to fail?”

Prime Minister Ingraham’s expression softened. He rounded the corner of his desk and pulled up an empty chair beside me.

“Ms. Davis,” he said, easing into the seat, “I didn’t fire you.”

I laughed to myself slightly, wiping my nose with the tissue. The kind of laugh that was more like a grunt, when someone tells you a bad joke.

“You are the PM, sir,” I said matter-of-factly.

Even if he didn’t order the executioner, I still blamed the prime minister for what happened to me. I felt that, at the time, he could have stopped it from happening to me.

He reached out and took one of my hands.

“Let me apologize,” he said. “I am truly sorry that you got fired. But I need you to believe me that I did not fire you. I can tell you are going through a lot of pain.”

I nodded and buried my face in the tissues.

The silence was broken by a phone ringing on the prime minister’s desk. Rising from his chair, he reached over and picked up a red phone.

“Hello?” he said. “Yes, she’s sitting next to me. I’m dealing with it right now.”

The prime minister abruptly hung up and sat back next to me. To this day, I have no idea who was on the other end of that phone.

“Ms. Davis, the country wants you to train for the Olympics.”

“Really, Mr. PM?” I asked, a hint of sarcasm in my voice. “The country wants me to train? After putting me through all of this hell?”

“Again, I apologize. I’m sorry you had to go through so much. On behalf of The Bahamas, let me apologize to you. Now, we want you to get back into your training and continue your journey as an athlete. What can I do to facilitate that?” he asked.

Without hesitation, I looked him dead in the eye. “You can give me my job back. So I can work, take care of myself again, and pay my bills.”

He smiled back at me. “Done.”

Prime Minister Ingraham rose from the chair and walked back around his desk. “What about your training? Where will you train?”

“I’ll have to think about that.”

“Well, I don’t think you should stay in The Bahamas,” he stated, waving a hand in the air. “You need to go back outside The Bahamas to do your training. Name it. Any US city you want to go to. Wherever we have a Ministry of Tourism office.”

I paused and thought about it while the prime minister shuffled papers on the desk. And then it dawned on me—the next Summer Olympics would be in Atlanta, Georgia. And the city was a popular destination for Bahamians, with direct flights to Nassau. It was a perfect fit. I made my decision right away. “Atlanta, sir.”

Prime Minister Ingraham placed both hands on his desk. “Done.”

And just like that, my life changed—this time, for the better. I was once again a gainful employee at the Bahamas Ministry of Tourism, giving me the income to stand on my own two feet and continue my training. But most importantly, it restored my confidence in my country, my people, and myself. I can say—without hyperbole—that Prime Minister Hubert Ingraham saved my athletic career. He may have even saved my life.

For the prime minister, it was just the flick of a pen.

“When it came to my attention that she needed my assistance, it was a small matter to me, to assist a struggling and striving Bahamian, accomplished as she was,” recalls Ingraham, who served as PM twice (1992—2002 and 2007-2012). “I didn’t think I did anything more than what I was required to do under the circumstances. I help lots of people. It wasn’t something I broadcast or talked about . . . it was my job. If I could help, I helped.”

Yes, it was a small matter for him. But massive for me. That rejection after the 1992 general election, considering everything else I’d been going through, was a true nail in the coffin. By restoring my position with Bahamas Tourism, he pried those nails out and brought me back from the dead. I will forever be grateful for that.

“I didn’t subscribe to that sort of thing,” Ingraham adds, referring to the political victimization that cost me my job. “It didn’t matter what her political persuasion was. I never discussed politics with her. I didn’t even know what her politics were, and couldn’t care less when assisting her.”

Within a few days, I was back at work, initially at the Nassau office as they prepared my paperwork for transfer to Atlanta. It was an enormous weight lifted. I got back to more serious training, albeit gradually. And for the next while, I made a promise to myself to just lie low, let the application work its way through the system, and then I would be off to Atlanta.

But something strange happened. Four months later, I still hadn’t received that call. Again, I kept my head down, afraid to rock the boat.

One morning at the Nassau office, I ran into Brent Symonette, a prominent member of the FNM and the minister of tourism at the time.

“Pauline? What are you doing here?” he asked, appearing surprised.

“Sir?” I said, confused. “You forget I work here?”

“No, I mean why aren’t you in Atlanta?”

I explained to him the obvious—I was still waiting for my paperwork to go through. Disgruntled, he told me to hang tight. He would follow up with my approvals, personally. And let me tell you, within twenty minutes, I had all of my paperwork on my desk, stamped and ready to go. Had someone misplaced my file? Did it slip their mind? Given everything else that had happened to me, I’m tempted to say no. The directive for me to join the Ministry of Tourism in Atlanta came directly from the prime minister himself. And yet it still wasn’t enough to stop certain people from relentlessly trying to derail my life and career.

I believe someone buried my paperwork, although it just delayed the inevitable. I began packing for Atlanta immediately, ready for my new lease on life. But before I left, I stopped by to see Eldece. My dream of us winning an Olympic gold medal seemed so much closer now. It must happen in Adanta, I told her. And, if this dream was going to become a reality, we had to start training—especially Eldece, who had been in retirement for years.

Eventually, she would join me in Atlanta, off and on, over the coming years, while leaving her son in the care of her mummy.

It was a happy reunion, to be sure—I felt like we had come full circle since our earliest days on the Bain Town Flyers. That said, she and I banged heads more than a few times. Eldece often struggled with her weight, even when she was an active sprinter. She loved her junk food. And of course Eldece had gained more than a few pounds after having the baby and retiring from sprinting. It was a long road ahead to get back into prime condition, for both of us. Every so often, Ed search her room for junk food. She’d always keep it in the same place—under the bed. I’d scoop all of that junk up and toss it in the garbage.

“You treating me like a child, Pauline!” she’d scream. “I’m older than you. I’m going back to The Bahamas!”

“Fine, leave. I don’t care,” I’d snap back. “But I’m watching over you, Eldece. To get you where you need to go. You ain’t going to make it eating all of this foolishness.”

One thing about Eldece and me—we always kissed and made up. People used to compare us to a husband and wife. I suppose those early days as Coach Wisdom’s proteges created a unique bond between us, although that’s not to say our relationship wouldn’t be tested over the coming years.

In Atlanta, in late 1993 and the following year, we quickly got into our groove. I cooked most of the meals and made sure we stayed healthy. Eldece was a more technical runner than me, so she had no problem getting into a training routine.

For me, this time was about recovery, getting back in full shape and feeling settled in my new home. I felt welcomed and supported in Atlanta, with many friends and colleagues at the tourism office. The death of my daddy was firmly in the rearview mirror. And now I had the prime minister in my comer. Meanwhile, my racing times were good enough that I qualified for a few international competitions, although I still performed well below my expectations. But that didn’t bother me too much—I felt back in control of my life, like I was working towards something.

To become a top athlete, you need mental toughness in more ways than one. Yes, you must overcome the obstacles placed in your path. Beyond that, you must also recognize that your journey to the promised land might be a bit longer than you expect.

“As a sprinter, it was her determination that stood out,” Donald Quarrie, the legendary Jamaican sprinter and my former coach, explains. “Sometimes you can ran well, but it doesn’t work out for you at major competitions. Eventually, it does. From my experience, I often see that. You can have two or three off years, or just good years, and then something big happens. Patience and determination—Pauline had that. Sometimes you don’t get there immediately.”

My moment—the time I really knew I was back—was in March 1995 at the World Indoor Championships in Barcelona, Spain. Almost six hundred athletes from 131 countries descended on the Palau Sant Jordi, one of the venues of the 1992 Summer Olympics just a few years before. I entered those World Championships with a different mindset—there were no more excuses. Prime Minister Ingraham had stuck his neck out for me. I wanted to show him that he made the right decision, that he hadn’t wasted his time and money sending me to Atlanta.

I went into the final of the 200 meters confident that I could take home a gold medal for The Bahamas. And I came one step away from doing so.

It was just like Alabama, really, in my junior year when I won the 1988 national championship and “cartwheeled” over the finish line. The indoor track in Barcelona had a severe curve, and it was banked, or elevated from the ground. Generally speaking, I always had issues with the curve, indoor or not. The girl who ran sideways, with an unorthodox technique, was still living somewhere inside of me. I mean, Coach Wisdom and others did wonders to correct my technique, but every so often, I’d revert to some of my old habits. The curve only exaggerated these imperfections, by throwing me off-balance.

From the second that gun sounded, I felt in control of that race. It was only on the final stretch—coming off the top of the curve—that I faltered and had a misstep, ever so slightly. Whereas at the collegiate level I was able to hang on to win, the World Championships were a different beast. Melinda Gainsford of Australia crossed the finish line four hundredths of a second faster than I did, winning the gold medal. I settled for the silver medal, comfortably ahead of Natalya Voronova of Russia.

“The 200, I think Pauline ran that very well,” Quarrie recalls. “The only issue for her was the curve. Had Pauline been able to master the curve a bit more, she would have been even more outstanding.”

While my top-end speed and sheer determination were unquestioned, these issues with the curve would continue to haunt me throughout my career.

Nevertheless, it was a huge accomplishment. After years of medioc-racy—at least by my standards—I was back on the podium on the international scene, with the Summer Olympics only one year away. These Olympics, however, would be different. For so many years it had just been me out there competing against the world. But now I had to think about much more than myself. For the first time in twelve years, The Bahamas would have a female relay team.

* * *

From the moment we formed our relay team in the summer of 1992, I was convinced that we’d win a gold medal at the 1996 Summer Olympics.

The fact that we had barely ever trained together seemed like only a minor inconvenience.

Sure, Eldece and I had been training in Atlanta. But Savatheda, Chandra, and Debbie were off doing their own thing, competing for their respective colleges. We might come together here or there in Nassau for, say, the Olympic trials, but the five of us had barely spent any time practicing since we’d been out begging for a dollar outside a mall in 1993.

And now we’re going to take on the world?

I still believed it, somehow. And that belief had become infectious. Our first big test was the 1995 World Championships in Gothenburg, Sweden. If we performed well there, we’d qualify for an Olympic berth the following year.

We just had to figure out the order. Who would start the race? Who would be our anchor? And everywhere in between? Every country has its own strategy. More often than not, you’ll have your fastest sprinter in the fourth spot, as the team’s anchor, to finish strong. As a team, in Gothenburg and later in Atlanta, we decided that I’d run the anchor leg. The 4x100 relay was one lap around the track, and by the time the baton reached me, I’d have to finish us off on the straightaway with my top-end speed. No big curves to worry about, right?

Sava and Eldece were excellent starters out of the blocks. You need your first runner to get you off to that good start. Chandra, Debbie, and myself, generally speaking, were workhorses and built for speed. So it made more sense for us to receive the baton later in the race while in stride.

Of course, with five athletes on the team, it was always a difficult decision—who should sit out?

In Sweden, it was decided that Eldece would lead it off for us, followed by Debbie, Sava, and myself. Chandra, this time around, would be the odd one out, but step in if someone got injured.

I remember, when we made the final, how excited we all were just to be there. After such limited training, here we were, for only the second time in our country’s history, in the final of a 4x100 women’s relay at a major international competition.

The fact that we ended up in fourth place didn’t feel like a disappointment at the time—it was the best we had ever placed, a boost of confidence, and a building block for what was to come. The United States won the gold, followed by Jamaica and then Germany.

But our time of 43.14 seconds was good enough to qualify for the Summer Olympics.

Meanwhile, I was the only Bahamian female to medal at those World Championships, achieving another silver in the 400, while Troy Kemp was victorious with a gold medal in the high jump.

The top of the podium still eluded me, but I was knocking at the door. I returned to my home in Atlanta, the soon-to-be host of the XXVI Olympiad, ready for what came next. My reality was slowly inching towards what I saw in my dreams.

Although I lived in Atlanta, I stayed in the village at the start of the Olympic Games. Frank Rutherford, who had won The Bahamas’ first individual track and field medal four years before, led our team onto the field as our flag bearer for the Opening Ceremonies. We had twenty-six athletes at those Games, seven of whom were women—and our relay team made up five of them. The other two? My old friend Laverne Eve also represented The Bahamas in the javelin throw, along with Jackie Edwards in the long jump.

Heading into those Games, most sports analysts wouldn’t have been paying too much attention to The Bahamas. Sure, it was our biggest Olympic team yet, up from fourteen in Barcelona. Nevertheless, our 26 athletes were dwarfed when compared to the 646 from the United States, the 390 from Russia, or the 303 from Canada. If anyone was going to medal from The Bahamas, most eyes would have been on Rutherford in the triple jump, Kemp in the high jump, or myself in the 400 meters.

The Bahamian women’s relay team?

We weren’t a known commodity back then. Everyone knew the Jamaicans, of course. But The Bahamas? We hadn’t been on the scene since 1984, when we came in sixth place.

Now thirty years old, I didn’t have too many jitters going into Atlanta. It was already my fourth Olympic Games. The glitz, glamour, and grandeur of the event no longer had the same impression on me—I just wanted to win. In 1984, I had those visions of Wilma Rudolph and related to her because of the struggles I had faced. Now, I knew I was simply running out of time. Rutherford had broken that ceiling with his bronze in 1992—he showed it was possible. The time for excuses, or feeling intimidated, was over.

Eldece and I knew the drill. As for my relay teammates, it was all a brand-new experience. Huge gaps in age and experience separated us from the other three, and early on, it became apparent that we weren’t all on the same page.

Debbie Ferguson, that wide-eyed girl I had met when she was just ten years old, was now one of my teammates. It should have been a great story. She was the next big thing, the up-and-coming female sprinter who would one day lead the program to new heights. But at the Summer Olympics in 1996, there was discord on the team. Debbie, for whatever reason, was nowhere to be seen. She’d been gone for periods of time from the village. She didn’t show for practice. For a relay team that had already barely practiced together up until this point, it was distressing for all of us.

Our coach, once again, was none other than Frank Pancho Rahming. The same coach from the Central American and Caribbean Championships in 1989 who had stood on that track and refused to let me run. The same coach who was no doubt instrumental in my lifetime suspension. And, yes, the same coach of the rival track club, the Pioneers, who considered Debbie his protege—and his answer to Coach Wisdom’s molding of myself into the most dominant female athlete my country had ever seen.

It was a recipe for disaster from day one.

Although her absence was upsetting, I didn’t have a ton of time to think about it. After all, I was scheduled to run in my only individual event at these Olympics—the 400 meters. Coming off my silver at the World Championships one year before, I felt confident I would finally achieve that elusive podium finish. From CARIFTA to Alabama and beyond, I had great success at this event, often in dramatic fashion. This race, finally, would be my time.

The women’s 400 included forty-nine competitors from thirty-five nations—and it would prove to be a historic year. The field was particularly strong in 1996.

Leading the way was Marie-Jose Perec, of France, who had won the gold in the 400 at the last Olympics in Barcelona, along with the gold at the World Championships in Sweden one year earlier. The top American in the field was Jearl Clark, a 400 specialist who was coming off a gold in this event and the 4X400 relay at the 1993 World Championships in Germany—plus a gold at the 4X400 relay at the 1995 World Championships in Sweden. Cathy Freeman was the young upstart from Australia. The Atlanta Olympics was just the beginning for her, as she would go on to a whole series of golds in the 400 at the highest levels. And finally, Falilat Ogunkoya, of Nigeria, was the undisputed queen of the 200 and the 400 in Africa, dominating these events on her continent for a decade, beginning in the mid-1980s.

To win a medal, I knew I had to run the race of my life. And I did, for the most part. I ran so hard that, when I crossed the finish line, I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. I thought my heart might stop, I was so exhausted. It took me a long time to catch my breath. And when I finally did, gazing up at the giant scoreboard, I nearly died twice right there on the track.

For an elite track athlete in the Olympics, it was the worst result possible—I came in fourth place.

You’d almost rather finish last than finish fourth.

To be so close to a medal, but fall short. My time only added insult to injury. “The fastest loser,” the media kept calling me. I finished with a blistering time of 49.28 seconds. To put this in context, this time, more than twenty-five years later, stands up as the twenty-third fastest in the history of the women’s 400.

Pérec won the gold that day with a time of 48.25 seconds, which remains the fourth fastest time in history. Freeman, who achieved silver, still holds the ninth fastest time ever. And Ogunkoya’s bronze-winning time is currently fifteenth all-time.

It was crushing, to say the least.

To run such a time, and still for it not to be good enough, was very challenging to get over. Because in most years, it would have been good enough. In Los Angeles in 1984, for example, my time would have captured the bronze. Four years later, in Seoul, I’d have won the silver. And in Barcelona, I’d have been on the podium again with a third-place finish.

Look at any Olympics, really, and I would have medaled. I make no excuses, however. Olympic medals are precious commodities. While the circumstances were different, it reminded me of the 1987 NCAA Outdoor Championship, where we lost based on my half shoe over the line. Achievement at the highest level is sometimes measured by half a shoe, a few milliseconds, a momentary stumble, or a million other factors. So many times in my life I felt cheated from glory, often by factors beyond my control. You can drive yourself crazy thinking about it—a vicious circle of blame and regret that goes nowhere in the end. All I could do was dust myself off because, after all, the girls were counting on me. The 4X100 relay was in just a few days’ time.

I must have slept for a full twenty-four hours or more just to get my strength back before returning to practice with the team. And when I did, the situation with Debbie hadn’t improved—she was still missing from the village, and skipping practices.

It was hard not to think back to Puerto Rico in those moments, when I was disciplined in the most extreme way possible for spending one night in a hotel, by none other than our current Olympic coach.

The fact she could do anything she wanted, without consequences, only made the situation worse.

And yet we carried on as normal. Debbie was one of four sprinters on the team during the heats of the 4X100. It wasn’t until after the semifinal that all the problems with Debbie came to a head.

All five of us were practicing, just a day or two before the final. In her usual number two position, Debbie was sprinting forward and preparing to hand off the baton to Sava. But then there was an accident—Debbie drifted a bit too far into Sava’s lane, and there was a minor collision. We had to stop the practice immediately, and upon further inspection, it was discovered that Sava had a hamstring injury.

“I was injured even going into the Atlanta Olympics,” Sava explains. “Sometime back in May I had gotten injured. The injury wasn’t 100 percent healed at the time, so I was feeling it. But it wasn’t so much that I got injured again.”

There were other reasons to be concerned going into that 4x100 final. Yes, Debbie had been missing practices and spending time away from the village. And the injury only made things worse. But I had been doing some additional research as well. I printed off all the stats from the heats and semifinal, breaking down the individual times of each athlete.

Debbie is a very gifted athlete and she would go on to do great things. But right then and there, it was clear in black and white—she was running slow. At least compared to our competition. That gold medal I saw in my dreams seemed to be fading away.

It was Chandra who approached me first—always the more feisty and outspoken of the group. Given what happened to Sava, she also felt Debbie needed to be removed.

So we called a meeting in the village—myself, Eldece, Sava, and Chandra—to discuss what to do. We knew we had to tread carefully. It was clear to all of us how sensitive the situation was with Debbie, in terms of her connection with Rahming. We laid it all out. I brought those statistics to the meeting and everyone had their say. In the end, it was collectively decided that Chandra would take Debbie’s spot in the final.

Sava, while not 100 percent, was healthy enough to keep going. It was agreed that, as a team, we needed to speak with Debbie and break the news together.

Sadly, it didn’t quite work out that way.

Chandra ran into Debbie first and spilled the beans. I don’t know exactly what was said. I was rounding a comer and I heard Debbie before I saw her. It was a nasty cry—a wailing—and then I saw Debbie down the hallway, walking towards me.

“Chandra says you don’t want me on the team!” she cried.

I quietly explained to her, as best I could, the reasoning behind our decision. We were supposed to all sit down with her and explain, point by point. It was an awful situation, and soon, that grief would shift to anger. We also had Rahming to deal with.

He was furious, of course. Even though it was a collective decision, my role as team captain meant I received most of his wrath.

“Y’all don’t get to call the shots!” he screamed. “I’m the coach here. How dare you! You don’t just get to do this and that.”

And he was right, in a way. He was the coach. But I felt—along with the rest of the team—that we had a special responsibility in that 4X100 final. It was us what brought that team together in the first place. We were the ones scraping and clawing to get here, begging for a dollar so we could attend meets, fitting in practices where we could before the Olympics. And quite frankly, based on her times and behavior, Debbie didn’t deserve to run in that final.

“I was in Atlanta for those Olympics,” remembers Brent Stubbs, sports editor for the Tribune, one of The Bahamas’ leading newspapers. “And I spoke with Debbie . . . she was devastated. And she didn’t mince words. To her credit, I vividly remember Debbie said she was not going to let it destroy her. She will come back and earn her spot on the team.”

For better or worse, one thing that would get me into trouble at times was my willingness to speak my mind. I was afraid of no man, regardless of his position in life. I would always speak the truth.

I only had one priority—winning that Olympic gold medal that I saw in my dreams.

“That’s Pauline,” Stubbs adds. “She don’t hide nothing. And that’s what I like about her. She is going to tell you what she has to say. She’s not going to tell you what you want her to say. And I think that got her into trouble sometimes. As a female, some people didn’t embrace her because of that. But that’s Pauline and you can’t take that away from her.”

Rahming threw his hands up in the air and stormed off. From that moment on, we didn’t have a coach. It would be coaching by committee, hollering on the track or on the sidelines during our final practices and walk-throughs, encouraging each other and pointing out areas of improvement. Rahming and Debbie were nowhere to be seen.

Stepping out onto the track at Centennial Olympic Stadium, tens of thousands cheering in the stands and millions more watching at home, I knew one thing for sure—this better work.

Failing to deliver now would be a total disaster.

We certainly had our work cut out for us. As was often the case, the favorites were the Americans, followed by the Jamaicans, Russians, and Nigerians. France, Australia, and Great Britain all had strong teams and made the final. The last and only time we were in this situation, back in 1984, we had come in sixth. I don’t think any of the eighty-five thousand people in that stadium gave us much thought.

“Well over a million people have seen track and field [in the stadium] at these Olympic Games and tonight promises to provide a lot of fireworks,” the CBS commentator said. “Beginning with the relay races, first the women’s 4X100 relay, with Atlanta’s hometown favorite, Gwen Torrence, as the US will throw their potent one-two punch against the rest of the world. Gwen Torrence, who will anchor, and Gail Devers, who will run the second leg.”

Although Gail had won the gold in the 100 meters just days before, Gwen received most of the attention as the hometown girl. She and I had gotten to know each other especially well in the lead-up to the Olympics. Manley Waller, her husband, was actually one of my coaches in Atlanta prior to the Games. So we were on friendly terms, although in truth, there was a fierce level of competition there, bubbling under the surface.

Years earlier, Gwen had been a star athlete at Georgia, one of the biggest rivals of Alabama in the SEC. And our relationship got off to a rocky start.

I was a badass freshman at the time, new to the scene. She was a year or two older than me. At Louisiana State University, she marched up to me like she was gonna cut my ass, as we like to say in The Bahamas. Gwen wanted to rip a strip off me.

“You know I’m gonna beat your ass,” she said.

The Bain Town in me emerged right there. I stepped right up to her, getting my face in close to hers.

“What did you just say to me?” I shot back. “What you say you gonna do?”

And I remember, clear as day, her expression softened then.

“Oh my god, you’re not American!” she said.

I just rolled my eyes and walked off.

From then on, our relationship took a positive turn. She called me “Bahama” and seemed to find my background and accent endearing. I mean, she and I would become friends. That girl could sprint, straight up, and we’d spend time together both on the international circuit and while training in Atlanta. But I’m a very competitive person. I never really forgave her for that altercation at LSU, all those years ago.

And here we were, at the Atlanta Olympics.

I glanced over at Gwen in lane five, right beside the Jamaicans in lane six. She was pacing back and forth, her dark hair tied up in a red, white, and blue scrunchie. I was lined up in lane two, in between France and Great Britain. Suddenly, I realized Gwen was looking right over at me. Considering her husband was my coach, I think she had a better idea of where our Bahamian team was—that we were in contention for a medal, perhaps even the gold. We both knew it would be a battle on that anchor leg.

Nobody else was paying much attention to The Bahamas.

Looking back on that NBC broadcast of the Olympics, my country wasn’t even mentioned prior to the race. All the focus was on the US team, understandably so, and then the attention shifted over to the “formidable lineup” from the Jamaicans. France, Russia, and a few other teams received a mention, once the full list of countries momentarily flashed on the screen. But not a single whisper of The Bahamas.

Much was made of the rivalry between Gwen and my longtime friend and mentor, Merlene Ottey, who was anchoring for Jamaica. Which makes sense, I suppose. Merlene had won six Olympic medals in her career up to this point, including two silvers—in the 100 and the 200—at that very Olympics. In 1996, she was at the peak of her sprinting powers.

Besides Gwen and Merlene, my next big competition was Russian sprinter Irina Privalova, bronze medalist in the 100 and silver medalist in the 4x100 relay at the 1992 Summer Olympics in Barcelona.

But really, it was the Americans—and everyone else. The United States had won the last three Olympic gold medals in this event, and eight of the last fifteen.

Eldece got us off to a great start, keeping us in striking distance of the leaders. Michelle Freeman thrust the Jamaicans into an early lead. Then Gail Devers got her hands on the baton, white tape covering the ends of her fingers to protect those long nails of hers. The reigning 100-meter champion propelled the Americans to the front of the pack.

Chandra—Debbie’s replacement—didn’t disappoint. We were in the top three by the third leg. The Jamaicans had dropped off and the Russians were gaining ground. I’m hopping up and down, getting loose, and waiting for my time. Next came Sava. As she rounded the corner, I got into position for the handoff. The United States, Russia, and The Bahamas were separated by only a breath. Jamaica would have some catching up to do. And as Sava came storming in, the last thing I remember, before beginning my strides forward, was her discomfort. I could tell that hamstring was bothering her. That impacted how I received the baton. I slowed down ever so slightly on the exchange, concerned our timing would be off.

With Gwen slightly in the lead, I exploded like a cannon, barreling down that inside straightaway. The commentator was so fixated on the Jamaican and US teams, you could hear his surprise, as if I’d materialized out of nowhere.

“Merlene Ottey anchors for Jamaica, Gwen Torrence of the US. Here’s the top of the straightaway. Baton pass made. Gwen Torrence is in front. Merlene Ottey is there. And . . . then down on the inside The Bahamas giving a challenge,” he cried, a slight stumble in his voice. “But here comes Gwen Torrence, to win it for the US.”

In those final seconds, the world finally noticed the pimple on the butt.

Merlene ran an inspired anchor leg to edge out Privalova and capture the bronze.

Our team crossed the finish fine with a time of 42.14 seconds—nineteen hundredths of a second behind the Americans. We defeated Jamaica by just ten hundredths of a second, and the Russians by thirteen hundredths. As the coverage shifted over to NBC headquarters, Bob Costas, the iconic prime time host of the Olympic Games, finally gave us our due.

“As for the Bahamians,” he concluded, “who finished with the silver, these are the first medals ever won by Bahamian women.”

It was a momentous accomplishment, to be sure, both for ourselves and our entire country.

The first 4X100 women’s relay was at the 1928 Summer Olympics in Amsterdam, The Netherlands. Scrolling through the annals of the event, a familiar group of countries tend to dominate the podium—the United States, Canada, Germany, Great Britain, Russia (and the former Soviet Union). Then you have a sprinkling of smaller nations, such as the Netherlands, Australia, Poland, and Nigeria. In 1968, Cuba shocked everyone when it won a silver in Mexico City; at the time, the island had a population of around nine million people.

But The Bahamas? We were a fraction of that. A fraction of a fraction. No country of our size had ever done anything like this.

So there we were—Eldece, Chandra, Sava, and myself—all bouncing up and down and cheering, giving each other long hugs, allowing the moment to sink in. Until finally, I caught myself. Wait a minute, I thought. This isn’t how the dream happened. We were supposed to win the gold medal.

As crazy as it sounds, my mind was already four years in the future. If it wasn’t Atlanta in 1996, then it must be 2000, in Sydney, Australia.

Nevertheless, it was a sweet victory, dulling the pain of my fourth-place finish in the 400.

