Body Lengths

by Leisel Jones

  I room with Sybilla Goode. Sybilla is a great girl who, unfortunately, will not get the chance to swim at Sydney. We are put together because we are the youngest on the team. But I don’t know how seventeen-year-old Sybilla feels about sharing with a kid who only just turned fifteen.

  The Olympic experience is amazing no matter how old you are, though. It really is. I am leaving the pool complex one day when I am swept up in a crowd of people – picked up as if by a wave. Everyone is cheering and smiling and having a great time as we move en masse along the boulevard outside the pool, a giant human crocodile, grinning our toothy smile from collective ear to ear. It’s incredible, this crowd – confronting too, because I’m not good with crowds – but mostly just incredible. You won’t see anything like this ever again, I tell myself as I let myself be carried happily along.

  Living in the Olympic village is like being in a gated community. It’s a little like how I imagine retirement-living to be. At least, it would be if retirement-living came with 10,651 residents, from 199 different countries, all in the very best physical condition of their lives. On second thoughts, maybe a retirement village isn’t the best comparison.

  The village in Sydney blows my mind. There are 2000 houses. In the swimming alone, there are nearly 1000 people competing, from 150 nations. That’s a lot of boys to check out! The village dining hall is the size of three football fields. There’s a games hall, a cinema, doctors and dentists, hairdressers, a laundry, nail parlours and souvenir shops. The village even has its own post office. And inside the village everything is free. You can eat what you like, have your hair done for nothing, get a manicure or get your shirts dry-cleaned. You can go and get your teeth filled for nix. Even the vending machines that seem to be on every corner are operated by a single Olympic coin that we are all issued on qualification. You buy your drink, then your coin is spat out again. If you wanted to, you could drink endless Cokes all day long.

  Then there’s the food. Every cuisine is available here, every food you could imagine. In the food hall there are Italian, Spanish, Chinese, Mexican, Thai, Greek and modern Australian sections: the works. In the centre of the room, there are rows and rows of salad bars, and mountains of fruit, plus cutlery piled high. There are trays of free Snickers, free Mars bars, free Macca’s; there are endless fridges full of every soft drink ever invented. And as you head for the door, there are freezers to one side stacked high with free Magnum ice-creams.

  I look at it all longingly. I will be back here, I vow. In my second week, after I’ve finished racing, I will have fun in this room.

  During our stay in the village we are all required to abide by the rules of our sport’s governing body. For us, that’s Swimming Australia. But the rules, as far as I can work out, are pretty relaxed. Support your teammates and cheer loudly. Attend team meetings. Do your job, swim hard, and fulfil your Olympic contract (that is, don’t bring your sport into disrepute). That seems to be the extent of it. Beyond this, we are free to govern ourselves. And in the second week, after all the swimming events are finished, it seems to me that it becomes a free-for-all. Do what you want. Knock yourself out. And if you don’t come home, that’s not Swimming Australia’s problem. If you make yourself sick bingeing on McNuggets in the food hall, don’t call us: that’s the philosophy. Fine by me, I think to myself.

  But for all my awe, all my kid-in-a-lolly-shop amazement about the Olympics, I am seriously unfazed when it comes to the pool. I’m not daunted by racing, not even particularly nervous.

  My heat for the 100-metre breaststroke is tomorrow morning, so tonight, which is a Saturday night, and the first night of swimming racing, I am heading home early from the pool to get some rest. A bunch of us who are racing tomorrow take the bus back to the village. But the remainder of the team is at the pool, gearing up for a big night.

  The boys are racing tonight – our 100-metre freestyle relay team. And while the Americans have not once been beaten in this event since it was first introduced back in 1964, there is a buzz building tonight about our Aussie team. Michael Klim, Chris Fydler, Ashley Callus and Ian Thorpe: these boys are the best hope we’ve had in years. And ever since the Aussies almost beat the USA at the last Games, in Atlanta, the rivalry between the two nations has been fierce.

  ‘Smash them like guitars!’ was the brash instruction from American sprinter Garry Hall Jnr to the rest of his team. The trash talk leading up to the event has only added to the hype, and I don’t think there’s a single person in Australia who isn’t watching the race tonight.

