Of Tyson and Trump

For every Mike and Robin, there is an Al and FloJo.

Sunday at Memorial Hall, during the Harvard Foundation's Cultural Rhythms program, Olympic gold medalist Florence Griffith Joyner and her husband, Al Joyner--one of America's best triple-jumpers--held a press conference.

There was no talk of divorce, no talk of pre-nuptial agreements, no mention of Al trying to run away with FloJo's money.

Don King, master of the metaphor, was somewhere in Las Vegas, talking about some low down on a showdown that won't slow down.

Donald Trump was busy coaxing the government into changing the name of our nation's capital to Trump, D.C.

Mike Tyson was criticizing the British for showcasing fighters with "primitive skills." He means you, Frank Bruno.

Robin Givens, well, where was Robin? Talking to Barbara? Asking Wade Boggs out on a date?

America's most infamous sports family was nowhere near Cambridge.

Just Al and FloJo.

She had announced her retirement from track and field Saturday in New York. Sports pages across the country ran pictures of the Olympic star trying to hold back the tears, while Al sat by her side.

But the day after she decided to pursue other interests in her life, Florence Griffith Joyner was FloJo again--the FloJo who had mesmerized the world with her athletic talent and beauty.

Next to her was Al. The athlete who won the gold medal in the 1984 Olympics. The coach who cheered on the sidelines in Seoul, South Korea, when his wife was breaking a world record. The husband who supported his wife's retirement announcement.

Once again, Al will be the athlete. He is training to make the U.S. Olympic team in 1992. FloJo will be his coach.

"The shoe's on the other foot now, baby," FloJo told her husband.

And so might be the responsibility of making a statement in the world of track and field. A fashion statement, that is.

Asked about who would replace her as the sport's most flamboyant of dressers, FloJo turned to her husband.

"Al Joyner," she said.

Picture this: a Barcelona summer afternoon, 1992. The triple-jump finals are about to begin. Al Joyner jogs out to the track and, taking off his USA warm-up jersey, shows off his new, one-legged...

What will you be wearing, Al?

"It's a secret, now," he said.

FloJo laughs. Al laughs. The reporters get the hint.

The questions continue. What about Harvard, FloJo? Tell us what you think about Harvard.

"I'm a Bruin from UCLA. They talk about you guys," she said.

But is it true that you might be taking some classes up here in Boston?

"No, up here at Harvard," Al said, correcting his wife.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Hahvahd," FloJo said.

Again, a laugh.

The reporters are enjoying this. They ask FloJo about her fingernails. Her dresses. Her age.

"Are you trying to call me old?" she said.

Al just shakes his head. Maybe he knows something.

Why did the world fall in love with you, FloJo?

"I don't know," she said, smiling back at the reporter who asked the question.

Al steps in. He wants to answer the question. He knows why.

"When she won the gold medal," Al said, "she shared it with the world. And, also, on the mile relay, when everyone else was getting ready to run, my wife was praying. A lot of people remember that."

For a brief second, there is silence in the room. Memories of FloJo praying on the track, her performance in the Olympics, her grace and her character appear.

No memories of Mike or Robin. No Don King crowding the room with undefinable words. No Trump, person or tower.

Just Al and FloJo. The images of Seoul. The dreams of Barcelona.

And America's classiest sports couple.