The four of us paraded off the field and through the tunnel like champions. For Eldece to come out of retirement and help us win a silver medal was extraordinary. Not to mention our team’s financial struggles, barely able to practice or attend international competition. And then there was Sava’s injury, while having to swap out Debbie at the eleventh hour. Finally, add to all of that my personal struggles, from rock bottom to Olympic podium, and it wasn’t a perfect moment—but it was a huge step forward.

In the press conference that followed, amid the frenzy of camera flashes and throngs of media, we all noticed something was missing.

Debbie was nowhere to be seen.

While our ultimate goal was elusive, The Bahamas had finally arrived. The track and field world would now say our country by name. And yet, as we gazed out over that sea of officials and reporters, Debbie wasn’t the only one missing. Nobody from The Bahamas was there to greet us. Not a single race official, coach, or member of our Olympic Committee in sight.

The silver was ours. Our gamble to remove Debbie from the team had paid off, but I also knew there was a fight coming. This time, I’d be ready.

9

THE PACT

After the Olympics, the other girls flew home to Nassau and I stayed in Atlanta. After all, this was my home now, where I had my coaches and position with the Bahamas Ministry of Tourism. Our relay team was floating on air as we all said our goodbyes—apart from Debbie, of course, who remained missing in action.

That snub after the race was only the beginning.

A day or two later, I saw Alpheus Finlayson, president of the Bahamas Association of Athletic Associations, walking down the hall towards me at the Olympic Village. I slowed down and tried to make eye contact with him. But he carried on right past me, as if I were a ghost.

Not a single kind word, congratulatory remark, or handshake. Not even a discussion.

It didn’t bother me too much at the time—I was used to being unpopular with the BAAA and the Bahamas Olympic Committee (BOC). Sticks and stones, right? However, a couple of weeks later, the whole situation became far more personal.

The phone rang at my Atlanta home. It was my granddaddy—and I could barely understand a word he was saying, he was crying so hard.

“Pauline, baby, why you do this to yourself?” he wept, his voice shaking. “People don’t love you. They say awful, bad things about you. And I know that’s not you!”

“Granddaddy?” I asked, confused at first. I could feel the pain in his voice. Within moments, tears were streaming down my cheeks. “What are you talking about? What happened?”

“They don’t care nothing about you!” he wailed.

Like most Bahamians, my granddaddy was glued to the local news. And there was no bigger story than the Bahamian women’s relay team bringing home a silver medal at the Olympics.

First off, Bahamians love newspapers, talk radio, and television broadcasts. We are news junkies. Even today, despite the rise of the internet and online news, you’ll still find people listening to their radios at home, or buying newspapers from street vendors while waiting at a red light. And second, we got the sip-sip. That’s Bahamian speak for the rumor mill, and let me tell you, there ain’t nobody better at the sip-sip than the Bahamian people.

News travels very fast on my little island.

Apparently, not long after returning from Atlanta, the BAAA and BOC held a celebration or two in Nassau to commemorate our big win. And here I was, missing in action—nobody bothered to even tell me about it. Again, that part didn’t upset me too much. Yes, I would have liked to have been invited, but a little celebration or two paled in comparison to the vile sip-sip going around Nassau. Word on the street—Pauline Davis is a menace to Bahamian track and field, a disruption, and another suspension was in the works.

That would be my second suspension, for those keeping score.

The Nassau Guardian ran a story with the headline “Black Christmas for Davis?”

According to the article, rumor had it that Pauline Davis would be suspended “for her involvement in the replacement of Debbie Ferguson.”

“But the Guardian has also learned that the suspension may be because of a verbal altercation between Davis and Olympic Track and Field head coach Frank Rahming in Atlanta,” the reporter added. “It is alleged that the motion to discipline came up because of some words that Rahming “could not repeat’ when the two were discussing the makeup of the 4X100 metre relay final’s team.”

It was the same old rivalries. The same old bitterness, tribalism, and favoritism. But much had changed since my last showdown with the BAAA. I was no longer the young, sensitive girl who would take abuse lying down. I was a grown woman now, the proud flag bearer for women’s international track and field, if not all of Bahamian track and field, for the better part of ten years. I had the support of the prime minister. And now I was an Olympic medalist. I wasn’t the same person they messed around with in Puerto Rico.

I calmed my granddaddy down and told him I’d deal with it.

Moments later, I was on the phone again, booking a seat on Delta Airlines. I was smoking it back to The Bahamas the very next morning.

After I landed, I hailed a taxi. There was no time for family or friends.

I had only one place to go—“ZNS, please.”

ZNS, or Zephyr Nassau Sunshine, is our oldest national television broadcaster, owned and operated by the government and the Broadcasting Corporation of The Bahamas. I marched right into their headquarters and told them I had a story to tell: “A lot of negative things are being said about me—and I’m here to set the record straight.”

I think everyone was in a state of shock that Pauline Davis, the Golden Girl, had just showed up out of the blue. But they were also thrilled.

“Hold tight,” they said. “We’ll put you on the next show.”

Turns out, defending myself wouldn’t be as easy as I thought.

Like I said, Bahamians love talk radio, and from the moment I entered that studio, the phone lines lit up like a Christmas tree.

“You can’t make no coaching decisions!” an anonymous caller declared, cussing me out.

“Who the hell you think you are?” said another.

“You an athlete! You need to shut your mouth and stay in your lane!”

All kinds of vitriol was spewed my way. I took a deep breath. My goal was to lay all my cards on the table and explain to the public everything that happened in Atlanta.

I placed all my cards on the table, about Debbie and her absence from the village and missing practices. I explained that it wasn’t Pauline Davis making all these decisions from on high—it was a team decision to substitute Chandra for Debbie. And I was just getting warmed up. Point by point, I described what happened with Sava’s injury, when Debbie collided with her. I related the story about printing off the times for all the athletes, and learning Debbie was among the slowest in the field. I made sure everyone knew that I did, in fact, approach the coach with these concerns. He didn’t even want to hear me out, I explained.

I was at peace with how I handled it. Our only goal was to win an Olympic gold medal. I thought we were doing our country a righteous service by making sure we put athletes out there who were focused. And at that particular time, Debbie wasn’t focused.

“I think they somehow made it seem like, “How dare you decide not to let Debbie run,”’ Eldece says. “Remember now, she was the queen. She was young, up-and-coming. She was well loved. So it was difficult for us to say—“Well, no, Debbie, you will have another time.’ That was a decision we made as a team. And it made her a better athlete.”

I was in that studio for hours. ZNS cancelled its scheduled programming for the day, just to keep the discussion going.

As time went on, public opinion shifted.

“BAAA need to leave this girl alone,” a caller declared.

“This is what we put our athletes through to represent our country?”

“This girl sacrificed everything to put us on the world stage—and we treat her like this?”

I was done suffering in silence.

When it was finally all over, I felt exhausted and emotionally drained. As I left the studio and walked down the hall, staff members at ZNS rose from their chairs and emerged from offices, smiling, clapping, and hugging me and patting me on the back.

When I reached the lobby, I froze in my tracks—the room was filled with flowers.

“They all for you,” the receptionist told me.

It was one of the most incredible outpourings of support I’d ever seen. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, but not satisfied. My next stop was to my lawyer, Jeannie Thompson, to take out a lawsuit against the BAAA and fight my suspension.

If they insisted on heading down this path—again—then the entire Bahamas was going to hear some things. I had no problem placing my hand on the Bible and telling the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Meanwhile, my story was on the radio and in the newspapers nearly every day. People just couldn’t get enough of this scandal with the BAAA.

Let them suspend me—see what happens.

That was my line drawn in the sand. It was a real standoff.

As a court date was set, the judge’s last name was Davis. No relation, it turns out, but I took that as a positive sign of things to come. And then, something huge happened. Many of the Bahamian athletes from Atlanta stood by me.

“Athletes Show Their Support for Davis”—that headline was splashed in the Tribune on January 3, 1997. A large collection of Bahamian athletes, including my teammates Eldece Clarke and Chandra Sturrup, signed on to a letter asking the BAAA to reconsider my suspension.

“We the undersigned members of the 1996 Olympic team wish to indicate our full support for Pauline Davis, a dedicated and accomplished track and field athlete,” the letter read. “We were at the Olympics and those of us who were present, and those of us who heard about the misunderstanding between Pauline and head coach Frank Rahming immediately afterwards, can confirm that at no time did Pauline use obscene or inappropriate language to Frank Rahming, as suggested in his report to you.”

The pendulum had swung—public opinion had firmly shifted my way, and not just among the athletes. Everyday Bahamians stopped me on the street and apologized, as if they had done something wrong. It was a stressful time, but also empowering.

I’m not saying I was the perfect athlete—I definitely spoke my mind, and to some people, acted too aggressively or impulsively. But I never did anything simply for myself. It was always for my country in the pursuit of that Olympic gold medal.

“I think Pauline was misunderstood,” Sava explains. “The thing about Pauline, she is a great person. Everything she does, she means well. Sometimes when you love something so much, you let your emotions take over. And I think that is what happened to her. Because of her emotions, I think she was misunderstood.”

Within a few months of my filing that lawsuit, the threat of suspension was dropped.

I wonder—am I the only Olympic athlete to suffer two suspensions from her own federation? And then beat them both?

Not my most illustrious accomplishment, I suppose, but a unique one.

I refused to shy away from it. I was done with depression and self-pity. Even after the suspension was removed, I had the option of removing the record of my lawsuit from the courts. In the end, I decided to let that sit right there.

Not out of malice, but as a testament—and a warning.

Even today, I see my experiences as a way to protect the next generation of athletes, so hopefully, they never have to go through what I did.

The record of my lawsuit will sit there in the courts until the day I die.

At the same time, I had no interest in dwelling on the past. I had bigger fish to fry. I mean, I was now over thirty years old, with four Olympic Games under my belt. Not many athletes compete at the highest level for that long, let alone make it to a fifth. And yet that was my goal, to not only make it to the 2000 Sydney Olympic Games, but also finally win that elusive gold medal. Time was running out. We had to get the girls back together.

There was just one big missing piece.

My suspension might have been lifted, but what about Debbie? Our team had been fractured because of what happened in Atlanta. And the reality was—Debbie was an extremely talented athlete. She was correct in her comments to Tribune reporter Brent Stubbs. What happened at those Olympics would not define her. We would need Debbie to win the ultimate prize. She and I had not spoken since Atlanta. And then, about six months later, the phone rang.

“Deb, is that you?” I said.

We both burst out talking at the same time. So much to say. So much left unsaid.

“Let me talk. Let me talk,” she insisted, taking a brief pause. “Look, I understand I messed up. I know why you all did what you did. And I know that you love me. You remember the time I told you I wanted to be just like you?”

“Yes, I remember Deb,” I whispered. “But you were going down the wrong path.”

We talked about it for a long time—and cried—and then talked some more. Despite everything that had happened, I loved Debbie. She was my little sister, and I’ll never forget that moment when we first met at the track. The way she looked up to me. Those feelings don’t go away. While we’d have our ups and downs, I only wanted the best for her.

Ultimately, it was decided—we needed to get the team back together.

It was easier said than done. In mid-1997, coming off that silver medal, we were hungrier than ever. We had seen the promised land. But we were also busier than ever, with our own separate lives and pursuits, living in various cities with different coaching staffs. I was between Atlanta and Nassau. Eldece found herself back at her alma mater, Hampton University in Virginia, training under the former American sprinter Steve Riddick. He was a good choice, considering Riddick was part of the gold medal 4x100 relay team at the 1976 Summer Olympics in Montreal. Chandra moved to Raleigh, North Carolina, to train under the Jamaican sprinter Trevor Graham. As for Savatheda, she also trained in the United States, bouncing between Michigan State and Texas. Debbie was still in college, ripping up the SEC at the University of Georgia.

We may have been separated, but Nassau was home. It was our touchstone, our rallying point, where we’d all end up returning sooner rather than later.

Early in the summer of 1997 we had our first real meeting since the Atlanta Olympics. We decided to have lunch at fish fry. For those of you who don’t know, and perhaps have never visited The Bahamas, fish fry is an institution. Nestled right by the ocean, it’s a collection of seafood restaurants, both indoor and outdoor, all serving traditional Bahamian food. At nighttime, this area erupts with music, dancing, and partying, sometimes going on into the early morning hours. Not for us, though—we were there to eat, and for me, it was to talk business. We still had this little matter of my dream from years ago.

We didn’t win the gold in Atlanta, so it had to be in Sydney, in three years’ time.

The five of us were sitting outside, our table covered in Bahamian favorites—peas ’n’ rice, conch, fish, plantains, and coleslaw. We were digging in, eating, laughing, and talking foolishness, and every so often a group of people would stop by and speak with us, and ask for a picture or autograph. I’d been used to this attention for years. The Bahamian public knew our whole team now. We were celebrities on our island.

But like I said, we were also there to talk business.

What was incredible about Atlanta was just how little we had practiced in the lead-up to those Olympics. To reach the next level, we needed to start much sooner, which was difficult considering how scattered we all were across the United States.

So what did we do? We made a pact right then and there.

We had to finish this. We had to win an Olympic gold medal. Through the years, the five of us would have our fair share of disagreements and arguments. But what we knew more than anything, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that we had a real shot at Olympic glory and taking down Goliath—the Americans. While we may have come from a small island nation, our national pride and sense of responsibility ran deep.

So it was agreed—no matter what happened in our lives, between now and the Sydney Olympics in 2000, we were going to stick together.

“My thinking became very clear after we won the silver,” Eldece remembers. “Chandra, Savatheda, and Debbie—they were junior athletes, but they were running world-class times. So then we realized, we could win the gold medal. We had the leg speed. We were just as fast as the United States. Just as fast as Jamaica. Faster than France. What we needed to do was perfect our exchanges. Our baton exchanges.”

To do that, the girls and I would have to take matters into our own hands. In a tiny country with limited resources, the BAAA and the BOC weren’t going to do it for us. There was no big budget for training camps. No glistening athletic facilities with all the latest technology and medical personnel. What we had around that table at fish fry was it. Our hearts, bodies, and determination. It wasn’t as if other female sprinters were coming up through the ranks to take our place. Whereas countries like the United States had dozens of elite athletes to choose from, all vying for a spot at the Olympics, we were the only horses in this race.

Fortunately, what we did have were coaches outside of The Bahamas, and access to world-class staff and equipment. So how to bring it all together?

Well, that was also part of the pact.

I had the girls write down their names on a small piece of paper. Then I collected all the pieces and tossed them in a brown paper bag and shook it up. This was how we’d determine the order—who would host our first practice?

It was the only way. We had to commit to all coming together in one city, at our own expense, or we’d never get enough practice in time.

The host teammate would be responsible for transportation to and from the airport, a place to sleep, food, and bringing in her personal coach and facilities to help with the practices. So as I shook up that brown bag, squeezed my eyes tight, and reached in, guess whose name I pulled out first? Pauline Davis.

It made perfect sense, since I was captain of the team.

We left fish fry brimming, with our eyes on the prize. The pact wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was all we had. Little did we know, our bonds would be tested to their very limits.

* * *

We all went our separate ways, with a commitment to hold our first practice before too long. Life, of course, got in the way. Before we knew it, a few months slipped by. We were now in August, heading off to the 1997 World Championships in Athens, Greece.

We would soon realize just how badly we needed those extra practices.

Our competition in Greece was stiff. The Americans were returning with essentially the same team, apart from one new face—Marion Jones. Depending on how old you are, you might recognize that name. Even today, I cannot hear it without feeling a sharp jolt of pain. Although I barely knew her, she would impact my career more than anyone.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, around the time I was finishing at the University of Alabama, Jones was dominating the high school track and field circuit in California. She won Gatorade Player of the Year three consecutive times for best track athlete. To give you some perspective, past winners for basketball include LeBron James and Kobe Bryant. Peyton Manning and Emmitt Smith won for football. So it was a remarkable achievement to win once, let alone three times. During this time, she was also dubbed High School Athlete of the Year in 1991 and 1992 by Track and Field News. Jones was an American prodigy— a sprinting savant—and a generational talent. But even then, there were warning signs.

In 1992, Jones was accused of doping and failing to submit to drug tests. Incredibly, she was actually defended in tribunal by notorious attorney Johnnie Cochran, who would represent O. J. Simpson two years later in one of the most famous murder trails in modern history. Cochran’s flare and resourcefulness would serve him well in both cases. Jones was acquitted of those charges. But in an interesting twist, her track and field career was then placed on the back burner. An extremely gifted athlete, Jones received a full scholarship at the University of North Carolina to play basketball for the Tar Heels.

The first time I saw her was a few months before Greece, in the spring of 1997.

After graduating from North Carolina, Jones returned to the track. Although she’d been away from competition for years, we knew her by reputation. It’s a small community—and people talk. “She’s the one who was defended by Johnnie Cochran,” I heard.

We were at a track meet at Georgia Tech. It wasn’t a major competition—more of a meet that brought top athletes together from both the collegiate and professional circuits for a tune-up. It was an opportunity to compete and see where I was in my training. I was a very sociable person, but I kept my distance from Jones. From day one, something didn’t feel right. I recall, looking her up and down, that she didn’t seem to carry the weight of her reputation. She appeared out of shape and didn’t live up to the hype.

A few months later, when I saw her in Athens, she was an entirely different person.

She was toned and muscular and appeared to have done a 180-degree turn in her conditioning. Even then, three years before I would face her in the 2000 Summer Olympics, I knew something was wrong. You don’t go from one body to another in that length of time. I never had much to say to her—hello, and move on. In my career, I was always about the work. Nobody trained harder than me. I took pride in that. What am I gonna say to an athlete who appears out of nowhere? I saw her with my own eyes at Georgia Tech. As an elite athlete, you work hard your whole life, and then someone comes and puts you to shame?

Because that was what happened—Marion Jones won the gold medal at those World Championships in Greece in the 100 meters, placing the track and field world on notice. Savatheda took home the bronze for The Bahamas, with Debbie running in the finals.

Chandra and I would run the 200, although, sadly, neither of us would make the final. The World Championships would be a huge setback for all of us.

The upcoming 4x100 wouldn’t be much better.

Like I said, we hadn’t practiced much as a team prior to Athens. And beyond our lack of physical training, cracks were beginning to form.

Shortly after arriving at those World Championships, Eldece and I, the elders on the team, had a fight. You see, on the international circuit, you win prize money based on where you finish. One of the unique challenges on any relay team, of course, is that someone must be the odd one out—you have five women, but only four can run. For years, I had been out there representing The Bahamas as the only female sprinter. I suppose, for Eldece, it was time for me to step aside and let someone else have a chance to win.

That someone was Chandra.

Even in Atlanta the year before, I told Eldece, “Whatever money we win, we’ll split it five ways. No matter what. Even if I have to take it out of my own earnings.” I never understood why it was an argument to begin with. We were a team, in every sense of the word. I didn’t want money to get in the way. Period. And that was what I told Eldece again in Greece. I was the captain and that was just the way it was going to be.

There were other good reasons for splitting it five ways.

First off, you want athletes to be honest about their bodies. Theoretically, knowing compensation is equal means nobody will feel pressured to run if he or she is battling injury. Second, I’ve always been a firm believer in the adage “never count your chickens before they hatch.” Eldece, and perhaps Chandra, were heading into this race already thinking about money. To me, that was the opposite mentality.

You go in expecting nothing—but prepared to do battle for everything.

We had negative energy going into the final of the 4X100 relay. And I believe it came back to bite us. I stood my ground and kept my spot on the relay team. We breezed through our qualifying heat, finishing first ahead of Jamaica, Germany, and Russia. Eldece was leading us off, as she often did, followed by Sava, Debbie, and myself. We entered that final expecting a strong showing after our performance in Atlanta. We were about to get a reality check.

The race started off well. Eldece ran an excellent opening leg and Sava followed suit. We were on a potential world-record pace up to this point. And then we bumbled the handoff between Sava and Debbie. The baton didn’t fall, but at this level, even a slow and awkward transition can be the difference between success and failure.

By the time I got the baton, we were well behind the leaders. I tried to go from zero to sixty, to make up the deficit, and ended up pushing myself way too hard. While I made it across the finish line, I pulled up with a serious hamstring injury.

It was salt in a gaping wound.

We finished sixth in those World Championships. The Americans, with newcomer Marion Jones, won the gold, followed by the Jamaicans and the French. It was a devastating result for us, and a poignant reminder that we had a long way to go.

Call it lack of training. Or perhaps, after our success in Atlanta, we let egos get in the way. The reason didn’t matter. Greece underlined how much we needed those extra practices to get on the same page.

First things first—I returned to Nassau to speak with our team doctor and assess my hamstring injury. It had been years since my last major setback. I was that much older now, making it all the more important to deal with it right away with proper treatment. And yet, our team doctor, a member of the BAAA, informed me that all the machines were taken. There were no appointments available, despite my being one of the country’s top athletes.

I begged and pleaded. Could I come in after hours? Early morning or late at night? I was gobsmacked by the way he spoke to me. You’d swear I was someone off the street.

Was my own federation still working against me?

I didn’t have time to consider this question for long. Distraught, I flew back to Atlanta and, fortunately, found a physiotherapist who could provide the treatment I needed at a reasonable cost. It would take me almost three months to get over that injury.

For whatever reason, I often found more support outside my beloved country. And sometimes, these angels appeared in unexpected ways.

Shortly after the Atlanta Olympics, I was at the track, practicing with my coach, Manley Waller, and his wife, Gwen Torrence. It was a typical practice in every way. I was nearing the end of my workout, preparing to hit the track one last time, when something in the back of my head told me I shouldn’t be there.

Do you ever have those little voices in your head that guide you? When something doesn’t feel right? I glanced over at Waller, then at Torrence. I knew immediately—it was time to leave.

Maybe it also had something to do with the Atlanta Olympics. I still felt the sting of that fourth place finish in the 400 meters. In my training leading up to those Olympics, I was told that I likely wouldn’t get any better at the 100 and the 200. So, instead, we focused on endurance loads, shifting to the longer distance in the hopes I could just outwork the competition. I bought into that program—it was always an all-or-nothing deal for me. If I believed in a goal, there was nothing I wouldn’t do to achieve it, from a training perspective. Now, a few months removed from our failure, the whole program and belief system seemed like a lie. So I walked to the sidelines, packed up my things, and left, without saying a word to anyone.

The person I did have to answer to was Mark Thompson, the man I was now living with in Atlanta, who would soon become my husband.

After our first kiss on the beach at the 1992 Summer Olympics in Barcelona, we saw each other whenever we could. The fact that we were both professional athletes helped, as we often reunited on the track and field circuit. When I landed my job in Atlanta at the Ministry of Tourism, that clinched it—we decided that it was time to move in together and take our relationship to the next level.

“Pauline, why aren’t you at practice?” he asked, one day after I had abruptly left the track.

“I’m not going to practice no more,” I said. “My spirit told me to leave . . . and I ain’t going back.”

Mark stared at me in disbelief.

“Your spirit? Babes, you aren’t making sense. What are you going to do?”

“Well, I’m not making sense to you,” I snapped back, with defiance. “But I know what my spirit told me to do. And I’m not going back.”

I may have felt confident in my decision, but he was right about one thing—I never fully answered his question. What was I going to do?

Fortunately, Mark had an idea.

He dialed up Loren Seagrave, former coach of the Louisiana State University women’s track team, who happened to be living in Atlanta. You might remember that name, dear reader, from my days at Alabama. He and Coach Williams famously had that rather public spat following our narrow loss to LSU in the 1987 NCAA Outdoor Championship, due to my half shoe over the line. I held no grudges, however. Seagrave was a top coach, a master technician who had a reputation for honing in and improving the mechanics of sprinters—an area that I always needed help with.

Mark, a graduate of Brown University, first met Seagrave through Susan Smith, who was also at the university on an athletic scholarship, as a 400-meter hurdler. When you are an elite athlete in the track and field world, you quickly realize everyone has only one or two degrees of separation.

Funny enough, Seagrave had his eye on me even when I was at Alabama. I often saw him staring at me from the sidelines and wondered what was going through his mind.

“She ran like a boxer with her arms flailing a little bit and with a big back kick, and I’m thinking to myself—I hope nobody teaches her how to run right at Alabama,” he recalls with a chuckle.

Almost ten years later, Seagrave would get his chance. Mark thought he’d be the perfect coach to advance my training ahead of the 2000 Summer Olympics in Sydney—and he was right. His technical wizardry was exactly what I needed.

As a freshman at the University of Wisconsin, Seagrave received an academic scholarship in plant pathology, or the study of diseases in plants. Around that time, Seagrave got married and had a child. With the pressures of young fatherhood weighing heavily, his grades suffered and he lost his academic scholarship. He also realized he didn’t love the scientific make-up of plants as much as he thought. People proved to be much more interesting.

Seagrave was captain of the Wisconsin Soccer Club, and the head coach of that team was a professor of anatomy in physical education. He convinced Seagrave to take his course—and he aced it, with the top grade in the class. Seagrave never looked back from there. After graduation, he worked for six years at the University of Wisconsin, starting out as the track and field coach’s first ever assistant, with a glamorous annual salary of $5,000. Seagrave lived in his van for part of the time. He had to take on multiple jobs outside of the track just to make ends meet. But he loved coaching, with a special focus on the body, physiology, technique, and how to maximize performance through mechanics and sports science.

Over many years, he would build a reputation for himself as one of the best in the business. In addition to winning national championships and conference titles at LSU and the University of Tennessee, Seagrave would be hired by the Chinese and Thai national track and field teams to run their programs. Meanwhile, in the United States and Canada, he trained a long list of elite athletes and Olympic champions, such as Benita Fitzgerald, Sharrieffa Barksdale, Myrtle Chester, Dwight Phillips, LaShawn Merritt, and Ben Johnson.

But the girl who sprinted sideways presented an especially unique challenge.

“Everything stems from body position,” he explains. “Hyperlordosis made it look like her butt was sticking out. Her back was arched, and she was leaning forward. And her arms . . . they would oftentimes cross or sway across her body, and stay very bent. Neuro-programming is used to basically reverse the movements of velocity sprinting—starting and accelerating—until it becomes an automatic motor program. You go from unconscious incompetence to conscious incompetence, to conscious competence, and finally the automatic phase, unconscious competence. But some things weren’t going to happen until she cleared out some muscle imbalances that had been plaguing her for a long time.”

That’s the technical explanation. In plain English?

My body movements were unbalanced and inefficient, partly stemming from a spine curvature in my lower back. Some of it was physical, he explained, and the rest was just learned behavior, stretching way back to Bain Town, sprinting barefoot down the street with those buckets of water. I had to unlearn these habits, until it became like second nature.

Seagrave wouldn’t be tying an arm behind my back, or placing me in salt water.

He simply demanded I run technically correct, whether it be my arm placements, my upright posture, or the way I flexed my toes. He put me through a relentless series of drills, again and again, until I got it right, moving towards that “unconscious competence.” The timing was good, in the sense that I was still getting over that hamstring injury. I didn’t need to be on the track for what he had in mind. It would be months before I was running sprints in a serious way.

“She had many exercises lying on the ground with her knees bent, trying to tighten her tummy and flatten her arc against the ground,” Seagrave says. “And then, she’d do the same thing standing up, and getting her heels touching the wall and her butt touching the wall. You keep the tummy tight and the pelvis looking up.”

When it came to the running itself, Seagrave was meticulous.

Standing firmly at attention on the sidelines, arms crossed, and occasionally scratching his brown, bushy moustache, Coach Seagrave was a perfectionist, very quiet but ever watchful. He broke the race down into intervals, patiently explaining exactly how I should look and feel at 10 meters, 30, 50, and beyond. Seagrave was in the business of milliseconds—specifically, how to shave off enough of them with efficient body movements so that it adds up at the finish fine. That was exactly what I needed. From a purely physical standpoint, my abilities were unquestioned. I had superior top-end speed, a relentless work ethic, and a dogged determination to reach that highest level. The pieces were all there. I just needed someone like Seagrave to pull it all together. And the timing couldn’t have been better.

After what happened in Greece, I had made two very important decisions. Based on the 400-meter result in Atlanta, I didn’t want to run that race anymore. I was done with that. Seagrave believed I was explosive and dynamic enough to overcome my technical flaws and reach the next level in the 200, rather than succumb to the “move-you-up syndrome,” as he called it. Instead of working me harder, he wanted to work me smarter.

