The day of the meet, Jerry was more excited than he ever imagined. He could barely drink his orange juice, and his vitamin pill felt like the Rock of Gibraltar on its way down his throat.
“How about a nice big bowl of oatmeal?” his mother asked.
Jerry just shook his head and ran upstairs to make sure his gym bag was packed. It felt so funny with nothing much more than a bathing suit in it. This sure was different from baseball. He glanced into his closet. There was his glove, all oiled and ready for use. That's okay, he thought, still time for baseball as soon as the leg is one hundred percent.
Mr. Grayson had another session scheduled at the dentist, so his mother drove him to the pool for the meet.
“Are you sure you don't want me to come?” she asked. “Your Aunt Helen said she wouldn't mind driving your father home from the dentist if he doesn't feel up to it.”
“No, that's okay,” said Jerry. “I'm not even swimming in a race. But maybe next time.”
He unbuckled his seat belt and dashed out of the car the minute it stopped outside the school.
“I'll get a ride home with Tanya's folks,” he called over his shoulder. His mother knew that Mr. and Mrs. Holman wouldn't mind dropping him off.
In the locker room, there was a lot of joking among the twenty-three boys who would be swimming that day. But there was a silent air of competitiveness just the same. Lars and Wayne kept pretty much to themselves, but Tony came over to say hello.
“Geez, I'm nervous and I'm not even racing,” said Jerry.
Tony stared at him. “Hasn't Coach talked to you yet? Kevin Kincaid has the measles and can't swim the hundred-yard freestyle. I overheard the coach say he was thinking of putting you in to fill the lanes for the team!”
Jerry's heart almost stopped. “What?” he squeaked. Just then he saw Coach Fulton walking toward him.
“Jerry, I can see by your face that Kendrix here has spilled the beans. Now you've got three options. I want you to think about them carefully. One, you can refuse to swim. Two, you can swim but choose not to be officially entered in the race. Or, three, you can race officially. It's up to you.”
Jerry considered what the coach had said. Not race when he had the chance? No way! But what about competing but not being counted? It was hardly worth even racing then, Jerry figured. That would be like hitting a home run but not having it show up on the scoreboard! Still… he'd never been in a race before. What if he made a fool of himself? Or worse, what if he came in last?
Jerry shook his head. It was a chance he'd have to take. “Count me in — all the way, Coach!” he said.
Coach Fulton looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. “The hundred-yard freestyle is raced about halfway through the meet. Don't forget to check in. And listen carefully for your lane number when the announcer calls the race. Just swim the way you always do, Jerry, and you'll do fine.” With that, he turned and left.
Sure, that's all there is to it, thought Jerry. Just a few minutes in the pool and it's all over. Tony will probably win, but I just want to place. I don't want to—
He couldn't even think of the word lose. Tony slapped him on the back encouragingly, but the butterflies that danced around in Jerry's stomach wouldn't calm down. He drew a deep breath and went out to the pool.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Bolton Middle School swimming pool. Today's competition features the mighty Bolton Blues in the — you guessed it — blue-on-blue swimsuits who are pitted against the red-and-gold-suited Hall Junior High Cougars.”
Jerry looked down at his Bolton Blues team suit. This is it, he thought. I'm really swimming for the team.
Since his race wasn't scheduled until midway through the program, he had plenty of time to watch how the rest of the team acted. When it came time for his turn, he didn't want to make a fool of himself.
“Our next event will be the one-hundred-yard freestyle —”
What? Already? No, it must be a mistake. He could hardly believe that the time had come.
“Swimming for the Blues in lane one will be Tony Kendrix, in lane three will be Randy Epstein, and in lane five, Jerry Grayson. Swimming in lane two for the Cougars will be —”
Jerry took his position on the number 5 block. He was numb. He couldn't tell whether it was a hundred degrees or ten below zero. There was no feeling in his body whatsoever. His heart was pounding so loudly, he didn't think he'd be able to hear the starting signal.
“On your mark!”
There was a pause while the judges made sure everyone was in a legal position.
“Get set!”
Jerry thought the next pause would never end, that he would fall over in a dead faint before the gun went off.
BANG!
He unflexed his legs and dove into the pool.
When he emerged, he could hear the steady splash of water and excited cheers of the crowd. To his horror, he realized that the other swimmers were already making their way down the lanes — and he hadn't even started swimming!
Panic-stricken, Jerry struck out wildly, slashing through the water with a choppy, uneven stroke. The race would be only four laps, and then it would be over. He had to catch up with the other competitors!
Jerry's breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to swim as fast as he could. He touched the wall at the end of the first lap and lunged around through the waves to begin the second. Suddenly, he saw something that turned his heart cold — two of the other swimmers were coming back toward him. They had already begun their third lap.
He started slicing away at the water, flipping his head each time it came out of the water, and kicking wildly behind him. After the third turn, he just wanted to finish the race. His arms felt like limp spaghetti, his legs seemed to have lead weights attached to them, and his lungs hurt so much, he thought they were going to burst open. He just managed to reach the edge of the pool where the race had started before he collapsed in the water.
