In early August of 1965, I joined the Jonesboro YMCA swim team. I joined on a Friday, and the State Swim Meet was held the next day in Jonesboro. I won 3rd place in Freestyle and Backstroke, and would have had 2nd in Butterfly, but I was disqualified. Before that morning, I had never heard of “Butterfly” and the kid who explained the stroke to me before the race didn’t tell me I had to touch the wall with both hands at the same time, so I was disqualified. I swam competitively for the next 10 years until I discovered cigarettes, beer and women.
Several years ago, Jenn and Jordan were on the swim team here in New Jersey. At the final meet of the year, the last event was the “Parents Relay”. My daughters, having grown up hearing of my adventures swimming, and seeing my trophies and medals, were particularly excited by this event. Of course, they ensured that I was recruited to be on the relay team. I wasn’t overly concerned about it because the other parents recruited for the relay team were about 10 years younger than me and looked to be in pretty decent shape. We would be competitive with the parent’s of the other team. I wasn’t going to have to really sprint or anything.
In those days, I still smoked so naturally I watched the swim meet, and cheered our team on while having cigarettes and beer in the bar/patio area of the swim club who hosted the meet. The teams were well matched. It was a close meet. Though our relay would not officially be included in the point tally, in the end, it would take a ‘win’ by our relay team would produce a team victory in the ‘UnOfficial’ tally.
Our relay team gathered behind the starting blocks. I stubbed out my last cigarette, and handed my beer to one of the timers. I climbed up on the starting blocks which were higher than I remembered. I stood there…all 226 lbs of pot bellied, hypertensive me. I was sporting a two or three year old knee length baggy bathing suit that still had a little sand in it from the last visit to the Jersey Shore.
I looked down the blocks at the other 2 relay teams preparing for the race. Their lead off men were tall… much taller than me, and they wore Speedo’s and had bathing caps with their team logo, and goggles. They were stretching and shaking down. What the hell? These guys really looked like swimmers!! They weren’t fat. They looked like early middle aged marathon runners. They were skinny and had long arms and legs. Compared to them, my whole team looked like Danny DeVito impersonators wearing bad swimming suits and having a bad hair day. We drank, smoked and wheezed everyday while these guys obviously were running or swimming. They wore Speedos and caps and goggles. We wore baggy swimming suits and needed bifocals.
“Oh damn”, I thought to my self. This is going to be ugly. I looked at the crowed, and saw my daughters waving and smiling at me.
In looking from the crowd at me on the blocks beside the tall, skinny guys in Speedos, my daughters saw ‘invincible dad’. Everyone else saw a fat middle aged man in a baggy bathing suit about to drown himself in a race against real athletes.
Oh damn.
I looked back down the blocks and began to construct a plan to make this as respectable as possible. I knew I needed to be the first one off the blocks because that might be my only advantage. I had always has a quick start, and I knew I’d really need it this time. Each leg of the relay was 25 yards, so if I beat them out of the blocks, maybe it would take them a bit to catch me, and I could make this respectable.
I tried to shake down some but the only thing that moved very much was my belly, and I’m sure that wasn’t very attractive. I began to hyperventilate. I figured if I could go the whole 25 yards without taking a breath, it might save me a stroke or two. I continued to hyperventilate to get as much oxygen in my blood as possible.
The starter was ready, and called out “Swimmers, take you mark!”. I bent down into a starting posture that probably hasn’t been seen in competition in 20 years. It was a little awkward. Swimming starts aren’t normally done by a person sporting a pot belly. The starters pistol sounded. In the corner of my eye, I saw that I had them off the blocks. I hit the water, and sprinted. It was only 25 yards but when you haven’t sprinted in 25 years, that’s a marathon. My arms were burning and getting tight after only 6 or 8 strokes, and my lungs screamed for air. I wished I hadn’t had that last cigarette. I could feel the muscles in my chest getting tight, and the muscles under my arms start to cramp, and then with one final thrust of my arms, it was over. My right arm stretched out and tagged the wall. The next swimmer on our team flew over me and began sprinting his 25 yards.
I was wheezing and coughing, and exhausted. My heart rate must have been 200 beats per minute. Gasping for breath, I looked up at my team mate for help getting out of the pool, but he was looking at the other team. I turned and looked, thinking that we must have been smoked really badly.
Our second swimmer, who wasn’t very fast, was nearing half way of the pool, and the lead off swimmers of the other two teams were just now reaching the end of the pool. I hadn’t been smoked. I hadn’t been humiliated in front of my kids. I had won. I smoked the tall lanky guys in Speedos, caps and goggles. I beat both of them by more than half the length of the pool.
With my chest pains beginning to subside, one of the other parents helped me out of the pool, and told me that my ‘split’ was a 12.3. “I swam 25 meters in 12.3 seconds?” , I wheezed as I looked around for my beer. I looked back at the race. Our third swimmer was in the water, and we were still holding a 1/2 length lead. I looked down the lanes at the other teams, with their speedos, and caps and goggles. Our fourth and final swimmer hit the water, and churned his way through the final 25 yards to victory.
Still standing poolside and wheezing and coughing, I reflected on the moment. From that first meet in in August of 1965 in the Jonesboro YMCA pool, until this one, last race at a club pool in New Jersey, there was never a sweeter victory than this one. I waved at my kids, swigged my beer, and looked for my smokes.
That was my last swim meet.
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