by Kobe Bryant
Wildfire light.
A rustle of dread awakens inside me, a queasy flapping of wings brushing against my ribs. I swing my arms and breathe deeply. It’s just nerves, I tell myself. My body’s way of reminding me that everything about today is important, although you wouldn’t know it by looking at anyone else. Coach Marks is standing there with his stupid clipboard and his visor, and his expression is far from welcoming—more a mix of boredom and irritation. It’s an expression I actually recognize. It wasn’t until Danny was thirteen or fourteen that I stopped coming to watch him train, so Coach Marks isn’t a stranger to me the way I am to him. But I want him to like me, and to this end, I follow the others’ lead by huddling close, keeping my mouth shut, and listening as he launches into a lecture about the upcoming schedule.
This topic is of genuine interest to me. There are regional meets running throughout the summer, but September 25 is the cutoff for national ranking. It’s imperative that I’m competing well ahead of this date in order to get my times down so that I’m ranked on the national circuit roster in the months leading up to the Olympic qualifiers. Because it’s not that you can’t, technically, qualify for the Trials with a verified time in an event that no one’s ever heard of. It’s that you won’t.
The morning breeze bites. I rub my arms as Coach Marks shifts into some rah-rah cheerleading about “excelling in and out of the pool” and “fighting the good fight.” It’s seriously the worst and I don’t know anyone who finds shit like this inspiring. There’s not much I can do about it, though, so I let my eyes glaze over. It’s likely everyone else is bored, too, because it’s not long before I can feel their gaze on me—in a collective sense, all eleven of them. The group is sizing me up, from every angle, every direction.
I welcome this. Hell, I can take their scrutiny. Their skepticism. I can take anything, so long as I have secrets of my own.
“Gus,” the coach calls out.
I lift my chin. “Yeah?”
“Glad you could make it.”
“Glad to be here.”
“You meet everyone?”
“Not yet.”
He addresses his team. “This is Gus Bennett. He’s been putting up some impressive times for Acalanes over in the state league for the past couple of years, which is why I’ve invited him here to swim with us this morning. So introduce yourselves, okay? Make him feel welcome.”
There’s a grumble of assent, more halfhearted than anything, but once they hear my name it’s clear most of the guys know who I am without it having to be said explicitly. The worst part is the way the expressions on some of their faces slide from skepticism right into pity mode. Maybe a little sneering resentment, too—no matter the cost, they think I’ve been handed what they’ve earned.
“Let’s get warmed up.” Coach Marks rubs his hands together and there’s no fanfare to it; we’re supposed to jump in and start swimming. It’s easy enough to follow along with what everyone else is doing—stripping off sweats, stretching muscles, testing the water temperature—but with twelve swimmers and ten lanes, I’m naturally one of the odd guys out. Someone’s got to split with me and I know no one wants to. “Let’s be friends” Javier’s an easy enough target, but my standards are higher. I stroll over to Adam Fitzmaurice’s lane. Give a terse nod.
Adam nods back but doesn’t look up from adjusting his goggles. “Just stay to the right, okay? And don’t ride my ass.”
“What’s your warm-up?”
“Eight hundred easy. Alternate free and IM. After that it’s drills on your stroke of choice. You got fins?”
“Yeah.”
“You swim free?”
“Mostly.”
“Then follow what I do. I’m doing arm drills today. Working on turnover speed.”
“And then?”
“He’ll tell us.” Goggles secured, Adam dives off the deck like he can’t wait to get rid of me. His massive body vanishes beneath the surface, and with the light and sun and lane lines and the way my eyes work, it’s as if he’s disappeared completely.
I can’t see him at all.
A cold hand on my bare shoulder makes me jump. I whip around and see that it’s Coach Marks, showing me more affection than I can remember seeing him give Danny. My skin crawls at this realization. No one wants to be the do-over, and everything about this feels like a bad omen. Like I’m an actor on a movie set being forced to play a role I never wanted but signed up for anyway.
“Hey.” I force a smile on my face.
“You doing all right?”
“Never better.”
“Glad you’re here,” he says for the second time.
“Me too,” I offer.
“After warm-ups, we’ll be doing sprint sets, then some longer work at the end.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t push unless I say so. I want to see how you work, Gus, not what you can do. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, and well, I’m relieved he knows my name, but I’m barely listening. I can see Adam Fitzmaurice now. He’s circling back through our lane, heading straight for me. My heart pounds and all I want is to be in that water.
Those sparkling depths.
Coach Marks releases my shoulder and I throw myself into the pool. I’m aiming for effortless, to match Adam stroke for stroke, but something’s wrong. The water feels different than before. Where it previously contained me and held me up, it now collapses beneath my weight, allowing me to sink deeper.
And deeper.
I’m inches from the pool floor before I kick out hard. My muscles ache with the effort, and maybe I did too much earlier this morning, but that’s no excuse for drowning. I just have to kick harder, fight more, finally breaking the surface to ease into my stroke.
