“Uh, if I’m supposed to visualize, then shouldn’t it be PVTA?”
“It’s whatever I say it is, understand?” His eyes rake over me.
“Uh, yeah. So, are we going to dive now?” I point at the boards, eager to get to the main event and show off to Dontae and Linda.
“We’ll begin with lineups. I want five good ones from you,” Mung says.
“What’s a lineup?”
The other divers look at me in surprise. But I really want to learn. All my teachers say ask questions—that if we don’t know, we should never assume.
“Did you read the member handbook?” Coach Mung’s face grows almost as pink as my sister’s favorite pillow.
“Yeah.” Some of it, anyway, so that’s almost the truth. Okay, the first few pages, and I read that during the bus trip over here today, but that counts.
He shakes his head. “Did he put you up to coming here?”
“He? Do you mean the Hun?”
His brow wrinkles. “What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Hundle. He’s my teacher.”
“The Hun?” Mung’s half-smothered laugh makes him seem younger and almost friendly. But the sound quickly grows into a growl. “Don’t play dumb. You know who I mean, T’Shawn Rodgers.” His voice lingers over my last name. “Your brother.”
I freeze. He knows Lamont?
Why am I surprised? I should expect Lamont to cause me trouble. Chicago is a big city with millions of people, yet I can’t escape my brother’s shadow. Even when he’s not around, Lamont messes things up for me. I wonder what he did to Coach Mung?
I say, “No one put me up to anything, and I wouldn’t listen to Lamont if he tried. I want to learn to dive, that’s all. Sammy said you were the best coach, and I believe him,” I quickly add, because Mom always says you can catch flies with honey. Not that I want any flies, but I need this guy.
Mr. Mung grunts, but his face softens slightly. “Only hard workers survive here. If you have a problem doing exactly what I say, you should go now. This isn’t playtime.”
“I’m here to learn, not play. I’ve been on the board before,” I say.
“How strong is your core?”
“My core?”
Coach Mung pokes me in the stomach. One finger, but it hurts and makes me stumble backward. “You’ll dive when you can handle that and prove you’ve mastered the fundamentals.” His eyes bore into me like I’m suspect number one on a TV cop show.
“Yes, sir,” I say, and feel myself shrink down to Rochelle’s size.
“Now get to the side of the pool.”
He walks away.
I turn to Sammy. “Is he like this with everyone new?”
Sammy shakes his head slowly. “He must be having a hard day. Just watch me, and do what I do.”
Turns out a lineup means I stand on the side of the pool, clasp my hands together over my head, lean over, and fall in. “It’s how we practice the entry,” Sammy says after he does the first one.
One by one, my teammates assume the position, arms over their heads, bending over the water, and then falling in headfirst. Mung stands behind each of them as they go in, acting like a real coach. He nods at them after they complete a first lineup, even one who enters the water with his legs making a huge V shape. “Concentrate on keeping your legs together,” he tells that diver. “Reach for the water,” he says to another. Sammy gets an “Excellent job, son.”
Then it’s my turn. I lean over the side and let myself fall in. Everything happens fast. There’s no time to think, just an instant in midair and then I’m under water. When I climb out of the pool, Mung shakes his head. “Pitiful.”
No directions or comments. I turn to Sammy, who shrugs and looks embarrassed for me. Coach Mung turns his back and walks to stand with the next diver.
That’s it?
I step back to the side to begin again. This time I’m going to get it right.
I try three more lineups. Each attempt brings another complaint from the coach but no assistance. For my fifth, and thankfully last, try, I work my brain, remembering everything I’ve heard him say to the others. Body straight, eyes on the water, legs together, toes pointed. But it’s too much. I’m lost the instant my feet leave the deck. A second of confusion in the air, then smack! Belly flop. My chest really smarts, and my mouth fills with water when I hit.
“What was that supposed to be?” the coach asks when I surface, sputtering and choking. I look at his face, hoping for a sign of sympathy. I find only a twitch in his cheek that comes from fighting down laughter.