  Including us. Instead of going to bed, we head straight for the dining hall to watch the race on the big-screen TVs in there. Us Aussies take up one big, long white table all to ourselves, while the Americans claim another just two tables down from us. There’s some mucking around and a bit of name-calling while we all get settled in for the race.

  We chew on our nails for a bit when Ian Thorpe, the anchor leg, who is still puffed from winning gold in the 400-metre freestyle half an hour ago, splits his suit on the pool deck. People rush to him, unzip him and take ten minutes or so to pour him into a spare suit.

  Then suddenly they’re ready to go. Michael Klim is up on the blocks. He gets away fast – bloody fast, in fact – breaking the 100-metre freestyle world record with a time of 48.18 seconds.

  We are cheering ourselves hoarse; now we are up on the table! No-one is getting any rest here tonight. ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Oi, Oi, Oi!’ we shout obnoxiously as Chris Fydler hits the water in front of the US.

  Two tables down, the Americans are going nuts; they are up on the table too, stomping and cheering just like us.

  The windows are rattling and there is food going everywhere, but we don’t notice, don’t care – Ashley Callus is still in front!

  We are so loud I can’t believe they can’t hear us at the stadium. We are screaming and jumping on the table as Thorpie hits the pool. He starts hard and in front, but Gary Hall is too much, and by the turn the Americans are out in front.

  ‘Go Aussies!’ we scream.

  And then Thorpie picks it up a gear and pulls out in front.

  ‘Go Thorpie! Go Aussies!’ We are shouting so loud. We jump and scream, glued to the screen.

  And we win! Our boys win. They bring the house down.

  Euphoric with victory, they play air guitar, for the whole world to see, and we strum along from atop the table in the dining hall. The Americans applaud graciously and climb down from their table.

  We are so pumped I could go out and swim my race right now.

  But by the time I step out onto the pool deck for my final the next night, my nerves have finally kicked in. So far, everything at this meet has been straightforward. Forget that it’s the Olympics: I’ve just been doing my own thing. Oh, it’s the heats? Guess I’ll go out and swim fast. Oh, I made the semis? Cool. I’ll go out and swim fast again then. I’ve had nothing to lose and nothing to prove; I’ve just focused on what a thrill it is to be take part.

  Now, though, I have found some butterflies for my stomach. I shouldn’t be here, I think. This is an Olympic final. A final at the Olympics! I keep waiting for an official to tell me I’m in the wrong place, to guide me kindly back to the marshalling area. But no-one comes. No-one even blinks. I guess I’ll just have to play along.

  I take my place among a formidable line-up. Penny Heyns from South Africa is in lane two. She holds the world record (1:06.52) and the Olympic record (1:07.02) and my money is on her to take out the gold, although her compatriot in lane four, Sarah Poewe, is the fastest qualifier tonight. Next to her in lane five is Megan Quann from the USA. None of us know much about her. In fact, I’ve barely heard of her before this week. Quann’s not considered a name; she’s not a threat. But if you’ve made it to an Olympic final, you must be able to swim.

  I’m next to Quann in lucky lane six – at least it’s always been lucky for me. And I’m doing everything to feel lucky tonight, let me tell you. I’m calling on the power of the gree
n and gold. The Southern Cross is plastered across my team togs and I’m wearing my Aussie cap proudly. Earlier in the week, a bunch of us stuck temporary Australian flag tattoos on our arms, and now I flash my right bicep to the crowd to indicate I’m swimming for them. They go mad. Next to me in lane seven, Tarnee White grins at me nervously when she sees the home crowd erupt.

  Then we’re up on the blocks and the crowd falls silent. I stare at the unbroken water in front of me.

  Well, this is new, I think. I give a nervous grin. I guess while I’m here I may as well give it a crack.

  Then we’re off.

  I get away okay and relax into my stroke.

  Susie O’Neill once told me: ‘Pretend there are black curtains on either side of your lane so you don’t see anyone else’s race.’ I use her advice now. I put my head down and swim my own race. I will do this my way. I will do it myself.

  If I had glanced up, I would have seen that, off to my right, Penny Heyns gets a flying start and immediately takes the lead. Next to me Megan Quann pulls ahead. This girl is not mucking around. She is doing her bit. But this is still the Penny Heyns show, and by the 25-metre mark the South African is ahead of the pack by a healthy metre. Quann and Poewe are battling it out for second.