Everyone else is far ahead of me, and the coughing that escapes my lungs does nothing for the impression I’m trying to leave. But screw this warm-up thing. I’m already ablaze—a combustible rush that needs no fanfare or flaming—and I push harder in an effort to catch up.
To make myself known.
I’m aware that this goes against Coach Marks’s warning, but everyone knows there’s no advantage to being left behind. Besides, my plan has always been to show, not tell, just like they say in English class. This means that no matter what Coach Marks says he wants to see from me, I absolutely, positively intend to give him all I’ve got.
21.
The impact’s full force. A high-speed collision of bone on bone—a sharp crack of anguish that bursts right below my eye socket.
What the hell? I grunt, sputter, and lash out, swinging my arms every which way, trying to get whoever or whatever it is the hell away from me.
Someone shoves me, hands to chest, and I sink beneath the surface again. Clawing my way up, gasping for air, I hear the words “Fucking asshole,” and it’s Adam, I realize. He’s pushing me off him, pushing me back, while treading water and glaring right at me. “I told you to stay to the right!”
“You’re bleeding.” Gripping the pool edge with one hand, I point to the cut on his lip. The red in the pool.
“No shit.” Adam turns and swims for the wall, pulls himself out, and walks stiffly to the locker room. Coach Marks goes after him, which leaves me to assess my injuries on my own. I press down on my cheekbone, the space below my left eye. It’s tender enough to bruise, but there’s no blood, no lasting pain.
“What happened to Fitz?” The guy in the next lane over is staring at me. He’s got both arms hooked over the lane line, water dripping from his nose.
“Don’t know,” I say casually. “Guess he must’ve hurt himself.”
Dripping Nose Guy looks like he wants to ask more, like how and why and what did I have to do with it, but that’s hardly a compelling reason to put my workout on hold. I push off from the wall. Start swimming again.
It su
cks, knowing the coach’s focus is elsewhere, and while my concern for Adam is sparse, I don’t want him to be so badly hurt that it becomes some sort of issue. Also, I did run into him—I can admit that. So when the warm-up is over and we all get out of the water to stretch, I walk to where Adam Fitzmaurice is sitting on the edge of a lounge chair, towel wrapped around his waist, ice pack to his mouth, and mumble that I’m, like, really sorry or whatever.
“It’s fine, Bennett,” he says with a sigh. “Don’t worry about it.”
Well, I’m not worried. Not about him, anyway, although despite Adam’s reassurances, the narrowed-eyes looks I get from the other guys tell me I’m not endearing myself to the rest of the team. But the feeling’s mutual—nothing I’ve seen from any of them so far has impressed me—and besides, I’ve got other shit to think about.
Like what we’re doing next.
The sprint sets are 15 x 100 m intervals of freestyle that we do in waves. Groups of three, which makes it kind of like a relay, except nothing about our combined times count and we have no common interest.
“I don’t want to see max effort,” Coach Marks barks. “Give me eighty-five percent, no more, no less. We’ve got fifteen rounds to get through, so this is about pacing and planning and swimming with your goddamn brain. You hear me, Vincent?”
Vincent, who’s the shortest guy on the team and also the palest—his face and chest are dotted with freckles—nods vigorously.
“Good.” Coach Marks calls out where he wants us to line up and how. I’m in the third, meaning last, wave, which makes sense even if it doesn’t make me happy. He’s got to know I’m dying to swim against his A team. To let them know how I stack up.
The first wave dives in.
I rub my arms and watch. I’m eager to see how they take it, if they hold back or if they think as I do—that there’s no point in giving 85 percent effort.
That you might as well give zero.
The second wave takes off and I step to the edge, pressing my feet flat against the tile. Before bending down, I glance over at each of the other swimmers I’m lining up with and hold my gaze long enough that they all catch my eye.
I offer my most daring grin in return. The one that says I’m hungry.
And I’ll eat you up.
Coach Marks shouts at us to get ready. The second wave’s bringing it home, almost there, and I’ve got this. I dip my head and curl my lip to stare down the water, that moving, active force that lives to defy me.
I tense. Wait for the whistle blast.
We’re off.
22.
I hit the water before anyone else does. A slick shot of power and gravity and utter desire. And you know what? I sure as hell don’t sink this time.
I fly.
23.
Cool blue and checkered shadows. Beneath the water, I do my best to play it smart. The Turing machine inside my head works double time, feverishly calculating what pacing I need to hold to complete the full fifteen rounds. This is the work and art of distance sport: knowing how to hold back just enough at the start, so as not to risk crashing and burning later on in the homestretch.
But I hate holding back.
Everything about it feels wrong. Putting the brakes on goes against my instincts, and frustration batters at me like a hailstorm. What has it all been for, if not this? The hours I put in last night swimming laps beneath the light of the moon. The years I spent not daring to be half of what my brother was because I believed I wasn’t worthy of glory.
Somewhere between my mind’s eye and the whitewater view through my goggles floats my father’s face. This probably sounds strange, considering I never met the man. Well, I’ve seen photos but our only communication before he died was filtered through my mother’s womb and amniotic fluid, which isn’t something I like to think about all that much. But maybe it’s not so strange then that underwater is the place I feel closest to him, even though that’s not very close at all. But he’s the only person who ever cared about me, who’s never let me down.
