Duck dive

By: Michael Morrissey

Not a bad effort for an un-co lad

As a nine year old boy I dived into the crystalline waters of the town pool. It would be the first of many evenings spent swimming up that stretch of water, then turning (in the most awkward of fashions) to swim all the way back. Back and forth, back and forth, night after night. Despite how much of a mundane and trivial use of energy it seemed, it opened (partially) a door of opportunity in my young life. A door which would open further and further until creeping shut silently in the stillness of school.

I was a lanky youth, a child, who was completely void of any form of co-ordination, let alone sporting ability! When the lunchtime teams were chosen I was not the selected last, but also to disadvantage the unfortunate team that I was on. The first time at training, when I jumped (as diving required more skill then I ever dreamed of possessing) into the almost warm waters for the first time, it was no different.

I was placed in a group of toddlers half my age and a quarter my size. Being a shy lad I beared their consistent heckling all that year as I tried to master the art of making it to the end of that in-town ocean whilst resembling some form of a legitimate stroke. I thrashed my way through the water. Each time I was absolutely certain I had mastered the freestyle the coach would pleasantly tell me I couldn't have done it more wrong if I had no arms and legs. Always in his most diplomatic tone. Whilst I peered up at him, listening, hanging on his words in the futile hope of learning something, whilst those kids who should have been floating in the baby pool swam circles around me.

The second year was an improvement. I could swim a lap (although I looked like a yabby in a saucepan), and could almost dive. I couldn't have been prouder. My friends could still swim two, or even three laps in the time it took me to swim half a lap, but that was irrelevant. A new coach took me under his wing. He made me swim countless laps of that miniature Nile trying to 'assist' me come to grips with the breaststroke. I swam up and down, kicking the wall (and bruising my foot) to correct my ugly, irregular and uncoordinated kick. Eventually after many a long hour my breaststroke at least looked like it was meant to.

The next few years were spent trying to keep up with my friends and the others in the group, proud when they lapped me less then twice a night. Eventually matching them, and bypassing them once mastering the art of the breaststroke.

The group of swimmers changed and faded to make way for the next generation of enthusiastic and over-achieving toddlers. I made it to state last year and pushed myself to the prestige of last place. I was happy with what I had achieved. Success in a sport. I bettered the average, and lost with dignity to the champions. However my training regime faded into oblivion and now I do nothing. Six years of regular hard work in the scorching summer eve amounted to nothing really, just the sensation of doing well in a sport.

I opened a door for myself to see the green grass of sporting achievement. Then I made sure I pulled it shut after the breeze of personal achievement had crept in. I could keep it, taste it, smell it. Forever.

It wasn't a bad effort for an un-co lad. Even if I'm still last pick for any football team.