Besides, when I really thought about it, the 200 was my true love.

I loved races where I could really go full out, from start to finish. The 100 was too short. The 400 was a bit too far. But the 200? Tike Goldilocks once said, it was just right.

The second decision—I didn’t want to run anchor in the relay. While I hadn’t broken the news to my teammates yet, I knew it in my heart. Debbie was slowly coming into her own. And it was no secret she wanted to run the anchor. She was ten years my junior, and there was far less wear and tear on those legs. Meanwhile, I also felt that, as a team, we needed to establish leads earlier on, rather than running from behind. We needed to get a lead off the top—and maintain it.

But if not the anchor leg, where would I run?

It was a question we wouldn’t answer overnight. Like I said, I kept these things to myself in the beginning. That was just my style of athleticism. When I make a decision on something, I’m generally all in. But I work towards that goal gradually, quietly, without big announcements or proclamations. I set my eyes on the prize and work towards it.

I was part of an elite training group now, with not only a world-class coach by my side, but also some pretty incredible athletes.

One of those athletes was Juliet Cuthbert, from Jamaica, who had won two silver medals in the 100 and the 200 at the 1992 Summer Olympics in Barcelona, Spain. Juliet had already reached the podium at the Olympics—exactly where I wanted to be. She and I had become the best of friends, so much so that she was a bridesmaid at my wedding. Having her as a training partner not only pushed me physically, but also helped my overall state of mind. Juliet always made me laugh. Sometimes, it would get so hot in practice that she would strip down to her underwear and keep right on going. That turned more than a few heads.

Beyond the track, Juliet would go on to enter politics in her native Jamaica. In the September 2020 general election, she won her second term as a member of Parliament for the St. Andrew West Rural constituency, and shortly thereafter, she was appointed state minister in the Ministry of Health and Wellness.

Also in our training group was Donovan Bailey. Born in Jamaica, Donovan immigrated to Canada when he was twelve. He would go on to become Canada’s most famous sprinter. Donovan had won the gold medal at the Atlanta Summer Olympics in historic fashion, smashing the world record with a time of 9.84 seconds.

Whether it was my coaching staff or other athletes, I was surrounded by all the right people.

By early 1998, several months now removed from the World Championships in Greece, I felt like I was finally rounding back into form. I had fought back from yet another hamstring injury. My work with Coach Seagrave was starting to pay off. Finally, the girls and I made good on our pact—I hosted the first practice in Atlanta, as promised.

While the training itself was useful, simply spending more time together was equally important. Eldece and I of course went way back. It was a process getting to know the three younger girls on the team, but, in hindsight, we were more than teammates—I think we also became friends. Sisters for life. Outside of the track, we all went shopping together and out for lunch. In the evenings, I tried my best to be an excellent hostess, cooking meals and treating them like the queens they all were. On the track, we were aces, completely committed to this dream of winning an Olympic gold medal for The Bahamas.

Coach Seagrave was a fresh face for the group, and with that came less bias and a new perspective. In those early practices, it was so important for him to get to know all of us, both as athletes and as people, and analyze our strengths and weaknesses.

The first practice went so well that I decided I needed to tell the BAAA about it.

There was a new president at the BAAA, Desmond Bannister, and given the issues of the past, I wanted to be transparent from the start.

“Mr. B? Hello there, it’s Pauline. I have something I need to tell you.”

“Yes, Pauline? How can I help?”

“You know we’ve been having these relay practices,” I explained, “and I completely forgot to tell you we’ve been doing this.”

There was silence on the other end. I suppose that was partly true. It wasn’t so much I forgot to tell him. We were just so used to taking matters into our own hands.

“What are you talking about?” he said, stumbling. “Relay practices?”

“Yes, and the next one is in about three weeks.”

“OK, Pauline. Well, let me get back to you on that.”

And to Bannister’s credit, he delivered. Bannister sent Rupert Gardiner, a friend and longtime track and field coach, to our next practice to help supervise on behalf of the federation. He would ultimately become our primary relay coach. In the meantime, we were being coached by committee now, typically with Gardiner in attendance, along with Seagrave and one or two of the other girls’ personal coaches, depending on what city we were in.

You might think bringing together all of these coaches and strong personalities would be a disaster. And yet, somehow, it worked.

Based on our performance in Greece, it was clear we needed to focus on the baton. And really, for most relay teams, it typically is the true X factor. So much focus is placed on the sprinting. But the relay is a team event, after all.

It’s much harder than it looks.

Imagine for a moment that someone is barreling towards you at over twenty miles per hour. Meanwhile, there is a small, horizontal box, or zone, inside which you need to receive a slender, slippery stick. As the sprinter comes flying in, you begin to propel yourself forward, slowly at first, but gradually gaining speed, preparing to run your guts out. Oh, and you can never look back—only forward. Blindly, you hold out your hand behind you, palm wide open to create a big enough target. If the runner doesn’t connect? Two more pumps—and throw your hand back again. By now you’re almost in full stride, ready to leave the station. You and the other runner are like two bullet trains on a track, trying to connect for less than a second. You start to get nervous—the runner should be there by now. Your mind is divided the entire time, focused on both what is behind you and what is ahead. But you can never look back. You have to gauge exactly where you are in that zone, and where the incoming runner might be, mostly by feel. A toe too far forward, over the line, and the team is disqualified. Everything you have worked for, an entire lifetime of practice, down the drain.

Of course, that is only half the equation.

Ultimately, it is the incoming runner’s responsibility to plant that baton in time. If you are that runner, at this point you are exhausted, physically spent, having poured every ounce of energy onto the track. Your only focus now is delivering the baton to the next runner, with a hope and a prayer, knowing you’ve done your best. Sometimes, the outgoing runner sets off too early. You have to play catch-up now, digging deep to conjure that last boost of energy. Because if you don’t, and the runner crosses that line, it’s a derailment—for everyone.

It is your responsibility to hit that target as quickly and smoothly as possible.

Deliver the baton too slowly, and you risk disqualification. Too fast, and you lose that forward momentum. It’s a game of tag where milliseconds matter, especially at the Olympic Games.

Relay runners practice these scenarios over and over. At the end of the day, it comes down to the intangibles, a level of comfort, trust, and familiarity you can establish only through regularity. You get better at it over time, through feel.

Gardiner drilled us on these handoffs. He was around the same age as Eldece and I, so it often felt like we were on a similar playing field. She and I would call him “Rupert,” rather than “Coach.” That’s not to say we didn’t respect him. Quite the contrary. He negotiated our personalities and temperaments well.

By this time, I felt truly confident in more than my athletic ability. After four Olympics, many more World Championships, and countless high-profile meets, I was a student of the sport now. My mind was already on what came next—after sprinting. In the lead-up to the Sydney Olympics, Rupert would sometimes leave practice, but he told me to keep a close eye. When he returned, he’d grill me about what happened. What did she do while I was away? What did her arm look like? How did she run that second leg?

“Rupert, you can’t be serious right? You know I’m competing, too?” I’d say.

Even when he was coaching me, he noticed my ability to coach. And beyond that, he also understood me—it felt natural to get involved in the coaching. I would imagine it’s similar to a veteran point guard on a basketball team, someone who is considered an extension of the coaching staff.

A player’s coach, if you will.

Sometimes, standing on the sidelines, he’d make an observation while watching the other athletes, and then glance over towards me to gauge my reaction.

“Don’t touch that,” I’d say, shaking my head. “I’d leave that alone.”

Compared to what I had experienced in the past, it was refreshing to have that level of communication, and to feel respected. Overall, our team was on the right track. We had over two years until the 2000 Summer Olympics, and yet there was no time to waste.

* * *

Shortly after we arrived in Spain, we had a team meeting at the hotel. Eldece, Savatheda, Chandra, Debbie, and myself filed into Rupert’s room to discuss our strategy heading into the 4X 100-meter relay. In only a few days, we would have our biggest test ahead of the next Olympics. All of us felt anxious and on edge. Years of hard training and anticipation had led us to this moment—the 1999 World Championships.

When Rupert opened the door to his room, I immediately saw Frank Pancho Rahming. Despite our long, complicated history, he always found his way to these national competitions. I learned to put up with it—only God owns the breath in our bodies. I accepted such things as part of His plan. You move on and focus on yourself.

Coach Seagrave was back in Atlanta. He was always such a wise, levelheaded advocate. I missed his presence more than anything.

There were many things to discuss, such as who would run in the preliminary heats, who would be the alternate, and who would run the various legs. Prior to flying to Spain, I had been in Morocco for another competition and suffered bad food poisoning. While I still felt a bit weak, I was also on the mend, and my sole focus would be the 4x100 relay. Debbie, on the other hand, would be running both the 100 and the 200 at these World Championships, and individual events came before the relays. So we decided—Eldece would run in the preliminaries, on the first leg, as usual, and Debbie would rest, save her strength, and come back for the final. Eldece would then become the alternate.

Now we had to decide who would run which leg.

Suddenly, Eldece straightened up and declared, “Well, Pauline don’t need to be running no more anchor leg, I think. She got run down.”

Do you know that feeling of uncontrollable anger? It comes as a hot flash, where all the blood slowly rises up to your head?

I sprang up from my chair across from her.

“Excuse me?!” I screamed.

“Yeah, after what happened in New York?” she snapped back.

I took a step towards her, knowing I was about to say something I’d regret.

“Oh yeah? This coming from Ms. Big Fattie! This coming from the woman who came to the Goodwill Games FAT. That’s right— F. A. T. Fat! And you have the audacity . . .”

“You got run down,” she interrupted, looking me right in the eye. “You embarrass us.”

And I’m not afraid to admit it—I lost it.

Throughout my athletic career, I gained a reputation for being affable and level-headed. I rarely lost my composure, if at all. But at that moment, all bets were off. Pauline Davis from Bain Town came bubbling to the surface. Tet me be clear—I love Eldece. She and I go way back. Perhaps that was what made it so personal. She knew how to push my buttons. I went blind with rage, charging Eldece and curving my fingers around her neck. I started choking her, right there in the hotel room. It took several of the other athletes and coaches to pry me off. Suffice it to say, amid all the screaming, our meeting ended rather abruptly. Everyone was ordered back to their rooms to cool off.

As you can now appreciate, dear reader, much happened between our smooth first practices in Atlanta and the 1999 World Championships. So allow me to explain.

More than a year earlier, in July 1998,1 was at a competition by myself in Manchester, England. While I always enjoyed visiting the United Kingdom, there was one thing I struggled with—the cold. You just never know what you’re going to get in the UK, even in the summer. And as you know by now, my body didn’t do well in cool temperatures, whether it was my body seizing up, or my tendency to get flus and respiratory illnesses. In this instance, fortunately, it was just a matter of my legs feeling stiff. I sucked it up—in the cold, drizzly rain—and actually won my races, feeling rather proud of myself when I got back to my hotel that night. Only, when I walked into the lobby, the receptionist relayed a message.

“Your country called,” she said. “They want you to know you’re running in the Goodwill Games. They have a ticket for you at Heathrow.”

I nearly melted to the floor. Sure, I was aware the Goodwill Games were happening in New York. But nobody had told me they wanted me to run. What made matters worse—I had to leave right away, that night, and catch the redeye to New York. The 4x100 relay was the next day. I was upset, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I didn’t feel like I had any choice in the matter. So I went up to my room, showered, and started packing.

I caught the first available train out of Manchester for London and made my way to the airport. It was a tortuous journey, coming right off a major competition.

More than two hours on a train, followed by another eight hours on the plane to New York—I was dead on arrival. It was well beyond exhaustion. All those hours, sitting on the train and then on the plane, had turned my legs into mush.

There is absolutely no way I can run, I thought. I’m sure they just asked me to fly in as an alternate, especially once they see the condition I’m in.

I arrived at the hotel in New York and immediately crashed, ready for a long sleep—or so I hoped. Before I knew it there was banging on the door.

“Pauline! You need to wake up!”

I staggered from the bed, disheveled and confused, and opened the door just a crack. Rupert was there, in his tracksuit and all, fresh as a daisy.

“Hey, you ready? We need you to get up for practice.”

“Rupert, is this a joke?,” I said, resisting the temptation to slam that crack in the door closed. I had come all this way, yes, but I’d clung to the idea I would be an alternate. “I’m tired. Nobody told me I have to run here.”

Somehow he managed to coax me out, but only because I asked him to find me a trash can filled with ice. It took more than a few trips down the hall to the hotel ice maker to fill it up. I kid you not—I sat in that garbage can three times, up to my neck in ice and cold water, before and after practice, and I still couldn’t catch myself.

Later that day, I told Rupert I was mashed right up. I couldn’t bust a grape.

“You gonna have to run, Pauline.”

“Is everyone else here?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Then, sir, let the others run. I need to sit this one out,” I implored. “My legs cannot move. I am in no condition to run right now.”

“Oh, so you haven’t seen Eldece?” he replied suggestively.

“What you mean?” I asked, irritated. “No, I haven’t seen her. I ain’t seen nobody yet.”

“She fat,” he stated plainly.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean she fat.”

I rolled my eyes—I didn’t believe him at first. When we had our team meeting later that day, I saw it for myself. What Rupert said was true. Eldece had gained significant weight. She was in no position to compete in the Goodwill Games against our usual rivals, led by the Jamaicans and, of course, the Americans.

While I didn’t like it, I reluctantly agreed to run.

But I didn’t want to run the anchor leg. Once again, Rupert and my teammates insisted. I knew deep down it wasn’t the right decision, and yet I went with it anyway. We’d all come to regret it.

“In lane four . . . The Bahamas—a threat,” the race commentator said on the broadcast.

After our silver performance in Atlanta, there was a marked difference in the attention we received from the media. They noted that our original team was back, except this time with the addition of Debbie, who was the NCAA 100 and 200 champion that year at the University of Georgia. Meanwhile, the United States was missing Gail Devers, Inger Miller, and Gwen Torrence from their gold medal team in Atlanta. Marion Jones didn’t make the trip to New York either. Only Chryste Gaines was from that Olympic team, along with Carlette Guidry, who had been the alternate for the United States in 1996.

Not to say the Americans were slouches, by any means. In any given year, the United States had a whole stable of horses at their disposal—unlike The Bahamas. We had so few options, in fact, that I had to be placed in a position where I simply wasn’t ready to compete.

Of course, the world didn’t know that. On paper, we were a genuine threat to win.

I’ll give credit where it’s due—the other girls ran a great race. We spent most of the relay in the lead, including the moment the baton reached my hand.

“Pauline Davis running the anchor leg for The Bahamas. Carlette Guidry for the United States. And here they come. Carlette Guidry . . . and Pauline Davis . . . stride for stride . . . and Guidry takes the lead and the US has it,” the commentator announced.

Eldece was right about one thing—I got run down bad.

It wasn’t a feeling I was used to. Do you have any idea how it feels to get run down when your teammates give you a lead? On one of the world’s biggest stages for track and field?

I watched helplessly as the Americans celebrated, pacing back and forth, hands planted firmly on my sides.

My legs were about to fall off my body. It was a strange feeling, a mix of grief, guilt, and anger. What happened was an embarrassment—for me, for the team, and for my country. And yet mostly I was livid. I should have never been placed in that situation.

Guidry was a great sprinter. I don’t want to take anything away from her. But just a few weeks before, I had eaten her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I knew I could beat her. We should have won that gold in New York.

It all just seemed completely avoidable.

That was the disaster of summer 1998, in the lead-up to those World Championships in Spain. After our result in Greece, when we came in sixth and I had the pulled hamstring, I was already shifting away from the anchor leg, at least in my own mind. The Goodwill Games just sealed it—I was done with being told what to do.

At the University of Alabama, in sickness and in health, I still laced up those spikes and gave it my all. The same went for my professional career. I turned the other cheek. Regardless of the politics, what was going on in my personal life, my bouts with depression—I ran. If I could stand on my own two feet and my country needed me, I fell in line. New York was a turning point for me. I harshly resented being put in that position to fail. These feelings were bubbling under the surface between Eldece and I, and really the rest of the girls. I think we all knew a change was coming if we were going to win that gold medal in Sydney.

There were happy moments around this time, too, and some much-needed distraction from the enormous pressures on the track.

Mark and I got married a few months earlier, in October 1998, at a huge, three-hundred-person affair in Nassau. Because Mark was Jamaican, and we both knew athletes and coaches from all around the world, it was very much an international event, with attendees from Africa, Europe, and everywhere in between.

On the day of the wedding, Mark told me very specifically, “Don’t leave me hanging there at the church. Make sure you’re on time for the service.”

And wouldn’t you know it? My bridesmaids and I were running late. Not because of anything we did. Shortly after hitting the road, a few blocks away from the church, the traffic came to a snarling halt. We were just crawling, and as we approached the church, we found ourselves staring out the window, wondering what poor souls had got themselves into a car accident.

What we discovered was one of the most touching moments of my life.

There, in front of the church, were huge crowds of Bahamians, all cheering my arrival and trying to get a peek of the bride in her dress. The cars were jam-packed along the road, a mass of metal as everyone rushed to get there before we did.

I already knew my work and accomplishments meant something to The Bahamas. Despite the problems I’d had with my own federation, it was the people that often kept me going, the anonymous fans who followed along and supported me as I represented the country on the world stage. But stepping out of that limo, and seeing so many smiling faces, people I had never met in my life—the feeling was indescribable. It truly touched my heart and soul.

I mounted those steps up to the church. Hundreds of people cheered me on, many of them all dressed up, even though they weren’t guests joining us in the church. They were there because it meant something to them. But their presence meant even more to me, more than any screaming fan in the stadium, more than anything.

Once the ceremony was over, many of the people who had cheered my arrival were still waiting outside the church. It was a fairy-tale send-off, punctuated by a horse and carriage in waiting, which I had insisted on from the beginning. Almost twenty years earlier, when I was a little girl, I saw those images of Princess Diana departing St. Paul’s Cathedral in a horse-drawn carriage, along with millions of others from around the world. I was in awe of her that day, the grandeur of it all. The vibrant and lush red velvet interior of that carriage, with the maroon, brown, and mahogany exterior, gilded in gold. The fact that Diana’s twenty-five-foot train from her dress somehow fit inside.

We left that humble church in our very own horse and carriage. It may not have been quite so extravagant, but I could still hear the clippity-clop over the cheering crowds, the horse’s hooves striking the pavement as we rode off to start our new life together.

I told Mark that I had no interest in getting married until the end of my sprinting career. I never wanted to deal with the guilt of leaving the home and traveling all over the world. I had an idea, back then, of what a traditional wife should be. So as we clip-clopped away, our marriage verified what I already knew—my career was coming to an end.

Maybe that was also what triggered me in Spain at the 1999 World Championships, when I found my hands firmly around Eldece’s neck. The Olympics were one year away. I had given everything to the world of sprinting, to my country.

These next Olympics in Sydney were the end of the line. I had come too far to be disrespected. I was ready to go down fighting.

According to Eldece, even before that blowup in the hotel room, the other four girls had a private meeting to discuss my future on the anchor leg. I suppose it was similar to the meeting we had about Debbie in Atlanta, where we had to break the news to her that she wouldn’t be running in the final. It was strength in numbers, and apparently they agreed—I should move to the third leg. And that was fine. Like I said, my mind was already there. My reaction was more frustration boiling over on what happened to me at the Goodwill Games. In the twilight of my career, I just couldn’t put up with it anymore.

“She thought I was the one orchestrating the meeting with the girls,” Eldece recalls. “But we all orchestrated it because we realized the conversation wouldn’t be easy. And, oh my God, we had a really nasty falling out. Her words were very hard.”

The coaches gave us a day to cool off. The next time we had a team meeting, I went in with a plan. It was finally time to tell them what had already been on my mind since Greece—I was done running the anchor leg. I announced to the group right then and there that I’d run the third leg. And that I had been practicing the curve all that time, for well over a year. This decision went beyond my position in the 4x100 relay. I also wanted to compete in the 200 meters, not the 400, at my final Olympics.

The announcement was met by more than a few strange looks. First off, everyone was surprised I had already been practicing the curve, unbeknownst to the group. And second, I was a straightaway runner, known for my top-end speed. Curves had never been my specialty. And now we were going to place me on one at the World Championships?

I welcomed the skepticism, insisting that we all go to the track and judge for ourselves. Our first heat for the 4x100 relay was only a day or two away.

As you know by now, Coach Seagrave’s top priority had been polishing my technique, correcting both my body positioning and neuroprogramming. And it worked—I was a much more efficient sprinter by the summer of 1999, especially on the curve, which requires even more balance and precision. At the same time, you can’t erase a lifetime of training, comfort, and muscle memory in one or two short years. So Coach Seagrave and I devised an unorthodox strategy for the girl who ran sideways. We turned that curve into a straightaway.

To reach my top-end speed quicker, Coach Seagrave had me start on the opposite side of the lane.

As my teammate moved into position for the handoff, my job would be cut over and in, positioning me at more of a straight angle.

It was weird. It was different.

But over the course of many months of practice, Coach Seagrave and I had mastered it. Chandra, who would be running the second leg and performing the handoff, didn’t feel quite so confident, at first.

“Girl, I’m gonna run all over you!” Chandra declared at the track, as we stretched before practice.

“Why don’t you just go to your position,” I said, waving her off.

“All right! Get to your positions!” Rupert called out.

We had all agreed that Debbie would only run in the final. She had enough on her plate with the 100 and 200. Sava would run the anchor leg in the first heat, and then move to the leadoff position to replace Eldece in the final. Chandra and I would remain unchanged at positions two and three.

So she and I better get used to each other.

Here she came, sprinting down the straightaway on the far end of the track. I took off, in my unconventional way, cutting across from one side of the lane to the other. I have to admit—I didn’t hold back an inch. I wanted to show them what I was capable of, especially after what had happened in New York. I took off so quickly that Chandra couldn’t even pass the baton. It was my own little game of catch me if you can.

Chandra kissed her teet, stomping her foot on the track. Rupert called for a reset: “We’ll try that one again.”

We all lined up, Chandra grabbed the baton, and as she approached I took off—with the same result. She couldn’t run fast enough to hand me the baton. Now she was visibly frustrated. Chandra threw the baton straight to the ground.

“You piss me off, you know that?” she screamed. “Every time you want to change things. Every time I turn around you want to do this and that.”

“Listen, y’all are supposed to be younger than me, right?” I retorted. “Before you start running your juicy mouth, talking about how you gonna run all over me . . . you see you can’t catch me? Now you gotta figure out how you gonna catch me.”

“You get on my nerves, Pauline!”

“Do we want to win this gold medal or not?” I demanded. “Because this is what it takes!”

I was often the outlier on our team. The fact I was the most opinionated was a given. In addition, it was true—I was constantly thinking of how we could get better. While Eldece was technically a bit older than me, I was the most experienced. I was the team captain and had no issue throwing my weight around. These girls had at least two or three more Olympics in them. Not so for me—we had to get this right, here and now.

That sometimes made me unpopular.

There were meetings I wasn’t invited to. Certain thoughts and opinions were expressed. But, in the end, we’d all come back together—we honored the pact. Chandra was that ambassador. We’d sit down and talk it out, on behalf of the team, and I’d explain why we needed to go about things a certain way.

Sometimes, unfortunately, our dirty laundry got aired in public. A day or two before the 4x100 relay, we had just finished a practice and piled on the bus, with other athletes, so we could ride back to the hotel to rest. I was laid out on the seat—I suppose that was why Sava couldn’t see me, just a row or two away.

I could hear her speaking with one of the other athletes, someone from another country. Sava was going on about me, how I always wanted to change things, causing discord on the team.

So I stood up and cussed her out, publicly.

“Sava, I’m sitting right here,” I yelled, motioning to my seat. “You need to watch your mouth. You have something to say, you tell it to my face.” I sat back down with a crash. “Y’all can say whatever you want to say. But without me, y’all wouldn’t even be here. Let’s get this straight.”

As you can see, life wasn’t perfect with the team heading into the 1999 World Championships.

I can’t speak for the rest of the girls, but I got over things fast. It was never personal. I say the things I need to say. And I do what I need to do in pursuit of a goal. Despite all of the issues, whether it was with Sava, Chandra, Eldece, or Debbie, we were still here, us against the world, with our best chance yet to finally bring home a gold medal.

In their first heat, the United States put the rest of us on notice. They clocked in with a time of 42.28 seconds, which was the fastest time logged by anyone that year. In our heat, we were paired with six other countries, including Germany, Canada, and Spain. We comfortably won, while France, with a very strong team that year, took the top position in its respective heat.

Heading into the final, there were eight teams competing for the crown, although it really came down to some of the usual suspects—the Jamaicans, Americans, Germans, French, and ourselves.

When I look back and watch the tape, a few things stand out. France got off to a great start. Meanwhile, Cheryl Taplin and Nanceen Perry—neither of whom was on that gold-winning Atlanta team—had dug the United States a hole early on. Marion Jones had been injured earlier in competition. Veteran sprinters Inger Miller and Gail Devers would have to make up time. But really, while the French gave us a run, our team shined from the start. We sprang out to an early lead and never looked back. All of those practices had paid off. When I passed the baton to Debbie, our new anchor leg, we had a solid lead.

She swooshed across the finish line in 41.92 seconds, the fastest time in the world for that year, smashing the mark set by the Americans in their earlier heat.

Most importantly, we won the gold medal.

Those five girls from The Bahamas were now 1999 World Champions. However, what I truly remember most was not the race itself. It was what happened afterwards.

You could see the joy and elation in Debbie’s face when she realized we won.

She turned and looked down the track—and there I was, sprinting towards her, falling into her arms in a running embrace. I hugged and squeezed her as hard as I could. She looked off in the distance to spot Sava and Chandra, but I wasn’t done with her yet.

In video from the event, you can see my hands on her face, bringing her in close, kissing her cheeks. So much flashed through my mind then. I thought about that little girl I met at the track who said she wanted to be just like me. I remembered the hard times—what happened in Atlanta, the discord, confusion, and seemingly massive chasm between us.

None of that mattered now.

United in victory, I didn’t want to let her go. It was a perfect moment between us—mentor and protege—finally coming together to win a World Championship. It was the stuff of dreams, but there was still one dream left to go.

Yes, our team had its flaws. And believe me, there would be more bumps along the road. But our pact at fish fry had meant something. The best was yet to come.

10

FACING GOLIATH

I sprang out of my townhouse full of energy, like Muhammad Ali pumped up for a championship fight. Earbuds in, listening to music in my Bahamian tracksuit of aquamarine, gold, and black, I shuffled down the stairs to the street, ready to burst. The year was 2000. The date—Saturday, September 30. We were nearing the end of the XXVII Olympiad on the other side of the world, in Sydney, Australia, just hours away from the women’s 4×100-meter final. I could barely stand still. Standing at the bottom of those stairs, pacing back and forth, I kept flashing glances at my watch, even though I knew the time.

Don’t worry, I thought. I’m a bit early anyway. The other girls will be here any minute.

The five of us were staying in townhouses, each side by side, in a giant subdivision built by the Australian Olympic Committee. The night before, we had decided—OK, let’s all meet at the base of the stairs at six o’clock and we’ll head over to the stadium together.

You want to get there at least two hours before. That is the perfect amount of time to perform your warm-ups, relax, and go through the protocols.

Only now it was past six. And I didn’t see a soul. I was pacing hard, no longer an excited championship fighter—more like a caged animal in a zoo. Where could they be? It wasn’t as if one girl was missing—it was all of them. My wild eyes darted from my watch and then side to side, expecting someone to pop out of their door any minute. In the distance, I could see our bus stop. Every thirty minutes or so, a shuttle would go by to scoop up athletes in the village and bring them to the stadium. So I heard it before I saw it—that heavy, deep engine sound of a large vehicle lumbering along the streets of Sydney. Even then, I felt torn. Should I stay? Should I go? In the end, my instincts kicked in. Always get to the track early, because things can happen. That gun is firing whether you’re there or not.

Dejected, confused, and alone, I sprinted for the bus stop and managed to get there just in time. I mounted the metallic stairs of that bus, offering a weak smile to the bus driver, only to be greeted with an unexpected sight.

