On Monday, Tanya showed up at the pool just as Jerry finished his last leg exercise. Without a word, she jumped into the pool and got ready to start her laps.
“Okay, six laps?” said Jerry, wiping off his face with his palm. She nodded, and he moved into a lane right next to her.
“Ready, set, go!” she shouted. And off they went.
Jerry kept up with her at first. But to his surprise and embarrassment, he finished almost a full lap behind. And then, as he cooled off and stood there in the water, she swam two more laps before quitting.
Beaten by a girl! Jerry groaned inwardly. Get me out of this pool and onto the baseball diamond! Then he heard a familiar footstep behind him.
“Nice stroke, Tanya,” said the coach. He paused and looked at Jerry. For a minute, Jerry thought he was going to say something about his stroke. Instead, he just asked, “How do you like swimming against someone?”
“It's okay, I guess,” Jerry replied. But I'd like it much better if I won, he added silently.
The coach went on. “Why don't you come to practice some time next week and work out against some of the guys? Not that Tanya can't give you some real competition. But mixing it up might be a good change. We only do an hour workout on Mondays, and I think it would benefit your leg. It certainly won't hurt it.”
“Well, okay, if you think it'll help,” said Jerry. But secretly, he wasn't sure he'd like it all that much. Losing to Tanya was bad enough — now the whole team would see him come in last!
“I'm sure it'll be good for you,” said the coach. “You can cut the exercises in half And skip the laps. You'll get enough of those in practice.”
Tanya was patting herself down with a towel when Jerry came out of the pool.
“I overheard what the coach said. Don't worry —he wouldn't suggest you swim with the team if he didn't think you could keep up. And by the way, nice threads,” she said, admiring his new navy blue swimmer's briefs.
He smiled. Secretly, he was glad his mother had gotten them for him at the mall on Saturday. It really did feel a lot better cutting through the water than when he had his aloha trunks on. And, after all, since they were dark, he figured no one would notice him when he showed up at practice.
Over the weekend, Jerry tried not to think about what it would be like at the pool with all those kids who were really into swimming. He was used to being in top shape for any sport he played. Even though baseball was his number one choice, he liked to play touch football, too. He was a terrific passer, and he loved scoring touchdowns. He also loved playing one-on-one basketball with his kid brother in front of the garage and could hold his own with any of the kids on the street. But swimming, real sports swimming, was something new. He decided he'd just be cool and push it out of his mind until the time came.
Instead, he spent his time doing a few chores he'd put off for a while. He started out by giving the family dog, Yogi, a good brushing. The gray-and-white miniature schnauzer loved to be brushed, and Jerry really put some effort into it.
“Don't wear out that brush,” his father called over to him as he vacuumed the inside of his car.
The two of them were alone in the garage, doing their respective jobs.
“I've gotten so used to counting,” said Jerry. “I gave her fifty strokes on one side, then fifty on another, then fifty on her back … and then I lost count and started all over again! Say, Dad, what do you think of swimming?”
“A little early for a trip to the beach, I'd say,” replied Mr. Grayson.
“I mean competitive swimming, as a sport,” Jerry said.
“I think it's great,” said his father. “Takes a lot of discipline as well as ability. You can get a lot of satisfaction out of swimming for a long time, even after you stop competing. Why? Are you thinking of taking it up?”
“Nah,” said Jerry. But in the back of his mind, he was thinking about what Tanya had said. Did Coach Fulton really think he could hold his own against the more seasoned swimmers?
By Monday afternoon, Jerry could hardly wait for classes to end. You might think I was going to batting practice, he said to himself. But, instead, the minute the closing bell rang, he made his way over to the poolside locker room. He changed into his new blue nylon swimsuit and headed for the pool.
There was still a half hour before team practice began, plenty of time to do his exercises.
“Twenty-four, twenty-five!”
He looked up at the clock. Ten minutes to go.