  Penny turns first, hitting the wall in 31.10. She’s 0.6 seconds off world-record time. Unaware of what the others are doing, I’m a little off the pace now. I turn in fifth place, but my curtains are up and I don’t know and don’t care. As we head into the second fifty, Penny still leads the charge, with Quann and Agnes Kovacs from Hungary both picking up the pace. But I am digging deep – working hard – I am giving this thing my very best shot.

  It’s all down to Penny Heyns and Megan Quann – until suddenly I’m the one picking up pace. I’m coming from nowhere. I’m hitting my stride. There’s ten metres to go and I’m taking no prisoners. I mow down Kovacs and Poewe and – was that Penny Heyns? Suddenly there’s a chance I might win this thing.

  I am oblivious to everyone else in the pool. Megan Quann is now half a body length in front, but I don’t see her. I focus on my own race. I’m coming up fast. I’m giving it my all. Harder! C’mon, LJ! You’ve got this! I will myself on. My legs are burning, my lungs are on fire. My forearms feel like they’ve been hit with a mallet. This is what all your training is for! This is your time! I don’t know it yet, but Megan Quann, the unknown from the USA, is the only thing now between me and Olympic gold. I can do this! I’m doing this! I am! I push myself onwards but the wall gets in the way.

  I pull up fast and hard, gasping for air. My lungs and muscles are on fire. I’m all red cheeks and yellow cap as I turn and squint at the scoreboard. I drag my goggles up onto my forehead as I wait for the numbers to appear – to make sense of what just happened.

  5 – 1; 6 – 2.

  I squint at the digits.

  Wait, what? Did I just get second? Did I just come second at the Olympic Games? Somewhere, in another universe to mine, a television camera is zooming in on my confused face. I squint some more. Megan Quann has touched first and won the gold. And she’s done it in 1:07.05, only 0:00.03 seconds outside the Olympic record. I have come second in a time of 1:07.49. It is a personal best for me. I am absolutely stunned. Shell-shocked. I never, ever dreamt this might happen. I am ecstatic, of course, but mostly just dazed. Is this really happening? Is this real? I wonder.

  Beside me, Megan Quann is screaming, jumping and waving her arms in the air. She’s as surprised by her performance as the rest of us are. I manage a half smile as I wave to the crowd. They’re chanting my name like I’m some sort of rock star, some sort of god. I am bewildered.

  I lean on the lane rope and call out, ‘Megan?’ But she’s too busy going crazy to hear my small voice. Eventually, she leans over and hugs Sarah Poewe, the South African in lane four. Further along in lane two, our queen, Penny Heyns, has got bronze. Megan Quann and I are just kids, teenagers. Megan is sixteen and I turned fifteen last month. We’re almost a decade younger than Penny Heyns, and yet here we are, taking out the top two positions. My time of 1:07.49 has smashed Samantha Riley’s Australian and Commonwealth records. I wouldn’t believe it if I couldn’t see the board. Over in lane seven, Tarnee White, my Redcliffe rival, came seventh. I wave, but she can’t see me through the madness.

  The crowd is chanting ‘Leisel! Leisel!’ so I get out of the pool and wave to them.

  Then I pause. What do I do now? Do I congratulate other people? Is there an official I need to see? I need someone to tell me what to do.

  But before I know it, Linley Frame, a former Olympic breaststroker herself, is by my side with a microphone in her hand. I shift gears and compose myself, think about what I should say.

  ‘Leisel Jones, congratulations!’ Linley says. ‘You’re fifteen. Your life’s changed so much in the last few months. Did you imagine this, though?’

  That’s an easy one. ‘No!’ I say honestly. ‘Never a silver medal at the Olympics. Oh my God!’ I put my hand to my mouth to indicate my shock – and there are my racing-red nails for the world to see.

  Linley asks if I took it out a bit faster in the first fifty than in my earlier heats.

  ‘I think I did take it out a bit hard,’ I agree, ‘but Ken was always saying that if I come out of the first fifty, if I’m first, well I’ve got a great home leg, so I could have got first.’

