The Winning Stroke

by Matt Christopher

  Tanya was entered in the girls one-hundred-yard butterfly. She'd been working very hard on this stroke for the last few weeks and it had paid off in a big way. There was no wait for a call from the judges. Everyone could tell she had won. A loud cheer rose from the stands as she raised her fist in the victory sign.

  There was only one more event before the five hundred. This was the two-hundred-yard boys backstroke. Both Lars and Wayne would swim for the Blues in this one. They were both such favorites, it might as well be a two-man race.

  BANG!

  They were off!

  During the first two laps, they were just about even, stroke for stroke, with only one swimmer from the other team giving them any competition. Swimming in lane three, right between Lars in lane two and Wayne in lane four, was Paddy O'Malley.

  Paddy kept up a close second place all the way, even though he probably knew that he'd end up in third. Still, he never quit trying.

  As they came down to the wire in the eighth and final lap, it was still a duel between Lars and Wayne for first.

  And then, Wayne seemed to stop cold in the middle of the pool. His body twisted and he splashed around, treading water as all the others passed him by. Then he made his way to the edge of the pool, where Coach Fulton and a few of the guys helped him crawl out.

  “Cramp,” explained Tony. “Poor guy.”

  “Is that what happened?” asked Jerry.

  “Yeah, some guys get 'em all the time,” said Tony. “Some only once in a while. Some never. I've been lucky.” He made it clear he didn't want to discuss it any more by turning away and staring at the scoreboard.

  Lars had won easily, and Paddy O'Malley was the proud possessor of second place.

  A flash of concern for Wayne ran through Jerry's mind until he saw him walking about normally. Wayne would be in a lot more races and take a few first places from Lars, Jerry expected.

  “The next event will be the boys five-hundred-yard freestyle,” said the announcer. “Swimming in lane one for the Clapham Clippers will be Fred ‘Flash’ Gordon; in lane three, Danny Chang; and in lane five, Silvio Reppuci. For the Blues, in lane two, Albie ‘Ace’ Willoughby; in lane four, Paul Prescott; and in lane six, Jerry Grayson. Swimmers, please take your places.”

  Jerry felt as if he had lead weights attached to the bottom of his feet as he walked over to the starting block for lane six. He hardly noticed that it was right next to the stands where his family had found seats. But as he put his first foot onto the block, he heard his little sister, Lucie, shout out, “Come on, Jerry! Let's see you win!”

  The little pipsqueak of a voice cutting through all the noise of the crowd must have tickled a few ribs. A whole section of the crowd started laughing.

  I hope they're not laughing at me, thought Jerry. He patted his stomach to settle those flip-flops that had started up again. I really hope they won't be laughing at me after the race!

  He knew that Paul Prescott was the big favorite. He'd been swimming the five hundred all year. But Ace Willoughby had only started swimming the five hundred after winning the last three of his two hundreds. This was his third five hundred.

  Jerry hadn't been swimming long enough to be able to size up the competition on the other side. The Clapham Clippers were a bunch of unknowns to him.

  What difference did it make? he asked himself as he stood there waiting for the starting signal. Do your best, that's the most important thing. By this time, practice should have been enough to make that second nature. All he had to do was hit that water clean and start swimming his natural crawl as soon as possible. That's what had gotten him here in the first place, after all.

  “All right, swimmers, on your mark!”

  Jerry's toes clenched over the edge of the block. He stood there with his feet a few inches apart, his legs bent slightly at the knees. His arms were extended backward, with the palms turned upward.

  “Get set!”

  He leaned forward, ready to make his plunge.

  BANG!

  Jerry pushed off and forward at the same time. His arms swung in front of him as he entered the water a few inches below the surface.

  The minute he felt the sensation of cold liquid on his fingertips, he put all his training into effect and began the six-beat crawl at a steady pace.

  Then a loud whistle shrieked, and he knew right away that something was wrong. Someone had false-started.

