Race Day

Once upon a time, I was seven-years old. Skinny knees, tanned cheeks, and blond hair. I fancied myself a real swimmer, and I found myself anxiously awaiting the start of a race. We practiced swimming as a team, knocking knuckles from time to time as we passed in the lane and giggling between sets. But, come race day, you stood alone behind the blocks; you listened alone to the final race instructions; and the lane, for once, was solely yours alone. Swimming is a collective of individual efforts for the greater goal of the team.

Today, RJ found himself alone at the start. He listened to the race instructions all by himself. And, he swam his first race:

(In case you're wondering, today, I was the mom who had no memory card in her real camera, no idea what events her kid would be swimming, and who fed her son donuts before his races.)

He seemed pleased enough.

First was the 25-meter backstroke, then 25 meters of butterfly. He was flawless if in last place. Then came his 25-meter freestyle. He warned up behind the lane, scooping his arms wide and kicking the deck like a frog. "RJ," I scampered to the end of his lane, "this is freestyle, not breastroke." "Right," he peered through his goggles. "So, I breathe every stroke?" And with that, he was off, breastroking his way to last place in a freestyle world. He climbed out with a smile on his face. 

And, as we left the pool, he gave me his final observation, "Mom, I think I came in last, not because I'm slow, but because I swam the wrong stroke." 

He made his individual effort for the greater goal of the team. In the end, I don't know who won the meet. 

The pool smells the same at 8 a.m. as it did when I was seven, and it's hard to realize that the lanes are filled with my friends waiting to giggle between sets: