A Girl, a Goal and a Pool

When I was growing up, the end of summer meant my skin would soon be tinted green and would reek of chemicals.
I wasn't allergic to school – I was a swimmer.

Swimming on my high school team was the only reason I looked forward to fall. I was a summer girl, in love with lazy days at the water and the musky smell of barbecue before dinner. I knew what lay ahead come October – cold days, algebra tests, gray skies.

No, I was a July girl who found solace in the fact that even if the warm days were fading, the swim season was just beginning.

My prep career was neither glorious nor out of the ordinary. I was an average swimmer, good compared to many, slow compared to anyone elite. My events were the 200- and 500-yard freestyle, distance events that made me feel like I had more endurance than that Energizer Bunny.

Most of my 10-year career as a swimmer, I wasn't a champion. I never went to a state meet, or even came close to qualifying for one.

But before my senior year began, I had a goal. I wanted to break six minutes in the 500 free. I was somewhat obsessed with this achievement. In government class, instead of listening to the lecture, I wrote down what my split times would be for each 50 yards if I was to break the time.

On days I felt sick and stayed home from school, I'd still go to swim practice at 3:15 p.m., hoping my coach wouldn't know I'd been absent.

Why did I care so much? What was the point?

I'm still not sure, but I can tell you this: six years later, the memory of what it felt like when it happened is still fresh.
I dropped a lot of time my senior year, but by my the final home meet – Senior Night – I still hadn't broken six minutes. I'd been close; I swam a 6:02 more than once and dipped to 6:01 once or twice. The closer I got, the more ridiculous it seemed that I couldn't break the time. When you're swimming 20 lengths of the pool, what's one more second?

On Senior Night, my coach introduced each swimmer to the small crowd in the natatorium. When she came to me, she told the crowd about my goal. People clapped a bit, then she introduced the next girl.

But when I got to the starting block to swim, it felt like people sat up and began to pay more attention. For once, they weren't just watching a race. They knew what I was after.

I asked the girl next to me what her best time was. She said 5:51. I knew then that she'd beat me, but I didn't care. I decided that for as long as I could, I'd just try to keep up with her pace.

It worked. For half the race, we swam side by side. And when she finally pulled away, she didn't get too far. I thought to myself, "Is she having a slow day or am I really doing this?"

By the last 100 yards, I knew I had a chance. Even with my ears mostly underwater, I could hear the fans going nuts and yelling my name.

I remember my last 15 yards best. The crowd was so loud that every turn of my head was like an explosion of applause and shouting. My arms and legs were numb but they were still pumping, fueled by an adrenaline rush. I was out of breath, but not out of will power.

Finally, I touched the wall. The crowd gave me one final cheer that sounded as if they were collectively saving, "She did it!"

I gasped for air, then pushed off the wall to lean back, strip off my goggles and look at the scoreboard.
There it was. My time – 5:57.16.

I sank into the water and pumped my fist in the air, the one true moment in life that I had reason to do that. This was my grand slam, my slam dunk, my hat trick.

The girl next to me smiled at me and shook my hand. She beat me by nearly 10 seconds, a personal best for her, too. She placed third.

Me? I placed fourth out of six swimmers. I couldn't have cared less. I swam my cool down lap with a grin so big it hurt my cheeks.

That was my moment of glory, and it stays with me now, reminding me in moments of gloom about the payoff I'd get from working hard, about the ability we all have to accomplish things that seem impossible.

Every athlete's career is different, but every one, I believe, is marked with a similar story, with a defining moment, a goal reached that means the world to that person and perhaps very little to the rest of us.

I think we can all use a reminder now and then about how much is possible if only we try.

— Krista Latham
Latham is a sportswriter for the Detroit Free Press
This story was reprinted with permission from the Free Press