Chapter 18

As a precaution my folks took me to our GP who noted my low temperature, slightly sluggish reflexes, general poor disposition, and diagnosed me with the ambiguous ‘something viral’ with instructions to take the rest of the week off in case I was contagious.

After a weekend of parentally enforced confinement at home, I couldn’t wait to get back in the pool. I was in the showers after Monday morning training when I got word that the head coach wanted me to stop by his office before I left for classes.

“Sorry for last week, Coach,” I said as I entered his office. He waved dismissively, then indicated the chairs in front of his desk.

“That’s okay, Jimmy,” he replied as I sat down. “We all need a reality check occasionally as to our limits.”

“Well, I want to push mine. I want to try to get to nationals.”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He leant back in his chair.

“You want to try, huh? Well, with an attitude like that I’m not sure that you’re really interested.”

I blinked, confused. Hadn’t I just collapsed by his pool the week before after knocking over a second off my personal best? He leaned forward.

“‘Try’ is a weasel-word, James. It’s something that people say so that if they don’t succeed, they can say ‘Well, at least I tried’. It foreshadows and implies that you’re okay with defeat.”

“Sorry, sir. I want to get to nationals.”

“Well then, I want to drive a mint-condition Aston Martin DB5, but I have to make do with a Honda,” he said as he pulled a file from a pile on his desk. He opened it and began to leaf through it. I sat there watching silently. After a minute or two he pursed his lips and looked up. “Okay.”

“‘Okay’ what, sir?”

He put the file down.

“Okay. You ‘can’ get to nationals. But it’s really up to you as to whether you ‘will’.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Oh, I like that.” He smirked. “It’s really simple. You need to swim bloody fast and consistently. Then you do it repeatedly to go from districts to regionals to states. Then you get a shot at nationals. Is that enough?”

“For now.”

“For now? What happens after?”

“Pan-Pacs.”

“Why didn’t you lead off with that?”

“Well, you said once that you have to finish the heats first. Gotta get to nationals before Pan-Pacifics.”

“Fair enough.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. He looked at me for a long time, as if trying to make his mind up about something. He sat straighter in his chair, put his hands on the desk and spoke. “Look, I’ll level with you. You have potential. I’ve seen it, the other coaching staff have seen it too, but you’re inconsistent. Your application to training dry, training wet, your approach to swim meets...”

“Well, anyone can have bad days—” I began to protest. He held one finger up to stop me.

“Weasel-words. Can you honestly say that you approach every race you’re entered in with the same focus and winning intent? That you don’t drop a set or two when you’re in the gym because it’s starting to get a little boring, a little harder? That you really pay attention to the stuff we tell you about diet? That when we’ve got you in the pool that you’re really focused on the form notes you’ve been given?” He sat back and shook his head. “You are one hell of a swimmer, James, a hell of a swimmer. Part of it is genetics – you’ve got a good build for swimming, and those clown feet of yours with the weird ankles, it’s like you’re wearing flippers in the pool when you’re bringing your A-game. Part of it is just plain raw talent. But there’s lots of talented freaks in pools around the world. And they work harder than you do at the moment.”