  The whistle kept blowing. The six swimmers stopped and returned to the starting position.

  He glanced over at his folks in the stand. Someone seated next to them was explaining what had happened.

  I guess they didn't expect a false start, thought Jerry. Neither did I. At least no one is pointing the finger at me.

  But it took a little of the wind out of his sails. The next time the starting gun was fired, there was just a little less spring in his dive. Still, he hit the water cleanly and began to work his way down his lane for the first of the twenty laps it would take to complete the five hundred.

  Arm over arm, stroke after stroke, he reached forward and sliced his way through the water. He tried to keep his breathing as regular as his strokes, turning his head under the water to exhale through his nose with each lap.

  Nice and steady, he said to himself during the first five laps. Keep your mind on what you're doing. Reach ahead toward the end of the lane. Never mind what's going on at either side.

  Still, there was no way he could miss the stroke-for-stroke splashes that accompanied him back and forth. It seemed as though the swimmer in the lane next to him was gaining a little after the third lap.

  As Jerry made his fifth turn to start the sixth lap, he knew that the race was one-fourth over. It was time for him to increase his effort a little bit to make sure he wasn't falling behind. So, keeping the same rhythm between his arm strokes and his kicking, he speeded up both ever so slightly.

  The swimmer on his side was just about a stroke ahead of him. Still, Jerry knew that he had to keep swimming exactly as he was, to conserve some energy for the last big push.

  “As we approach the halfway mark, with ten laps to go, the leader is Silvio Repucci in lane five by just half a stroke—”

  Hey, I must be right behind the leader, thought Jerry. I'm in second place and the race isn't half over yet.

  “Coming on strong in lane two, however, is Ace Willoughby in second place—”

  Not quite second, I guess, Jerry realized. The disappointment caused him to break his stride for a second, but he quickly recovered.

  “And making a big push for third place, it looks like a tie so far between Paul Prescott and Jerry Grayson.”

  All right, it wasn't over yet.

  Just before he reached the edge of the pool for his tenth turn, he saw Tony crouched down holding a cardboard sign marked with a big “10” under the water for him to see. Without wasting time staring, Jerry could tell that Tony was right there cheering him on.

  Second half, time to put on some more pressure. Jerry felt like he had a gearshift inside him, just like the one his dad had in his car. He'd been in first and second gear, and it was time to move into third.

  Now, at each turn, at the opposite end of the pool from where the race had started, there were lap signs waiting for him. He noticed that Wayne held the fourteenth lap sign and Lars the fifteenth. Coach Fulton wanted his swimmers to know the whole team was with them.

  Only five laps to go, thought Jerry. Here's where I really have to make the final push. Okay, fourth gear, here we come. He pushed off extra hard, pleased to see that both legs were still holding up fine. There was no sign that his right leg was any the worse for the pressure of the long-distance race.

  “With just three laps to go, only seventy-five yards left in this race, it looks like Ace Willoughby in lane two by four strokes; making a strong push, however is Danny Chang in lane three; Silvio Reppuci, the early leader, has dropped down to third place; and trailing him by a—well, about a nose—is newcomer Jerry Grayson.”


  Fourth! He wasn't going to settle for that. He'd show them. He'd pour it on and take—well, he certainly wanted to end up in one of the top three spots. He knew he could do it.

  Tony was back holding up the sign that told him it was the eighteenth lap. Jerry saw him, then rushed into his turn. He barely finished his somersault before he started to twist back into crawl position. His push-off from the wall was awkward, and he knew that he'd lost a few seconds and distance behind the leaders.

  The only way to make up for it was to swim full out for both of the last laps, instead of sprinting in just the twentieth.

  Jerry went for it.

  11

  The flip-flops in Jerry's stomach had long since disappeared. They were now replaced with a burning sensation down in his chest. He tried to draw the air in rapidly and let it out at the exact time his head went below the water's surface. But as he stretched his arms overhead to make his way swiftly through the water, his breathing became more and more of a challenge.

