Coach
Ryan is the Irish boy whom I laid eyes on and whose
self-confidence fills the air like steam off a heated pool
on a brisk fall night.
On
this third practice of mine, I feel my lungs fill with that
steam; his air of self-assuredness. I know I want to inhale
it. To possess it. To exhale it as my own. I did not yet
know that he would soon find a place in my heart. I did not
yet know that he would soon bring laughter to my laps and I
did not yet know that he would soon inspire my gut to feel
success rather than fear. What I did know, what he spoke of
before practice began, was the term streamline.
“Swimmers, get in the pool,” Coach Ryan says to the lagging
men and women left on the pool deck. “You should be in the
water at 7 o’clock.”
This
jock is already in the pool, I think to myself with an
imagined sachet in my hip. I’ll even prove it and complete
my 400-meter warmup without getting tired, I continue to say
to myself as I feel a certain set of chocolate eyes stick to
my body. I know then that Coach Ryan was different from the
other coaches I have known. He might yell at me, but for
some reason, I am not worried about that.
I push
off the wall with a great sense of ability in knowing that I
can complete this warmup without much rest time. The water
rushes passed my face and exposes a fresh feel. My arms
stretch out and my hands slice the water, and as my pull
cuts s’ in the dense liquid, I feel the warmup burn in my
upper body. When I realize I am only 25 meters into my
swim, I curse the water with my favorite expletive, but
before my mind rests on the negative, I replace it with
Journey’s “Separate Ways.”
Don’t
knock it. It works.
I finish
the warmup with energy to spare. I’m ready to go, I
conclude. Then, Coach Ryan begins to kneel down and crouches
by the pools edge between a fellow newcomer with silver hair
and I.
“OK,
guys. This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to start
off with six one-hundred’s on 1:45. But, I want you to
concentrate on your streamline. Does everyone know what the
proper streamline is?”
I, of
course, do not. But do I say that? No. I let the
silver-haired woman in lime goggles say “no.”
“When
you push off the wall, you want to be in the streamline
position, which is when your body implodes together tightly.
You want to be as long and as narrow as possible. This
maximizes efficiency. It will make swimming easier for all
of you.”
I watch
Coach Ryan demonstrate. As he returns to his feet from his
crouch, he draws his arms above his head and extends them as
far as possible. He squeezes his arms around his head and
brings his shoulders together and upward. Coach Ryan
emphasizes that a great streamline will consist of stacked
hands with the thumb of the top hand locked onto the other
hand. He further illustrates that we want to be straight
like an arrow with arms, head and body in line with the
spine. There is to be no arching, there is to be no unused
space.
“Oh, and
keep your feet together and your toes pointed,” Coach Ryan
says.
Kick.
Kick. I see Coach Ryan snap his right leg in demonstration
of a freestyle kick in the streamline position. In response
to a question about other strokes and the streamline, he
contorts his body and mimics a dolphin swim to illustrate
one of the foundations to a good butterfly stroke. I look up
to him from the water and see his concentration and his
palpable passion for swimming. His body moves with ease and
I look on with admiration. That nagging phrase “I want to
be” reverberates and while I see no reflection of his
talents in me, his dotted red freckles and curled hair make
me want to strive, they make me want to eradicate my fear of
sports.
I find
myself pushing off the wall attempting to hold my streamline
position as I approach the surface for a freestyle stroke.
My arms are stretched out in front of me, my hands stacked,
my head down, my stomach held in, and my feet and toes
together and pointed. As I break the surface I raise my
elbow out of the water and up over my head. Move side to
side, I think. Inhale. Keep feet together. Toes pointed.
Exhale. Stretch my arms. Inhale. Stomach In. Head down.
Exhale.
My word,
this is a lot of work.
This
thought lost my streamline balance and my core position fell
flat. Ahead of me I can see the wall at the deep end. There,
I choose to stop and recoup. Try it again, I tell myself.
“One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand … 20
one-thousand.” Once again I push off the wall in the
streamline position, noting to myself to hold it longer and
tighter.
Again to
the crest of the water, I break it with all attempts to ease
into the freestyle stroke. With luck, maybe a hint of talent
or a better concentration, I discover the smooth feel--the
glide of a streamlined stroke, the water that rushes passed
you without heavy drag, without density and trouble. The art
of proper motion, doing it right. That self-applauding
person inside my body finally gives me an ovation not for
managing my fear but for executing sportsman skill. As I
move through the water, knowing my body was in a good
formation, I can taste the thrill that seasoned swimmers
understand.
“Coach
Paul. Keith here has a really strong pull,” Coach Ryan
comments as I reach the shallow end completing my broken
100-meter. “Coming back looked good,” he says to me as I
gasp for air.
A
compliment goes a long way.
“You
have five more one-hundreds. Try to push through them
without a rest at the 50. Getting used to the pain of
consistent swimming will help you get better,” he says.
I look
at him and raise my right eyebrow up and project a thought
that questions his seriousness. Does he know, I wonder, how
much it hurts to push the body like this? Does he know about
the concentration I need to do this right? Does he know that
five one-hundreds is still a considerable amount for me? Of
course he does. Still glaring at Coach Ryan’s face, I opt
not to complain.
“Someday
love will find you. Someday …” I know that I may not be
singing this correctly and that Journey is overplayed, but
again, it does work.
Hmm. I
have a strong pull, I think to myself as I move along
through the water. Coach Ryan thinks so. What else does he
think? Who is he? I will, confirming to myself, find all
this information out: sooner, hopefully than later!
Upon
completing the remaining five 100 meters, the other
cocktailers and I are instructed to do eight 50-meter swims
on 1 minute with 30 seconds rest and to be done in ascending
order in two groups of four. This means that the first 50 is
slow and the fourth is a sprint. Then the fifth 50 will be
slow and the eighth, a sprint.
Come on,
Steve Perry. Help me out here.
“…break
those chains that bind you.”
While
Journey’s songs and my appreciation for Coach Ryan helps me
coast through stretched out arms, awkward exhales and
inhales, mismanaged body rotations, separated feet and the
increasingly occasional quality streamlined freestyle
stroke, a whole new challenge awaits for me in part three of
the practice.
My fear
of sports and coaches criticism resurfaced as I looked down
into the deep end of the water from the pool’s diving block.
Wet and exposed, I leap forward and crash with a belly flop
that echoes across the pool and, I’m quite sure, beyond the
pool house. My goggles flail off my head and I loose
orientation underwater. As I regain my bearings and swim to
the surface, I look back toward the block.
“I’ve
got to work on that.”
As I
pull myself out of the pool, I understand that practice is
simultaneously about getting better as well as learning what
else can be improved. I have knowledge of the streamline,
but none for starting off of the block.
The
night sky signaled the closure of another practice and as I
walk in the direction of the pool house, Coach Ryan walks
toward me. He then extends his hand toward mine. How
professional a handshake, I thought.
“You did
really well tonight,” he says.
A
compliment goes a long way.
Keith Davis lives
in Los Angeles.
Dec. 1,
2005