The pool quickly began to fill up with boys and girls. He now recognized one or two from classes.
Tanya came in talking to Tony Kendrix, who was in his earth science class. Tony was almost a foot taller than Tanya, but he was all legs. He had jet-black curly hair that looked like a mop on his head from the other side of the pool. But he was no one to laugh at. When he dropped the towel that was draped around his shoulders, Jerry could see how muscular his upper body was, like a weight lifter's.
Tanya and Tony joined the others in the pool, paddling about, showing each other certain moves, and generally having a good time.
Coach Fulton interrupted their playing around by blowing his whistle. Before he even said a word, the boys and girls started separating. Jerry automatically fell in with the boys over on his side of the pool.
“Okay, I want three lanes each,” he said. “We have a one-hour practice today, and I want to spend it on the backstroke. Everybody swims. But for now, let's just have three swimmers to a lane, the first one in each lane in the pool. The rest of you, come on out.”
Jerry's heart pounded. Now that he was actually taking part in a practice, he realized how little he knew about how they were run. He was grateful that he was number five in his lane. This way he'd get to see how the drill worked before he had to do anything. He'd also get to watch how others did the backstroke, a stroke he was only a little familiar with.
With these thoughts racing through his mind, he found a spot near the edge of the pool that would give him a good view of the drill.
Standing in the shallow end of the pool, the line of boys and girls turned their backs to the pool. Each gripped the legs of a diving podium and, with their knees bent and their feet flat against the wall, they pulled themselves into a crouching position. When Coach Fulton blew the whistle, they let go of the bars and pushed off from the pool wall as hard as they could. Once the first line of six swimmers had begun their laps, the second line got into position and waited for the whistle. The water churned as six, then twelve, then eighteen swimmers filled the lanes.
The coach and his assistants walked along one long side of the pool, across the deep side, then down the other, and back to the beginning, calling out instructions.
Even from where he sat, Jerry could tell that some swimmers were better than others. Some looked really clumsy and almost drifted into the neighboring lane. Not everyone was a top-notch performer.
That gave him a little boost. He had done the backstroke in his Y swimming class years ago, and once in a while at the beach, but it wasn't something he was very good at. In a few minutes, though, he'd be out there doing it under the coach's watchful gaze. He didn't want to make a fool of himself.
“Come on, Freddy, get that kick going! Sally, stretch those arms! Nice work, Lars. Push, Wayne, push!”
The coaches kept it up for a few more minutes. Then the whistle blew.
Jerry thought that everyone would leap up and scamper out of the pool. Instead, they finished their laps and treaded water for a moment before leaving the pool. He made a mental note to remember to cool down afterward, just as with any sport or exercise.
“Okay, next group,” called Coach Fulton.
Jerry got back into the lane he'd been in before. This time he was second in line. He watched very carefully as the boy in front of him stood with his back to the others and pushed off along with the kids in the other five lanes.
A few seconds elapsed, and it was Jerry's turn. He did what he thought everyone else was doing. He pushed off from the edge and began swimming hard.
He was cautious at first, but began to stroke harder after a few seconds.
“Let's get those legs kicking! Slice that water, Miller! Push, everyone, push!”
Jerry concentrated on everything he could remember about the backstroke from his early training. He barely heard the coach's shouts. But when his name was mentioned, he couldn't mistake it.
“Stay in your own lane, Grayson!”
A second later his arm crashed down on the lane divider — and on someone's head.
Jerry completely lost his stroke and floundered in the water. Luckily, it was near the end of a lap and he was able to wade out of the water before Wayne Cabot, his lane mate, ran into him. Jerry grinned sheepishly at Wayne. But Wayne merely raised an eyebrow and looked away. Jerry felt about two feet tall.
“Okay, now that everyone has done his or her own backstroke, let's take a look at the right way to do it,” said Coach Fulton. “Some of you are close, but some of you have a long way to go. Everyone out of the water — except you, Lars. You're going to help me show how it's done right.”