  The water, too, seemed to have changed. When the race began, the light, clear fluid had offered little resistance. Now it seemed to be more like thick, tough, gray motor oil that dragged down his arms as he made his way down the final two laps.

  At this point, the announcer's voice was drowned out by the shouting from the stands. He heard his name and all the others amid the whistles, cheers, and general noise that floated above his head.

  Every muscle in his body strained to propel him forward—and every one of those muscles cried out in pain as they were stretched to their utmost limit.

  And then it was over.

  The fingers of his outstretched right hand touched the edge of the pool, just below the watchful eyes of a judge with a clipboard.

  Jerry couldn't tell whether he had come in first, second, or third—but he knew he wasn't last. As he lifted his body up from the water, he could tell that the swimmer in lane one, Flash Gordon, had trailed him by at least half a lap and was just now finishing.

  Well, at least I wasn't a complete bust, Jerry thought, as he stood there with his chest pounding, trying to cool off.

  There was still so much noise and cheering, no one seemed to know how the race had turned out. Jerry made his way out of the pool and over to the Blues bench, where his teammates had gathered around its three contenders.

  “There's some sort of a problem, I think,” said Tony, wrapping a towel around Jerry. “But you did great. You should be real pleased.”

  “Attention, please,” came the announcer's voice. “We have a disqualification in the five hundred boys freestyle. For failure to make contact properly at the end of a lap, the swimmer in lane five has been disqualified. The winner of the five-hundred-yard freestyle was Paul Prescott of the Bolton Blues!”

  The Bolton bench and fans exploded into loud cheering.

  “In second place, was Danny Chang in lane three.”

  This time, the Clapham bench led the cheering.

  “And in third place, was lane two, Ace Willoughby, followed by lane six, Jerry Grayson, and lane one, Flash Gordon.”

  Everyone now applauded briefly as the meet continued.

  Jerry stood there numb with disappointment.

  Fourth! And it could have been worse. Silvio was ahead of me most of the race. If he hadn't been disqualified, I might have come in fifth! Maybe that Gordon kid had a cramp, or I wouldn't have even beaten him. Who am I kidding? I shouldn't have been in this race, he thought.

  Coach Fulton had congratulated Paul and Ace. He made his way over to Jerry, who had clutched the towel around him and was trying to bury his face in its folds.

  The coach reached forward, found his hand, and forced a handshake out of the reluctant swimmer.

  “Jerry, you should be pleased with yourself. I had my doubts about putting you in, but I'm not in the least sorry that I did,” he said.

  “You're not?” Jerry asked. “Even though I didn't do that well, I mean, fourth.”

  “I have my own standards, Jerry,” said the coach. “At this point, standings shouldn't matter to you so much. You have to learn to evaluate your own performance against how well you know you can do. That's what counts.”

  “I guess you're right, Coach,” Jerry said.

  “So you made a few mistakes,” said the coach. “You can learn to correct them and do better next time.”

  Next time. Those two words lifted Jerry's spirits a little. But mistakes? What had he done wrong?

  It looked as though the coach had read his mind. “Don't worry,” he said. “We'll go over everything in practice. Let's just watch, the rest of the meet.”

  But Jerry itched to know where he had messed up. He squeezed in next to Tony on the bench and said, “Hey, Tony, I was wondering—”

  But Tony held him off. “Look, Jerry, I'm swimming the backstroke in the one-hundred-yard medley relay. I have to concentrate.”

  Jerry could tell that he'd get nowhere asking anyone else while the meet was still taking place. He decided to hold off.

  When it was over, the Blues had won another competition by a wide margin. The whole team was in great spirits as they left the locker room. Jerry tried to act cheerful, but he wasn't looking forward to seeing his family outside. He slung his gym bag over his shoulder and trailed the others into the fresh air.

  “Way to go!” said Mr. Grayson, hugging him around the shoulder right away.

