by Max Howell
“I never thought about that, Mr Somerville. I did not know how tough it is being a coach.”
“It is not tough, for after all you are the one that has to swim the race. Let me just say it is different.”
“So it is all right if they sit with you?” he asked again.
“Yeah, but do not forget to tell them to shut up. I want no small talk. Now be off with you, and be ready for a maximum effort to-morrow night.”
When he ran home that evening he stopped at the horse trough and looked up. He saw Faith looking out for him, and gestured her to come down.
“I will be back in a minute, Mum,” she called, “Mark wants to see me about something.”
“He is allowed to come into the house, you know, your father and I will not bite him.”
“I know, Mum, I know. Be back in a minute!”
She ran downstairs, wondering why he would want to see her. She hoped everything was all right. She crossed the street and ran towards him.
“Is anything wrong, Mark?”
“No, Faith, nothing is wrong. It is just that I want to make sure you will be there Friday night.”
“Of course I will be there. I asked Mum and she said it was fine for me to go by myself.”
“Well, I just thought that maybe the three of us could go together, the Musketeers and the Musketress, and come back together. I will talk to Frank about it to-morrow and when we get there Terry says it is fine by him if we all sit together. But he does not want any small talk. You will never believe it, but he actually is nervous when I swim.”
She burst out laughing. “He gets nervous?” She had heard so many stories from Mark about this grizzled old man, and being nervous somehow did not seem to fit the pattern. Though Mr Somerville was kind to Mark, he was rarely personal, and the strange thing was that Mark knew very little about him. He did not even know if he was married. Terry just did not discuss things like that. “Mark,” said Faith, “I have a favour to ask. Would you mind asking my mother if we can all go together? I think it would be nice.”
“Sure, Faith,” he said, “Anyhow, it is about time I met your Mum and Dad.”
He went across the road with Faith, and they walked up the stairs together to her second floor apartment.
“Just wait here a minute, Mark,” she said, and called into the apartment. “Mum and Dad, will you please come here a moment?”
Her parents got up and came to the door, and saw her standing there with Mark. “Mum and Dad, this is Mark.”
“Pleased to meet you, son. Come on in,” her father said. Faith’s mother eyed the young boy from head to toe. What a fine looking young man, she thought.
“No, Mr and Mrs Rogers, I cannot come in as I have to go home to study. I just wanted to ask your permission to take Faith to the State Swimming Championships. A friend of mine will be with us, and the three of us will sit with my coach. I will bring her straight back after the meet.”
“That is fine, Mark. We know you will look after her. She is very special to us,” her father said.
“Thanks, Mr and Mrs Rogers. I will look after her, do not worry about that. Sorry I have to rush. See you to-morrow, Faith.”
“See you, Mark,” she said simply. “See you to-morrow.”
As he left, her mother said, “I thought he was not going to take you out until after the Olympics? Seems like he is changing his mind.”
“No he is not, Mum,” she said quickly. “He knows I will be there, and he is just being nice. His friend Frank is going with us, and at the swimming pool there will also be his coach Mr Somerville.”
“Anyhow, it does not matter, Faith, he seems a very nice young man.”
“He is, Mum. There is no one else quite like him.”
“How come his mother and father are not going?” her mother said.
“I do not know, Mum. I know they have not much money, but they do not seem to be too interested. As far as I know they have never seen him swim. His father drinks a lot, and I know Mark is very unhappy about it. Even his close friend Frank does not visit him in his home. Mark is determined to get somewhere in his life.”
“But what is he going to do in his career, Faith, swimming will not get him very far?” her father interjected.
“I … I do not know, Dad, he has never talked about it to me. I just have not thought about it, either,” Faith said, a frown coming over her face.
“He is in his last year in high school, isn’t he?” her father persisted. “He will have to make up his mind one of these days what he plans to do for the rest of his life.”
She did not answer. A factor she had never thought about before had suddenly intruded into their relationship. I will ask him about it, she thought, but when the State and Australian championships are over. In her own case, she had known from childhood what she wanted to do. She would be a teacher like her father, though in the primary school. She loved the younger children.
The following day, after school, Mark ate a steak that he had asked his mother to prepare and drank two glasses of milk. There was little money for such extravagances, but his mother somehow got the money together for the special meal that was recommended at that time for athletes. She knew it meant so much to her son, though personally she felt he would be better off putting all his time into a part-time job and bringing in some money for the family.
Mark carefully placed his swim suit, two towels and a pair of sandals in his carry bag. Most of the other swimmers had dressing gowns, but he could not afford that. He simply walked out for his event with a towel over his shoulders.
He waited for Faith at the usual spot, walked up to Peter’s Corner where Frank was waiting, and they got on the tram to Wynard. The others noticed that Mark was more withdrawn than usual. “Excuse me for not saying much,” he said, “but I cannot think of anything else but the race. I will be going for broke to-night under Mr Somerville’s orders.”
“That is all right, Mark, we understand,” said Faith sympathetically, realising the importance of the evening for Mark.
