Body Lengths

by Leisel Jones

  ‘Anything else?’ Marty asks.

  Maybe the list is a bad idea.

  Could I do this? I wonder. Do I risk it? But one look at Marty and I suddenly decide that I will. I will do this. And I will do it for him. Marty makes me so happy. It’s as simple as that. He makes me happy when nothing else in my life does the trick.

  ‘Uh, let’s do it,’ I say and give him a grin. He hugs me and tells me it will all be okay. Then he walks over to the kitchen bench, picks up the phone and brings it over to me.

  ‘What’s this for?’ I ask.

  ‘To phone Stephan. Tell him what’s going on.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Sure, why not now?’

  ‘Uh, because I’ve only just decided.’

  ‘So? What are you waiting for? Are you scared?’

  ‘No! It’s just I don’t know what to say to him yet. I only made my decision, like, two seconds ago.’ This is moving too fast. I know I am the ultimate procrastinator – I will do anything to stall – but surely this is moving fast by anyone’s standards.

  Marty writes my script down for me. He hands me a sheet of paper with the words I should say all laid out. Even with a script, this is still going to be the hardest phone call of my life. I’m breaking up with my coach over the phone.

  Stephan is confused when I call; he is on the back foot. But, to his credit, he is as calm and controlled as ever. I tell him I am leaving the squad, and he accepts what I say. I wish he would shout or rant or get mad or do something. I tell him I’ve decided to move to Melbourne, and he rightly points out that I’ve never even raised the possibility with him.

  ‘I just want a change,’ I say to him lamely. ‘It’s nothing personal.’ And then I add: ‘Marty is here.’

  We hang up and I feel physically sick at the thought of what I’ve just done. That was a terrible conversation; I went about it all the wrong way. I should have flown back to Brisbane and had a meeting with Stephan, talked to him face to face. I should have explained what I was thinking and how I was feeling. I am instantly sorry. I wish I could change it. I stare at the silent phone in my hands.

  But then I turn and smile optimistically at Marty. I’ve done it. I’m going to move to Melbourne.

  ‘Well done, babe!’ He gives me a hug and I know in that instant that we’ll make this work. Sure, there might be a bit of self-interest in his encouraging me to move. I know that. He wants me here in Melbourne for his sake as much as for my career. But doesn’t that just prove how much he’s into me?

  I know the cons list is long, while the column of pros is blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. I know I am gambling a lot.

  I am taking a risk. Don’t think I don’t know it.

  The papers go to town over my alleged poor decision. ‘What a bad move, Leisel,’ screams the headline in the Sydney Morning Herald. The journalist describes how Stephan ‘transformed’ me ‘from an anxiety-ridden teenager into an unbreakable machine and a near-certain 100m and 200m gold medallist in Beijing.’ They quote my old coach, Ken Wood, who tells them, ‘I don’t know if it’s for the betterment of her swimming that she’s moved there.’ Then, in case I’ve forgotten, the papers remind me that the Olympics are only eighteen months away, and they point out that my rivals could all have an advantage over me during this time of flux.

  Mum, as usual, is much more measured. While she is adamant that I shouldn’t change myself for a guy (‘Don’t ever let them change you’ is her mantra. She adds softly: ‘I made that mistake.’), she is quietly cool about my decision. She doesn’t like Melbourne and she’s cautious about Marty (show me a mum who would encourage their daughter to date an AFL player), but she doesn’t say a word against my decision.

  I don’t go back to Brisbane. I have my stuff shipped down and I say my goodbyes over the phone. I’ll visit for sure, I’ll be back all the time, but I am a Melbournian now.

  I never regret my move. A lot of people criticise me, saying I am throwing away my chances for Beijing, that I should stick with Stephan, that I should put swimming before Marty. I understand where they are coming from, but I know in my heart this is the right thing to do. It’s right for me, right for us both. When I’m with Marty, I’m the happiest person on earth, and being so happy can’t possibly be wrong. Can it?

  If Marty hadn’t suggested moving to Melbourne, I don’t know what I would have done. I was not enjoying my swimming, but, at the same time, I was never going to quit. No way. Not now. Not so close to winning Olympic gold.