  “You were terrific,” agreed Mrs. Grayson, kissing him on the cheek.

  Even Lucie seemed proud of him. She hugged his leg and said, “I saw you swimming back and forth for a long time. Weren't you tired?”

  Jerry smiled at her and nodded. “A lot,” he said.

  David gave him a friendly punch on the arm and said, “I was worried when you didn't swim in the events you were supposed to. But then I figured the coach was saving you for something special. The five hundred, wow!”

  The whole family was so happy for him, Jerry couldn't let them know how disappointed he was in how he had finished. Fourth place. It still stuck in his throat. But he felt he had to say something about it.

  “I …I just wish I'd ended up better,” he said softly.

  “Hah! You've done a lot worse,” said David right off. “Remember when you struck out three times in that Little League playoff game?”

  “Or the time you threw your mitt instead of the ball in the game with the Plattstown Panthers?” said his mother, with a big smile.

  His father started laughing. “I think the funniest was when you swung the bat so hard you got in a twist and ended up almost knocking yourself out.”

  At the memory of that particular goofy move, even Jerry couldn't keep from laughing. The whole family was still chuckling as they made their way to the car.

  “Mom, I'll have my dessert later,” said Jerry. “Tony and Tanya are coming over. If there's any pie left, is it okay if I give them some?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “And if David doesn't make a pig of himself, there will be some left over.”

  “Oink,” said David.

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Grayson. “You and Lucie put these dishes in the dishwasher. And when you're through, come on in to the living room. We'll leave the kitchen for Jerry and his friends.”

  Briiing!

  The doorbell announced the arrival of Tanya, who had a small container of vanilla ice cream.

  “I thought we could have a treat,” she said. “To celebrate your first five hundred.”

  “Great,” said Jerry. “We have some pie to go with it.” Before he could tell her he didn't think his performance in the five hundred was much to rave about, Tony arrived.

  “Pie à la mode,” he said. “My favorite.” He didn't waste time helping himself to a large scoop of ice cream and a sizable wedge of pie.

  When they had finished eating, Jerry came right to the point. “So where did I mess up?” he asked.

  “Didn't the coach say he'd go over it with you?” asked Tanya.

  �
�He did,” said Jerry. “But I figured the sooner I knew the better.”

  “You put too much pressure on yourself,” said Tony.

  “During the race?” asked Jerry.

  “No, now!” said Tony. “You have to learn to relax once in a while.”

  “Leave the swimming in the pool, Jerry,” said Tanya. “Believe me, the coach will go over every detail. It's incredible how he remembers these things.”

  “So, you aren't going to give me any clues?” Jerry asked.

  “Not a one,” said Tony.

  “All right, I want my pie back,” said Jerry.

  “What?” cried two voices at the same time.

  “You heard me,” said Jerry, trying to keep from smiling.

  “You know what?” said Tanya. “We ought to give it back to him. You know how?”

  Tony pointed with his finger toward his open mouth, his tongue hanging out.

  She nodded.

  “You're both disgusting,” said Jerry. “But let's finish off the ice cream anyhow.”

  When Jerry finally found himself alone with Coach Fulton at the pool, he discovered that none of his mistakes were big ones.

  “You were thrown by the false start,” said the coach. “And your next start was a little weaker. Swimming isn't like tennis. If you make a mistake the first time, you don't have to be cautious the next time. Go for it with as much zip as if it were the very beginning—because it is.”

  Jerry hated to admit it, but he knew the coach was right.

  “Another thing,” Coach Fulton went on. “You're listening to the announcer too much—instead of swimming your own race. You know about pacing. We've talked a lot about it. But you rushed headlong into the last two laps and threw away a lot of what you had gained. You might even have won that race, even after a slightly weak start.”

  I might have won! Jerry thought.

  “But don't beat on yourself too much,” said the coach. “You were a little rough on the turns, too. And you still need to work on your breathing. Remember that exercise I taught you? Have you been practicing it?”