“You have never got anything sensible to say anyhow,” said Frank jokingly, his humour breaking the tension. “Maybe you will learn something listening to us for a change.” What Mark liked about his closest friend was his humour, he always saw the funny side of things. He also knew that Frank was his best supporter, along with Faith, of course. Mark felt good travelling to the meet with his friends. It somehow gave him support. The loneliness of sport is rarely understood by non-participants.
They got off the tram at Wynard and caught the train to North Sydney. Mark looked out of the train as it went over Sydney Harbour Bridge. He looked back at the Sydney wharves, where the Manly ferries were busily plying their trade, and looked at the Domain Park that he never tired of strolling through when he went to Sydney. Then he looked ahead, and saw the stately homes lining the North Shore, the beauty of the Sydney Harbour and the glorious view out to the Heads. One of these days, he thought, I will see other great harbours. I wonder whether any can be as beautiful as Sydney?
As the train pulled up he saw Luna Park, Sydney’s amusement centre, where one could get rides on all kinds of attractions. He had only been to it once, and did not like it. He never did have money to throw away on such frivolities, but even if he had he saw no enjoyment in going around in a ferris wheel or throwing balls at objects to win a worthless prize. Then he felt a nervous pang as he saw the red-bricked swimming pool, the North Sydney Olympic Pool. It is a big night in my life, he thought. I have to give every ounce of my energy shortly.
As he alighted from the train, he slung his bag over his shoulder, and nervously shook his arms and his legs. He felt strong and ready, and he paid little attention as they passed the tenement houses on the way to the pool.
Just before they paid their sixpence entry fee, for even he as a competitor had to pay, Faith stopped in front of him and looked him in the eye. “Best of luck to-night, Mark,” she said, and touched his hand gently.
“Thank
s, Faith, I will do my best.”
“Give ‘em hell, Mark,” added Frank.
“I will be trying, mate,” he said.
They walked into the seating area, and searched out Mark’s coach. He was sitting alone with a stop-watch in hand, timing some of the early heats. He was bald, and the continuous coaching under the searing Australian sun had taken its toll on his skin, it being blotchy and leathery, giving him a grizzled and gnarled appearance. His was a lonely profession, dealing with the newly-born and the ageing, dependent for his livelihood on ‘Learn to Swim’ classes stocked by children who would never get anywhere in the sport. Fat and ugly, thin and nervous, frightened and incompetent, they crammed his classes, but at least it put food on the table. There was also a great satisfaction in teaching a child to swim for the first time, but after that it was unrelenting boredom. However the professional in him required a feigned interest, a perpetual smile when teaching that could never be erased despite the general incompetence of his charges. The hours were long in his profession, which he always felt was basically a form of baby-sitting.
Even working with his elite squad, he was faced with an impossible task. They ranged in age from 11 years to 25 years of age, the majority being in the 12-14 age range. Though he regarded himself as an intelligent man in an unintelligent profession, he concluded that he had to treat all his swimmers the same, as 12 year-olds.
Mark was his escape from mediocrity. Mark had rare talent, that indefinable commodity that was perhaps beneath the surface for many, but which he himself had brought out into the open. Mark represented his own escape from boredom and cynicism, his own opportunity for emotional, psychological and intellectual fulfilment. He was no psycho-analyst, but he apologised to no one in pushing Mark to fulfil his own personal dreams and aspirations. His wife had left him because of his preoccupation and obsession with his sport, and its time commitment. He never had a child, and he lived in a dingy flat in Coogee cooped up with his own dreams and non-fulfilled ambitions. Mark is my son, he thought, but I will not tell him that. He is much more like a son to me than perhaps my own would have been.
He looked at the three of them as they sat down, and gruffly said, “I thought you had bloody well forgot about the race!”
Mark was used to him, and quietly said, “I said we’d be here at 7 pm, Mr Somerville, and we are ten minutes early. I would like to introduce you to two friends of mine, Faith and Frank.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said unconvincingly, and then turned to watch the races. He had no time for conventions on a night he considered the most important in his life. There were a few old scores he was anxious to settle this very evening.
After fifteen minutes, during which he seemed engrossed in his own problems and the activity going on in the pool, he turned to Mark and said, “It is 7.15 pm, Mark, your heat is at 7.45. Go down now and change. Talk to no other swimmer. If they say something to you just turn away. You are a bit of a mystery man to them, and they are frightened of you now. So say nothing. Look through them if you have to.”
“Yes, Mr Somerville.”
“Warm up slowly with some of the exercises I taught you, and then lie down and go over the race in your mind. Reconstruct it! And think of nothing but speed, speed, speed. You are the fastest, that is what you must think about, the fastest. There is no holding back to-night. This is your break into the big-time. When you get on those blocks, you will be another person, unbeatable. The God of speed, think of nothing else. Who can beat a God? You are swimming not only for yourself to-night, but your career, your family, me, Faith and Frank.”
The others watched in silence, caught in the emotion of the moment, frightened to break the atmosphere created by his coach. He went up to him and put his arms on Mark’s shoulders. “Best of luck, son. It is now up to you!”
