She looked so elegant, he assumed she was a trainer. He can still remember the time (7 p.m.), the place (a sign-in table), their ages (both 20) and her face (gorgeous). He had first laid eyes on that woman in 1980, at the U.S. But as Al roamed the grounds and stared at a freshly lit Olympic flame, another story kept rushing back to him, a mystical story no one really knew about, a story he was dying to share: the story of Florence and Al. The audience heard tales of Mary Decker and Zola Budd, Michael Jordan and Bobby Knight. If it wasn't Greg Louganis, it was Bart Conner. If it wasn't Mary Lou Retton, it was Edwin Moses. Sports Council invited Al and many of the 1984 medalists back to the creaky Coliseum, where one by one they were welcomed by raucous applause. Nothing.įlorence and Al Joyner were track and field royalty.
The next night, he went to bed early, hoping Flo Jo would reappear, hoping the dream would pick up where it left off.īut when he woke up, nothing. There was also news to share, news she'd probably beam about. There was so much to tell her, about him and Mary and premonitions that had come true. That was it? That was the whole dream? He hadn't finished. He sat up in bed, both agitated and wistful. He wanted more, wanted a full-blown conversation, but an instant later, Al was awake, the moment over. He could see her leaving, climbing back into her car, smiling again. The buzzing jarred him, and his dream was barely intact now. Their daughter, Mary, was about to graduate from high school, and he wanted to ask, "Are you here for graduation?" But before he could speak, his alarm clock went off. He asked her, "What are you doing here?" And her response was, "I'm just coming to check on you." He didn't know what to say next. She was stunning, as always, and wore her hair in a bun, just the way he'd always adored it. She had driven up in a car, smiling, and strolled casually toward him. This frustrated him to no end, because, once he was awake, all he did was daydream about her.īut then, about 10 weeks ago, in the middle of his deepest sleep, Al Joyner finally saw Flo Jo. Even after she died some 11 years ago, he never dreamt of her, could never summon her back into his subconscious.
He had nothing to jot down like she did, nothing to file away for a conversation over dinner. His dreams were vague, or they'd escape him 20 seconds into his day. Good or bad, she'd always wake up with a story to tell - until the day she never woke up at all.Īl never had that gift. Every morning, she'd wake up and tell her husband, Al, how she'd dreamed about angels or daughters or catastrophe.
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