“Hey gal! Hey gal! Wah gwaan?” Right there, at the front of the bus, was the entire Jamaican 4×100 women’s team.

In their own Jamaican lingo, they were asking me “What’s up?”—although I knew this was no normal greeting. I felt like the little kid that got picked last for the game at recess. And they knew it. They seized on any weakness or advantage they could get.

“Wah gwaan? Where y’all team is at? Y’all scared?!”

Of all the national teams to be on the bus, of course it had to be the Jamaicans.

They were our rivals, no doubt about it. But if there was one team I always felt a sense of comfort and kinship with, it was them. From day one, women like Merlene Ottey and Grace Jackson were my mentors and big sisters on the international running circuit. Yes, they were harsh competitors, but they loved me as well. Being half Jamaican myself, I felt a connection with all the Jamaicans, especially when I was the only Bahamian out there for so many years. And now, here I was, my Bahamian sisters missing in action.

I was alone—and back again with the Jamaicans, all six of them. (Most relay teams have six members, in case a catastrophe happens and two runners suffer injury.) Of course, hours from the big race, I was in no mood for conversation. It was all business. I had to walk down that row and put on a brave face. Everything was just fine.

“Scared? You think we’re scared of y’all yaadis?” I scoffed, striding confidently past them.

I planted myself at the back of the bus, well away from their team, and stared straight ahead at the back of the seat in front of me.

Where could they be? Was something wrong? Did they leave without me?

I rocked back and forth in my seat, lightly stomping my feet, feeling anxious but also trying to stay focused and calm. While I didn’t know what was going on, I still had a job to do. I could hear the Jamaicans carrying on in the front, the comradery and excitement in their voices. It only drove home the hurt. When you’re on a 4×100 relay team, you travel together. Everyone knows that. You make plans to meet somewhere. To see one team member out on her own, heading to the stadium, was unusual. I felt humiliated in the back of that bus. Slowly, that humiliation shifted to anger, not just because of myself, but for our whole team. In the world of elite sprinting, every millisecond matters. There is more to it than how your bodies perform. The mind matters, too. Here I was, dejected, and the Jamaicans could smell blood in the water. They were feeling pretty good about themselves.

Instead, it should have been one of the greatest moments of our lives.

This was the moment we had been working towards for so many years, where, in front of the whole world, we’d have our chance to take down Goliath.

For me personally, it was the prelude to my dream, some eight years in the making, when I first saw all five of us winning an Olympic gold medal. In two short hours, one way or another, I’d discover whether my dream would come true.

After this race, I would officially retire as a professional athlete. I had already declared that years ago. I suppose, watching the world go by in the back of the bus, it was a sad but fitting end. For much of my career I was alone—traversing the globe on behalf of my country. My final journey to the stadium would be no different.

Of course, at the time, that thought did little to soothe the wounds in my heart.

The shuttle rumbled to a stop in front of the practice track, where the athletes assembled to warm up and prepare for the race. My eyes were darting this way and that, desperately trying to find anyone from the team. I spotted the Americans, all six of them on the track, going through their handoffs and paces. The French were together, relaxing on the sidelines and chatting. For them, everything was as it should be. Finally, and appropriately, my eyes set upon my oldest friend—Eldece. I marched right up to her.

“Eldece. What is wrong? What is wrong?” I asked, almost pleading.

She looked at me funny. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” I snapped. “Y’all left me. We are a team!”

Now, Eldece knew me just about as well as anyone. With my hand on my heart, she could see the pain. She peered into my eyes and saw them swell right up.

“You had five women with five different personalities, five different upbringings, different coaches, different everything,” Eldece says, thinking back to that moment. “And so we would have had differences, but we trained together and it was our country first. So we had our differences but at the end of the day we were there to win.”

That was always the way with our team—hardship, heartache, and toil, but in the end, we somehow made it work.

I never understood why we didn’t go to the stadium together that day.

Eldece pointed to where the other girls were. The five of us were mostly scattered throughout the practice track, off in our own little worlds. I didn’t feel like we were a united team at all. We were fragmented—and my heart dropped to my bottom. That said, there was still time to make it right. Eldece and I, the elder stateswomen, corralled all our horses together—Savatheda, Debbie, and Chandra—until we formed a circle on the side of the practice track. No doubt they could feel the pain in my voice. The words came flowing out of my mouth like the Sermon on the Mount. And the tears came even easier. I stood there before them and did the only thing that made sense to me. I started praying.

Remember now—The Bahamas is a Christian nation. I grew up in a home based on those principles. And so did they. So I prayed in front of them, my eyes closed, and I asked the devil to remove whatever evil, malice, or resentment that was in our hearts. I rebuked the devil—I told him to get away from our midst. After years of training—and for me, a lifetime of sacrifice and dedication—I felt that the team was headed in the wrong direction.

What led us to this moment? Eldece was right. We did all want the same thing. As the old adage goes, the path to hell is paved with good intentions.

* * *

You might think winning a World Championship would put the sprinting world on notice. Think again. From the moment we stepped off that track in Seville, there were plenty of naysayers who thought The Bahamas was simply a flash in the pan.

After all, the great Marion Jones was injured earlier in competition. Surely, if she had been part of the United States’ 4×100 relay team, they would have won the gold. On the Jamaican side, that team was missing the legendary Merlene Ottey from the anchor leg. Two of the titans in women’s sprinting were missing from that World Championship run—so next time, everything would be different. That was the narrative as we walked off the Seville track and headed for the media scrum. It was a win, but with a big asterisk.

I never had a problem with all of that chatter—adversity didn’t bother me one bit. In fact, I had gotten so used to being underestimated, it actually motivated me.

With one year left to go, I returned to Atlanta to continue my training with Coach Seagrave in earnest. Quietly, he and I continued to work on my technique, with a particular focus on the curve. Individually, my sights were firmly set on finishing off my professional career with my favorite race—the 200 meters. The World Championships also foreshadowed our new order for the 4×100. Sava at leadoff, followed by Chandra, myself, and then Debbie as the anchor, seemed to be our optimal lineup. Those handoffs clicked, and it was excellent leg speed from top to bottom, giving us a cushion throughout. With all the talk from the US team in Seville, we knew one thing for certain—Marion Jones would be back in 2000, on the anchor leg.

I had laser focus. My last dance was in sight. I could practically hear the music. Which was probably why our team had its first rift shortly after Seville.

While we were already the darlings of The Bahamas after our silver medal in Atlanta, the gold at the World Championships only amplified our popularity. Nobody else believed we could win in Sydney—but the Bahamians did. All the extra celebrity meant we received more attention than ever from local companies seeking endorsement deals. Not long after the race, we were approached by Coca-Cola Bahamas with a sponsorship contract. Now, I have no problem with endorsement deals, provided they don’t mess with my training. And let me tell you, from my perspective, it was all way too much. Between the public appearances and media commitments, I simply asked the question—when we are supposed to train?

At this stage, the money didn’t really matter to me. As an athlete, I was about the work. The process. I loved the sport of track and field, not the money, fame, recognition, and trimmings that sometimes came along with it. I just wanted to win—badly.

So I said, “No, I’m not interested in this endorsement deal. At least not now.” And I don’t think that made me especially popular with the rest of the team.

I suppose our march to Sydney didn’t get off to the best start. Heading into the Bahamian National Championships and Olympic trails in 2000, there was far too much noise. I had heard from family members—people I trusted—that there was talk of removing me from the team. Were these rumors true? To me they were, and whether real or imagined, it shows how much discord and innuendo there was swirling around at the time.

Either way, the only way for them to remove me from the team was to beat me on the track. And I knew that was never happening. To make the 4×100 relay, you must finish in the top four in the 100-meter final at the Bahamian National Championship. The top three, meanwhile, receive a berth on the Bahamian Olympic team for the individual 100 meters.

There were good reasons for the other girls to feel confident. The 100 was not really my specialty. It didn’t play into my strengths—my dogged tenacity and top-end speed.

Lining up for that 100 final, I knew I had to run a great race, under eleven seconds. And I did. Debbie and Chandra came out ahead of me, but to everyone’s surprise, I came out ahead of Eldece—and Sava. The latter was a particular shock, especially for Sava. I remember looking over at her at the finish line, and was she crying. Hard.

She was typically very quiet and reserved, so I had never seen her weep like that before. In my mind, I already knew my focus was on the 200. Something in the moment, however, told me to act. I had to stop the bleeding and settle her down, right then and there.

“Sava, I have no intention of running the 100 at the Olympics. Sweet girl, the 100 is yours,” I said. “I have plans for the 200, but I had to shut y’all down.”

And I walked away, without another word.

Again, good intentions, and yet so complicated at the same time. Like Eldece said, we were five different women, with different personalities. And apart from our patriotic desire to bring home a gold, we had another similarity—we were all elite sprinters, and with that comes a degree of pride. Sure, we were a team. But we were also competitors.

When channeled in the right way, this fire within us could be a positive. Sometimes, however, the mix could be a bit too volatile—even combustible.

To this day, I don’t regret giving up the 100 meters. What I do regret is not consulting my coaches beforehand. Coach Seagrave wasn’t terribly pleased that I had simply handed off my 100 berth to Sava, just moments after achieving it. And yet he agreed with the plan. Adding a 100 to the mix would have been too draining, and realistically, I didn’t think I could medal in that event, especially with my focus so squarely on the 200.

“The hawk that chases two mice often gets none,” Coach Seagrave says.

Heading into our final training camp for the Olympics, the stage was set. Sava, Debbie, and Chandra would run individually in the 100 meters. Debbie, Chandra, and myself would compete in the 200. And Sava, Chandra, Debbie, and myself would form the 4×100 women’s relay team, with Eldece serving as alternate. Our group didn’t have the wiggle room of a second alternate. There was nobody else. It was just us five girls against the world.

And occasionally, ourselves.

As you can now appreciate, dear reader, there was some tension heading into the Summer Olympics. And sadly, that wouldn’t be the last of it.

In the final lead-up to Sydney, the Bahamas Association of Athletic Associations, led by our new president, Desmond Bannister, wisely arranged for an advanced training camp several weeks before the Olympics. Myself and a handful of Bahamian Olympians traveled to the south of France. We were in the middle of nowhere, really, which was fine by me. Our federation rented a farm that was thirty minutes or so from the practice track.

While that might sound strange, it made a great deal of sense.

There were eight weeks to go until the 2000 Summer Olympics. We still trained every day, and yet in between we had the opportunity to bond, and to reflect.

Shortly after the start of training camp, we were rocked by awful news from The Bahamas—Sir Lynden Pindling, the founding father of our country, had died. We all took his death very hard. Regardless of your political persuasion, or where you feel he fits in history, Prime Minister Pindling presided over an incredibly important time in our small nation’s history, where we truly transitioned from colony to country. If we won a gold medal in Sydney, it would be our Bahamian flag being raised to the sky, not the Union Jack.

For me, the fact that he died just before my final Olympics was a horrible twist of fate. I was a poor, barefoot girl when an anonymous donor bought me my first pair of spikes. For whatever reason, Prime Minister Pindling saw something in me—and his support of not just me, but all Bahamian athletes at the time, should not be forgotten. He understood that for a tiny nation like The Bahamas, sport was an opportunity for us to make our voices heard in a big world. And he was right. In July of 2000, here I was, in the south of France, preparing to be the best in the world while wearing the aquamarine, black, and gold.

It brings tears to my eyes, simply thinking about it. And not just for the spikes he gifted that poor little girl. I often wonder how many times he was my advocate behind the scenes. How often he pulled strings on my behalf, especially when others may have plotted against me. I will never forget the role he played in my development as a world-class athlete.

I only wish he had lived just a few more months.

Even in our darkest days, the sun also rises. The roosters woke us up early in the morning at the farm. We ate at a certain time. We trained at a certain time. We slept at a certain time. And let me tell you, when it got dark, that farm was pitch black—and there wasn’t exactly a lot to do around there. I imagine it didn’t appeal to every Bahamian athlete.

But I relished the training and the routine. It reminded me of how I was raised, when I lived in Mum Wisdom’s house. The quiet and stillness was a beautiful calm before the inevitable storm to come. Don’t forget—I was very much accustomed to solitude, whether it was from traveling with the University of Alabama, or touring internationally on behalf of The Bahamas. There was a small plum tree in a field not far from my room. I felt perfectly content reading my book on the grass under its shade, nibbling on the occasion fruit.

That said, my time at the farm wasn’t entirely peaceful.

As I mentioned, this solitude in the south of France wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Some of my teammates came for the whole time, while others popped in and out.

One teammate—Chandra—was noticeably absent. I was told that she was dealing with an injury, so it was best that she hang back in North Carolina, where she was training. Call me nosey, but something didn’t smell right.

I called a couple friends in North Carolina who trained in her camp.

“How bad is the injury?” I asked.

“Pauline, what are you talking about?” one friend replied, mystified.

Apparently, Chandra was training as hard as ever. I suppose she figured she would be better off there, with her coaches. And maybe she was right. But it still didn’t sit right with me. We had all made a commitment to be here for training camp. Why wasn’t she?

As you’ve no doubt figured out, I was not one to keep strong opinions to myself.

I approached Rupert Gardiner with the issue, saying, “Y’all need to do something about that. She is disrupting this training camp.”

Chandra took issue with that when she finally made it to Sydney.

“Oh, I heard what you said about me,” she snapped the moment we saw each other. “All you want to do is ride off into the sunset on our coattails.”

She knew where to poke at me, just like Eldece.

“Chandra, do you really believe that?” I asked. “Do you really think that’s what I want to do? Then you don’t know me at all. I just need you to watch me in this Olympics, OK? Just watch.”

I suppose that was strike number three, leading up to the 4×100 final.

After living at the farm for two or three weeks, the Bahamian Olympic team flew to London, to Singapore, and then on to Sydney. But we weren’t quite done yet—still three weeks or so from the start of the Olympics, we hopped on yet another plane and headed for the Gold Coast, a gorgeous, beachside region about three hours from Sydney.

It was a grueling trip. When I finally landed in the Gold Coast, I didn’t know whether to sit down, stand up, sleep, or train. I was as confused as the toilet water in Australia, which flushes the opposite way. Coach Seagrave had warned me about the jet leg and fatigue of competing on the other side of the world. We decided early on to have a long training camp and really take my time going into the 2000 Summer Olympics. While others were training elsewhere, still competing and traveling this way and that, my focus was to get to where I needed to go, and take it slow. For the first week or so, Coach Seagrave encouraged me to just jog every day and acclimatize to my new surroundings.

Australia is a stunning country, and indeed the Gold Coast, a popular tourism spot, was no exception. Every day I would walk down to a farmers market and buy fresh fruits and vegetables to make smoothies, then stop off at another market for fresh seafood. Bonding wise, it was a special time with my teammates, minus Chandra, of course. I reconnected with Laverne Eve, the Bahamian phenom in the field events, and true to form she and I typically cooked for a whole group of athletes.

It was also a time for new faces, such as Tonique Williams, an up-and-coming sprinter from The Bahamas. Sydney was her very first Olympics. Wide-eyed and nervous, Tonique reminded me of myself and how I felt back in 1984 in Los Angeles—incredibly, sixteen years ago by this time. Tonique and I were roommates during training camp, and she grew to become a little sister to me, much like Debbie. At one time, she also trained with me in Atlanta. Tonique was a hard worker, part of this new crop of elite Bahamian female sprinters that just didn’t exist in big numbers back in the day. For Eldece and me, it was incredibly rewarding and inspiring to see all of these young women now pushing onto the world stage.

That said, heading into the home stretch, the focus was primarily on myself. My last shot. And that went for all the girls on our relay team, really. Although we did practice together, we also had our individual events to worry about, which always came before the relays.

Like I said, Coach Seagrave and I had a very specific strategy—get to Australia, ramp up my final training gradually, and avoid “showing my guns.” In other words, it was fine flying under the radar. Whether it was Marion Jones or my own teammates, I didn’t want to give anyone extra ammunition. I preferred to be underestimated, as I had often been throughout my career. I won’t say that I completely eased up in my training, but I definitely didn’t publicly run to my full potential prior to the Olympics. Even in the Bahamian Olympic Trials, I didn’t come in first in the 200 meters.

It was easier to come from behind than be the one everyone is gunning for.

“A lot of people didn’t give Pauline much of a chance,” recalls Coach Seagrave, who, in addition to being my personal coach, also served as head coach of the Liberian National Team during those Olympics.

“Pauline had made very dear friends with an American in our training group, Sharon Couch, who was scheduled to compete in the 100-meter hurdles. We all spent a lot of time together in between training, at meals, and just having positive talk. Pauline, to me, seemed to be in a good place, both physically and mentally. Marion Jones seemed unbeatable, but she was going to give her a run for it.”

One day, Sharon would become Coach Seagrave’s wife.

Also on my training staff was Paul Doyle, Coach Seagrave’s partner in crime since 1998. Funny enough, Doyle actually met Seagrave through Couch while he was coaching at Emory University in Atlanta. Only in his mid-twenties, Doyle had studied and admired Coach Seagrave’s work for years.

“We hit it off right away. On the first day we met, he asked me to do some camps with him,” Doyle recalls. “So we started doing work together, formed a training group, and that’s when I met Pauline.”

Similarly, I gravitated to Doyle right away.

“The very first day she met me, she invited me to her wedding,” he laughs. “Pauline was a lot older than me. Here I was, a twentysomething aspiring coach, and this legendary athlete just latched into me right away. So it was really comforting to have her support and respect, as I was only starting out in the professional track world.”

It was a unique point in time—I felt both confident in my abilities and at peace with the decision to retire. More than my four previous Olympics, I had a comfort and support system around me that I trusted completely.

Not long after arriving in Sydney for the Olympics, I was on the practice track when I saw a familiar face on the other side of the fence. It was Arlene Wisdom, Coach Wisdom’s older sister, who had made the trip to Australia with her brother Jerry. Jogging over to Arlene, I couldn’t help but flash back almost two decades, to my very first Olympics, in Los Angeles, when Coach Wisdom met me at the fence.

“Pearl, I have something special for you,” she said.

She rummaged around in her bag and pulled out two treasures from home—a local newspaper, because she knows how much I love to read, and two Vitamalts. Any Bahamian will know exactly what I mean. In a nutshell, Vitamalt was my favorite drink, made locally in Nassau, and I was beyond excited for these treats and mementos from home. I reached over the top of the fence and seized the bag with the newspaper and drinks. The idea, Arlene said, was for me to savor those two Vitamalts after I won each of my medals.

Two drinks, two medals—one for the 200, and another for the 4×100 relay.

Everyone around me was feeling the anticipation. There was a buzz, at least in my camp, that The Bahamas and indeed the Caribbean was about to make Olympic history.

As for me, I was floating among the clouds.

When I first arrived in Sydney, I wasn’t really myself—in a good way. From an athletic perspective, I was zoned in and determined as usual. And yet coupled with that was this beautiful sense of calm and contentment. Perhaps it was my mind and body taking over, entering a kind of autopilot—soaking in all of those sights and sounds—and knowing that this would be my last time at an Olympics as a competitor. It helped that, after four other Olympic Games, I was finally selected as my country’s flag bearer for the Opening Ceremonies.

The year 2000 was just a special time for everyone. It was the new millennium, and no, the computers of the world didn’t crash from Y2K. The international press universally praised the 2000 Summer Olympics in Sydney for its organization and incredible volunteer and fan base. I have been around the world many times, and I can say without a doubt that Australians are among the most friendly and supportive people I’ve ever met. They seemed thrilled to be hosting us. And we were thrilled to be there.

Juan Antonio Samaranch, president of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) for more than 20 years, was quoted at the time as saying it was the most beautiful Opening Ceremonies he had ever seen.

In the traditional parade of nations, a record 199 countries took up their flags and marched around that track, representing over ten thousand athletes in attendance. Although they competed separately, North and South Korea marched onto the field as one, waving a specially designed unification flag.

When an official handed me the Bahamian flag, I held it high above my head. My eyes slowly followed its mast up to the very top. I giggled to myself and waved the aquamarine, gold, and black for the first time and never stopped, an enormous smile plastered to my face. It was the perfect beginning of the end to my athletic career. I vaguely remember hearing “Bahamas” announced and heading onto that lit-up field at night, gazing up into the dark expanse of the stadium, lit up by thousands of cameras exploding like fireflies. It was different from my first Olympics, in Los Angeles, when I felt so small and insignificant. Now, I felt like I was at the very top of the world. I focused on waving that flag, keeping it up as high as possible, while waving to the crowds and blowing kisses. When you have a chance to carry your country’s flag, it’s more of a feeling than a memory. You wait your whole life for this, and it’s gone, like the flash of those cameras. It’s that feeling of total elation that sticks with you.

I was so elated, in fact, that I didn’t notice a bit of a bust-up behind me.

Apparently, as I marched onto the field, a handful of Bahamian coaches and officials tried to take the lead behind me. The athletes didn’t take kindly to that. There were some arguments and jockeying for position. Afterwards, Eldece cussed me out for failing to notice or say anything. But really, I was in a cocoon, off in my own little world. Any drama with the Bahamian team or my relay teammates melted away. I’m glad I never noticed—after so many years of hard work and sacrifice, I wanted to enjoy the moment and savor that feeling. Because soon enough, it was time to get down to business.

Strangely, my version of getting down to business was a bit different in Sydney.

The sense of calm carried over into my final training in the lead-up to the 200 meters. I remember being on the practice track with Coach Seagrave and Assistant Coach Doyle. They were putting me through my paces and, eventually, they asked me to run a proper 200. As I crossed the finish line, I saw them huddled on the side of the track.

“Oh boy,” Coach Seagrave laughed, a big smile on his face. “We’re ready to run fast!”

“Oh yeah?” I said, panting. “What’s the time?”

The two of them ignored me—they were busy celebrating and jumping up and down.

I walked over to them and poked my head into the huddle. Coach Seagrave’s stopwatch showed a lackluster time. I can’t remember it down to the second, but it was nowhere near a podium result.

“Coach, what you talking about?” I said, confused. “I don’t even feel fast!”

“Exactly! It wasn’t fast!” Coach Seagrave exclaimed. “You’re ready to run!”

You see, I had a funny quirk in my development as a sprinter. Coach Seagrave and Assistant Coach Doyle noticed that, when I started to go backwards in my times, I was ready to hit my peak performance. Sounds crazy, I know.

“To this day, Pauline is one of the most fierce competitors I have ever known,” Doyle says. “And I remember, in 1998, we were training at Life University in Atlanta and I was with Rana Reider, who is one of the top track and field coaches in the world now. He was watching Pauline train, and he said to me, ‘Paul, if I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t even recruit her.’ I think, generally, Pauline needed to be competitive to reach that highest level. We would put her on the line and ask her to run the 100 as fast as she can. And she wouldn’t break 12.50 seconds. But if you put her on the line and have someone sprint five meters in front of her, she’d break 11 seconds easily.”

None of it was planned on my part—it was all instinct.

Just a year earlier, before I ran the 200 meters at the 1999 World Indoor Championships in Maebashi, Japan, Coach Seagrave and Assistant Coach Doyle did their best to convince me not to run. Based on my practice times, neither of them thought I was ready for that level of competition.

And yet I went on to win the bronze medal.

“That’s when we realized we were dealing with a different animal,” Doyle adds. “We sorta had the saying—the hay is already in the barn. She was one of those competitors that can raise their game in the moment.”

Perhaps, on a subconscious level, I was channeling my energy for what was ahead.

I only had to wait two days after those Opening Ceremonies for the women’s 200 meters to begin. More than fifty athletes from thirty-eight countries were vying for supremacy in my event, although like in any Olympic year, the eyes of the world were on only a small handful of us.

And really, there was Marion Jones and then everyone else.

With three golds under her belt from the 1997 and 1999 World Championships, Jones, who had never competed in an Olympic Games, declared she would win not one, not two, not even three, but five gold medals in Sydney. While that would be a bold prediction for any athlete, allow me to repeat—she had never competed in an Olympics before. For the global media, it set off a frenzy of excitement and anticipation. For athletes like me, it was flat-out disrespectful. And I wasn’t the only one that felt this way. When you dedicate your life to the process, and to the craft, it’s unsettling to see someone come barging in and expect the world, especially considering the rumors already swirling around her. By the time the 200 rolled around, C. J. Hunter, her husband and coach at the time, had already been suspended from taking any role in the Olympic Games for failing four pre-Olympic drug tests.

Jones told the media she refused to answer any questions about him until after the Olympics. Still, it was a profound warning of things to come.

Of course, I didn’t have a crystal ball on September 27, 2000, when I first stepped out on that track for the preliminaries—just strong rumors and innuendo. The hype of Marion Jones and the weight of the moment overshadowed everything else. Wherever Jones went, the media circus followed. If you were in the room with her, the crowds weren’t far behind, followed by the innocent flashes from cameras.

Nobody gave Pauline Davis from Bain Town too much thought.

We all knew she was the one to beat. But I had no intention of lying down and playing dead. I wasn’t going to make it easy for her, and neither was anyone else in the field.

Beverly McDonald, from Jamaica, was in peak physical form at this time, coming off her silver medal—winning performance in the 200 at the 1999 World Championships in Seville. Susanthika Jayasinghe, known as the “Asian Black Mare,” was also a force to be reckoned with. The Sri Lankan phenom would achieve six gold medals at the Asian Championships from 1995 to 2007, and had won a silver medal at the 1997 World Championships in Greece. The hometown hero was Cathy Freeman, from Australia, who was more of a 400 specialist but would be a threat nonetheless. And then there was Debbie, my sister from The Bahamas, who also had a chance at the podium at those Olympics in Sydney.

I breezed through those preliminaries, ending up with the third fastest time. Not that anyone was keeping track quite yet. Jones had only the fifth fastest time after round one. It was clear she was saving herself for the later rounds.

By the end of day one, there were just sixteen sprinters left. The semifinals and final would all be run on the same day.

My coaches were right—my slower times in practice once again foreshadowed a more dominant performance. Maybe too dominant. Heading into that semifinal, I blew the competition away and not only won my heat, but finished with the fastest time of all the competitors. After I finished the race, Coach Seagrave, Assistant Coach Doyle, and my team manager were all upset with me. I was running too fast, they said. You need to save yourself for the final. There wasn’t much chance of that, however. I had barely finished my race when I heard the announcement.

“WOMEN’S 200-METER FINAL—PLEASE REPORT TO THE CALL ROOM,” the loudspeaker boomed.

I had about an hour break before the final. While my coaches had a valid concern, I felt great. I was still in that comfort zone, floating on a cloud, performing well and just enjoying myself at the same time.

Plus, heading into that final, I really wanted a preferred lane.

You see, heat winners tend to receive better lane assignments in the later rounds. The average spectator might not appreciate this, but lanes three, four, five, and six—those located in the middle of the track—tend to be the most coveted. The reason has entirely to do with sight and awareness of those around you. When you’re in the middle, you can see everyone and how they move, react, and compensate throughout the race. Put simply, you have a much better idea of those around you.

Lanes one and two aren’t horrible, but having a view of the track becomes much more difficult. Lanes seven and eight? You might as well be in Siberia. You’re basically out there by yourself. You can’t see anyone, and yet everyone can see you. In the end, I got my wish—I drew lane three. And Marion Jones would line up right beside me, in lane four.

Before they called us out onto the track, I spent those final moments in meditation. You might think I was nervous, full of anxiety, with my entire sprinting career flashing in front of my eyes. But for whatever reason, my feeling of calm and zen continued.

Don Myers, my longtime massage therapist from Atlanta, had traveled with us to Sydney. As I meditated, he gave me my last-minute flushes and stretches, preparing my body for what was to come. I didn’t hear any announcements; I vaguely remember someone telling me it was time.

Maybe it was my state of mind, but when I went through that tunnel onto the track, it was eerily quiet, especially considering there were one hundred thousand-plus in the stands. As an athlete on the field, these big moments in the Olympics are often a strange combination of deathly silence and exhilarating hysteria.

The anticipation was simply deafening.

“Marion shrugging off all the pressure. The media frenzy swirling around her husband, the shot-putter C. J. Hunter, and his positive anabolic steroid test,” the announcer on NBC sports said. “Her mother is also here. Marion is her name as well. The relationship between Marion and her mom has sometimes been a little . . . touchy.”