“I think I tried a little too hard,” I admit. But I’ve finished the last one, at least for today.
Mung points at the side of the pool. “Go again.”
I glance at Sammy and the other divers who have finished their lineups. They are gathering by the boards. “I finished five like you said.”
“Not one of them was acceptable. Show me five more.”
“Aw, come on, Coach,” I whine. “I’ll do better once I get on the board.” This whole fall-off-the-side-of-the-pool thing feels phony. Maybe this is a wake-up exercise but not a real dive. I’m here for the good stuff, to do the fancy stuff. Real dives, not learning how to fall.
Coach Mung steps closer and lowers his voice. “Is everyone in your family this disobedient?”
I feel my face heat and lower my head. “I’m not my brother.” Water drips from my hair onto the deck. I don’t know why I feel so ashamed. I want him to like me. His approval, that’s all. Instead, Lamont-size problems follow me everywhere.
“Get back to the side of the pool, and do as you’re told.” His voice is ice-pick sharp. I glance up at Dontae. He mimes falling asleep.
I trudge back to the edge and continue doing lineups for the next half hour. Climb out of the water. Fall into the water. Climb out again, without ever hearing a single “good job” from my coach. Sometimes he says things like “proper posture” or “core weakness” without explaining what I should do to change. Mostly he barely looks at me, spending his time guiding the other divers through moves that take my breath away. Especially Sammy, who really knows how to fly. I watch, openmouthed, as he glides down the board, hurdles high, and twists himself into a pretzel in midair before entering the water straight up and down. If I ever learn to twist and curl like he does, the rest of this will be worth it. That’s why I don’t chuck everything and leave. The hope that one day the twisty, flippy guy others stare at will be me.
I get no feedback from the coach. I can’t even tell if I’m doing better or worse by the time practice ends and the Rays are dismissed. I could quit. Then I wouldn’t have to see Mung’s angry glare aimed at me ever again. No more cardio until I drop and no dealing with those weights. All I have to do is give up. . . .
No. Giving up is easy. I won’t do that, not ever. I’m going to stick this out. No one makes me quit, and I won’t hand Coach Mung an excuse to kick me off the team. I’ll get past the boring exercises and the coach who yells at me for having bad form. I’ve started this. I’ll finish it.
“He never even explained what I’m doing wrong,” I say as Sammy and I head for the locker room. I ache; two hours of weight training and lineups have drained me. Meanwhile, my friend still seems to bounce.
“He’s usually real good about breaking things down.” Sammy shakes his head, looking bewildered by his hero.
“Did you ever have to do a whole day of lineups?”
“No way, I’d have gone crazy,” Sammy admits. “But I have done about a thousand since I first started. Coach should have explained more.”
“Look on YouTube. There are some good beginning diving videos posted,” one of the girl divers says before entering her locker room.
I add checking YouTube to my other tasks. Those include my math that takes longer now that I can’t listen to my music when Lamont is around. I’ll finally have to listen to Mom and figure out how to get organized. How is it fair that I have to learn diving online bec
ause my coach dislikes my brother? Coaches should be like teachers and not hate students, no matter who they are related to.
Sammy showers and dresses quickly, claiming he can’t keep his mother waiting. I think he’s really worried that I will keep asking questions about his hero Mung.
Dontae is waiting for me outside the locker room when I exit, so I’m not alone. “That was totally boring. I’ve watched more exciting chess matches,” he says.
We leave the building together and head off campus to the bus stop. My new teammates are gone. Yet the campus is alive—students, mostly adults, arrive for evening classes. Mom took some business courses here to help her prepare to go back to work after Dad died.
A bus pulls away seconds before we arrive. I just couldn’t make myself run. At least Dontae doesn’t get angry at me for being so slow.
“Are you sure you really want to be part of this?” he asks while we wait. “I told you they were stuck-up. The people on the team look down on poor people. I bet that’s the real reason for all those fees— to keep poor people out. Especially poor, black people.”
