Sc 5€
One of my best races could hardly be called a race
at all. I was a senior in high school, gunning to qualify
for the USA Junior Nationals. The previous summer 1
had missed the cut by less than a second in the mile,
5 and just the day before, at my high school regional
meet, I had come within three-tenths of a second in the
500-yard freestyle. The qualification time was 4:39.69;
I swam a 4:39.95. The next day, Sunday, I drove with
my mother to the far side of Houston where a time trial
10 was being held an informal, unadvertised event
thrown together at the last minute. The only races
swum were those the swimmers requested to swim.
Most were short, flapping sprints in which swimmers
attempted to shave off a few one-hundredths of a
15 second. I didn't have the courage to face the mile, and
since I'd struck out in the 500 the day before, I decided
to swim the 1,000-yard freestyle. Forty lengths of the
pool. It was a race I'd swum fast enough to believe that
given the right confluence of circumstances-cold
20 water, an aggressive heat, an energetic meet--I could
make the cut. I had fifteen seconds to drop to qualify.
By the time I stood up on the blocks, I was not
only the only one in the race. I was practically the only
one in the natatorium. The horn sounded and 1 dove in.
25 I was angry and disheartened at having missed the cut
the day before and I had little belief that I could go any
faster today.
About six hundred yards in, my coach started to
pace. I stayed steady on, not in a hurry, not about to get
30 my hopes up. In my mind, I had already missed the
time. Then a boy from a rival high school, whom I
hardly knew, unfolded his legs and climbed down from
the bleachers and started to cheer. He squatted low to
the water
and pointed his finger toward the end of the
35 pool, as if to say. That's where you're going, now hurry
up. I thought, If he's cheering, maybe I'm close.
69
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