The Edge

                                                The Edge

Self-created peer pressure is hazardous to a boy who has recently joined the ranks of what are often called the early- teens. I speak from experience because those pressures almost got me killed. At the ripe old age of almost thirteen, I had become a hero in my own mind, thanks to a god whose sense of humor arranged massive hormonal implants at an age in which they are most likely to be misused. 

Every Thursday afternoon, the school bus transported our class to the Pollokshaws public swimming pool. The Olympic-sized indoor pool available to the public was put to good use by our school students. The seasonal pull that causes kids for miles around to suddenly decide it’s time to practice swimming and diving to become future Olympians is a strange phenomenon I could never comprehend. I was quite proud of my swimming ability and could honestly hold my own against the other children in my class. This was why the girls in the class were drooling over me in my own mind, and the boys were seething with jealousy.

At the deep end of the swimming pool stood a diving platform known as the Dale. To reach the top of the dale, one had to climb a series of twelve steps. The steps were attached to each side of the platform. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on one’s point of view, we were not allowed to take advantage of the dale or dive off any of the steps because of school insurance safety rules. 

This, of course, gave super Michael a golden opportunity to show off for the ladies in my class. I was an extremely skinny kid at that age, but my brain lied to itself. Hence, every time I spoke to the opposite sex, that same brain somehow managed to convince my ego that it was nigh impossible to differentiate between myself and Mr. Universe. 

I remember lying through my teeth, asking any girls if they could dive off the dale. When one Jean Parker called my bluff and said she could, not to be outdone, I asked her if she could dive off it backward. She replied in the affirmative. My final challenge was to ask her if, whilst diving off the dale backward, she could do an inward somersault at the same time? Reason raised its ugly head then, and she admitted that she couldn’t. I, of course, told her and anyone else who might be listening to my athletic feats of daring that it was easy, and I would show her if we ever met in the pool out of school hours and school rules. We left to return to class. The other boys and girls were unchanged, but in my mind, I was now about six feet eight inches tall with a body like Rock Hudson, hair and eyes like Tony Curtis. I just knew that if Gina Lollobrigida had suddenly appeared, she would have slinked up to me and said something like, “Michael Dahling, where have you been? Brigitte Bardot and I have been looking for you everywhere?”

The following Sunday morning, disaster struck. My dad took my twin sister and me to the pool. I would normally have looked forward to the swim, but today I was worried. What would happen if one of the girls in my class turned up and then demanded I climb up to the dale and do a backward, reverse dive with a somersault? My self-created macho image took over, and I decided I would just go ahead and do it. In truth, I could dive into the water from the second step, which was akin to climbing up the stairs to my bedroom and not scaling Mount Everest, which my overactive imagination had done countless times.

Suddenly, the real possibility of making a complete fool of myself shined in stark reality. I heard a familiar female voice calling my name. I, of course, did what every superhero would do. I dived into the swimming pool and tried to prove my manliness by staying under the water for at least an hour. It took a good deal less time than that as I had to rise for air if I wanted to continue living. Yes, just my luck. It was my old friend Jean Parker. I prayed she had either forgotten about my verbal boasting or that she decided that she also didn’t want to be found out as both a showoff and a liar.

Alas, Jean called my bluff. “Why Michael, I’m so lucky to have run into you. Please dive off the dale for me. I’m just dying to go back to school on Monday and tell everyone how amazing you were when you did your reverse somersault” What else could I do? It was at that point, I learned what it meant to break out into a cold sweat. It wasn’t my body that accomplished the somersaults, only my stomach, whose thick green bile felt as though it had climbed into my mouth.

 Quivering with fear, I slowly ascended the stairs, my skinny, shaking legs just managing to keep the rest of me standing. My eyes almost closed as I turned around to face the pool. What happened next is the stuff of fairytale legends. Somehow, I slipped. I tried to stop myself from looking like a complete idiot falling into the water. Then the miracle happened. The slip caused my body to do an inward reverse somersault, and with hardly a splash, I entered the water. By now, an audience had gathered to witness my antics, including the school photographer who, by chance, happened to be there.  She took numerous photos of my accidental perfect dive. I remonstrated with her, and she acquiesced to my request and kept the photograph out of the local paper. Well, you must have come to the realization by now I am somewhat suave, sophisticated, very handsome, and of course, more than anything ... modest.

PS. If you believe that, I wonder if you would be interested in purchasing a bridge I own in Brooklyn. I can promise you an excellent price for it.