When Did We Start Believing?

When Did We Start Believing?

It all happened in a millisecond. My fingertips slid into the wall like sealing a Velcro strap as mini waves of chlorinated water coated my arms and hands before I swiftly swung my head around to scrutinize the board through my water-filled goggles which I haphazardly flung off my face to get a better view. 39.87s. A world record and a PR. I swim over to the next lane to hug my teammate before raising my torso above the surface of the water and throw my arms up into the air with only my index fingers pointing up in a masculine display of energy as the crowd went wild, cheers bellowing throughout the stadium in Sydney, Australia. The feeling was indescribable, unlike the feeling just 39 seconds ago when I could literally feel my heart palpitating in my mouth. At the “take your mark” voice-off my calves clenched for take off and I could visualize my jet-black Speedo cap making smooth contact with the water as I took off from the diving block with a jaguar-mindset determination to eat the distance with my propellor arms and legs. The only thing that was on my mind was having enough strength on my second lap to go as fast as humanly possible. When I took off from the 50m mark I was leading by two seconds and I could hear my breath echolating throughout my entire body as I sped up to the finish line. When I turned around the number 1 was next to my name and I thought to myself “You did it! Wow, this is fucking amazing.” Not used to this level of attention, I was truly awestruck by the Olympic history making results. And of course, before the race the reporters annoyingly asked me if I was nervous for my first ever Olympic race, and I was like “Ha ha…. I’m trying not to be” with the fakest smile that couldn’t be hidden if I was the world record holder in poker faces. Clearly those nervous jitters served me well as I won the gold medal in the 100 free at the stunning age of 42, even though I looked like I was 25, like I came straight out of the movie “The Age of Adaline.” At a decent height of 5’7’’ with long legs, a long torso and regular sized arms I was an ideal fit to be a swimmer and I loved being in the water ever since I could remember. My coach used to incessantly tease the length of my legs by calling me “Mergirl” every time I came to practice. He would do it before, during and after practice on purpose to fuel my anger so I would go faster each time I showed up to practice. I would characteristically shun him for his antics as many more funny names would follow. “Mergirl did you forget your feet in the pool? You’re moving like you’ve forgotten to walk.” His bellowing laugh echoed through the pool deck. I turned around and gave him a smirk before flippantly telling him off. “What you see is all you get. I may be a cripple but at least I’m not bald.” Being the legend that he was, he could have cared less and shrugged it off with a chuckle. When I touched into the wall of my first Olympic race and got out of the pool to see my dad the first thing, I told him was “Sweet victory dad! Sweet victory.” And saying nothing with the biggest smile on his face, he reached his arms out and gave me a huge bear hug.

“Dad these pears are so good. They’re unbelievably sweet.”

“I picked them just for you honey” he coarsely sung through his stagnating asthma. I had a sour taste in my mouth through my emotional dissonance as I felt sorry for him and sad that he had asthma. He quickly patted my head as he was keenly aware of my sensitive nature, having had to play the role of both mom and dad ever since mom died in the fatal car accident the night before my 7th birthday. My eight-year-old imagination saw my father as a genius, a super-hero and an honest character who sought adventure in the smallest of tasks. When I was with him, a small trip to the garage to get a ladder to set against the pear tree to pick pears was the adventure and success of a lifetime. His thick brown fingers with sawdust prickling the edges of his nails would hoist my small body onto the top of the ladder where I could find the ripest pears and tantalizingly drop them into the large basket one foot away from the prying nose of our German Shepherd Bruno who would whine and whimper at the sweet smell of the pears. Dad was like a walking giant with his bulging muscles and strong hands that could pick almost any object between 100 to 150 lbs with the slightest of ease. He was a carpenter by day and night and loved wood working. He could stay up all night making final touches on his newest most exquisite piece of artwork which he would sell to filthy-rich people earning hundreds of thousands with a lot of extra cash that he conveniently used to spoil me with. Mostly for swim wear, our 50m backyard pool, and other cool stuff. He was a very kind man and very generous with his time and money to hundreds of people in need in the neighboring local rural subregions of the suburban landscape where we lived. He was the community hero in my mind. When I picked the ripest pear from the tree and tasted it my father told me something I would never forget for the rest of my life: “All that time it took you to find and taste the ripest pear honey, is worth every moment of that sweet victory.”