As you can appreciate, the Olympics had descended into a TV drama.

Looking back on the broadcast, “shrugging off the pressure” was an understatement—Jones was all smiles every time the cameras panned on her face, which was most of the time. Much was made of the fact that she had already won the gold in the 100 meters, the first in her quest for five. I often wonder what was really going on in her head, and in her heart. With her husband now exposed, was she secretly wary that she could be next? Were those million-dollar smiles a big facade? Or was she just basking in the moment, able to somehow compartmentalize these allegations and her own personal issues?

Whatever the case, my face was quite different.

It was locked on the ground in front of me. I was swaying back and forth, my hands firmly planted on my hips. In video you can see me talking to myself, as I often did before big races.

“This is our last dance,” I muttered, shaking my head. “This is it.”

When I finally heard my name on the loudspeaker—Pauline Davis, Bahamas—I managed to raise my arms in acknowledgment. But my eyes stayed low. I never looked at the camera, or even the crowd. I was completely locked in on what I had to do.

“You have worked hard,” I whispered to myself. “You have prepared yourself.”

The differences between how Jones and I lined up for that final tell you everything you need to know. For me, sprinting was never about pomp and pageantry. It wasn’t even about money, fame, or prestige. My life had been about the process, the love of training, and the physical, emotional, and mental sacrifices I had to make to even breathe that moment. A little girl from the ghetto in Bain Town, from a country with the population of a small US town, should never have been on that starting line. Who would have thought a barefoot girl who ran sideways could ever amount to anything? The toil and pain of getting up every day, no matter what was happening in my life. Nearly twenty years of commitment and training—five Olympic Games—had finally brought me to this last individual race.

I was thirty-four years old when that gun sounded. Incredibly, I was five years older than the next senior competitor. Jones and Jayasinghe, for example, were younger than me by a decade. This was my legacy. My pride. Every ounce of my concentration had to be funneled into the moment.

“Marion is undoubtedly the superior athlete in this event,” the Aussie broadcast claimed. “Really the question is going to be: will she go under 22 seconds? And by how far? And then, we will battle it out for the minor medals.”

Like I said, there was Jones and everyone else. So began my stolen moment.

When the gun sounded, I was in a complete zone. I closed my eyes and remembered everything my coaches had taught me, from Coach Wisdom straightening me out with his necktie to Coach Seagrave’s final touches, and everything in between. I closed my eyes and started floating. My body remembered all the little things, and yet my mind remembers almost nothing at all. Just 22.27 seconds later, I had crossed the finish line for the last time, my individual athletic career—a lifetime of work—over in an instant.

Disorientated and exhausted, I started walking back to the finish line, hands on my hips, questioning what I had done wrong. For some reason, I looked up at the scoreboard and didn’t see my name. I was dejected. Suddenly, people started coming over and hugging me, congratulating me on a job well done. I couldn’t understand it at first, until finally I gazed up at that scoreboard one more time. Marion Jones was on top, with a blistering time of 21.84 seconds. And there, underneath her, was Pauline Davis, clocking in with a personal best of 22.27. Jayasinghe, the Asian Black Mare from Sri Lanka, finished only one hundredth of a second behind me for the bronze.

Of course, Jayasinghe and I were afterthoughts compared to “Marvelous Marion” and her second gold of the 2000 Summer Olympics.

“Marion Jones has it all her own way as she devastates the field in the 200 meters,” the NBC announcer concluded.

Yes, she did have it her own way. Those words now drip with irony.

In truth, I was far from upset. Once I saw my name on the board, my hands shot up to my face. I covered my mouth and screamed as hard I could. I was simply elated to have finally made the podium in the Olympic Games. I had achieved a medal in every other major track and field competition on the planet. Finally, I could tick the biggest one off my list.

And funny enough, when I saw I had won the silver medal, I knew, at least in my own mind, that I was an Olympic gold medalist.

“After the press conference, I remember Pauline grabbed me by the arm and said: ‘Paul, someday that gold medal will be mine,”’ Doyle says. “So she knew then. Especially after [Marion’s] husband tested positive. She told me: ‘Come on, Paul. They both eat from the same box of cereal. You gonna tell me he was doping and she wasn’t?”’

Of the hundred thousand people in that stadium, and the millions watching around the world, I might have been the only one, or perhaps one of the very few, thinking I was the gold medalist. Everyone was far too enamored with the story of Marion Jones. But I had seen her prior to her transformation at the 1997 World Championships in Greece. And I know what the process looks like, for anyone, including an incredible talent like Marion Jones. It was all I could think about when an Olympic official approached me on the track.

“Pauline Davis? Bahamas?” she asked. “I am here to escort you to drug testing.”

In this regard, the IOC was extremely efficient. If you won a medal in the event, those officials were on you right away. They followed you around the track as you celebrated, cheered, and fulfilled your media commitments. They wasted no time. The official assigned to Jones would have to wait much longer, of course. The most famous Olympian in the world, certainly on the women’s side, had a few more interviews to field. When my press conference was over, I was escorted through a tunnel and taken to a small room inside the stadium. Along the way, the official gave me instructions and explained how my urine would be tested. Just outside the room was Trevor Graham, Jones’s coach, whom I had known for years. I don’t know what came over me.

“So, are we going to do any blood testing?” I asked.

The official shook her head.

“Damn, you mean I’m not getting my gold medal today?” I said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

And let me tell you—Graham shot me a nasty look. And I glared right back at him.

For now I won’t get into all of the technicalities regarding drug testing at the Olympics, and how these procedures have changed and evolved over the years—more on that later.

Like I said, I wasn’t actually bitter or resentful. I was overjoyed with silver, with a quiet conviction that I deserved more. Besides, there wasn’t much time to dwell on anything. It was late in the evening by the time I finished drug testing and left the track. The very next morning was the first heat of the women’s 4×100 relay, and those girls were counting on me.

Sadly, at least in my mind, I couldn’t always count on them.

Shortly after I won the silver medal, Debbie, who came fifth in that 200-meter final, immediately came over and congratulated me. Eldece followed suit at the Olympic Village when I saw her the next day. But Chandra and Savatheda? I never received a true congratulations from either of them—and that truly hurt me, at the time. All of the women, excluding Eldece, were competing in their own individual events at those Summer Olympics. I was the only one to walk away with a medal. I wonder, even to this day—did my success divide us even further? Was that why they left me at the Olympic Village before the final?

Despite any issues between us, none of it translated onto the track. With Debbie running both the 100 and the 200, we shuffled the order and inserted Sava into the anchor leg position. Eldece, our reserve for the final, would lead us off in both the preliminaries and the semifinal. It was a common strategy used by other teams. For the Americans, Marion Jones wouldn’t run anchor until the final. And same with the Jamaicans—Merlene Ottey was kept on the shelf until the big moment. All the excuses that we heard after the World Championships in Spain a year earlier—it was a fluke they won the gold, and once Jones and Ottey are in the picture, it’ll be different—wouldn’t hold water at these Summer Olympic Games.

This race would be for all the marbles.

We breezed through the preliminaries, easily winning our heat and ending up with the second fastest time, behind Jamaica. It was more or less the same result in the semifinals. We drew the Americans in our round and finished on top with a time of 42.42 seconds, once again good enough for second place overall. The United States had only the fourth fastest time, although at this point, it was simply about moving the chess pieces.

“Well, I am very confident,” Eldece told the media, shortly after the semifinal. “I think we had a slight shake between the second and third leg, but I’m confident we will come out victorious. We are very confident and we will do our best to hopefully come out on top.”

Chryste Gaines, the leadoff for the Americans, had a different opinion.

“Oh, we’re feeling good going into the finals,” she said with a confident smile. “We gave The Bahamas a good run with three legs. Tomorrow we’ll see what we can put on y’all with four legs.”

That comment sparked a few laughs from the Bahamian press gallery. I can only assume she meant one thing—that “Marvelous Marion” was coming to save the day.

We would see about that.

It was psychological warfare heading into the women’s 4×100 final. The last race of my career. The final chance to see if that crazy dream I had so many years ago was true, or simply that—a dream. But really, in those final moments before the gun, I felt like the true psychological warfare was more from within.

Heading to the track on my own broke my heart. It shattered whatever zen I had been feeling throughout those Olympic Games. I realized that the sense of calm I had felt personally wasn’t necessarily shared by the entire team. As I prayed in that circle at the side of the practice track, my eyes firmly closed, all the issues, challenges, and disagreements we’d shared in the lead-up to this relay final came roaring back.

When I opened my eyes, my sight was blurred from tears. One thing Coach Seagrave always told me—never cry before a race. It sapped the energy right from you. And yet I was a bucket of tears. Even worse, I looked around the circle and saw my sisters crying, too. Everyone except Chandra, who was always the more hardened of the group.

With our emotions now on display, I went around the circle and told each and every one of them what I loved about them.

We had our differences, yes. But in reality—I loved them, each in my own way.

I can’t recall exactly what I said to each of them. When you’re in the moment like that, you just speak from the heart, your emotions spilling to the ground. What I do know is that by the end of it, we embraced in a united hug.

It was time to focus on the task at hand. We had to finish what we started.

The four of us hit the practice track to go through our warm-ups and paces. Eldece supported and encouraged us from the sidelines, ready to jump in if the need arose. Everyone was feeling that nervous excitement now, knowing we were so close to taking our place in track and field history.

“What I can remember, when we were warming up, the Americans were right beside us,” says Rupert Gardiner, our relay coach. “They were trying to distract us. Every time the girls would put down their markers, or go through the practice exchanges, they would walk across our lanes. ‘Don’t worry about them,’ I told the girls. ‘Let’s just do what we have to do.’”

Easier said than done. Yes, our team had the talent. And since our pact at fish fry, we had put in the extra work. We knew each other extremely well—so, in theory, the handoffs should be smooth. Of course, anything can happen in a matter of seconds when you’re on track and field’s biggest stage. The pressure was enormous. Back in The Bahamas, an entire nation anxiously waited with anticipation. If I told you that every Bahamian was glued to their television or radio—and it was the middle of the night back home—then it wouldn’t be too far from the truth. This was a national event my country had never seen.

In a short documentary made by the Bahamas Olympic Committee, Dennis Ingraham, a prison inmate at the time in Nassau, later described what it was like.

“I was incarcerated, but I was fortunate enough that even in prison they had a television,” he said. “It came on around 3:30 a.m., and everyone woke up. It was sorta like Junkanoo ... a lot of excitement. Everyone was anticipating a win.”

Top to bottom, high and low—this race gave us all hope.

The US team had won four consecutive gold medals in the 4×100 relay on the women’s side. It was total dominance for the past sixteen years. The last time the Americans didn’t win gold? Germany wasn’t a united country yet, following the aftermath of the Second World War. Russia was still the Soviet Union. At the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow, East Germany captured the gold, although this victory came with an elephant-size asterisk. Just eighty nations participated in those Olympic Games; a staggering sixty-six countries boycotted the 1980 Olympics entirely—including the United States of America. It came as no surprise that East Germany and the Soviet Union won 127 of the available 203 gold medals that year.

Simply put, the US team was the Goliath of track and field.

In 2000, the population of the United States was 282 million. Since the first modern Olympics, in Athens back in 1896, the US had won thousands of medals—hundreds of them gold. Also in the year 2000, there was a tiny country floating in the Atlantic with 298,000 souls, or 0.1 percent of the United States’ total population. Meanwhile, since independence in 1973, The Bahamas had achieved two medals—a bronze in 1992, and now a silver after my 200-meter performance.

It’s hard to imagine a more lopsided affair. In the biblical tale of David and Goliath, David confronts the unstoppable giant with nothing but a slingshot and five stones. This was our battle of a lifetime. We either hit the mark now, or fail.

“FIRST CALL—WOMEN’S 4×100-METER FINAL. REPORT TO THE CALL ROOM NOW.”

The announcement washed over the practice track.

Before any race at the Olympics, participants must assemble in an area where officials check your name, number, and even the bottom of your spikes to make sure they’re proper regulation and the correct length. Everything runs on a dime at the Olympics. Not only are there dozens of events to get through, but millions of people are watching around the world. Broadcasters, organizers, and sponsors have a schedule to keep. While I have never seen it happen, if you don’t make it to the call room in time, you can be disqualified.

Nobody is in too much of a rush after the first call. You keep going through your warm-ups and final preparations, and wait for the next call.

“SECOND CALL—WOMEN’S 4×100-METER FINAL. REPORT TO THE CALL ROOM NOW.”

By now, most if not all the teams in the final—China, Nigeria, Germany, Russia, France, the United States, and Jamaica—were either in the call room or making their way there. Everyone except us. You see, Sava and Chandra, the two sprinters leading things off, had been practicing their exchanges. And for whatever reason, it wasn’t going well. Under normal circumstances, those two were money—a dynamic pairing on our team. But in those dying minutes before the race, they couldn’t connect the baton in the zone.

Was it nerves? A case of the jitters?

At one point, Sava became so frustrated that she screamed at Coach Gardiner.

“I need a ginger ale! Get me a ginger ale!”

We all looked at each other with surprise, but at this point we were also thinking the same thing—It’s showtime. Get this girl what she wants.

“Get her a ginger ale!” we screamed in unison.

I have no clue why she needed that ginger ale. I do know that Coach Gardiner took off to find that soda for Sava, and returned in no time flat. She snatched that can from his hand, took two quick sips, and threw it on the ground.

“OK! Come on! Let’s go!” she yelled, gesturing at Chandra.

“FINAL CALL—WOMEN’S 4×100-METER FINAL. REPORT TO THE CALL ROOM NOW.”

No way they were heading into that call room without connecting the baton.

Time was fading—I realized that if we didn’t get in there quick, we could be disqualified completely. So I started trotting towards the call room, one eye on the call room and the other on Sava and Chandra. I was nearly at the call room when it happened. Boom—they made the connection. I started hauling tail to the call room, Debbie not far behind. We were the last to arrive. It was obvious to everyone when the four of us reached the call room.

“Bahamas is here!” one of the officials shouted. “Bahamas is here!”

It was total chaos, but we made it just in time. The room had rows of chairs, four chairs to a row, signifying the four athletes in each team. Sava, Chandra, Debbie, and myself made our way to four empty chairs after having our names, numbers, and spikes checked.

“Uh huh, see? Y’all scared,” Chryste Gaines said as we passed by.

I stopped right in my tracks. “Scared?” I scoffed. “All you gonna see is our big Bahamian boongies up in your face, ’cause we about to beat you down. We about to give you a cut ass!”

I’m not sure Gaines understood that whole exchange—with my Bahamian vernacular—but hey, she got the gist of it. After all we’d just gone through, I was in no mood for any foolishness.

With everyone accounted for, there was still time—up to thirty minutes or more—until the race. Inside the call room they have a small warm-up area with stripes, where you can do starts and build-ups. Some athletes pace the room, or sit in their chairs and stretch or fidget. It’s a nerve-wracking time—at this point, you’re ready to go.

Relief washed over me when I finally heard the words “GERMANY! LEAD-OFF LEG!”

The Germans received lane one. We were lane five, more or less exactly where we wanted to be, with the Americans in lane six and the Jamaicans in lane three. One by one they called off the different legs by lane and by order, each of us escorted to our spot on the track by an Olympic official.

“I was so nervous,” remembers Coach Gardiner. “I had to stay on the practice track and watch the race from the screen there. I was so nervous my back was hurting. And my head was hurting me. This was the moment of truth in time. The whole world is watching, people from home are calling you, the prime minister is calling you. They want to know the lineup. I felt so much pressure.”

Similar to the 200 final, it was surprisingly quiet as I emerged from the tunnel and onto the field. While I was escorted to my position, I tried to take in the sights and sounds, imprinting them on my memory one last time. The moment is filled with so many complex feelings and emotions. Sometimes, it can feel like it’s taking forever for that starting gun to sound, and then suddenly, time accelerates—the race is over in an instant. For someone less experienced, it’s easy to lose focus. The challenge is to keep balanced. Stay within yourself. Remember your training. Remain focused on what you came to do.

I peered around the track and saw Jones and Debbie being escorted to the final anchor leg position in front of us. It didn’t feel strange on the third leg—I was exactly where I needed to be. Sava, Chandra, myself, and Debbie—pound for pound, up and down and left to right, this was our optimum order. Our plan was always to run from the front, not the back. We wanted a lead and we wanted to keep it. No surprises with Jones on that anchor leg.

Nanceen Perry of the United States was my counterpart on the third leg, in lane six just ahead of me. I remember she looked back and smiled awkwardly—she thought I was lining up wrong in my lane. And I don’t blame her. It was highly unorthodox. Remember now, I wanted to come across my lane, just as Coach Seagrave and I had practiced. Chandra and Coach Gardiner didn’t particularly like it. But that was our plan heading into those finals. For the girl who ran sideways, we were going to make that curve more of a straightaway.

Everyone was in place now.

“All of the women from the Bahamian team have gone to American schools, and I think that’s going to play a big advantage to them, because they are used to running against Chryste Gaines, Marion Jones,” said the female commentator for NBC Sports. “Some of these other women from other countries have never had an opportunity to run against them on a weekly basis.”

Right from the start, it was a drastically different tone from the Atlanta Olympics, four years earlier, where our team was invisible. The 1999 World Championships in Spain and our times leading up to this final had finally woken people up—The Bahamas was for real.

“And also think about the edge the Bahamas might have being on the inside of the United States. They can see everything USA is doing,” the male commentator added.

Sure, that helps. But so did our God-given talent and the practices we had committed to in the lead-up to those Olympics, unbeknownst to the world.

On this day in history, we’d let our sprinting do the talking.

And boy did the Quiet Assassin speak up. Whatever jitters Sava may have had before the race were gone. She absolutely exploded out of those blocks.

“At the relay, I was standing right by the starting line, and I remember the first leg with Sava going up against Gaines,” Doyle recalls. “And I knew it was over 10 meters into the race. She was a beast out of those blocks. There was probably a 7-meter stagger difference between those two lanes, and I swear 10 meters into it she had already gobbled up half of that.”

Chandra was much of the same. Their handoff appeared flawless. Chandra had kept up the pace and we were neck and neck, if not in the lead. There was concern, of course, that me lining up on the far side of the lane would lead to disaster. That Chandra would run all over me, or I would be too far ahead of her. But there would be no frustration or baton throwing in Sydney. Once again, the connection was perfect.

The US team, however, was having problems.

“Now Tory Edwards ran a great leg to hold off Chandra Stirrup,” the NBC Sports commentator observed while the replay aired. “But right here, again, this is where a problem came. Tory Edwards is not catching Nanceen Perry. Nanceen had to turn around right there. That gap opened up probably 2 to 3 meters in a split second. And that left it to Pauline Davis, silver medalist at 200 meters, to run that turn.”

I had no clue they were having issues with the baton. Chandra and I were far too locked into the moment. Any issues we had prior didn’t matter in those crucial milliseconds, where glory and failure were decided. At the end of the day, we were like family. She was my sister—they all were. And none of us would be denied. I ran that curve like a bat out of hell. I ran it as if I was back in the ghetto in Bain Town, but I had four buckets of water around my hands and around my wrists. I ran with all the passion and determination I could, along with the polish and technique that had been drilled into me for decades. Except I didn’t close my eyes this time, at least not near the end of my leg. You see, the relay is a team sport. I knew I had to put as much distance between myself and the United States as possible with Jones on that anchor leg. My focus had to be on Debbie and that baton exchange.

I told Debbie before the race—“I am going to speak to you.”

I knew she was nervous on that anchor leg against Jones. “Just focus on the sound of my voice,” I counseled. “If I miss your hand the first time, do not look back. Keep your eyes forward. Two pumps and swing your hand back again. Do not look back.”

As I slingshotted off the curve, my eyes were wide open, laser focused on her hand. On the NBC broadcast, you can see my lips moving.

I started yelling: “OK, Debbie! Move now! Now! Now! Now!”

And she was on the money. We made the connection the first time, without a stumble or hesitation, and she was flying. I didn’t run the anchor leg in Sydney. But you can see me yelling behind her and sprinting in her wake. Mentor and protégé—it was a fitting end, I suppose, to my athletic career that I passed the baton to Debbie.

“Gooooo, Debbie, gooooo! Run!” I screamed.

I was delirious. I easily ran another 50 meters behind her towards the finish line. It was the best seat in the house to watch a dream come true. Debbie crossed that finish line and I saw her throw her hands up high in the air, screaming in pure, unadulterated joy.

We had done it—we had actually defeated Goliath.

“Basically, I watched Savatheda, she exchanged to Channy, and I was like, OK, good. And I saw Channy went to Pauline and I thought, OK, time to focus,” Debbie would tell the local media after the race. “It didn’t matter what was going on in the other lanes. I just had to focus on lane five. And that’s what I did. I got the baton from Pauline, and I just ran scared home. So I am happy we crossed the finish line in first place and I’m proud of the girls. This is a perfect fairy-tale ending for Pauline. She got the silver medal, and now she got the gold. And I’m proud of her.”

Indeed, while we were fearful of Jones in the rearview mirror, it turns out that faulty baton exchange really cost them. The lead we opened up on the third leg was far too much for Jones to recover from. She actually received the baton in fourth place—it took all of Goliath’s might to race down France for the bronze.

My friends, the Jamaicans, took home the silver.

It was a team effort in every sense of the word. The fact that the US team had faltered on the baton exchange only underlined just how special our pact had been, and our commitment to each other. I’ll never forget that crowd. The Australians went absolutely wild, seemingly just as elated as we were. We all found each other on the track and started jumping, screaming, and embracing. It was a state of total delirium that is very hard to describe. Moments later, Eldece ran onto the track in her warm-up gear and came crashing in. Debbie scooped her up and brought her into the middle, with all of us coming together in a big group hug. And then, holding hands, we marched to the finish line and posed for a photo.

“Pauline winning the gold ... I felt like more than my daughter winning it,” Coach Wisdom reflects. “It felt like my family won it. What I mean . . . my immediate family, my Bain Town family, everyone. It took all of us, you have to reflect on the adversity ... it was the culmination of so much. And the amazing thing is, we did it with so little.”

The five of us gazed into the crowd for family and friends. I found Arlene and the other Wisdoms—and they handed me a Bahamian flag. We all received flags before long. We tied them around our necks and strutted around the track like superheroes.

“We did this for the entire Bahamas,” I told the media that day. “Black Bahamians. White Bahamians. Purple Bahamians. Blue Bahamians. Red Bahamians. This is for the entire Bahamas. We love you, Bahamas, and God bless.”

Behind me, Debbie gave Chandra a big, wet kiss on the cheek. Chandra, ever the serious one, wiped it off but cracked a smile.

“This is not reality—I’m still dreaming,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

And of course I meant that, in every sense of the word. I had dreamt of this moment, so many years ago, and now the moment was here. What do you do, when life catches up with a dream? You just live it, really. You savor it, and never want it to end.

Ask anyone in The Bahamas—they know where they were in that golden moment.

“I was in the Czech Republic. I would have been there for a World Bank meeting, I believe,” recalls Hubert Ingraham, the prime minister who brought my athletic career back from the dead. “I was sitting down in a restaurant for breakfast and all I can hear are people screaming: ‘Bahamas! Bahamas! Bahamas!’ And they were all pointing at me. I looked up and then saw what was happening. For a small country with a population of just three hundred thousand, it was a very exhilarating event. It caused us to be very proud of our accomplishments and achievements, that we could be on the world stage and compete.”

For the medal presentation, Eldece wanted us all to look our best. True to form, she had packed makeup, brushes, and whatever else we needed in her bag. It was just like we were kids again on the Bain Town Flyers—she was always the big sister.

“I made sure all of their hair was in place, and their faces were made up,” Eldece says. “I wasn’t the one gifted to stand on that podium, but I wanted to make sure they looked well. I told them, ‘Because twenty years from now and you look at this picture, you want to be able to say: Hey, look at me’”

Out came the procession of men and women in white jackets and hats, proudly displaying flowers and our Olympic gold medals on shining trays. We smiled and waved to the world. That podium might as well have been a mountaintop.

As the gold was placed around my neck, I just couldn’t stop looking at it. “Wow, look at you,” I said, shaking my head. The pimple on the butt finally had its day.

We lifted up our heads to “March On, Bahamaland” as our anthem was played for the first time at the Olympics. It was overwhelming to see her, my Bahamian flag. She was simply majestic. Yes, dear reader, The Bahamas is a woman—beautiful, vibrant, and smooth, an unparalleled demonstration of Mother Nature. It’s more than that, though. Bahamian women are resilient. No matter what hurricanes or troubles may come, women are the glue that holds society together. We are educated, determined, and strong for our families.

Because that was what our team was, at the end of the day—family. We held true to each other.

By all logic, none of us should have been there. And yet there we stood, for the world to see—the Golden Girls, five powerful women from The Bahamas.

11

“SOMETHING ISN’T RIGHT”

The jubilation at home was the likes of which my country had never seen.

There was only one story worth reading in the newspapers. Just one topic of conversation on the radio or on television programs. Every woman, man, and child in The Bahamas was bursting with excitement. But these celebrations wouldn’t be complete without the Golden Girls.

Initially, as the 2000 Summer Olympics wrapped up, I had other plans. When you’re on the other side of the world, you take advantage of it. Maybe I’ll spend some time touring around Australia, I thought. One of my friends, a fellow athlete, had also invited me to Thailand. Basking in my medals and well-earned retirement, I was in no rush to leave.

That changed when my federation sent me a clear message—“We need you home now.”

From Sydney to Atlanta to Miami. Then the entire Bahamian Olympic team boarded a private flight for our final hop over to Nassau.

I made sure I wore my Bahamian tracksuit that day, with two medals hung proudly on my neck. I figured there would be some media commitments when we touched down, maybe even a press conference. And in a couple days, we’d have a party to celebrate. I didn’t know anything at the time—none of us did. We hadn’t received any details from our federation.

When we touched down at Sir Lynden Pindling International Airport, it sounded as if we were passing through a hurricane. Staring out the windows, we saw two yellow trucks spraying water all over the aircraft, and then high into the air. We passed through two giant columns of water on either side of us, and there, in the distance, I could see the crowds. I had to rub my eyes and look again—I mean, I had been welcomed home from competition before, but nothing like this. There were droves of people as far as I could see, hundreds if not thousands of people packing the tarmac to welcome their Golden Girls home.

As the plane came to a halt, our handlers instructed us on what to do. I was sitting at the front of the plane and asked to disembark first. Someone handed me a bouquet of flowers.

I emerged from the aircraft and the crowd below erupted in cheers. Even the pilots at the front of the plane screamed, their arms dangling out the window and waving small Bahamian flags. The shrill sound of whistles filled the air. And as I walked down their stairs, I had to take care not to stumble. My legs were jelly—and my heart ready to burst.

Debbie followed behind me, along with the rest of the Golden Girls. We felt like royalty, really, when we stepped foot on a long red carpet.

We were greeted by a long line of politicians and dignitaries, all waiting in a row. Everywhere we turned, there were people laughing, crying, and screaming, throwing themselves at us for an embrace. In a word—overwhelming. I had never experienced such an outpouring of pure euphoria, mostly from people I had never met in my life.

Security guards held back the crowds and carved a path for us down the red carpet.

And then the music started—the drums, whistles, and energetic beats of Junkanoo. I was dancing and swaying, laughing and crying, as my fellow Bahamians stretched out their hands to hold mine. We were indeed queens that day, although our adventure had only just begun. I was right about one thing—we did have a press conference, right there at the airport terminal.

After that, our team was led outside the airport, where thousands more waited. The five of us were rushed into five white stretch limousines—one for each of us, along with our families. We paraded through the streets of Nassau that day, standing on the leather seats and poking our bodies out of the sunroofs. Along the highway, and through downtown, people lined the streets, the crowd seemingly endless, every one of their faces a portrait of joy.

Young and old. Rich and poor. Black and white.

It was a moment in my country’s history where we all felt completely united, as one. We were all so proud to be Bahamians.

From that day onward, I would be approached by people from all walks of life, eager to tell me where they were at the time of the race. How they screamed and cried when we crossed that finish line. One man told me he jumped up and down on his bed so hard it broke.