“I’m not the only black kid on the team.”
“Carmela and who else?”
“There’s one boy, one of the high school guys. I don’t know his name.”
“Two other kids. Look, T, we don’t do water sports.”
“I do.” And I’m going to prove him wrong, him and anyone else who thinks that way.
Chapter
Fourteen
MY SECOND PRACTICE IS TWO days later. This time I feel prepared. I read every page of the Racing Rays club handbook, from the concussion protocol to the pages on team etiquette. Plus, practice agendas, including the reasons for all the cardio and weight training and dry-land training, and details of other standard activities. There’s so much stuff. I didn’t know being in a swim team would be like taking another class.
Dontae decided he had better things to do than sit and be bored, so he isn’t around. While Sammy has his parents to smile and wave at him, I have no one. At least not until I see Linda sitting at the top of the stands again. She waves at Carmela, then at me. I wave back and walk across the pool deck smiling.
“Is that your girlfriend?” Sammy asks.
“Nah, I don’t need a girlfriend.” If I did, it would be Carmela. Linda is okay, but quiet and way too smart.
“Keep your minds on long-term goals,” Coach Mung tells us after weight training. “Unless you work hard, you won’t become champions today, tomorrow, next week, or next month.” He looks at me, and I can see he wants to add “or ever.”
After the lecture, we start off our practice with more lineups. Thanks to the videos I watched on the computers in the school library during lunch period, I now understand a lot more about them. A dive has five components: approach, takeoff, elevation, execution, and entry. Lineups are about learning how to make a good entry. I got to study Jennifer Abel, a black, Olympic medal–winning, Canadian diver. I want to be just like her. Only not a girl. And not Canadian, since I’m an all-American boy. I’ll be a black Chicago hero. Maybe someday kids will study my life and want to be just like me.
Each of the other divers perform their five lineups. I have to do ten before Coach Mung lets me move to board work and a new exercise, this one about elevation. According to the handbook, riding the board is a balance and control exercise that will “help you gain the height you need for success.”
“Ten seconds,” Mung tells us. “That’s the maximum amount of time you’ll have from the moment you begin your approach until you enter the water. Ten seconds—less if you don’t achieve proper elevation.” He bounces on the end of one of the one-meter springboards, facing us with his back to the water, jumping in the air and coming back down as he speaks. I watch him go higher and higher in the air. He owns the air space around the board. His eyes remain on us, and he never once glances at his feet or the board. Yet he never hesitates or misses a word.
“Elevation is your friend,” he continues. “Height equals air time and translates into more time to do your tricks and still align yourself for entry.”
Air time. Now that’s what I’m talking about!
The first time I try the exercise, I barely leave my feet, hopping more than bouncing. But after a few turns on the board my confidence grows. Pretty soon I’m pushing down as hard as I can and getting real height when the springboard pushes back and propels me in the air. I circle my arms for lift and then land safely back on the board, pushing it down to begin the cycle again. This beats playing on a trampoline. I feel awesome getting so high and watching the room move around me.
When my time on the board ends, I bend my knees and successfully dampen the springboard’s movements so that it stops moving without me falling into the water. I feel a little dizzy, but I congratulate myself. Mung shakes his head at me when I climb down the ladder.
“I did it,” I say, grinning and waiting for some sign of approval. Come on, Coach. Smile, nod, do something.
“You have no feel for the board.” His lips remain tight, eyes narrow.
“What do you mean? I was getting good height.” Why can’t he give me a little praise? I felt right on the board. It spoke to me, through the soles of my feet all the way into my brain. The more I bounced, rode it, controlled it, the more I knew this was what I wanted to do.
“I don’t understand why you even want to be part of this team.” Mung’s brows pinch together, like he expects me to say something more. “Wait for summer and go to one of the park-district pools and have fun. I’m sure you’ll be happier playing around.”
“I don’t want to play,” I tell him again. “I’m not pretending. I want to learn.”
