But Marion Jones always said she alone got to see a different C.J. Hunter, the Prince Charming version. “He’s not as rough around the edges with me as with others,” Jones explained to me one chilly afternoon after a workout at North Carolina State in Raleigh. He had, she said, a quirky, irreverent “politically incorrect” sense of humor that, “keeps me in stitches and makes me forget the problems in the world.” And, she went on, C.J. also had a soft, sentimental side–“he cries at movies”–that he seldom let anyone else glimpse.
In their very private world, she insisted they were a nice fit. After their daily workouts, neither liked to stray to far from home other than for their regular gig coaching a girls’ basketball team. At home, they complemented each other beautifully. He cooked the main courses, she the veggies. He was the cutup, she the gleeful audience. He was the solid rock off which she could bounce the doubts she never revealed publicly after proclaiming her intention of winning a record five Olympic golds on the track in Sydney.
Away from home, as the two champions traveled the track circuit, C.J. was all she required to find sanctuary. “I’m a little laid back so I count on C.J. to ease a lot of situations,” said Jones, who has double laid-back roots with Belizean ancestry and a Southern California upbringing. “He’s my eyes behind me. He covers my back.”
And he did a good job. Or at least he kept folks away. But what was good by C.J.’s scorched-earth standards coupled with his hostile view of the press could be damaging to Jones’s reputation. When she injured herself mid-race at the 1999 world championships in Seville, Spain, Hunter hovered all the way to the hospital and then all the way out of town without stopping for a word to the press.
Having pronounced the meet a trial run for the Olympics, Marion’s abrupt departure had the slight taint of bad sportsmanship, an unusual blemish for a classy lady who had a reputation for being standup.
However well C.J. covered her back, her back didn’t turn out to be the big problem. When trouble came, it came right straight from the front and C.J. was helpless. That’s because C.J. himself turned out to be the biggest problem. I don’t know exactly when their marriage began to turn sour. But it’s hard to believe that Sydney wasn’t a critical turning point for the worse. Even with the relentless pressure of her five-gold quest, Jones actually seemed to be enjoying herself. She marched in the opening ceremonies, videotaping away for posterity. Hunter, who had injured himself and was nominally on the team though not competing, passed on the chance to parade alongside his wife. “He doesn’t like crowds,” Jones said.
Neither of them liked the crowd of press that gathered 10 days later, after it was revealed that C.J. had tested positive for illegal drugs at a couple of meets in Europe earlier that summer. Suddenly Jones’s historic quest had to take a backseat to a family scandal. The timing was nasty, given that Hunter was out of the Olympics and planning to retire. But the leaked story was a bit of vengeful journalism, courtesy of a foreign track establishment that resents the sanctimony of American athletes and officials who scream about drugs and point fingers left and right at their competition but have never effectively policed their own. C.J., like every athlete caught in the drug snare, denied everything. He even wept publicly and insisted that while he didn’t give a damn about what anyone else thought, he would never have done anything to embarrass Marion.
But by then it was too late. He had done more than embarrass Marion. Drugs is the Olympic scourge, its scarlet letter. In a world of suspicion, where innuendo trumps reputation every time, he had tarnished his wife’s name. The question never got asked directly, but you could hear it anyway: If you train with your wife and you cheat on drugs, why should we believe that she doesn’t? At the very least, how could she not know about you? Never mind that Jones takes the same postcompetition tests that C.J. does and has always come up clean. Jones did the classy thing, an unwavering “stand by my man” appearance at a time when she should have been resting up for her next competition. Though silent, the pained expression on her face spoke loudly too. And it didn’t help to have Johnnie Cochran there on standby. Though Cochran has known Jones since she was a teen when he represented her in a bureaucratic snafu, his presence will always raise the ugly specter of another athlete in serious trouble.
Jones performed brilliantly in Sydney. Her three-gold, two-bronze cache was the most for any woman in Olympic history. By rights, Marion, with her myriad skills and looks, not to mention Nike’s marketing savvy, seemed poised to be track’s long-awaited breakout star. Yet the Olympic aftermath didn’t generate the buzz nor the luster her historic effort warranted. Part was that the Sydney Olympics, 15 hours away in an age of instant communication, didn’t resonate with the public quite the way past Games had. Part was that for all her success, she had failed to live up to her own exacting standard that seemed to demand five-for-five perfection. But the biggest part, no doubt, was that she was partnered with someone regarded as a drug cheat who, despite his vehement denials, didn’t bother to contest the charges.
No more. Jones has left their home and intends to leave North Carolina, where she first came to fame as a collegiate basketball star, to start again elsewhere. Her brief statement was filled with those cool and awkward formalities that mark celebrity splits: “irreconcilable differences, which have made nurturing our marriage extremely difficult”; “best [course] for our respective futures; “many memorable experiences”; “I wish him well.” At just 25, Marion has, if she chooses, several Olympic seasons ahead and every expectation that her class act will ultimately endear her to the American public. Now she just has to learn how to watch her own back.