“It made me feel so proud to be Bahamian,” Eldece says. “I felt like—wow, what just happened? Everywhere we went they made us feel so welcome. Even today, more than twenty years later, people are still walking up to me and saying thank you.”

What was most impactful for me was the children. Along the way, the limousines stopped at schools where the kids were all waiting, lined up at attention and dressed to a T in their school uniforms, bright-eyed and in complete awe.

Many of them just wanted to reach out and touch me, as if to confirm that I was real.

“It’s OK, you can touch me,” I’d say to them. “I’m just like you. I eat peas ’n’ rice and cracked conch just like you. I’m a Bahamian.”

I wanted them to know—we did this and you can, too.

Because I remembered what it was like as a young child, growing up in a ghetto with no electricity or water. With little concept of a big world with so much grandeur and possibility. Before a coach discovered me on a grainy videotape. Before a long line of people chose to invest in my future, and believe in me.

I was standing on the street outside one of those schools when a lady reached out and held my hand. While that wasn’t unusual, what she said will stay with me forever.

“Oh Pauline, we are so proud of you,” she said. “Daddy would have been so proud.”

I turned to her, puzzled. “Who is your daddy?” I asked.

She smiled at me knowingly. “Sir Lynden Pindling.”

It was his daughter, of course, who had joined the crowds like everybody else. She told me how, on the weekends, her daddy would be calling around to Coach Wisdom and my other coaches, trying to figure out how I did in my races, wherever I happened to be in the world. Prime Minister Pindling barely knew me in my day-to-day life. He owed me nothing. But for whatever reason, he saw something in me—he chose to take an interest in a poor girl’s life.

Those school visits in Nassau sparked a whole national tour—visiting Family Islands such as Abaco, Grand Bahama, Eleuthera, and Exuma—where we made a point to visit with the children. Without fail, we were greeted as royalty. It was a humbling experience, and we quickly realized that what we did in Sydney went way beyond ourselves.

Years would pass. Memories fade. But the feeling will never be forgotten. The pride and exhilaration of those 41.95 seconds will last for a generation, and beyond.

* * *

While every aspect of my homecoming was incredible, there was one tradition that mattered the most.

Annette Munroe, my first cousin, was without a doubt my number one fan. Being fairly close in age, she and I often played together as children. Years later, at the track, the athletes and coaches knew her as “Pauline cuz.” From day one, she was always out there supporting me, even before I showed real promise. I could be frustrated, defeated, and discouraged, but I’d look over in the stands and see her, cheering me on. Thick or thin—Net was my ride or die.

Of course, she wasn’t able to follow me around the world once my track and field career took off. But no matter where I went in the world, or what I accomplished, win or lose, on the first Sunday after coming home I knew just where to go.

“When she won medals, she would bring them over for me to see,” Annette says. “I would cook her a Sunday meal. She means so much not just to me, but to the country. She is like a jewel. You just can’t explain her. Being around Pauline gives you joy, happiness, excitement. I admired her. I really looked up to Pauline my whole life.”

You might think my triumphant return from Sydney would be the happiest of reunions, a dramatic end to our decades-long ritual. But Cousin Net had other plans.

In the past, when I arrived at her home for dinner, the door would fly open and she would shower me with hugs and kisses. That happened again when I visited for our Sunday dinner after Sydney—she couldn’t be happier to see me. But something was off. I had those medals around my neck—one gold, one silver—and yet her eyes weren’t drawn to them at all. In fact, it seemed like she was avoiding them entirely. Typically, if I was fortunate enough to bring home medals, they would be the star. She’d wear that hardware with pride and take all kinds of photos.

This time, Cousin Net didn’t say a word.

We sat down and had dinner. She always prepared the most elaborate spread of Bahamian favorites, including steamed snapper, lobster, and all the fixings. It was like old times. She asked me a million questions about the Summer Olympics, and we laughed and talked foolishness and about the old days, as we had always done. In the back of my mind though, I knew something was wrong—a nagging question I had to ask.

“So Net, cuz, you don’t want to see my medals?” I asked, finally, gesturing to my chest.

My cousin’s face darkened. She just looked down at her empty plate. “No, I don’t want to see those medals, Pauline.”

“What’s wrong?” I continued, smiling, motioning to take them off. “You want to try them on?”

That made Cousin Net snap.

“I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want to even look at it,” she said forcefully, banging the table. “Listen, Pauline, I’m sorry, but that [silver] medal don’t belong to you. You were supposed to win the gold. Marion Jones stole your medal, Pauline. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care if it takes ten years, you gonna get that gold medal.”

I sat there in total shock. I guess, for Cousin Net, she couldn’t look at it or even touch the silver medal, because if she did, it would somehow validate its existence.

It would make it real.

After Sydney, I felt more or less at peace in retirement. Yes, I had my regrets, and I could have my complaints. But Marion Jones wasn’t keeping me up at night. When I left the Bahamian Olympic trials before Sydney, I kissed the track in Nassau, knowing it was the last time. I thanked God for a blessed career.

What more could I ask for, really? I had won at every level, traveled the world, competed in five Olympic Games, and finished off my career on a high note.

And yet, at the same time, it was clear that everything was not as it should be.

“I just had that feeling, you know?” Annette explains. “Like something was out of place. Even when Pauline wasn’t in Nassau, I used to watch track and field all the time on television, and you have that feeling when something isn’t right.”

She wasn’t the only one with something to say. Following the 2000 Summer Olympics, I received emails from friends, family, and fans from all over the world, congratulating me on my success, but with one proviso—“That gold medal in the 200 meters belongs to you.”

High and low, far and wide, Jones’s cheating seemed to be the worst-kept secret in sport.

“Well, in the context of the US, it was a pretty poisonous system,” says Dick Pound, the first president of the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) and vice president of the International Olympic Committee during the 2000 Summer Olympics. “The national federation used to be called TAC, or the Athletics Congress. They did not cooperate at all with the international federation or the IOC. They were a law upon themselves. They had secret hearings about the use of drugs and nobody ever got caught or sanctioned. When WADA was formed in 1999, it all started to come together.”

There are few, if any, humans on Earth with more passion, opinions, and experience in the world of anti-doping than the legendary Pound. Time magazine has hailed him as one of the one hundred most influential people in the world. Simply put, he is a giant in the field and a fearless advocate for fair play. In 2015, he famously led an independent commission that revealed widespread illegal doping and corruption among Russian athletes, with the state itself found to be complicit in the program. The McLaren Report led to Russia’s partial ban from the 2016 Summer Olympics and the 2018 Winter Olympics.

In 2017, Russia’s state-run doping program was immortalized in the documentary Icarus, winner of Best Documentary Feature at the ninetieth annual Academy Awards.

Soon enough, I’d also find myself near the center of this controversy—more on that later.

A former Olympian himself, Pound is best known for the creation of WADA, and in particular the World Anti-Doping Code, an ever-evolving document that, for the first time, harmonized anti-doping rules, policies, and regulations within sport organizations and among countries around the world. In basic terms, prior to its founding in 1999, there were no set standards for athletes and their federations to follow related to anti-doping and fair play.

It was the Wild West.

Of course, that’s not to say everyone was doping in the decades prior. It was simply that much easier, according to Pound. The “poisonous system” he refers to in the United States was emblematic of the times. I suppose, in a way, it was appropriate that Jones’s exploits occurred just as WADA was joining the scene. The “Marion vortex,” as Pound puts it, only underlined how important it was to have a transparent set of standards to follow.

I just wish the code had come into effect sooner, so I wasn’t sucked in.

The truth is, I’m not special. What happened to me has happened to an untold number of athletes throughout history.

When Pound was an Olympic swimmer, dating back to the 1960 Summer Olympics in Rome, there weren’t any rules or regulations at all against doping. Quite the opposite—he remembers a time when the use of steroids and other drugs was often a casual point of discussion among fellow athletes.

“Everyone knew, even in 1960, that weightlifters had been using steroids systematically,” Pound says. “‘What are you taking? How much are you taking?’ By then it had spread from the weight events to track and field, first in events such as shot put and discus.”

What woke people up?

In those same Olympics, in 1960, a Danish cyclist named Knud Enemark Jensen tragically lost his life. In a 100-kilometer team road race, Jensen had to abruptly drop out due to apparent sunstroke. At one point, the cyclist fell to the ground and fractured his skull on the pavement. He died later that day.

While the cause of death was initially attributed to heatstroke, the doctor who performed the autopsy later revealed he found traces of many drugs in Jensen’s system, including amphetamines.

The result was the formation of the first IOC medical commission, charged with figuring out what these athletes were putting in their bodies. There were no penalties or enforcement, mind you. But it was a start.

The world would have to wait eight more years before the IOC began to test athletes for doping at the Olympic Games.

“And they were basically the only organization doing it,” Pound explains. “They were trying to persuade other international federations to do it, but there wasn’t much enthusiasm. It got to the point where most federations were testing, but only at the World Championships and they wouldn’t let the IOC do any testing in between the Olympic Games.”

The situation was improving, but it was still easy enough to cheat, according to Pound, should an athlete be so inclined.

“Steroid programs that were by then in play, all you had to do was figure out when your system would be cleared and stop taking any of the steroids, say, two months before the games or competition,” he says.

History is peppered with specific moments that shaped the future. In 1960, the death of a Danish cyclist made people think about what was in the bodies of athletes. And after the 1998 Tour de France, people finally decided to do something about it.

The Festina cycling team, sponsored and named after a Spanish watch manufacturer, made international headlines when the team’s support car was found to contain large quantities of doping products. The investigation that followed set off a bombshell in cycling and the wider athletic community, with all nine members of the team confessing to doping in what was dubbed the Festina Affair.

“Nothing is real until it happens in Europe,” Pound says, referring to the Eurocentric nature of the IOC.

Shortly thereafter, the IOC began to turn its attention to forming serious regulations, standards, and procedures related to doping in sport.

And then, along came Pauline Davis, from the small island nation of The Bahamas, ready for her moment in Olympic history. I played by the rules my whole life, so much so that I would make myself sick by refusing to take over-the-counter medicine for my headaches or when I had the flu. If it’s not abundantly clear where I stand, allow me to add—I think people who take drugs are gutless, spineless, and morally warped. I don’t care who you are. You can be American, Bahamian, Russian, or anywhere in between. God gave you certain abilities. Why wouldn’t you work hard to see how far they can take you?

I can accept my losses. But taking drugs, crossing that finish line, and acting like you’re a champion? That is the lowest for me. What chance did I have against these doping programs?

I certainly had opportunities to stray from the path.

Shortly after joining the circuit, I was in Zurich for one of my first international meets. I was stretching on the side of the track when a coach approached me with some very high praise. “I’ve been watching you,” he said. “You’re really fast.”

We had a conversation—filled with these moments of flattery—and out of nowhere Merlene Ottey appears, the legendary Jamaican sprinter. She had known me since I was just a kid at CARIFTA and regional competitions, so really, Ottey was more than just a friend. She was like a mother, or older sister. Ottey grabbed me hard by the arm and yanked me to the other side of the track.

“Don’t you ever let me see you talk to that man,” she scolded me.

“What you mean? We were just having a conversation,” I said innocently.

“I’m telling you—don’t have any conversations with that man,” she insisted. “He is going to give you drugs.”

“Girl, I ain’t going to smoke no marijuana,” I said.

Ottey burst out laughing. Several years my senior, she was always looking out for me. I suppose my response showed how ignorant I was to the world around me. Ottey repeated what she had said before—“Do not talk to that man”—and left it at that.

Three weeks later, back at training in California, I had a telephone call out of nowhere, from that same coach.

“I just want to finish our little conversation from Zurich,” he told me. “I really think you are a gifted athlete. You’re a rarity. You can run the 100 to 400. I’ve been watching you during your workouts.”

“Thank you, Coach,” I said.

“Ummm . . . what I’m trying to say is I would love to be your coach. You want to run 10.7 seconds in the 100? 21.8 in the 200? If you allow me to teach you, I can train you where you can run these times. What do you say?” he asked.

“Well, I really appreciate you telling me this, but you know I already have a coach,” I explained.

“I understand that. But I want you to think about it.”

As he spoke those words, alarm bells were ringing in my head. I could hear Ottey’s words of warning, buzzing in my ear like a little bee. He insisted on giving me his number. I scratched it down on a piece of paper. But the moment I hung up that phone, I threw it in the trash. That coach would be persistent. He’d call me again and again—and I did my best just to ignore him. Eventually, the calls stopped.

Years later, he would receive a lifetime ban for peddling drugs to athletes.

I was a young athlete then with stars in my eyes, fresh meat for someone like him. I was fortunate enough to dodge that bullet—and have mentors to help guide me.

Many athletes of my generation would not be so lucky.

An outbreak of acne, a deep voice, losing curves, and developing a masculine build—these were the telltale signs of a female athlete on performance-enhancing drugs.

“It was just underground,” explains Grace Jackson, the former Jamaican national champion and Olympic silver medalist. “This was around the time people were starting to expose who had been testing positive. And the strong rumors of countries doing drugs. We lived through the heart of that. You know, we were always in the middle of the rumor mill, but you can’t say anything. It was that underground conversation people were having.”

When Grace competed in her first World Championships, she remembers being “one of the few people that looked like a woman.” While most of the rumors tended to swirl around athletes from the Soviet Union and East Germany, it became more and more apparent that doping was ramping up in the western world.

The signs were all there for Marion Jones. We just didn’t have the standards, science, and protocols yet to prove it. Almost, but not quite.

“She had a good body structure to be a runner, and she just came out popping,” Jackson recalls. “And we were just like—huh? Where did she come from? We were not disregarding the fact she had a good body structure. But it seemed like she literally moved off the basketball court and came onto the track and started beating everybody.”

I sometimes think back to that time in Zurich, when I had my brush with that dirty coach. I place Jones in that same scenario and wonder—if she had a friend and mentor like Ottey, could she have been saved? Jones made her choices and deserved what was to come. But she was also the poster child for an entire system gone astray.

It wouldn’t be fixed overnight.

The launch of WADA in November 1999 was a momentous achievement, and yet it was only the first step towards a cleaner global sport community. How do you get the world to agree on a common set of rules and enforcement? It was a colossal task.

“How do you eat an elephant?” Pound asks. “One bite at a time. I was pretty naive because I believed all the stuff I was hearing from the international sport federations. And when I became the president of WADA, I said, ‘We need to be in the field bright and early in 2000 and start testing prior to the Sydney Games.’ We found a substantial majority of the federations did not even have rules to allow them to test their athletes out of competition.”

Describing most sport federations of the day as having a “pretty cozy fiefdom,” Pound explains that the biggest challenge was securing their buy-in. At the time, there were approximately forty federations and 150 or so countries to deal with.

A breakthrough came in 2003, when the code finally came together. A second world congress was held in Copenhagen, Denmark, and it was agreed that the code would come into effect on January 1, 2004, in the lead-up to the Olympics in Athens, Greece. I suppose it was appropriate that the soul of amateur sport would be saved just before returning to where the Games were first played. The provisions of the World Anti-Doping Code would be enforced by the International Convention against Doping in Sport, a treaty from the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO).

It wasn’t a perfect document, Pound says. It would take years to chip away and bring in more enforcement and greater oversight. For example, it wasn’t until 2015 that WADA got the power to perform its own investigations, which is ultimately what led to Pound’s legendary independent commission that investigated Russian doping. Before that, WADA relied on federations to do their own investigations. Also around this time WADA successfully refined the Whereabouts Rule, whereby athletes must select one hour per day, seven days a week, to be available for a drag test—with no prior notice.

Many versions of the code have since been adopted, with the most recent one coming into effect in 2021. As Pound puts it, it was always meant to be an ever-changing and evolving document, as the underbelly of doping also never sleeps.

In 2004, the first code at least put the brakes on doping by creating some universal standards, ending what Pound calls “American free enterprise.”

Again, that was not to say that doping wasn’t occurring everywhere—Team USA was simply on WADA’s radar. He points out that US athletes often had to be handled with kid gloves due to their high profile and the extent to which they were defended.

Nevertheless, it was around this time that cracks began to form around Marion Jones.

During the year the first code was drafted, Lance Williams and Mark Fainaru-Wada, investigative journalists for the San Francisco Chronicle, began to dig up dirt on the Bay Area Laboratory Co-operative (BALCO), which was allegedly marketing and distributing a then-undetected performance-enhancing drug known as “the Clear.”

The investigation showed that well-known athletes were listed as customers of BALCO, such as legendary baseball slugger Barry Bonds, four-time Super Bowl champion Bill Romanowski, and world championship boxer Shane “Sugar” Mosley.

And let’s not forget about Jones.

Williams and Fainaru-Wada are credited as the first to report that she purportedly received illegal drags from BALCO. These journalists would coauthor the bestselling book Game of Shadows, focusing primarily on Bonds, and win the prestigious George Polk Award in 2004 for their work.

The case against “Marvelous Marion” snowballed from there.

In December 2004, Victor Conte, the founder of BALCO, told a national audience on ABC’s 20/20 that he had given Jones performance-enhancing drags before, during, and after the 2000 Summer Olympic Games. Her ex-husband, C. J. Hunter, even turned on the infamous athlete, spilling the beans in front of a federal grand jury that year.

He testified that he injected her with banned substances during the Olympic Games, and that he witnessed her injecting drugs into her stomach at the Olympic Village.

Jones’s attorneys denied the allegations in court.

Besieged and surrounded, Jones consistently denied any involvement with performance-enhancing drugs. I wasn’t exactly surprised by the accusations and evidence coming to light. Part of me was angry, yes, but I had also made peace with the past. Whatever happened next was out of my hands. All I could focus on was the future, and use whatever platform I had to promote hard work, fairness, and integrity in sport. As I retired from the track, I would soon dedicate the next phase of my life to the pursuit of these ideals, taking me to places I never even imagined.

* * *

I had no specific plans after retirement. I knew I still wanted to be around the sport of track and field—how could I not after all of those years?

When I attended the 2001 World Championships in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, I did so simply as a spectator, albeit one with intimate access to the athletes. I was standing at the warm-up track, just observing the practice. Rupert Gardiner saw me and walked over.

“Pauline, can you watch her, please? I’ll be right back,” he said.

Gardiner pointed to Christine Amertil, a promising young Bahamian athlete in the 400 meters. She hadn’t done much of anything yet, but there was hope. It wasn’t all that unusual for Gardiner to make that request—he used to do that all the time when I was an active athlete. He’d tell me he had to run off somewhere, and when he got back, ask me all kinds of questions about how the other athletes were doing.

So I told Coach Gardiner, “No problem.”

And I watched her come out of the blocks a few times.

“What in the world?” I mumbled to myself.

It was all wrong, in my mind. I was baffled, because she had recently graduated from Southeastern Louisiana University on a scholarship and received professional coaching. Before I knew it, I was in the blocks with her, showing her my tricks and techniques. I was so busy getting into it with Christine that I didn’t notice Coach Gardiner had returned; finally, I glanced over, and he was quietly watching us from the side of the track.

I dusted myself off and walked back over to him.

Standing there, his arms crossed, he smiled at me and said, “Why don’t you coach her?”

I looked at him all cockeyed.

“Me? I don’t even know this girl!” I said.

Coach Gardiner shrugged. “She could use the help.”

I let the conversation drop from there and they went back to their practicing. But I thought about what he said. At the end of the day, I realized I could help Christine. She was so young, just beginning her athletic career. I remembered what it was like, back in the day, to be essentially the only female Bahamian athlete out there competing. I was alone and basically had no other women from my country to look up to.

That wasn’t the case anymore.

I decided that the next time I was in Nassau, I’d see what I could do about getting her some sponsorship. I knew Christine came from humble circumstances. I figured a few dollars here or there would help her get set up somewhere with a professional coach, so she would take her training to the next level. And you know what happened? Despite my notoriety, I could barely raise her a dime. Like I said, she hadn’t done much of anything yet, so I suppose it made sense. In my heart, I knew what she really needed. She needed someone to believe in her. So before I knew it, I told Christine, “Look, I’m so sorry, but I can’t get you any sponsorship right now. But I’ll tell you what: let me speak with my husband, and if he says it’s OK, you can come live with us in Atlanta and I’ll coach you.”

Christine would end up living in my spare room for four years.

Looking back on my life, I see that I never would have succeeded if people hadn’t invested in me. That barefoot girl from Bain Town had no chance if a young coach named Neville Wisdom hadn’t knocked on that screen porch door. And when my parents separated, his family took me into their home. I became their family, no questions asked. So, in the end, it wasn’t a hard decision to take Christine in. I was paying it forward. It felt like the right thing to do.

Although I won’t lie—it wasn’t an easy thing to do.

Christine couldn’t drive, and on most mornings, we’d be off to the gym by five o’clock. Before the sun rose, I had the car running in the driveway, just like Coach Wisdom did when he used to pick us up before those practices at Goodman’s Bay. Christine would work out in the morning and then I’d drive her back to my home before heading to work. Of course, we had our regular practices at the track in the afternoon and weekends.

In the evenings, I’d teach her how to cook. I tried my best to welcome her into my family, like Mum Wisdom did for me.

When I saw Christine coming out of those blocks, it lit a fire under me. I realized I was passionate about peeling the layers off that rough onion, until I reached the sweet part in the middle. I did have something to give to the next generation of female sprinters. From there, I developed my own training and coaching group, working with amazing women such as Karen Shinkins, from Ireland, and Monique Hennagan, from the United States. I helped them succeed and win medals at the highest levels. As for Christine, she would go on to make her mark. I watched her win a silver medal at the World Indoor Championships in 2003, and then a bronze at the same event in 2006. Christine wouldn’t quite achieve the podium at the Olympic level—but she did attend the 2004 Olympics in Athens and make the 400-meter final.

I was beyond proud of Christine and her accomplishments.

Turns out, coaching was only the beginning. It was also around this time that I was approached by an old friend about getting involved at a much higher level.

Amadeo Francis, a former Olympic hurdler from Puerto Rico, was the first president of the North American, Central American and Caribbean Athletic Association (NACAC). In track and field, it remains one of six main governing bodies that fall under World Athletics, which at this time was still called the International Association of Athletic Federations. Francis knew me from when I was a young athlete competing at CARIFTA and the CAC Championships. In fact, he was in the stands that fateful night in 1989 when I was hauled off the track by a member of my own federation. Not only was he the president of NACAC, but, as a consequence, he also sat on the IAAF, serving as a senior vice president. And for whatever reason, he felt I had something to contribute to the world of sport administration. Like coaching, I had no plans for it at all. Throughout my life, I have been fortunate to have others help guide my way.

Francis suggested I join the Women’s Committee, one of several advisory bodies to the IAAF. I sprang on the suggestion immediately. First of all, I respected Francis greatly and felt incredibly honored to be asked. Second, I also felt I could make a difference—that I could bring some fresh ideas and perspectives to the table. While there had been several former athletes on these committees, too few had been women of color, and barely any at all from the smaller island states. My federation put my name forward for the appointment and I was lucky enough to be elected to the Women’s Committee by the IAAF Congress.

I didn’t know it at the time, but it would reveal a whole new world for me.

Ever since women first participated in the Olympics—at the 1900 Games in Paris, France (just 22 women participated, compared to 975 men)—there has been a gradual march to equality. By the time the 1960 Winter Olympics rolled around, 20 percent of the athletes were women. Thirty years later, Flor Isava Fonseca, of Venezuela, became the first woman elected to the IOC Executive Board. The next big step came in 1996, when the first IOC World Conference on Women and Sport was held in Lausanne, Switzerland. Special committees and working groups were created “to design and implement a plan of action with the view to promoting women in sport.” That was where I came in.

You might think, on the cusp of the twenty-first century, that the Olympic Games would not require such measures. But it most certainly did.

There was still an unequal number of events for men and women. Men continued to have far more participation. And yet it went far beyond these more obvious problems.

As an elite athlete who happened to be born a female, I was always well aware of my sexuality, and how that made me different. Growing up in the 1980s, I didn’t enjoy being told by adults to cover up my body because of my toned and muscular physique, back when it wasn’t as common for women to go to the gym and work out regularly. Or having other women say I looked too much like a man. I hated having to wake up earlier than the boys before track meets, because there were no separate showers for women.

It also didn’t help that I was so opinionated.

As a woman, I was supposed to know my place. I don’t think I would have gone through so many heartaches, and shed so many tears, if I was a man.

And when I reached the professional circuit, it was simply a given that I wouldn’t be paid the same as a man, or receive the same opportunities, endorsements, or media attention.

If I had been born a man, would my athletic career have been different?

Attitudes were only just beginning to change as I joined the Women’s Committee. It would take us until the 2012 Summer Olympics in London for there to be the same number of events for women as for men. It also marked the first time that all national Olympic committees sent a female athlete. Prior to 2012, Saudi Arabia, Brunei, and Qatar had never sent a woman to the Olympics. Actual participation by women in the Olympic Games now hovers closer to 50 percent than ever. Incredible progress has been made.

Of course, in 2003, we still had a long way to go. As part of the Women’s Committee, we were required to provide a series of recommendations. In my first year, we sent out ten of these recommendations to the council.

I recall being so disappointed when we heard back.

The council ended up approving one, maybe two, of our recommendations.

“Are they serious?” I asked the head of our committee. “They can’t be serious. Is this what they have us here for? What are we—a puppet show?”

True to form, I had no intention of holding back.

“Then I don’t want to be a part of this,” I added. “You go back there and tell them from me: they need to dismantle us. I ain’t got no time for this.”

Well, the head of our committee did just that. One might think that would spell my swift end in that administration. A couple months later, I saw Francis at a joint IAAF event.

“I understand you made a ruckus on the Women’s Committee,” he said with a coy smile.

I stood my ground, laying into him with all the same grievances. Why have a Women’s Committee if you won’t listen to us? He placed a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered. “Keep it up!”

From then on, I knew the IAAF was the right fit for me. While it was not perfect, I was working my way up in an organization that cared about making progress in our sport.

* * *

There was more to my retirement than track and field. Throughout my life I would buck the trend compared to most women around me. While they were getting married and starting families, I was traveling the world as a professional athlete. So when Mark and I got married before the Sydney Olympics, that was a huge signal that change was coming.

I always wanted to be a mummy. Whether it was at the University of Alabama or on the circuit, my fellow athletes would call me motherly all the time—in the way I cooked for them, gave them advice, and generally felt like I had to look after people. I suppose that was how I expressed my maternal instinct, even though kids were never on my radar as an athlete. In another one of those inequalities, having children as an elite athlete can be a death blow to any career, both in how it keeps you off the track and what it does to your body. I was such a perfectionist in my training—while I loved children, and definitely wanted a family one day, taking the plunge when I was an athlete never seemed like an option to me.

I kicked that decision down the road and waited until I was fully retired. It would turn out to be the hardest and most painful decision of my life.

If God had told me, as a young woman, “In your right hand you have children, and in the left you have your Olympic medals—now choose,” I would have definitely chosen to be a mother.

At first, everything seemed like it was going to plan. I was pushing forty, but we had no difficulty getting pregnant in 2003, shortly after I joined the Women’s Committee.

Keeping the baby turned out to be another matter entirely.

We let it roll off of us when I lost our first at four months. Yes, we cried a lot. I remember sitting in the doctor’s office when he asked us, “Do you want to know the sex?” Mark said no immediately. I spoke up and said yes. The doctor flashed glances between Mark and I, and ultimately just blurted it out—it was a boy.

I named him Chancellor. Chance for short, simply because it felt like I had to work so very hard to get him, to even reach this point where I could finally have a family, like most of the women I knew.

The loss of Chance didn’t deter us from trying again.

Mark had always wanted a girl. I suppose that was because he grew up in a family with several brothers. A few months later, our hope was renewed when we found out I was pregnant again. I think Mark was on pins and needles the whole time. Every week, after coming home from work, he would bring me a bottle of apple cider with two wine glasses, with a bowl of strawberries on the side. We’d click glasses and celebrate every week our baby was healthy. It was such an exciting time for both of us—the next phase of our lives, really, when we would truly move beyond the track and focus on building our family.

On July 23, 2005, I was seven months into my pregnancy. I thought we were cruising. And the world came crashing down.