  All my threats of quitting, all my flouncing round the pool pretending I might leave: none of it was true. Not really. Retiring is never really an option. I can’t go anywhere until I have finished what I started. I can’t stop until I’ve achieved what I set out to do. Winning Olympic gold has been my goal since before the Athens Games, and there is no way in the world I will quit without achieving it.

  And this is the last chance I have. I’m not carrying on after the Beijing Games next year – who ever heard of a swimmer going to four Olympics? – so I’m painfully aware it is now or never. If it doesn’t happen for me at Beijing, that’s it. Beijing is do or die, make or break. It is the very last shot I’ve got.

  And yet I’m not afraid.

  Despite having just made the most controversial decision of my career, despite having just risked it all for a boy, I am not afraid. I should be bloody terrified! This could turn out to be the worst choice of my life. On paper it is. Just look at my list of pros and cons. Right now, only eighteen months out from the Olympics, I am swimming the very best times in my life. I have a coach who gets results. I must be crazy. But it just feels right.

  So I ignore the critics, even the well-intentioned ones (some of the people closest to me do not like the idea at all). I focus, I am committed. I block everyone out. Say what you like, I think, I’m going to make this work.

  Following my heart to Melbourne takes every bit of courage I have. But I don’t dwell on the fact that it could be disastrous. I just look forwards and focus on my goal. And underneath, I am a little bit proud that I am choosing to do the right thing for me. I know it’s a risk. I know others think it will fail. But I take pride in always doing my own thing. I’m going to go for it and I’m going to make it work.

  I will make moving to Melbourne the best decision of my life.

  At first, life in Melbourne is bliss. I have four weeks off training after the Melbourne Worlds, so Marty and I spend April 2007 mooching around the city, stupidly in love. We move into an apartment in Moonee Ponds, à la Dame Edna, and because it’s Melbourne we have an awesome cafe downstairs. We shop for furniture. Buy a dog. All that stuff.

  The guys from Marty’s team often drop in. They’re always coming over for dinner with their wives. We play a lot of Balderdash with Jason Akermanis and his wife, Megan. We hang out with Mitch Hahn and his wife, Lana.

  Although he was drafted to the Western Bulldogs, Marty is playing for Werribee right now, so after I finish training on Saturday mornings I drive forty-five minutes or so out to Werribee to watch him play. Sometimes I even drive as far as Ballarat, an hour and a half away.

  I make friends with a bunch of the wives and girlfriends of the team. Georgia (Travis Baird’s wife), Kristy (Peter Street’s wife) and Lana and I sit in my car during matches, escaping the freezing Werribee wind, drinking hot chocolate and reading trashy magazines. We freeze our arses off and pretend we’re watching the game. Then, when the boys pile into the car after the match, we act like we haven’t missed a minute.

  Them: ‘Did you see that goal in the third quarter?’

  Us: ‘Uh, yeah, sure. You had a great game.’

  Them: ‘We lost.’

  Us: ‘Oh yeah, that. That one. But still, great game, huh?’

  We are so not into the AFL scene. We are uncool – not glamorous at all. We are the plebs in the car park, the bottom of the rung. We couldn’t be further from Rebecca Judd and all the other AFL WAGs if we tried. But we have the best time together – we�
�re such great mates.

  Melbourne is hard for Marty and I, though. It’s tough making new friends, tough finding our feet in a new city. Our schedules are hectic. By the time I’m home from my morning training session, he’s already at the club for training. But we are so very much in love that somehow everything else just melts away. We manage to have our evenings together and we’re very happy in our little unit on Shuter Street.

  In the days and weeks after my move, I approach several swimming coaches. The obvious choice is Ian Pope, a high-profile coach to all the big names. Grant Hackett, Giaan Rooney, Massimiliano Rosolino: they all train with Popey.

  When I meet him, he’s friendly enough, but also a little vague. ‘Sure, come join us if you want,’ he tells me with a shrug. Then he’s back off to the pool and his throng of champions.

