My family likes a good yarn. They usually involve some cringe worthy event featuring one of us performing our usual roles. The tellings conclude with us laughing and non-family members trying to console the star of the story. (Who usually enjoys the narrative as much as the others, even if it was at their expense).
One of tales featuring me is the swim-team saga. When I was a bitty thing, between 5-7 years old, my parents signed my brother and I up for summer swim team. The day before instruction began, I disobeyed my parents and watched the movie Jaws. Sharks are my favorite animal, but they still frighten me. With the image of a ravenous 30 foot great white still in my head, I was introduced to a very long lap pool and a particularly suspicious grate on the floor of the deep end.
Using my substantial logic, I deduced that if Jaws was coming for me, it would be in that pool over that grate. He would sneak in some water pipe like the Jersey Devil snuck upstream and in a magnificent burst of concrete and metal he would surge from the bottom of the pool and eat me. Needless to say, I hated swim team. I was convinced Jaws had my number.
Everytime I swam over that grate I would be in a panic, sometimes I tried veering into other people's lanes. (If there were two of us to eat, I had a 50/50 chance of making it.) Add to this I was very small and a terrible swimmer in general. My brother was a little aquaman, while I swam in circles. No lie. It was bad enough at one swim meet that a parent, fully dressed, jumped in the pool and tried to save me. My parents waved away concerns and assured the crowd, I'd finish. And strangely enough, I always did.
While I swam, I had no idea I was that awful. When an improvement in my scores was mentioned in the paper I was thrilled, unaware I had become the underdog mascot. Any improvement was reason for celebration.
So what's the moral of the story? For three summers, I did something I hated and was terrible at, and it never dawned on...
[ Continued ]