It was dark, late at night, and I remember having to go to the bathroom. Pushing back the sheets, I walked slowly across the room, holding my belly. I could hear Mark grunt slightly in the bed. He was always a light sleeper and woke up when I got up.

I suppose, thank God for that. It probably saved my life.

Apparently, I collapsed shortly after reaching the bathroom—I have no memory of it. The next thing I do remember was waking up delirious in a hospital bed. The room was filled with white coats, and as I started to come to, one of the nurses came over to me and held my hand, speaking softly.

“How are you feeling? What is the last thing you remember?”

Wide-eyed, I shot both hands to my stomach, as any expectant mother would do. I desperately asked about the baby. But she ignored the questions. She just asked me about myself, in the same monotone, calming voice.

The baby had always been active. Even at three months, I’d insist with Mark, “This baby is moving.” He’d shrug me off. “No,” I’d tell him, grabbing his hand, “feel.” Even when we went for checkups, the doctor could barely get a proper image. That baby wouldn’t stay still, always darting back and forth.

“You got yourself an Olympic champion,” the doctor would joke.

I died on the operating table that day.

The doctors told me I had a ruptured uterus, causing severe internal damage. The baby slammed into my chest and all that fluid in the uterus spilled into my system. They had to perform emergency surgery, flush out my system, and give me blood transfusions.

The lead doctor told me at the time, “You were gone. You died. We had nothing to do with saving your life. It was divine intervention.”

Dr. Taylor—that was his name. So I named my baby girl Taylor, after the man who saved my life.

It is difficult to describe, dear reader, the dark places you go after such a miscarriage, so late into term. Only another woman who suffers such a fate can know. As word spread through the hospital, a Bahamian nurse heard about me. She demanded that she change wards and shifts so she could look after me. And it was such a blessing. Even to this day, I don’t know her name. I was in no condition to truly understand what was happening around me. But she was an angel. This Bahamian nurse never left my side. She spoke to me in a familiar accent, speaking of things I knew back home. I remember that voice more than anything else. It brought me comfort and dragged me through those horrible first days.

Eventually, she explained that I had to see the baby. It was part of the healing process.

When I had reached the right stage, they brought in Taylor, wrapped in a beautiful pink blanket. She had a matching pink cap on her tiny head.

She looked so alive, like she would open her eyes at any moment. But what struck me most was the resemblance—I felt like I was staring into a mirror. I counted all her fingers and toes. I checked her ears and nose, and ran my finger along the edges of her mouth. And then I checked her foot. As a sprinter, you want a high arch on your foot. And lo and behold, she had a high arch, just like her mummy. I laid Taylor in the bed next to me, staring at her face, expecting those beautiful little eyelids and eyelashes to flicker and open at any moment. But they didn’t.

Mark looked after me as best he could. He was crushed also, of course. Life was about just putting one foot in front of the other, at this point. The doctors prescribed me an avalanche of pills for the pain—both the pain in my body and the pain in my mind.

“You know I don’t take pills,” I snapped at Mark. “Just flush them down the toilet.”

“The doctor says you need to take these,” he’d insist, helplessly. “They were very expensive.”

“Flush them all down!” I screamed.

And he did. Despite just having major surgery, and suffering from a serious depression, I refused to take medication of any kind.

I suppose that was a hangover from my days as an athlete. I was petrified of drugs—of any kind. And then, more than ever, I was scared that, given my state, I would develop some kind of dependency. Mark set me up in the spare bedroom on the ground floor, because I wasn’t strong enough to use the stairs. I will forever have a long, vertical scar across my chest, a wound that will never heal. Fortunately, my mummy came and stayed with us for a while. I was mostly silent in those days. She would speak to me and tell me everything was going to be OK.

“Have faith in God. He will deliver you from this darkness.”

But the truth was, for the first time in my life, I questioned God. How could he do this to me? Twice? Then I went from questioning God to questioning myself.

After we lost Taylor, I was told I could never be a mother. While we could clearly get pregnant, I didn’t seem capable of carrying a baby to term. That news was shattering—a true nail in the coffin, knowing I would never be a mother.

Did I remain an athlete for too long? Did the endless training have an impact on my body? Should I have taken a break to have a child, like others did?

I questioned myself constantly—my whole life up in flames.

While I had been through depression before, losing Taylor sapped whatever strength I had left. Three months later, I woke up to an empty house. Mark was at work. And for the first time in my life, I needed a drink.

In happier days, I often held parties at the house, particularly when there was a major track meet at Georgia Tech, or at the other local universities. I’d invite all the athletes from the Caribbean for a barbeque, along with the neighbors. I bought and cooked all the food, and the guests brought the alcohol. We never had any of our own in the house. After all, I had never tried a drink in my life, and Mark didn’t drink either. I had those parties so often that guests often left bottles behind in the cupboards for the next time. I remembered that. Like a zombie, I staggered into the kitchen and found those bottles, clanking them together as I transferred them to the cold kitchen floor.

Drink, drink. That was the voice inside my head—one that I had never heard before. I had nothing left in me to fight. I sat on the floor, surrounded by these bottles, trying to decide which one to drink first.

As I reached for the rum, I heard a bang on the door.

About an hour earlier, Sharon Couch, my friend, a former athlete, and now Coach Seagrave’s wife, felt like something wasn’t right. A couple days earlier, she had purchased a little Bible at the mall for me, the kind you can fit in your purse. Her plan was to give it to me on the weekend, when she’d come and visit next. Only something told her that shouldn’t wait.

Coach Seagrave was in his living room with their baby boy. “I’m going to see how Pauline is doing,” she told him. It was a forty-five-minute drive to our house. She grabbed the car keys and the little Bible, and drove.

Our front door in Atlanta had glass on either side, allowing you to look straight in. Sharon would later tell me she rang the doorbell several times, but I didn’t answer. I was in a trance, I suppose, detached and apathetic to what was going on around me. Sharon saw me through that glass, sitting on the floor, surrounded by those bottles. And for whatever reason, I heard the banging just in time.

I unlocked the door and fell into her arms.

Sharon had the most beautiful singing voice. She led me into the living room and held me while I cried, rocking me back and forth and singing hymns. Sometimes, you have to hit rock bottom before you can start climbing out. That moment restored my faith and belief in God. What are the odds? That she was there to stop me? But it also told me I desperately needed a change of scenery.

I am so thankful to my coworkers and colleagues at the Ministry of Tourism in Atlanta. They were incredibly understanding and supportive, as I didn’t return to work for a full six months after losing Taylor.

I boarded a plane for The Bahamas. I had a support system there, being among friends and family. And then there was the ocean. Every morning, I returned to Goodman’s Bay, my roots, where it all started, and I sat on the beach and watched the waves, like I had always done during my darkest days.

Eldece also deserves a lot of credit. She called me every day.

“She questioned why God did that to her,” Eldece recalls. “And she was very bitter and down. So I had to tell her, ‘God has something else planned for you.’ And I had to really talk to her hard then. And after that I would call every day—‘Are you OK? Everything is going to be OK.’ Despite what happened, we from the root. Our friendship was from the root.”

Usually when she called, Eldece would pray. And I didn’t say much. Until one day, I picked up the phone and told her, “You can pray for me now.”

Eldece burst out laughing.

“Sister, you are gonna be OK. You are turning the corner,” she said.

But really, it took the better part of a year before I could carry on. I threw myself back into coaching and my work with the Women’s Committee. I searched for purpose and meaning there. My term with the committee was due to end in 2007; fortunately, fate would once again intervene and give me a renewed focus—something to believe in.

I was at an event in Monaco, France, where the various committees were invited to a banquet with the IAAF Council. Over a year now since losing Taylor, I had more or less returned to my usual bubbly self. I was at a table speaking with some of the other committee members when a man I’d never met before sat down beside me.

“Have you given any thought to running for the IAAF Council?” he asked.

I told him there was still much work to be done on the Women’s Committee, but thank you, I’d definitely give it some thought and consider it.

I didn’t think too much about it after that. Like I said, I had never met that man before in my life. But a few months later, I was approached again, this time by someone different, and with an even more direct message: “You should consider running for the council.”

Now I started to take it seriously.

Was someone sending me a message? Could it be Francis? I’d never find out for sure, but after speaking with my husband, he was now convinced—I should run.

“It is not an easy task,” says Victor Lopez, a former president of NACAC and a World Athletics Council member from Puerto Rico. “Everyone who goes for a spot on the council would be highly qualified. Some of them would be ministers of sport in their countries, ex-athletes, or even prime ministers and other government positions.”

For someone like me, it’s hard to overstate the significance of being asked to join World Athletics (IAAF formally changed its name in October 2019). Ever since its formation in 1912, World Athletics has been the epicenter of track and field, responsible for rules and regulations, the recognition of world records, and the sanctioning of athletes, and generally serving as the chief promoter and guardian of mankind’s most fundamental sport.

I say that without hyperbole—track and field, or simply put, athletics, is the mother of all sports. Yes, you have soccer, commonly known outside of the United States as football, which may have something to say about that claim. And yet track and field, dating back to ancient Greece, is truly the genesis of all human athletic competition. Running, jumping, wrestling, throwing—it is competition at the most primal, basic level. The sport can be enjoyed by quite literally everyone. You don’t need money or privilege to do it. There are no barriers to entry based on the cost of equipment. Even a young black girl from the ghetto, from a country with the population of a town, can be given a chance and come out on top.

Today, World Athletics is made up of 214 member federations, making it one of the largest international organizations in the world—bigger than the United Nations. I believe athletics, and healthy competition, is the glue that often holds mankind together.

Regardless of our differences, track and field unites us with a common set of principles.

But could I really run for a seat on the council—and win?

The council, headed by a president, has twenty-six elected members, all representing countries and associations from around the world. It had already been demonstrated that someone from a small island state, like The Bahamas, could run for a seat and win. Alpheus “Hawk” Finlayson, a former athlete and vice president of NACAC (and, if you recall, the BAAA official who snubbed me after the Atlanta Olympics), made history in my country when he was elected in 2001. Indeed, World Athletics has long broken the color barrier and positioned itself as an inclusive organization—with one exception. Yes, there had been women on the council, albeit not very many. But all of them had been white. My candidacy, as a black woman, would represent the last major barrier for track and field’s highest office.

Running for election was no small matter. My federation had to put my name forward as a candidate, and thankfully, they did. Next I had to hire a campaign manager, to help me reach out to the more than two hundred delegates and convince them that Pauline Davis deserved their vote. Fortunately, as a former, decorated athlete, I was already a known commodity. Meanwhile, my time on the Women’s Committee, and how vocal I was fighting for equal treatment, had already helped establish me as a passionate and engaged contributor to the sport. I was known for my social personality—I loved people. I was likeable and had a good reputation. At the same time, I was a fighter, and someone who wouldn’t back down from my principles.

The timing was perfect, in a way. The world of track and field was ready for a fresh face. A new voice and perspective. I sent letters to all the federations, explaining what I stood for—fair play for women, a strong, personal passion against doping, and a pledge to represent everyone in athletics, from the largest members to the smallest.

In August 2007, at the World Championships in Osaka, Japan, World Athletics gathered to decide the election. I must admit, I didn’t feel especially confident that day. There were whispers of those around me that I wasn’t the right candidate for the job. Like I said, Finlayson had already had his time in the sun, representing a small country like The Bahamas. Not to mention the fact that I was a woman, a black one at that.

People tend to believe in the status quo, until history is finally made.

I went into those World Championships in full campaign mode, doing my best to speak with every delegate I could, answering questions and making my final pitch. Until finally, it came down to the vote. I was asked to leave the room as all 214 members prepared to log their votes on a large electronic screen. It would only take a few minutes.

Before I knew it, people were rushing up to me from all directions. Giving me hugs, patting me on the back, shaking my hand—“Congratulations, Pauline Davis. Our latest member of the World Athletics Council, from The Bahamas.”

Eldece was right—there was something else out there waiting for me.

However, Taylor will always be with me. Shortly after she died, and even to this day, I see her in my dreams. I’m walking in an intensely green field and there are children everywhere, every one of them wearing white. I can see Taylor in the distance playing with the other children. As I walk through the field, my daughter eventually finds me. She takes my hand and calls me Mummy, and we just walk together through that beautiful field.

Strangely, every time I have the dream Taylor seems to get older, as I get older.

My retirement wasn’t exactly how I envisioned it. But I had a purpose now—a true calling where I could now help make a difference and be an advocate in the lives of all women, girls, and athletes from around the world. But breaking down barriers, at least the worthwhile ones, is never easy. There would be a price to pay for my success.

12

TRUTH TO POWER

The Principality of Monaco is a sight to behold.

This sovereign European microstate, nestled in the French Riviera, is arguably the wealthiest enclave in the world. It is also the second smallest country in the world—only Vatican City is smaller. Whereas the Vatican has the pope, Monaco boasts beauty, glitz, glamour, and entertainment.

Growing up in our clapboard house in Bain Town, my mummy used to say that cleanliness was next to godliness. The pope might consider a change of address. With a total area of only 510 acres, or less than a square mile, every inch of Monaco is pristine and meticulously accounted for.

The city-state is bordered by lush green hills, white homes sprinkled throughout with light-red rooftops. Towards the sea, you’ll find a dense network of roads, resorts, hotels, condominiums, and business towers. The coastline is what makes Monaco famous, just over two miles of it, with a series of harbors and marinas along the Mediterranean Sea catering to mega-yachts, the customary helicopter parked on the back of each. The most well-known ward, of course, is Monte Carlo, site of the annual Monaco Grand Prix and the infamous Monte Carlo Casino. This is where the world’s rich and famous come to play. But beyond the wealth and prestige, there is an order and perfection to Monaco that gives me a sense of calm and peace every time I visit.

So how does a barefoot girl from the ghetto end up here, you might ask?

In 1994, the headquarters of World Athletics changed addresses. The office moved from London, England, to 6-8 Quai Antoine, a prime location near Monte Carlo’s Casino Square. Prince Albert II of Monaco, the head of the Grimaldi royal family and a former Olympian, has been a steadfast supporter of athletics. I would have the pleasure of spending time with Prince Albert, always a class act, on many occasions.

It was a real-life fairy tale, really, arriving in Monaco for the first time as a council member of World Athletics. Although I had been there before as an athlete for competition, this felt different—I was an executive now, the first black woman in one of the most prestigious athletic governing bodies in the world.

I sprang out of bed that morning at the Fairmont Monte Carlo, bursting with excitement. Simply put, I was beside myself. It was November 2007—my first official meeting at World Athletics—and I couldn’t wait to get started. After breakfast, I walked over to the main conference hall and stared at the room in disbelief. World Athletics is set up much like the United Nations. A series of tables are placed in rows, facing the front podium. Each council member has an assigned microphone and name tag, indicating country of origin. There is a translator booth and headsets so everyone can speak in their native tongue.

I was too excited to sit down. I networked and chatted with my fellow council members, as I so often loved to do, until we were finally told to take our seats. I had to meander around the room to find my name until, finally, there it was: “Pauline Davis-Thompson, The Bahamas.” As I approached, I could see rose petals on my desk. Isn’t that nice, I thought. Someone has placed flowers here to welcome me on my first day.

Standing there, my smile slowly vanished. I thought my eyes deceived me at first. I had to trace the red petals twice before the message sunk in.

“Nigger go home,” it read. “You are not needed here.”

Now, before I continue, let me be clear—I am an immensely proud supporter of World Athletics. Throughout my time on the council, I was treated with equality and dignity, and I do not judge an entire association on the actions of one, or perhaps a few misguided individuals. I have often praised World Athletics for its inclusiveness. As you will soon appreciate, the coming years would be tumultuous to say the least, yet World Athletics would continue to evolve and grow to become the incredible institution it is today.

But in this moment in time, my fairy tale came crashing down.

I literally started to shake, vibrating on the spot, violently, until I finally released a scream so loud that the whole room stopped and stared.

“Oh my God!” I exploded. “Oh my God!”

Before I knew it, colleagues were surrounding me, confused and disorientated, flashing panicked glances at my table. Lamine Diack, the president of World Athletics, muscled his way through the crowd and read it for himself.

He was a black man from Senegal, which only made the situation worse. It was twisted, almost perverse, to spell such a thing with red rose petals.

“What is this? What is this?” President Diack said frantically. “Clean this up! Clean this up immediately!”

Hotel staff came flying in from all directions, gathering up the petals and tossing them in a garbage bin. Crying, my fellow council members hugged and embraced me, in an effort to calm me down.

Ultimately, I retreated to the bathroom to compose myself and splash cold water on my face, trying to process what had just happened. Fortunately, sorrow quickly shifted to anger—and in my experience, anger can be much more useful. Have you ever looked in the mirror and gained strength? I stared back at myself then, a proud black woman from The Bahamas, and I was more determined than ever to do one hell of a job.

I said to myself, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Remember now—I am an athlete. Competitiveness defines me as a person. Some people might have folded right there. Given up. And in truth, I was shaken and shocked to the core. But there was no way I was going to let this moment define me on the council. I don’t know who the hell this person, or persons, thought they were messing with.

I would never find out who did it. And fortunately, it would never happen again.

I wiped my face and marched right back into that conference room, a big smile on my face, and sat down at my desk, ready for the meeting.

“I am so sorry, Pauline,” President Diack told me, shaking his head. “This is crazy. I don’t understand.”

It was hard to understand. He was right about that.

Like I said, President Diack was black. And there were a few other persons of color on that council. So why me? Because I was a woman?

You can drive yourself mad searching for answers.

What I did know—I would make damn sure I left the door wide open for another black woman to enter behind me.

I was filled with purpose on that day, in more ways than one.

One month before my first council meeting in Monaco, justice would finally catch up with Marion Jones. After years of denials, Jones called a press conference in October 2007. On the steps of a courthouse, with nearly a dozen microphones in her face, she finally admitted to the world what so many of us had known for so long.

She talked about loyalty and family first, acknowledging her mother standing behind her. Then she paused for a long time, wedging her tongue firmly between her lips.

“And so it is with a great amount of shame that I stand before you and tell you that I have betrayed your trust,” she declared, her voice breaking, holding back the tears.

She admitted to making false statements to federal agents under oath about her steroid use. She begged forgiveness from her mother, her husband, and her children. To them, and to her brother, uncle, and extended family, she said, “I want you to know I have been dishonest, and you have the right to be angry with me.

“I have let them down and I have let my country down,” she confessed, the tears now streaming down her face.

The shocking admission set off a media firestorm, becoming one of the biggest stories in the world, and certainly one of the biggest sports scandals in modern history.

Jones would ultimately spend six months in prison for lying to federal agents about her drug use, along with her involvement in a check-fraud scheme.

Her remorse seemed genuine. You could see the shame on her face. You could hear it in her voice. But I can’t help but wonder—did she want to tell the truth? She spent seven years denying it to investigators. Seven years. Despite the evidence, the investigations, and the testimony, she held on to those falsehoods. Did she stand up at the courthouse and tell the truth because she wanted to? Or because she had to?

In other words, was she sorry that she did it, or was she sorry that she got caught?

To me, the answer to that question is important.

Was she truly remorseful? Years later, in an interview with Oprah Winfrey, Jones said she would have won anyway, regardless of whether she took drugs or not.

I find that deeply offensive. She cheated—plain and simple. Like I said before, I don’t care who you are, or where you come from. To me, anyone who uses drugs is gutless and morally warped. If you go down that path, there is nothing left to say. Period.

As a member of the World Athletics Council, I would make anti-doping my crusade.

When Jones confessed, I had no idea when or if I would receive my gold medal—one did not immediately necessitate the other. In the end, it would be the decision of the International Olympic Committee. But I sure as hell was going to advocate for it. It was a turning point in athletic history, really. Justice finally seemed to be catching up with the cheaters with the formation of the World Anti-Doping Agency in 1999, and the release of the code in 2004. Suddenly, it truly mattered that we bring fairness back to the sport. The IOC stripped its first medal—a bronze—in 1968. Up until 2000, a total of fifteen medals had been taken away from athletes competing in the Summer Olympics.

Since 2000? Well over one hundred have been stripped.

Yes, I wanted my medal. It was personal. And in my mind, that was exactly what made me the perfect person, at the right time, to help fight for others to receive their just rewards. I represented myself on the council the same way I did on the track—a fierce advocate for hard work, with no shortcuts. And fortunately, two years later, I was at a council meeting when Thomas Bach, who would soon be president of the IOC, sat down with me in Berlin. It was relatively unceremonious—there was no big fanfare or photo opportunity. We sat down in the corner of a room, and he told me I would receive my Olympic gold medal.

It was a funny feeling, “winning” something that had happened more than nine years ago.

I thanked him, of course, not just from me but on behalf of all the athletes who were cheated in those Olympics by Marion Jones. I commended the IOC for stepping up and having the courage to do the right thing.

But like I said, it was an unusual feeling. I certainly didn’t feel like a big winner. I didn’t jump up and down afterwards and scream at the top of my lungs. You know who I did call? Annette Munroe, or Cousin Net, because she called it—one way or another, I was going to get what belonged to me, even if it took ten years. Her prediction was eerily correct.

Fourteen medals were stripped from those Summer Games in 2000, one shy of the total number that had been stripped since 1968.

Jones represented five of them—three golds (in the 100 meters, the 200, and the 1600 relay), along with two bronze (in the long jump and the 400 relay).

I suppose the past is the past. We can’t change it now. I do take comfort in the advances that have been made since 2000. That said, according to Dick Pound, the founder of WADA, “there is still a lot of cheating going on.” Whether it is taxes or the track, cheating is part of human nature. There will always be those who don’t care about the rules. They just want to finish first.

The cat and mouse game continues.

But in Pound’s opinion, could Marion Jones do today what she did in 2000?

“No. There are too many possibilities,” according to Pound. “The science is much better. The consequences are more immediate. And one of the things about doping is, someone else knows. And so you are really at risk of a whistleblower and all sorts of ways in which your conduct can be reported on.”

WADA’s ability to conduct its investigations and gather intelligence is “very effective,” he adds. Funny enough, Pound says this intelligence, and word of mouth, is typically the most effective way to catch a cheater.

And for me, that’s what really matters.

What happened to me—my stolen moment—will at least, I hope, not happen to someone else. When I look at my life, I have been beyond fortunate in my experiences and accomplishments. At the same time, there has been more than one stolen moment, whether on the track or off the track. It is my duty to speak truth to power, so the trials and hardship I went through meant something.

Looking back as far as the 1960s, Pound says “probably hundreds” of athletes, like me, have been impacted by doping. The cheaters just didn’t always get caught.

With Jones’s disqualification, I became the first female sprinter from the Caribbean to win an individual gold medal. That accomplishment, however, was somewhat lost in the history books. When people think about the Sydney Olympics, they tend to remember that Marion Jones was disqualified, not the victims who were impacted. I sometimes wonder how my life might have been different if she had never stuck a needle in her body. What would it have been like to cross that finish line as the winner? To stand at the apex of that podium, and to see my flag raised and hear my national anthem played? Returning home to my country with two gold medals around my neck? What would it have meant to The Bahamas? And to me?

But really, my thoughts mostly drifted to others—both those who received justice, and those who did not. Beverly McDonald, a sister from Jamaica, came fourth in that Sydney 200-meter final. I remember what it felt like to come fourth in an Olympic final back in Atlanta. She would now get bumped up to bronze. However, she never got to stand on that podium and see her flag raised to the rafters. Beverly, who played by the rules, would never have that feeling of pride and exhilaration, where your chest feels like it might burst.

The Marion Jones fallout was massive, even within Team USA.

Shortly after Jones’s confession, the IOC planned to strip not only her medals, but those of her teammates in the relays. Here is where the waters get murky. The Americans won a gold in the 4×400 relay and a bronze in the 4×100 relay. None of the other teammates on those teams were found to be doping. They played by the rules.

How do you handle them? Should they get to keep their medals?

“They were trying to take it away from us and we had to fight like hell to keep it,” says Chryste Gaines, who led off the Americans in that 4×100 relay. “Part of our fight was we had no way of knowing what anyone else was doing. They wanted to have us as a blanket team, as if we trained together on a regular basis and everyone knew what the others were doing.”

Quite the contrary, according to Gaines.

Heading into other Games, and in the lead-up to the race, Gaines says the team “really struggled to get her [Jones] to relay practice.” With Jones’s celebrity at its height, and her declaration that she was going for five gold medals, America’s star female athlete was being pulled in every conceivable direction, making it difficult to nail her down—let alone know anything that was going on in her camp ahead of that race.

Gaines and her teammates lobbied hard to keep their bronze medals. They had to find a lawyer to take the case. They couldn’t afford the legal fees, according to Gaines, so they had to rely heavily on pro bono services.

In the end, after a long process, Gaines and the other teammates managed to keep their medals, although old scars remain. Even today, Gaines feels Jones was “lackadaisical” about the process, and the fact they were being asked to return their medals.

“There wasn’t much empathy for us,” she says.

I suppose that’s where Gaines and I can relate. Once again, people will always remember the famous person who cheated, not the victims.

So I was grateful to receive the news—but it was far from glorious.

Little did I know, Marion Jones was the harbinger of things to come. There was a reckoning on the horizon, one that would plunge even World Athletes into crisis.

* * *

It was the middle of night, and Lord Coe was pacing.

Sebastian Newbold Coe, the new president of World Athletics, understood that the very future of track and field was at stake. Myself and a few other trusted council members decided to stay up with him—all night—ahead of a vote that would define our sport for generations. It was five o’clock on the morning of December 3, 2016. Before long, the first fingers of light would stretch across the Mediterranean and into our hotel room in Monaco. We were on the cusp of a historic Special Congress, with all 214 member countries expected to be in attendance.

In the four months prior, Lord Coe had hit the road, his technical team of lawyers and governance experts in tow. They visited six continents, campaigning and explaining to the athletic federations why World Athletics needed a new constitution. A fresh start.

To put it mildly, Lord Coe had inherited a mess.

In 2015, as the World Anti-Doping Agency released its damning report on Russian doping, it also pointed a finger squarely at World Athletics. Despite all the rules and regulations created by WADA’s anti-doping code in 2003, there were major holes, “systemic failures,” and even corruption within our organization, according to the report. WADA alleged that World Athletics had consistently failed to enforce the rules not just with the Russian athletes, but indeed across the entire sport.

President Diack, sadly, was at the center of these accusations, which stretched beyond the Russian scandal and even doping. As far back as 2011, Diack was being investigated for taking bribes from a marketing agency in exchange for lucrative contracts.

In November 2015, President Diack was finally arrested in France, placed under house arrest, and charged with “passive corruption” and money laundering by French financial prosecutors. It would take years for all the Russian doping accusations to fully come to light. Eventually, even Diack’s son, who had been hired as a consultant, would become implicated in the charges. WADA released another report that alleged Diack actually appointed two of his sons and a friend to key positions to aid and abet corruption and conspiracy related to the doping of Russian athletes.

In September 2020, Diack, at the age of eighty-seven, and five other senior officials would be found guilty of corruption and taking millions in bribes in exchange for “full protection” and covering up their doping activities.

He was sentenced to two years in prison and ordered to pay around $600,000 in damages.

Of course, when Diack was first arrested, we didn’t know the full details. We just knew that, according to WADA and investigators, the integrity of our organization had been severely compromised.

It shook many of us on the council to our core.

Being elected to the council of World Athletics was an absolute dream. Throughout my athletic career, I tried to conduct myself the right way. The hard way. I had been borderline obsessive and fanatical about it, always being extra careful, always working and grinding by example. The thought of joining World Athletics, and dedicating the rest of my life to anti-doping and fair play, meant everything to me. And when Marion Jones received her just rewards, it seemed like our sport had finally turned the corner.

Diack’s arrest caused me to question everything I believed in. Had it all been for nothing? Could someone like me really make a difference? The level of deceit and corruption was staggering. It showed how secretive and opaque parts of the organization had become. Our sport desperately needed authentic leadership.

In stepped Lord Coe, a former athlete himself who had won four Olympic medals on behalf of Great Britain in the early 1980s in the middle-distance categories, including back-to-back gold medals at the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow and the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles.

Funny enough, our Olympic careers would cross during the latter, when I attended my first Games as a teenager.

We wouldn’t meet then, however. Lord Coe remembers first hearing my name sixteen years later.