  I call Rohan Taylor. He is not my first preference (that was Popey). It’s not that I’ve heard anything bad about Rohan, more that I haven’t heard much about him at all. He trains Sarah Katsoulis, who is a great girl but who has never swum at Olympic level. And beyond that? I couldn’t tell you. Rohan doesn’t have the credentials or the star power of Ian Pope. But he agrees to meet me, and for that I am very grateful.

  We arrange to meet at Lil Kitch cafe on Puckle Street on Friday morning. As usual, I get there early. Maybe it’s because of all the 4 a.m. starts. Or because Ken always told us, ‘If you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late.’ But I can’t seem to go anywhere without being at least ten minutes ahead of everyone else. I settle into a table at the back and order the Anzac breakfast: two fried eggs, hash browns, baked beans, bacon and sausage. When Rohan arrives he proves to be a fairly nondescript-looking guy. He’s in his early forties, I’d guess, and is a little stocky, with a crewcut and a polo shirt and not much to distinguish him except that he looks quite American, although I can’t pinpoint exactly why.

  He looks at me, then at the plate in front of me. ‘Not hungry today?’ he asks.

  ‘On a diet,’ I reply.

  We both laugh. Perhaps, I think, this just might work.

  Rohan is meticulously organised. He comes to our meeting armed with folders full of schedules. He’s got training programs, gym programs and spreadsheet columns stacked full of data. I am seriously impressed with his preparation. He has ideas for this and plans for that. And every sentence that comes out of his mouth seems to start with: ‘What I can do for you is …’ He speaks with a soft American accent, and he tells me how he grew up in the States, how he went to university in Las Vegas and Hawaii, and how he is heavily influenced by the US college system when it comes to swimming. ‘We have a real US attitude to training at our squad,’ he says. ‘We work hard, we play hard, and we encourage each other all the way.’

  ‘We’re a young squad,’ he says. ‘A vibrant squad. You’ll have a lot of fun if you train with us.’

  I tell him I don’t doubt it. I like the way he says ‘we’ a lot.

  ‘We’ll cop some criticism for this, you know,’ he says.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘This is controversial, this plan I’ve proposed. This style of training, this stuff.’ He presses one finger into the manila folders spread out in front of us. ‘Not to mention the fact we’re less than sixteen months out from Olympic trials now.’

  He doesn’t mention the elephant in the room: the fact that he is not an Olympic coach. Rohan is a good coach, a keen coach, but he has never successfully coached anyone to an Olympics before. To go with Rohan will be a massive gamble on my part.

  ‘But,’ he goes on, ‘I don’t want you to think about any of that. Your job is to have fun.’

  ‘To work hard,’ he adds quickly. ‘But to have fun, too. And I think we can have a great time together.’

  I look at the folders. I look at Rohan. I like what this man has brought to the table. Literally, in the case of his detailed plans. But also in terms of his attitude to training.

  ‘Rohan, I like your style,’ I say. ‘I like you and I like your style.’

  We agree to start on Monday.

  While Rohan may not have the credentials of coaches like Popey, I am again convinced I have made the right choice. We hit it off, Rohan and I, and opting for him feels right. Lately, I’ve become a believer in listening to my gut instincts. I’m on a bit of a roll. Sure, I’ve always done my own thing and made up my own mind. But recently it feels like I’ve been making braver choices than usual, and this decision to go with Rohan – just like my decision to move to Melbourne with Marty – is a choice I’m convinced will pay off. I am determined to make it do so.

  At the weekend, Marty and I do a drive-by to check out the Bulleen pool where I’ll be training with Rohan.

  ‘So it’s called “Bulleen Swim Centre”,’ I read hesitantly, twisting the map to orientate myself. ‘Carey Bulleen Sports Complex, off Bulleen Road.’

  ‘Here?’ Marty says and he swings the car into someone’s drive. Trees line the sweeping drive, which wends its way towards an austere red-brick building in the distance. A pristine blue and gold sign reading ‘Carey Baptist Grammar School’ stares disapprovingly down at us. Carey is one of Melbourne’s largest private schools.