I walk to the side where the team keeps a cooler filled with bottled water. The place feels muggier than ever today, like the tropical house at Brookfield Zoo. I fish out a bottle and drink with my back turned to Mung. He’s my coach. His opinion matters to me. But I won’t let him bring me down.
As I drink, I turn around, facing the pool. Coach Mung and Mr. Hundle are talking. The Hun points at me. Mung shakes his head at first but eventually shrugs and slowly nods. After tossing the empty bottle in the recycling bin—I believe in saving the world from plastic—I turn to see Coach Mung standing behind me.
“What did I do now?” I ask.
“Get on the board. I want a forward dive in the layout position. If you’re ready.”
“Yes, sir! I am soooo ready.” I will perform the most perfect forward dive in the history of anything. Carmela is in the water, churning up waves. My family is at home, and there’s no Dontae. I should have made him come back today. He could have recorded this event on his phone. I’m finally going to get to do a real dive, and no one will see me. I climb on the board and stare at the spectators. Linda is still here. Someone will see my perfect dive.
“I want a complete dive, beginning with the approach!” Coach Mung yells. “You do know what that means?”
“I know,” I mutter. I’ve watched the others and seen videos. The approach involves three long strides across the length of the board and a hurdle to the tip. It’s math. There’s an equation for all this, but my mind doesn’t need to know the exact formula right now. Not as long as my body knows how to solve it. I can’t help looking at Mr. Hundle. My teacher lifts an encouraging hand from across the pool.
Closing my eyes, I plan my moves, from takeoff to entry. I visualize myself arching high in the air, my body under perfect control. Legs together, arms up, knees stiff, toes pointed, head back, eyes open, and then—wham! Clasped hands knife into the water, nice and clean, and, most important, painless.
Afterward, I’ll bob to the surface, where my ears will ring from the applause of my teammates after my perfectly executed plan.
“We’re waiting.” Mung stands, arms akimbo, voice echoing over the water.
I shake my arms to loosen my muscles, look out at the water, and take the first step of my approach. The rough surface of the board s
cratches the soles of my feet.
Second step. As I build up speed I see a blur from the corner of my eye. It’s Linda, out of her seat and running for the exit. Why?
Third step. The board bends under my weight. I refocus and concentrate on lifting my leg for the hurdle to the end of the board.
“You go, Short Stack!” an unwelcome voice booms.
Lamont?
My stomach performs a triple somersault with a twist.
My body does not. I miss the edge and go flying off, slamming into water that punishes me the way a concrete sidewalk punishes a falling skateboarder.
“Did it hurt? Are you dead?” Sammy asks, running to the side.
“Worst joke ever,” I say, and climb from the water.
“Yeah, I know.” Sammy nods, looking proud. “That dive was a total fail. Awesome. Any time your feet and butt hit the water at the same time you earn zero points.”
“That didn’t look too good, Short Stack.” Lamont approaches the pool, holding out a hand like a concerned father. Sammy starts and stares at him, and I could almost swear some secret message seems to pass between them. It’s almost like they know each other.
I climb out of the water and sputter, “You can’t be here. Parents have to stay in the stands during practice.”
“I’m not a parent.”
“That makes it worse!” I try using my hard stare, but water falls from my wet hair into my face, ruining the effect. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see what was going on.”
“You wanted to make things worse. Congrats. What do you imagine Coach Mung is thinking right now?” I’m wet and cold, and my teeth are chattering. I push him away. “You need to leave before you get me kicked out.”
“I have a right to be here. And no one will kick you out, not over me,” Lamont says.
“True. I’m more likely to kick you, Lamont,” a female voice says.
The voice belongs to one of the older female Rays. I turn around and see an older teen girl with light skin. With her full lips, she could be African American or Latina or maybe mixed. She walks like a model and looks like she should be too smart to come near Lamont. Of course, even Rochelle should be too smart for that, yet she giggles every time he calls her Shelly.
Courage Page 9