  Wait. Did I just say on national television that I could have got first? I blink blindly at the light on the side of the camera. My face flushes. Around me, a thousand bulbs are flashing in my face. I panic. I can’t come across as ungracious, not even for a moment. I am thrilled with second. I am over the moon. But how to convey this? How do I let people know?

  ‘But I’m very happy with it!’ I add quickly, meaning my second-place swim. My place on the team. My place in the universe.

  Even if it’s not genuine – which in this case it is – this is what you have to do when you win. Nobody likes a sore loser. For years and years, each day in training you tell yourself, I have to get first, I have to get first. Nothing else will do. Nothing else matters. Then, in those first moments after you’ve swum your race, in the blink of an eye, while you’re still working out what just went on, what actually happened, and with 20,000 screaming fans bellowing your name, you must flick the switch, turn up your smile, look at the camera and say, ‘Oh, I’m so happy with second. Second is just peachy!’ You work so hard for first, but must immediately be seen to be thrilled with second, even while the adrenaline is still pumping so hard you’re not sure what’s happened.

  I turn to Linley. ‘Can I say one more thing?’

  She nods and I grin and face the camera. ‘“Hi” to all my friends at swimming! I know you wanted me to say “hi”! So there you go!’ And just for good measure I flash my red nails again.

  I might only be young, but old habits die hard.

  After my race, everything is new. There is the experience of the medal ceremony (new). Of standing on the dais with the Australian flag being raised behind me (new). And of the weight of a real Olympic medal in my hand (very new). It’s about the size of a large watch face and feels as heavy as a couple of king-sized Mars bars. I think back to Col and his Mars bars at Burpengary. That was only a year or two ago, but it feels like decades.

  Standing on the dais I try to look professional. But how? Do I smile? Or should I try for something more reverential? I wish I’d had time to get a blow dry. Focus, LJ! I chide myself. Now, more than ever, you don’t want to miss a thing! But if I think too hard about it, I start to freak out. Holy crap, I just got a silver medal at the freakin’ Olympics? My mind spins and I start to shake. I am better, I decide, when I think about my hair.

  I am on cloud nine after my race, but I can’t go out and celebrate. I am too young to get into any bars and even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be allowed to go out partying: I still have races to swim. But it doesn’t matter: I host my own private celebration party, alone in my room, and I eat three boxes o
f McDonald’s cookies. I picked them up from the dining hall after my medal ceremony and now, when I put that first biscuit in my mouth it tastes of sweet, sweet success. It’s been so many years since I’ve been allowed to eat a Macca’s cookie that this tastes pretty damn like celebration to me. So tasty! So crunchy! This is victory in a biscuit.

  Later in the week I swim in the final of the women’s 4 × 100-metre medley relay. I didn’t take part in the heats (Tarnee looked after the breaststroke leg), but because of my individual racing times this week I step into the team for the final race. I can imagine what Tarnee thinks about that. I know how I would feel. Still, that’s the way it works.

  Our team for the final is amazing: Dyana Calub, Petria Thomas, Susie O’Neill. And me. I want to laugh when I see them standing together in their Kermit-green robes in the marshalling area – these swimming legends, these idols of mine. I want to laugh, want to cry. What am I doing here? I wonder for the millionth time in my life.

  Dyana gets us off to a great start with the backstroke leg, and as she powers back to the wall for her second fifty, she’s hot on the heels of the formidable USA, our rivals. But today Dyana is giving them hell. There’s less than a second in it as she approaches the wall. I should feel elated but I can only find terror. What if I stuff this up? What if we lose and it’s my fault? I swallow hard and I can taste my fear. I set my mouth grimly and get ready to dive.

  Slap – blink – splash. Dyana is home and I’m in the pool. I put my head down and I swim for all I’m worth. I’ve swum in relays before, plenty of them, at club and state level. But never in an Olympic final and never with legends like this. I try to forget that Susie O’Neill is standing at the end of my lane, sweating on my every stroke.

  Slap – swish – push. I hit the 50-metre mark and turn hard. My turn is fast and I don’t waste a second looking to see where the Americans are. I don’t want to know. I just keep my head down and power on. I hit the wall in 1:08.08. It’s a good time, more than a second faster than Tarnee’s time in the heats, yet I’m still worried.