He didn't need to look up or listen to the announcer. He could tell that all the others had finished ahead of him. He was dead last. And, for one second, he almost wished that he were dead.
“The next event will be the one-hundred-yard backstroke —”
Trying not to look anyone in the eye, Jerry dragged himself out of the pool and over to the team bench. Coach Fulton was waiting for him with a towel.
“Nice work, Jerry,” said the coach.
Nice work! Hah! Who was he kidding! Jerry wanted to crawl under the bench or slide down the drain in the center of the pool.
The coach went on, “I probably shouldn't have put you in without more instruction, but I thought that you'd benefit from being in a real race. It looks all too easy when you're just doing laps or watching a practice. There's a lot more to racing than a good stroke and muscle power.”
“I… guess you're right, Coach,” said Jerry “But, you see, I think my leg is still a little weak, too. I don't think it was really up to the pressure, yet.”
Jerry could tell from the look on his face that the coach didn't buy that excuse.
“Let's just say there's more work to do,” Coach Fulton said. “I'll catch up with you next practice. Meanwhile, let's see what's going on in the pool. I think Tanya is about ready to compete in the hundred-yard backstroke.”
They turned to the pool, where Tanya was indeed lined up for the backstroke event. She stood in the shallow water at the edge of the pool in lane three, wailing for the sounding gun.
BANG!
And off the six girls went.
The race was really close. During the third lap, it was almost impossible to see who was ahead. But during the fourth lap, the girl in lane two started to break away. Tanya kept up with her about halfway down the pool — and then lagged behind. Still, she finished strongly enough to take second place.
As disappointed as he was with his own performance, Jerry was happy for her. When she made her way over to the Blues' bench, he flipped his towel at her and called out, “Way to go!”
Tanya was so happy, her excitement seemed to spread throughout the team. Maybe that was the extra push they needed. They ended up winning the meet by a good forty points. It was their best showing that season.
But even so, Jerry didn't feel like a victor. He hadn't contributed anything to the score.
After the meet, Tanya's parents were waiting outside to drive her and Jerry home.
“How did it go?” Mrs. Holman asked.
“Pretty good,” said Tanya. “I came in second in the one-hundred-yard backstroke.”
“And you, Jerry,” asked Mr. Holman. “Did you get a chance to swim your first race today?”
“Yeah,” said Jerry, glumly. “I came in last.”
“So what!” Tanya protested. “It was your first race, after all. All the other kids in that event had raced before. At least you went the distance. I've seen kids give up halfway and just leave the pool.”
“Oh, sure, real losers,” said Jerry.
“Sounds to me like we have a case of first-time blues,” said Mr. Holman. “You'll get over it. You're a natural athlete. Well, here we are at your house, Jerry. See you at the next meet.”
“I'll see you before then,” said Tanya. “Like Monday at practice, okay?”
“Maybe,” said Jerry. He unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”
During the rest of the weekend, Jerry avoided discussion of swimming or baseball or sports of any kind. Since it seemed to be drizzling or raining all weekend, he spent most of his time down in the cellar working on a model airplane kit. He'd started it about two years ago and hadn't touched it since.
Whenever Mr. or Mrs. Grayson tried to talk with him about the meet or anything else on his mind, he put them off.
“Telephone for you, Jerry,” Mrs. Grayson called down the cellar stairs. “It's Tony Kendrix.”
“I'll call him back,” Jerry shouted up to her.
But he never did.
By his bedtime Sunday night, he had decided he was through with swimming. How could he have really expected to get anywhere against kids who had been working at it for so much longer? Who was he trying to fool? So what if he had a natural stroke? The coach said that wasn't enough.
But as he lay on his pillow staring up at the ceiling, he could feel the rush that had spread throughout his body when he heard the announcer.
Amazing! It felt so much like the rush he got when he stared down the line at the pitcher when he was at bat.
Maybe there was something… maybe swimming… practice… get set… “kick those feet!”…
He fell asleep dreaming of cool water swirling around his head.
The rain had stopped and a heavy mist was rising from the ground when Jerry awoke the next morning. It was hard to tell what time it was.
Six-fifteen! Of course, the house was still silent. His folks didn't get the other kids up for another half hour. Over on her dog bed across the room, Yogi stretched, yawned, and wagged her stubby tail.
“Okay, champ, we'll go for a walk. Give me a few secs,” Jerry whispered.
He got dressed and slipped out the kitchen door, followed by the frisky Yogi. As he strolled down the driveway to the street, he started thinking about swimming — and baseball — one more time.
This is it, he decided. Either I really go for it and put in the effort or I quit swimming altogether. I'll just do my exercises, swim a few laps, and leave. None of this pacing or practicing or anything else.
And then, as soon as Doc says it's okay, I'll start taking batting practice. I know I'm good enough to get a shot as a replacement on the baseball team.
I know I can hit. I know I'm darn good at fielding.
Maybe that's the problem. I don't know if I can be a good swimmer. I don't know if I can win races.
He remembered something his dad had said to him a long time ago: “You'll never know until you really, really try.”