“I was actually working for Channel 7 in Australia for the Sydney Games in 2000,” he says, recalling his time as a color commentator. “I do of course remember the relay and I think I was asked to provide some color just to the importance of what it meant for The Bahamas and what they did against the so-called powerhouses of the sport—it was extraordinary. Even then, there was something about the way Pauline conducted herself on the track. She had charisma.”

Lord Coe also knew a thing or two about that.

Retiring from athletics as an Olympic champion, he was elected as a member of Parliament and served the Conservative Party from 1992 to 1997, before eventually turning his eye to another political arena in international sport administration. In 2007, he was first elected as vice president of World Athletics. A few years later, he would be instrumental in London’s successful bid for the 2012 Summer Olympics and become chairman of the London Organising Committee for the Olympic Games. Lord Coe’s career would be filled with appointments, recognitions, and accolades, but in truth, his most important and challenging post was when he became president of World Athletics in August 2015.

“My first few years as president of the sport were fairly tumultuous,” he explains. “And I can tell you, there is nobody, in her own way, that was more steadfast in my corner than Pauline. There were some fairly dark days.”

Indeed, Diack was arrested just three months into Coe’s tenure. And a few months after that, some of the organization’s biggest sponsors were running for the hills. In January 2016, Adidas, a long-time supporter of World Athletics, cancelled its multimillion-dollar sponsorship contract. Other corporate titans, like Nestle, followed suit.

The organization was reeling, suffering from a lack of trust and confidence.

It reminded me of my first day on the council, with those red rose petals. Sometimes obstacles are put in our way, seemingly insurmountable. That’s when it’s really time to compete for what you believe in. By 2016, with eight years under my belt, I had been re-elected twice to my position on the council. I was now a double gold medalist—the victim of one of the most notorious doping scandals in history—and I never felt more confident in my leadership position. Lord Coe needed me. The sport of track and field needed me.

“Pauline was absolutely unflinching in her support,” Lord Coe says. “And I will always, always be mountainously grateful for that support. When you are in a corner, it’s really gratifying to have a few people that are still prepared to stick their head above the parapet when most are running for the hills.”

We had to stop the bleeding and make some very difficult decisions. The first major breakthrough came several months later, in June 2016, when our council held a vote to decide whether to uphold the ban on Russia ahead of the Olympics in Rio that summer. More damning information and reports had come from WADA. Just that week, it emerged that 736 tests required from Russian athletes had been declined or canceled. Meanwhile, the watchdog cited more cases and evidence of tampering and attempts at bribery. You might think, based on these reports, that it would be a slam dunk decision to uphold the ban. And yet it was far more complex than that. In the world of high-stakes athletics, it always is.

Ed Warner, the UK Athletics chairman, said, “The IOC is going to be under enormous pressure to cave in and allow the Russians back, and I sincerely hope they don’t do that because what we have seen is clean athletes that have been cheated for many years by state-sponsored systematic cheating. It is terrible and goes to the heart of confidence in sport.”

The vote on the World Athletics Council was unanimous—athletes would not be permitted to compete under the Russian flag at the 2016 Summer Olympics in Rio. We all stood by our new president as he delivered the news to the world’s media at a press conference in Vienna, Austria.

I had no doubts about our decision. “Pauline displayed an emotional connection to our sport that very, very often bordered on absolute passion and conviction,” Lord Coe says. “She was often a voice of conscience around the table. So she was really the heart and soul of the council. And you know, she was tough, too. She wasn’t afraid to absolutely stand in her corner and absolutely defend it if she needed to.”

The Russian president, Vladimir Putin, called our decision “unjust and unfair.”

It was a huge first step to restoring the credibility of our sport. In the words of Lord Coe, we had stuck our heads above that parapet. The question now was—would anyone fire back?

We entered the 2016 Summer Olympics on a razor’s edge. To put it mildly, World Athletics wasn’t the most popular organization in the room. We knew the IOC wasn’t particularly pleased with us. They would have preferred another solution that wasn’t quite so drastic, in their view, singling out one of the most powerful countries on Earth, and the second largest medal winner from the Summer Olympics in London four years before. However, we did leave a so-called crack in the door for a small handful of Russian athletes, if they could prove they had been training outside the country. Those athletes would have to compete under a neutral banner.

At the end of the day, we proved to ourselves that we could be moral and ethical leaders in the sport. Without track and field, is there really a Summer Olympics? Others would have to go along for the ride, although they didn’t have to be happy about it.

“The relationship with some elements of the IOC were, if I’m being charitable, frosty,” Lord Coe says.

It was an unnerving experience, arriving in Rio.

Our hotel was essentially in lockdown—nobody really came in or out without authorization. It seemed like everywhere we went there was heavy security. I remember having more than one meeting in the basement of that hotel, just to ensure we weren’t in the public eye more than was necessary. In truth, security was generally a major point of emphasis for those Games in Rio, and the organizers did an admirable job.

We got through those Games—and held our ground.

But the job was not done. Yes, we had delivered a firm message to the sport—that cheating would not be tolerated—by siding with WADA. That message, however, didn’t address the systemic issues of corruption that had clearly infected World Athletics. Fast forward a few months to December 2016, and we were pacing in that room at the Fairmont Monte Carlo because what came next would be transformational for the sport and its 214 member federations. We couldn’t take our foot off the gas pedal now.

As the sun started to rise, we wiped our eyes, bleary from the all-nighter, and returned to our rooms, preparing ourselves for the day ahead. We felt confident that our members were thirsty for constitutional reform. Given the events of the last few years, even skeptics now understood the need for greater transparency and accountability. The centerpiece would be the Athletics Integrity Unit, which made all of our testing independent. But we were not content with just focusing on the testing. It also dealt with corruption—including weights and measures to spot it—and the creation of a vetting panel to ensure that those standing for office in the future would be properly scrutinized and have the right level of integrity.

The issue was not whether it would pass, at this point. One of our final discussions was the nature of the vote—should it be open or closed?

In other words, should the members know exactly who intended to vote no?

As a member of the council, one of my greatest strengths was having an ear to the ground. I had always been a social person by nature, slipping in and out of conversations. I could be both listener and talker. As a listener, I knew there were some countries planning to vote no. Whether it was out of sympathy for or allegiance to the Russians, or for their own reasons, those whispers were out there. Some federations simply didn’t want more transparency and control.

As a talker, while Lord Coe was on that intercontinental tour, speaking with all the member federations, I was also out there, campaigning passionately for a new day in World Athletics.

One of those stops was in the Caribbean, when Lord Coe met with all the members of the North American, Central American and Caribbean Athletic Association.

“She was out there openly, speaking with her friends and colleagues on why she felt it was really important—why the sport must change,” Lord Coe recalls. “Because if we didn’t change, the sport was in serious jeopardy. So to have people like that around you, going into that type of landscape, is comforting.”

It probably comes as no surprise to you, dear reader, which side of the fence I stood on as it related to an open or closed vote.

There were only a few of us in that all-night meeting. I made sure I took Lord Coe aside, and I told him—“We need to know who is sinking this ship.”

There was no holding back now. When you seek to bring truth and reconciliation back to athletics, there can be no halfway. Lord Coe said he would think about it.

We walked into that conference hall at the Fairmont Monte Carlo full of confidence, ready for an early morning vote. In the end, Lord Coe opened the meeting and declared that the vote would be open and a matter of record. I have no idea whether that actually made a difference. I imagine most of the federations had made up their minds well before the vote, in terms of which way they were leaning. To me, it was more symbolic than anything else.

In a sport that had been under an opaque cloud, it was time to let the sun shine through. No more secrets.

The Special Congress delivered a 95 percent vote in favor of constitutional reform. Of the 197 members in attendance, there were 192 “valid” votes. Ten of those valid votes were no, while 182 voted yes.

It was a historic moment for World Athletics—a turning point, or moment of resolution. I felt privileged to be a part of it and contribute in my own way.

“There are in life two groups of people,” Lord Coe reflects. “When the boat is going down, there are those looking for the life rafts, and there are those trying to keep the boat afloat. And Pauline was always in the latter.”

Lord Coe is very kind in his reflection but, really, he deserves all the credit in the world. As council members, we desperately needed the right leadership for the future.

Beyond the issue of anti-doping and institutional reform, there were many other highlights during my time on the council. Given my history of running relays, I was very proud to help establish a championship dedicated specifically to these exciting events. During my first term on the council, we held a meeting in Monaco to discuss new ideas on how to further promote track and field to the world.

When it was my turn to speak, I begged the question: “What event is the most exciting?”

“The 100 meters,” someone instantly said.

“No,” I shook my head. “It’s the 4×100 relay.”

Call me biased, but nothing works fans more up into a frenzy than a competitive, fast-paced relay. From that moment, the idea of the World Relay Championship was born. The president pledged to commission a feasibility study on the subject, and after several months, we decided to proceed. And wouldn’t you know it? The 2014 IAAF World Relay Championship, the first of its kind, was held in Nassau, Bahamas.

Now known as World Athletics Relays, it has become a biennial competition where the best of the best compete in various distances, from the 4×100 relay hurdles to the 4×1,500 relay. There is even a mixed category, where the top men and women (two each per team) compete. Since that first championship in 2014, the old Goliath is on top—the United States has won thirty-one medals, followed by our other old rival, Jamaica, in second.

At the end of the day, World Athletics Relays simply offers more opportunities for our athletes to shine and earn prize money on the international stage.

I can safely say that throughout my career I was given nothing. I earned everything. It was only late in my athletic career that I finally received a grant, known as a subvention, from the government, to help pay my bills while I trained for the Olympics. Growing up through the system, such funds were unheard of, at least in my country. Yes, I did have the privilege of working for Bahamas Tourism, but that was also work—nothing was handed to me.

More funding for athletics would become another passion of mine.

Prior to the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona, I had a very serious back injury. So bad, in fact, that I had racked up several thousand dollars in medical bills. I recall wearing two braces at the time—one for training in, and another for walking and sleeping. Fortunately, the braces and treatments worked, but what to do with the medical bills?

I couldn’t afford to pay them on my own.

I appealed to my federation, only to be turned down flat. Despite being the standard-bearer for women’s athletics and, arguably, for all of Bahamian sprinting at the time, nobody on the Bahamas Olympic Committee lifted a finger to help pay those bills.

Distraught, I ended up turning to Don Coleman, a Nike representative. Nike had been the official shoe and athletic gear sponsor for The Bahamas for many years. And I’m not afraid to say—I begged him, crying my eyes out on the phone, for help. To his credit, Don didn’t hesitate. He asked me for all the details, and within weeks, those medical bills were paid. I will forever owe Nike and Don Coleman a debt for gratitude for that.

I tell this story not to point fingers or dredge up old grievances.

I believe it illustrates just how alone athletes can sometimes feel. Every Olympic Committee receives funds based on the performances of their athletes in international competition. I learned all of this during my time on the World Athletics Council. I tried and failed—twice—to apply for a low-level position with BOC, so I could lend my experience and wealth of knowledge to this effort. Can you imagine that? It didn’t matter that I was my country’s most decorated Olympian. Or that I held a council position with the highest track and field administration in the world. They weren’t interested in making me part of that club. Nevertheless, I made it my mission to continuously advocate for more subventions, and more grants, for athletes who have shown potential. I fought for transparency, so the funds trickle down as much as possible to our warriors on the track, and on the field.

I suppose that my rejection by the BOC was part of a bigger story. The Bible says, “No prophet is accepted in his hometown.” Or in this case, her hometown. While my athletic days are behind me, I’ll never forget the suspensions, the victimization, and the psychological warfare. No athlete should have to go through what I did.

Tonique Williams. Steven Gardiner. Chris Brown. Leevan Sands. Shaunae Miller-Uibo. And so many more. These are household names in Bahamian track and field. Men and women who have since become gold medalists, World Champions, and everything in between. Like a proud mother, I, along with my Golden Girl sisters, have watched a whole new generation of athletes from our tiny country take on the world, and succeed. I can only hope that my struggles have helped pave the way, and make their journey a bit easier.

Like I said earlier, at times in my career I was offered citizenship and compensation, from more than one country, to jump ship. Now more than ever, we live in a global world. National federations and committees must remember that athletes are the heartbeat—and never take them for granted.

For the coaches, I recommended a code of conduct during my time with World Athletics, specifically as it related to their young female athletes. Although I was fortunate to have personally avoided such issues, I was well aware that not all the women and girls around me could say the same. It is a unique relationship—an older coach (usually male) and a young, impressionable female athlete. I suppose it can be similar to Stockholm syndrome, where the victim begins to fall in love with her captor.

Sadly, our sport has been riddled with gutless men messing with these girls. Beyond being a criminal act, these relationships can negatively impact these women for life, cutting short careers and creating trust issues with men later in life.

I pushed for stronger safeguards for these girls, more awareness around the issue generally, and strong repercussions: if a coach is caught being inappropriate, ban him for life within World Athletics.

That leads me to my fight for gender equality within my sport, which, along with my stance on anti-doping, is probably what I am most proud of.

I have already described what it was like to be alone on the world’s stage as the only woman competing internationally for my country. I have lived through this evolution towards an equal number of events at the Olympics and equal pay for those competing on the international circuit. And in terms of work on the council, I felt that sting and paid a price for smashing through barriers and being the first black woman to serve.

Much has changed. World Athletics has taken the baton and run with it. We have never been in a better position, as women, in the world of track and field. And not just for the athletes, but beyond. Take Stephanie Hightower, the American former hurdler. After a successful athletic career, she went on to make her mark in international sports administration as a president of USA Track and Field and a council member of World Athletics. Hightower is just one example of a new wave of powerful, confident women becoming leaders in track and field.

After an internal review, World Athletics announced a number of pledges to further advance women in leadership positions throughout the sport. In fact, the #WeGrowAthletics campaign recently announced the intention to be completely gender balanced by 2027. In 2022, the World Championships ended for the first time with a women’s event, and the discussion is ongoing in terms of how we can elevate and emphasize women more in stories and on media platforms.

“Gender equality should no longer be a theoretical discussion in any organization,” Lord Coe said, when the campaign was announced in March 2021. “We should all be taking action by identifying barriers, reviewing our policies and practices and creating clear pathways for women to rise, contribute and participate at all levels.”

I shake my head sometimes and marvel at how much has changed.

And yet, there is still so much to do.

After twelve years on the World Athletics Council, and four years prior to that on the Women’s Committee, I received one of my life’s greatest honors. We were in Doha, Qatar, for the 2019 World Championships, and I stepped out of the room to take care of some arrangements for The Bahamas’ minister of Youth, Sports and Culture, who was due to arrive in the coming days. Little did I know, Lord Coe had his eye on me—he decided to hold a secret, impromptu vote in my absence. He announced to the more than two hundred delegates the council’s desire to bestow on me a great honor.

When I came back into the hall, I had no clue what had just occurred.

Sylvia Barlag, a former Olympian high jumper from the Netherlands and fellow council member, leaned over towards me.

“Congratulations,” she whispered, with a coy grin.

Sylvia and I were always messing with each other. I thought she was pulling my leg for being away from the meeting for so long.

“I was only gone for a hot minute,” I said, shushing her playfully. “I was just taking care of something for my minister.”

A few minutes later, Lord Coe made it official from the podium—Pauline Davis, from The Bahamas, would be made a Lifetime Honorary Member of World Athletics.

Lord Coe got me good.

At first, I just sat there in complete shock. As the realization sunk in, my hands shot up and covered my face. I rocked back and forth and cried, eventually turning slowly to my friend Sylvia beside me, who embraced me. Only one other woman has ever received this honor—the great Irena Szewin´sk of Poland, who passed away in 2018. In addition to her time on the council, she competed in five Olympic Games and set ten world records in a variety of sprinting events, ranging from the 100 meters to the 200 and the 400. In fact, she is the only person, male or female, to ever hold the world record in all three categories.

To be included in such company was overwhelming, to say the least.

As an honorary member, I have the privilege of attending World Athletics council meetings for life. My fellow council members tease me that I’ll always be front and center, wagging my index finger and telling it like it is. What it really means, to me, is that I never have to leave the sport I love so much. As I cried in Sylvia’s arms, a million thoughts went through my head, but mostly it was simply disbelief, of how someone like me ended up here.

You spend your life working, working, and working, with your head down, chipping away and doing your best to make a meaningful contribution. To know that, along the way, people actually cared, that they were paying attention and appreciated it, meant the world to me. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be on the World Athletics Council, let alone named as a lifetime member. Who would have thought someone like me would do this? Growing up, at those practices at Goodman’s Bay, people would scoff or laugh at the mere suggestion of my winning an Olympic medal, let alone where I ended up.

I was fortunate to be alive at a unique point in history.

Today, there are more female track and field athletes than ever. There is more funding, more events, and more attention than ever before. Yes, racism is still among us, but the slow, steady climb to equality has continued. And while I was cheated out of my golden moment—and had to wait ten long years to receive my individual medal—the rules, regulations, and oversight to stop doping in sports have never been stronger.

I want my life to show people that times do change. That while the world might not always seem fair, you sometimes need to go through adversity for a reason.

If my life stands for anything, it’s that quitting is never an option. Not for the girl who ran sideways. Yes, life is often filled with struggle, inequality, hate, unfairness, and heartache. And no, not every poor black girl from the ghetto will become an Olympic champion, or achieve the pinnacle of her profession. But this girl did. What that shows is that anything is indeed possible, if you want it bad enough. If you try hard enough. If you continue to push, persevere, and believe in yourself. When they knock you down, dust yourself off and keep on running.

My race was never a straight line, but I got to where I wanted to go. It proves that it doesn’t matter how you start off in life—it’s how you finish.

AFTERWORD

June 11, 2010

Six months after Thomas Bach and the International Olympic Committee announced I would receive the gold medal in the 200 meters, I was finally summoned to Government House.

I decided to wear my Olympic uniform for the occasion—the same white skirt and aquamarine blazer I wore for the Opening Ceremonies in 2000, when I held our flag aloft in Sydney. A limousine arrived in the afternoon and brought me to the colonial mansion on a hill overlooking Nassau’s harbor. Built in 1806, this stuccoed coral-rock building was the imposing residence of the British governor. Today, it is the residence of the governor general, our representative to the Queen of England.

As we rolled up to the gate, I remembered the poor, barefoot girl who used to stand across the street in awe. She and her friends on Fleming Street would hear about an event at Government House, so they’d trudge up the hill, excitedly, just to watch the beautifully dressed men and women in their fancy hats and gloves enter through this gate.

That barefoot girl was me, Pauline from Bain Town. She never could have imagined this moment.

As the limousine came to a halt, members of the Defense Force, in full uniform, opened the door and escorted me inside.

Of course, I would have preferred to receive my gold medal in Sydney, ten years earlier, with one hundred thousand people in the stadium and millions of others watching from around the world. Who wouldn’t? Like all Olympians, you crave that ultimate moment, towering on the top of the podium, your flag in the middle, raised to the sky. And then, you stand at attention and hear your national anthem played.

I had been through so much adversity in my life. The pimple on the butt—that’s what the Americans used to call our tiny island nation to the south. Just once, I would have loved to stand there, by myself, at the top of that podium, so others could witness the pimple have its day.

But when I entered the hall, those feelings melted away.

As the doors opened, I was flanked by the faces of my past. They were all waiting for me—my closest friends, family, and colleagues. I walked down the center aisle and saw my mummy, my many brothers and sisters, and members of the Wisdom family, all beaming back at me with pride. And there was Eldece, my oldest girlfriend—my oldest rival.

Front and center, naturally, was Annette Munroe—Cousin Net—who had predicted, ten years ago, that one day this medal would be mine.

Many of them could never have made the trip to Australia. And now they were here.

My village—without them, none of it would have been possible. I realized that I didn’t need the pomp, the pageantry, and the podium. It was my village that truly mattered.

At the front of the room was Alberto Juantorena, a double Olympic gold medalist from Cuba, and a fellow council member on World Athletics. He was chosen as the Caribbean representative to drape the gold medal around my neck. I bowed deeply and felt its weight for the first time.

Ten years of waiting. A lifetime of sacrifice.

My village and I stood at attention as they played the Bahamian national anthem—“Lift up your head to the rising sun, Bahamaland . . .”

Sobbing and crying—tears of joy—I thanked every one of my family members and friends by name. But I had more to be thankful for than that.

I had to thank all of The Bahamas.

“The people of The Bahamas, I hope I have made you proud,” I announced. “Each time I went out there to compete I never represented myself—I represented the entire country, each and every one of you.”

And as I said those words, I knew there was one person missing from the crowd.

After a barrage of hugs, kisses, and well wishes, we spilled out into the sun in front of Government House. With the limousine there waiting for me, I knew exactly where I needed to go.

“I want to take the medal to the prime minister,” I declared, to nobody in particular.

Several government officials shook their heads. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but you can’t do that. He’s in an emergency session of Parliament.”

I turned to them, stone-faced: “I want to take this medal to him now.”

But they wouldn’t budge. They stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, with us at an impasse, in the shadow of Government House. Until, finally, I knew what I had to do. I walked past that limousine, up the long driveway, and through the gate.

I could hear their voices calling me. “Pauline? Pauline! Come back!” I ignored them.

In my Olympic uniform and high heels, the gold medal swaying around my neck, I marched down the hill—on my way to Parliament.

It wasn’t a long distance to Rawson Square, about three-quarters of a mile. But it was long enough when you’re wearing high heels. You see, dear reader, I was utterly determined to deliver that gold medal to Hubert Ingraham, the prime minister, the man who had saved my career seventeen years earlier. I’ll never forget that meeting at his office, in the height of my depression and despair, when he gave me my job back and sent me to Atlanta to train. It saved my athletic career. It may even have saved my life. I always felt he did that not just for me, but on behalf of the Bahamian people.

Simply put, the gold medal didn’t belong to me. It belonged to the people.

So I clicked in my heels down the hill, in the hot sun, vaguely aware of a few government officials in pursuit and the white limousine crawling behind me. I descended until I reached Bay Street, the main coastal thoroughfare of Nassau, and turned east to Parliament.

From day one, the Bahamian people were the wind beneath my wings. I had my village, yes. And then there were the anonymous Bahamians—hundreds, if not thousands of them, who consistently showed their support in the most amazing ways.

Just before the Sydney Olympics, the four girls and I were practicing in Nassau. And it was a total disaster. That day, no baton got handed off. Clink. Clink. Clink. I absolutely hated to hear that sound, of the baton smacking the track.

I got so angry that I called it—I told Rupert Gardiner I was done for the day.

Instead of heading straight home, I went by a local restaurant first. I got in line and waited for my turn. Suddenly, the woman behind me put her hand on me and said, “These shoulders are carrying a lot, aren’t they? Sweetie, I pray for you all the time.”

Right there, in that restaurant full up with people, I started crying—a nasty, deep cry. This woman wrapped me in her arms and I just let it all out.

I had no clue who this woman was. I had never met her before, and I don’t think I’ve seen her since.

I’m a very expressive and opinionated person—wearing my heart on my sleeve—and I think it was abundantly obvious to those around me how much I struggled at times. They could see it in my face, the way I carried myself, and in my eyes. My grandfather, God rest his soul, used to always complain about how skinny I looked.

In The Bahamas, as the country’s top athlete for so long, and in a nation with the population of a US town, I lived a very public life. They all knew about my bouts with depression, the struggles with my own athletic federation and the Olympic committee, my two lifetime suspensions, and everything in between.

I was so busy chasing my dreams, I often didn’t realize just how much I needed those prayers.

That woman in the restaurant was not an isolated incident. While a select few let me down, it was the anonymous Bahamians who kept me strong. There was no way I could have made it without them. I drew on their strength.

Even today, I feel the pride of my nation. Barely a day goes by when someone doesn’t place a hand on my shoulder and say how much my career meant to them, often followed by a small gift, or a story on where they were during that golden moment, when all things seemed possible.

That was why I was marching down Bay Street to Parliament to give the prime minister my medal—a testament to this hope, strength, and unity. And thank God I did. About a year later, thieves would break into my home and wipe me out. They stole electronics, jewelry, my wedding ring—and yes, all of my hard-earned medals. Every single one. A single silver coin, made to commemorate our second-place finish in Atlanta, was eventually found and returned to me, with a note. But nothing else. Those treasures are all lost to history.

Commemorative gold coins were also made after our “Golden Girls” win in 2000. I had planned to give one to Phil Knight, the founder and former CEO of Nike, for all of the company’s support through the years. It wasn’t to be.

But not my individual gold medal. This one would stand the test of time. Finally, Rawson Square, the seat of power in The Bahamas, came into full view. I clicked up the cobblestone and stopped in front of two security guards at the front door of Parliament.

“I’ve come to see the prime minister,” I said, with determination in my eyes. “I have something to deliver to him.”

I can only imagine what was going through the minds of those two young women, standing at attention in their stiff white blazers and black pants. It was common knowledge that Pauline Davis was finally receiving her gold medal at Government House that day. And now here I was before them, the medal around my neck, twinkling in the Bahamian sun.

Would they let me pass? The prime minister was in a session of Parliament.

First they stared at me. Then they looked across at each other, eyeballs locking under those low, British bowler hats.

The guards slid out of the way.

The building itself has seen more than a few years. As I entered the front door, there was a wooden, rickety staircase leading up to the House of Assembly. The steps creaked under my heels until I reached the top, where another set of security guards waited.

After explaining myself again, only one set of double doors now separated me from the prime minister. I took a deep breath, grasped the doorknobs, and entered the House of Assembly.

And then the entire world stopped.

The members of Parliament, in the middle of a debate, froze as if they were under a spell. This was definitely not protocol. The House of Assembly reflects the British system, with the ruling government sitting on elevated benches on one side, the opposition on the other. The Speaker of the House sits on a pedestal between them, against the wall, at the very front of the room. Even the Speaker stared back at me, transfixed behind a row of leather-bound volumes and an ornate, golden mace, symbolizing our colonial past.

I stood frozen there as well, like a deer in the headlights, the weight of the moment, and this place, bearing down on me.

Until, finally, I managed to speak, as loudly and as confidently as I could.

“I’m here to see the prime minister,” I said.

Dozens of heads swiveled to Prime Minister Ingraham. I think many of those politicians expected him to be furious with me, given his generally stern demeanor and adherence to protocol. But he raised a hand and beckoned me to approach.

I walked across the light green carpet and through the media and spectator area, past the dark brown and red wooden partition that separates it from the debate floor. I went and stood before him, and proceeded to remove the gold medal from my neck.

“Sir, thank you for what you did,” I declared, placing the medal around his neck. “And I know you did it on behalf of the people of The Bahamas. I want you to preserve this medal for them. This medal is for the people of The Bahamas.”

Prime Minister Ingraham was not known for his emotions—quite the opposite. When he rose to his feet, the medal now around his neck, I could see tears forming in his eyes.

He embraced me. The entire House of Assembly burst into cheers.

Nobody thought about politics, personal interest, or petty rivalries—in that moment, my Bahamian village was one.

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Pauline Davis is a Bahamian former sprinter who competed in five Olympic Games. After winning silver at the 1996 Summer Olympic Games in Atlanta, she achieved two gold medals in 2000 at the Sydney Olympics, becoming the first woman from the Caribbean to win an individual gold medal in sprinting.

In 2007, Davis became the first woman of color elected to the prestigious World Athletics Council. After serving on the council for twelve years, she was awarded a Lifetime Honorary Membership.

To this day, she remains an advisor to the international track and field community.

Davis lives in Nassau, The Bahamas. She serves as a senior official at The Bahamas’ Ministry of Youth, Sports and Culture, while also coaching the next generation of Bahamian athletes.

T. R. Todd is an award-winning writer, journalist, biographer, and novelist with experience in Canada, the United Arab Emirates, and The Bahamas.

A former journalist at the Nassau Guardian, Todd’s experience with The Bahamas stretches back more than a decade. He also served as the Associated Press correspondent for the country and covered multiple hurricanes.

Todd is the author of four other books, ranging from fiction to non-fiction to memoir.

He has also published numerous articles on a wide variety of subjects. Todd’s work has appeared in newspapers across North America, including the New York Times, Huffington Post, Globe and Mail,and Toronto Star.

He lives in Ottawa, Canada.