Jerry, still smarting from Wayne's snub, took his seat in the stands to watch the demonstration.
“You'll get the hang of it after a while,” said a voice nearby. It was Tony Kendrix.
“Yeah, but I feel like an idiot, bumping into someone,” said Jerry.
“I know,” said Tony. “It was me you bumped into.” He laughed good-naturedly then turned his attention toward the pool.
For the next ten minutes, the coach demonstrated the different types of kicks, how to propel the arms, the right way to curve the hand so that it sliced the water, and how to push through with the thighs.
Wow, thought Jerry. There's so much more than I remember from before. But if these guys can learn it, I'm sure I can.
“Okay, we'll split up into twos now,” Coach Fulton announced. “The first six in the lanes will start off, the second six will be the coaches, the next six will be swimmers, and so on. And then we'll reverse.”
Jerry watched as the first group went through their workout. He was amazed at how tough the “coaches” were on their swimmers.
“You call that a kick?”
“What are you, an airplane propeller?”
“Come on, Ellen, get those arms working!”
They made Coach Fulton and his assistants seem tame.
Wayne Cabot turned out to be Jerry's coach. He didn't stop shouting the whole time Jerry was swimming.
“Oh, boy, it's amateur hour! Hey, you're not out there to make snow angels! It's not called the flapstroke, you know!”
Jerry felt like telling him a thing or two — and climbing out of the pool once and for all. But he wasn't a quitter. He was determined to get it right. Still, the harder he tried, the worse it seemed to get. There was no way he was going to do the backstroke right.
“Nice kick, Grayson,” came a voice deeper than Wayne's. Coach Fulton had been watching. He'd seen one thing Jerry was doing well and shouted encouragement. It was just what Jerry needed to keep going.
Finally, the whistle blew, and they switched off. Jerry was now Wayne's “coach.” He could hardly wait to yell out his criticisms.
But the veteran swimmer seemed to be doing everything right. Jerry couldn't see a single thing to shout about.
The last group of coaches and swimmers finished their turns, and Coach Fulton signaled that practice was over. Jerry wandered off by himself toward the locker room.
He'd been amazed by how rough everyone was on each other. Everyone seemed to be trying to be the best. There was no thought of the whole team. This sure was a lot different from baseball, where you all had to play together. In baseball, you were part of a real team. In swimming, you did your own thing and that was that. Jerry wasn't sure he was cut out for a sport like that.
As he left the pool locker room, he was surprised to see some of his baseball buddies heading out to the field.
“Hey, Jerry, you're finally out of that cast. So how's it going?” called Phil Fanelli. Phil had been the best southpaw on Jerry's sandlot team and shoo-in for a spot on the school team.
“Okay, what are you guys up to?” asked Jerry.
“A little early practice,” said Phil. “Shake out the kinks, you know. Kind of nice out there now. You feel like playing some ball?”
Jerry hesitated. His glove was in his gym locker, and there was no reason he couldn't play in his jeans and T-shirt. But was his leg strong enough?
Just then, Wayne Cabot entered the locker room. “Hey, Grayson,” he called. “Forgot to mention it when you were paddling around out there earlier, but your push-off from the wall was weak. You need to explode into action at the start of every race, even if it's just a practice lap. Might as well start doing it the right way now.” With that, he picked up his towel and headed toward the showers.
Jerry's face burned. I'd like to get him out in the batting cage — then we'd see who was weak!
He opened his locker, pulled out his glove, and said to Phil, “I'll meet you guys out on the diamond. I just have to shower this stupid chlorine off.”
Fifteen minutes later, Jerry was poised at home plate, waiting for Phil to pitch to him. Phil reared back and threw a fastball. Jerry connected solidly and took off for first base.
Within seconds, Jerry knew he shouldn't be running. His leg screamed in pain with every step. He limped his way off the field and sank down onto the bench. He'd never felt so defeated in his life.