Mark then said good-bye to Faith and Frank, and they wished him the best, though they were unable to find the words to match the occasion. Then he turned to go to the change room. As he walked away, tears came to Faith’s eyes, as she realised for the first time the loneliness of the athlete aspiring for greatness. We are all here, she thought, and we have to create a non-turbulent environment, but it is the athlete who has to produce, who must put his reputation on the line. With eight swimmers in any race, seven must lose. Each has his aspirations, gods, motivations, and loved ones to answer to. Sport is a matter of ability, she thought, but it is also a contest of the will, of pride, of courage. I do not think I could ever do what Mark is doing, she thought. It requires an inner strength and determination that few have. She had read of Darwin’s theory of the origin of the species, which basically argued for survival of the fittest. Mark, she thought, fits that Darwinian concept.
When his heat was called, she watched Mark’s every step as he walked towards his number five lane. His towel was thrown loosely over his shoulder, and his well-muscled body was evident for all to see. It is funny, she thought, that Mr Somerville called him the God of speed. He looks like a young God. He looked up at his coach and nodded, and then looked at Faith, their eyes meeting with a stark intensity. Then he turned to the task at hand, seemingly oblivious to the crowd and the other swimmers. He had an amazing ability to focus on a task and cut out all other interventions. The crowd hushed as the swimmers took their marks, and at the sound of the gun they were off.
At the 55 yard turn, he was clearly in front by two yards, and did the safer open turn. As he swam the final 55 yards he increased his lead, winning by a clear five yards against some of the best swimmers in Australia. When they announced his time, the spectators cheered and yelled, it was a new 110 yards Australian Open record. Mark had done it again. Then the announcer informed everyone his time was only two-tenths of a second away from the world’s record.
Terry and the others rushed to the restraining wall to congratulate him, and others came forward with autograph books. He was emerging as a national celebrity. Terry said quickly, “You did it, Mark, and just keep this in mind, with a tumble turn it would have been a world’s record.” Faith looked at him in admiration, and Frank kept patting him on the back.
“Go home, now, Mark, we have proved our point, and get a rest for tomorrow night, when we will give it to them again tomorrow,” said his coach.
So the three of them wended their way home, though as he left the pool Mark slipped his hand in Faith’s, and held it all the way home. She felt so warm and secure. Faith felt supremely happy.
When Mark got home he walked in the house to see his father listening to the radio and drinking a quart bottle of KB beer. His mother was in bed. “What are you doing home so early?” he said, “I thought you were swimming to-night?”
“I did Dad, it is all over. I only had one race.”
“How did you do?” he asked, one ear craned to the radio as the race news were being broadcast and he was making notes on a newspaper.
“I won Dad, I won.”
“Can’t do any better than that, son, can’t do any better than that. Was not too bad meself when I was young. You must get it from me. But I was married at your age, and that bloody-well ruined me. A great mug I was, that is to be bloody sure.” He went back to listening to the radio.
As he left the room Mark added, “And I broke the Australian record, Dad.”
“Can’t do better than that son. Now if Wotan wins to-morrow at Randwick and breaks the record, I will be equally bloody pleased. I will put a quid on it for you.”
“Good-night, Dad.”
“Good-night, Mark. You know if you put as much time into studying the horses as you do swimming you would be a bloody millionaire. Are you up early again to-morrow?”
“No, Dad, I have to swim the finals to-morrow afternoon. It is for the State Championships. You might tell Mum I would like to sleep in tomorrow.”
As he undressed and got into bed, he felt strong and yet pleasantly tired. He kicked off the blanket and pulled the sheet around him. I swam faster than anyone else in Australia has ever done
, he thought, and a surge of pride went through him. He found he could not sleep, there was a tension still in his muscles from the supreme effort. It was a problem many athletes faced, but it was the first time he had personally experienced it. He tossed and turned, with clouded images of his coach, of Faith, and of surging to the finish in the pool. It was a restless night.
When he did get up, he ran to Peter’s Corner to pick up The Sydney Morning Herald to see what it had to say. The paper ‘boy’ was a veritable institution, and a friend of his Dad’s. His name was ‘Moxley’, no one knew him as anything else. He was certainly no mental giant, but always had a smile on his face and would say ‘hello’ to anybody. Mark gave him a shilling and Moxley gave him the ten-pence change from the large leather pouch he wore over his shoulder.
“Reading up on yourself, are you?” said Moxley with a grin.
“Sort of,” said Mark, as he quickly turned to the sports page and scanned it, and there it was.
Sydney Morning Herald
ANOTHER RECORD - SWIM PHENOM DOES IT AGAIN
Coogee Aquarium swimming ace Mark Jamieson answered his critics last night with a resounding victory in a heat of the 110 yards freestyle in Australian record time at the NSW Championships. He is now the current Australian record holder in the 55, 110 and 220 yards freestyle. His time, 55.8 secs., was only two-tenths of a second outside the world record, and he won going away by five yards.
Coach Terry Somerville said, ‘If Mark had done a tumble turn instead of the slower open turn he might have had the world record. As for all those who criticised us for passing up the 55 and 220 yards freestyle, what do they have to say now? From now until the Olympics, Mark will only swim the 110 yards. I do not want him burned out before the Olympics. He has already proved himself the greatest sprinter Australia ever had.’