Just Another Reason

    “On your mark.”

    He took a deep breath as he crouched down at the ready, fingertips lightly grazing the lip of the block. He shut out the sounds of the crowd, the creak of the block under his weight, and even the hum of the lights overhead. All that was left was the thunder in his ears, and the anticipation of what was to come.

   A flash of light, muted by his goggles, followed by the sharp beep signaling the start of the race. He hated the sound, dreaded it in the hours before a meet—especially this meet—and told himself that even if he looked back fondly on the time he’d spent on the team, that sound was something he would not, could not ever miss in the years to come.

    And yet, he never felt more alive than when it went off.

He exploded off the block, soaring over the surface of the water. Six years of training drew his body up as well as out from the wall, trying to maximize the time he spent in the air. No swimmer could fly forever, though. His arms came up over his head, and the icy pool welcomed him into its depths, frigid against his clean-shaven and exposed arms, scalp, chest, and finally legs. He was home.

He was distantly aware of others in the water with him. None had matched his time in the air off the block, and none would match the momentum his dive lent him. The other competitors, half from his school, half from another, all broke into frantic motion above the surface long before he. To conserve energy and maintain his speed, he stayed underwater, finally passing the line that separated the shallow end of the pool from the deep. There were only five meters left to reach the opposite wall when he felt himself slowing. It was time.

  His lightly muscled back—also clean-shaven, of course—breached the water first. Gone were the days when he’d jerk his head above water before anything else, prioritizing life-giving air over momentum. Now he knew better. The race would barely last a minute, after all. He could deny his weak human instincts for a minute. A shimmer ran down his body, starting at his chest and rolling down to his toes. Broad shoulders threw his arms, their span nearly that of the width of the lane, out behind him, and the combined kick and stroke launched his body forward. His arms came forward in the air, high enough to skim the surface of the water while low enough to stay under control and at a high speed. Another shimmer, timed perfectly to coincide with his hands returning to the pool, brought him to the wall before anyone else could even come close.

There was no hesitation at the wall. Not to acknowledge his screaming teammates, nor to bask in the perfection of his form so far. He couldn’t lose this race, no matter what his coach had said. There was too much at stake. Not only was a four-year streak of league championship victories on the line, but so too was his legacy. This was his race, his stroke, and his pool, if only for this one last night. Six years of blood, sweat, and tears had brought him to this moment, and he wouldn’t let them go to waste.

    He flipped along his side at the wall, taking a quick breath of air as he launched himself back the other way for his second length. The race was already a quarter of the way over. He could do this.

Long strokes and expertly timed kicks acting as one carried him back towards the blocks, overcoming the wake from the other lanes as well as his own. He’d struggled with this stroke, once. It was a bane, one that he and the rest of his teammates despised and saw as a punishment for how physically demanding it was. Everyone, that is, save his captain, who’d graduated the year before. The captain had demonstrated why this beast of a stroke was named after something as delicate as a butterfly. After years of practice, he’d finally been able to emulate the captain’s beauty and grace in the water, and what was once a grueling punishment became an exhilarating release of power. In a way, his mastery of the stroke was a part of the captain’s legacy as well; just another reason he couldn’t lose.

His fingers hit the wall beneath the block a split second before his feet, and with a splash he was moving back down towards the shallow end. Worry ate at the excitement and adrenaline fueling his strokes. Splashing was a sign of losing control, and with a loss of control came a loss of speed. He was still in the lead going into the third leg, but the shadow on his right was drawing ever closer. Was he slowing down, or was his competitor just faster than him? He shoved the thoughts from his mind. There were barely thirty seconds left; he could keep his anxiety at bay for thirty seconds, couldn’t he?

His rival closed the distance between them. They kicked off the wall like a pair of synchronized swimmers rather than competitors, though this time it was his rival that managed to maximize their momentum off the wall. He was starting to fall behind; each movement was a battle with his aching limbs and screaming lungs. More splashing and less distance per stroke meant more strokes were needed to get to the finish line, which only ate away at his fading strength faster. He was going to lose, not just to his rival in the next lane or the wake threatening to drown him like a series of small tsunamis, but to his own flesh and blood. Six years of training, and yet still his body faltered when he needed it the most? What more could he have done?

Wrong question, said a small voice in his ear. What can you still do?

His team, no, his whole school was counting on him. The captain, too. Most importantly of all, he didn’t want to let himself down. This was his sport, his pool, his stroke. He grabbed his fears and anxiety by the roots and hurled them into the engine of his heart, burning it like coal in a locomotive. Renewed strength flooded his arms, and with it returned the grace of his strokes. He couldn’t lose this race. He wouldn’t.

Ten meters to go. He drew nearer to his rival.

Five meters. He’d caught back up, and he had a longer reach on his side.

One meter. He completed his last stroke and lunged for the timer pad set into the wall with the rest of his strength.

Zero meters. His hand slammed into the pad. His body went limp and mind blank.

He came to with the roar of the crowd, basking in their praise and the sweet exhaustion of adrenaline fading from the body. It’d been a great race, hadn’t it? A real spectacle in a close meet that could very well come down to a single point either way. He’d left it all in the water, overcoming his exhaustion and self-doubt to finish strong. It was a worthy victory to end his varsity career on.

All except for the number ‘2’ next to his name on the scoreboard.