We swim a lot. We swim so much that I can’t remember the last time my kids took a proper bath. We swim so much that our hair has developed the hard shine that only comes with hours of chemical build-up. As much as we swim, we don’t focus (much) on competition. I see RJ in the pool so often that I’ve stopped seeing technicalities of his strokes. All I see is my skinny, summer-browned little boy. But, so the story goes, RJ likes to swim. RJ likes to race. It seems a shame not to see how he’d fare on a club team. I started at about his age; and, as my joints have gotten creakier, I appreciate the ability to jump in and crank out a few laps every now and again in lieu of running.
Last night, RJ tried out for a club team. When I joined swim team, there were no tryouts. If you didn’t drown the first night, you were golden. Things are different nowadays. We arrived to find at least fifty suited-up kids. Most were taller than RJ. All of them were bigger than RJ. And, he was terrified. He cried. No, he sobbed. Real tears dripped from his chin as he wrapped his arms around me and pleaded with me to get in the water with him. "Nope." I told him as the coaches stared. "You either get in and swim, or it’s over. We’re done." He sniffled. Squared his shoulders. And found his way to the opposite end of a very long fifty-meter pool.
The head coaches had long since given up on this skinny little boy who was so obviously afraid of the water. It was clear the only thing he was more afraid of was his tiger mother, who was forcing her dreams on him. They turned RJ over to the kid home from college on break. The kid home from college on break jumped three feet in the air, clasped his hands to his head, pointed, then yelled, "We’ve got a breaststroker! Look at this! Look at this kid!"
RJ did it. He dove in. He swam a lot. He swam fifty meters breaststroke. Then he did it again, because the head coaches now wanted to see his time. He swam fifty meters butterfly. "Hey man, how old are you?" came the question. "I’m eight," RJ shrugged. "When did you turn eight?" "Last April."
"Wow." Just wow.
He made the team. The coaches told me he’s the best eight year old they’ve seen. He’s the best eight year old I’ve ever seen, but I tend to hold him in high regard. Apparently he’s a heck of a swimmer. He lacks confidence, but that will come as he ages. He also lacks meat on his bones, and the coach was quick to tell me, "His biggest challenge for the next few years will be the cold. He’s really small."
He is really small. A child. Young for his age and tender-hearted. He feels little hurts deeply, and he feels little successes in big ways.
(Gigi had a little success too; she passed the swim test at the YMCA earning her indoor pool time any time she wants it, no life jacket required!)
After it was over, I hugged him. "RJ, I’m proud of you! You did it even when you were scared!"
"Yep," he grinned,
"I’m a little bit proud of myself too."
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