I make it through exactly three rounds of sprints before I wave the white flag. I can’t do it, this holding-back thing. My skill is not in discipline but resistance. My heart pumps rocket fuel, and every time that whistle blows, I explode, pushing myself faster, harder, with every stroke.
My legs are jelly at the end of each interval, every time I drag myself from the water. Vincent, the pale guy with the freckles, actually has to pull me out after the tenth set. He holds me upright, while I shudder and struggle to catch my breath.
“Take it easy,” he tells me, but I shake my head, wave him back.
“I’m good,” I gasp. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, right,” he says. “You know this isn’t a race.”
My head is spinning by the second-to-last set and I also start shaking in a way I can’t control, so it’s fair to say the warning signs are there. My body’s failing, shutting down, but I have to keep going. I have to be better. Because these are the moments where greatness is born: not when you’re ahead, but when all hope is lost.
What gifts have I given?
Who can carry me home?
It might seem the answers would be both nothing and no one. But that strobe light flicker of my father’s face, the one I only know secondhand, is enough to remind me of what I have and will never let go of—that bitter swill of spite. For my shit life, my shit luck, and for everyone who’s ever doubted me. Chest wheezing, stomach cramping, I drag myself to the edge of the pool for the final set. The whistle blows and I spring forward one last time, soaring out and over the pool with my hands clasped in front of me, my arms squeezed tight against my ears. The water rises to meet me and I cut the surface like a missile, shooting through the pool with a great swell and kick. Upon surfacing, I tear into my stroke, attacking the lane ahead of me with arms and rhythm and sheer goddamn will. I grunt and grit my teeth and rise above the pain, until finally, finally, I pull my way home, hitting hand to wall with a resounding smack.
I bob up as the other swimmers come in, which means I’ve beaten them. Ripping off my goggles, I squint up at the clock and register my time, although in truth it’s meaningless. This isn’t a race and I have no realm for self-comparison. But the impression, I remind myself. The impression’s what matters. This is what they’ll remember. So I haul myself out of the water with a mere toss of my head. No grinning or gloating. I do it like I expected nothing less.
Once on my feet, though, my stomach rebels. I try fighting it but there’s no fight left in me. I make it to the grass before everything inside me comes up, not far from where Adam Fitzmaurice still sits nursing his bloody lip. Whatever. I don’t care. I’m not embarrassed. Let everyone bear witness to what I’m willing to give. The way I see it, it’s like taking Communion in church. You don’t do it at home where nobody’s watching, because demonstrations of devotion, well, they mean something.
Right?
“Jesus, man,” someone behind me says in disgust. “Fucking hell.”
24.
“So how’d I do?” Freshly showered and changed, I track down Coach Marks, finally locating him in his office. He’s currently seated at a particleboard desk that’s wedged inside a narrow sunlit space on the backside of the aquatic center. It wasn’t easy to find this place. The office entrance is purposely hidden behind two wooden trellises lined with bougainvillea, and I hover in the doorway, loath to step all the way inside.
“How do you think you did?” The coach leans back and folds his arms behind his head. He’s still got that tacky visor on and I can’t help but wonder if he ever takes it off.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Modesty doesn’t suit you.”
I shrug. “I think I was pretty good. Definitely hung with your guys.”
“You didn’t do what I asked you to. You pushed way too hard. You shouldn’t be hurting yourself
in a workout. Or anytime, for that matter. That’s not progress. It’s showboating and it’s dangerous.”
“I just wanted you to see what I could do.”
“I’m aware of what you can do, Gus. I want to know if we can work together.”
“We can,” I say quickly. “I mean, I want to be a better swimmer. I want to be the best. And for that . . . I need you.”
Coach Marks reaches for his coffee mug, takes a swig, and it’s as if he wants me to believe he’s actually giving the matter serious thought. Like I don’t know this is a game of dominance and submission that we’ve both agreed to play.
“So you talking with anyone?” he asks.
“Other coaches?”
“No, I mean a therapist. Someone professional. I want to know that you’re doing okay with everything.”
This confuses me. “You want to know if I’m seeing a therapist?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Most coaches I know don’t care about that sort of thing. It’s not like it matters once you’re in the water.”
“I’m not most coaches,” he says. “And that’s a factually inaccurate statement.”
My throat tightens. “Well, you don’t have to worry. My mom’s making me see someone. Not one-on-one or anything, but it’s a support group for teens dealing with grief. I go every week. I’ll be there today, in fact.”
He smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Actually, it was the social worker who said it would be a good idea. Not for grief reasons, necessarily, but because I’m the one who—”
Coach Marks stares at me, awaiting the words I’ll say next, but now something’s wrong and I can’t speak. My throat’s gone tighter, like a tomb sealed shut, and being unable to finish my sentence is suddenly no different than being unable to step inside his office. There are some actions my body physically won’t let me do.
“It’s okay, Gus,” Coach Marks says gently.