  ‘Uh, no.’ I squint at the map. ‘No, this can’t be right. Chuck a U-y and we’ll go back to that last roundabout.’

  ‘You sure?’ Marty says. ‘That sign says Bulleen pool.’

  I follow his finger towards another sign. It says ‘Bulleen pool’ in gold and blue. I shrug, and Marty guides the car further down the driveway and past a lush oval and an imposing pavilion, towards a domed building.

  It houses the Geoffrey Stevens pool. When I see it, I almost die.

  ‘Where’s the rest of it?’ Marty says. And no wonder.

  Not only is the Geoffrey Stevens pool part of a high school, it is – I swear to God – only 25 metres long. Eight lanes wide, and hip-deep at the shallow end, the pool is only half the length of the regular Olympic version. There are no flags at the 10-metre mark, no diving blocks to be seen, and there is a learn-to-swim poster sticky-taped to the door.

  Oh. My. God. What have I done?

  I think about Popey and his squad training down at the Melbourne Sports and Aquatic Centre, where they held the Commonwealth Games last year. I think about Stephan and his squad back at the Valley pool. Then I look at the Carey high-school 25-metre pool and I want to cry. I could be back at Burpengary, with its dinky pool, back in Col’s backyard shed with its corrugated roof. At least Col had a barbie.

  What have I done? I panic. This was my big chance, my last shot at individual Olympic gold. I am starting to feel hysterical. I will be training for my third Olympics in an indoor 25-metre pool? With the learn-to-swim kiddies?

  I phone Rohan.

  ‘You train indoor twenty-five, are you kidding me?’ I say as soon as he picks up. ‘This is a school pool. This is absurd!’

  On the other end of the line, Rohan is unperturbed.

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘This is Melbourne. We have to train indoors. Except a few times each week when we do outdoor sessions.’ My delicate Queensland blood shivers in my veins.

  ‘Yes, yes. Indoor is fine. But twenty-five metres?’ I cannot get past this.

  ‘Nah, the outdoor pool is the full fifty,’ Rohan says, misunderstanding me. ‘We also use the one at the VIS sometimes, but we have to share that with Collingwood.’

  The VIS is the Victorian Institute of Sport. I picture myself trying to train while the Collingwood Football Club boys walk up and down in the lane beside me comparing bruises and talking boofy footy talk.

  Holy crap. What have I done?

  I run through my options. Go back to Popey and tell him I made a mistake? Go back to Stephan and tell him I made a mistake? Go back to the drawing board and find a new coach? Can I really do that? After I’ve hit if off so well with Rohan?

  I look at the pool and I gulp down hard. Screw it, I think, I will make this happen. Whatever it takes, I will make this work. I have risked to
o much. I have come too far. I can’t back out now. Not when so many people are waiting to see me fail.

  And who knows? Swimming in a half-sized pool might just be okay. At least I’ll have a chance to work on my turns …

  I start with Rohan in April 2007, sixteen months out from the Beijing Olympics. It is a busy time, there is a lot going on. And yet as soon as I get started, I know I’ve made the right decisions. The right decision choosing Marty. The right decision choosing Rohan. Aside from Rohan’s too-short pool, life in Melbourne is pretty near perfect.

  What would make it completely perfect is an individual Olympic gold to add to my collection. I have two silvers and a bronze for individual events, and a silver and a gold for the medley relay. It’s the thought of a gold in the 100 metres or 200 metres that gets me up and out of bed in the morning. It is my focus, my world. Everything I do revolves around this.

  Rohan is focused on the 100-metre rather than the 200-metre event, as he thinks this is my best chance in Beijing. So all my training is geared towards it. Of course I’m fit enough to win the 200 metres too. I have enough training under my belt that I hope to take out both. But to return home with one shiny gold medal: that would make my life complete.

  Training with Rohan is loads of fun. Just as he promised back at our first meeting, his squad is young and vibrant and they are loud. Like Stephan, Rohan is all about having a good attitude at training, but a big part of that here is encouraging one another. Rohan likes his swimmers to be vocal and to have team spirit, so we cheer and shout and make a racket at training each day.

  ‘C’mon, guys, this is the last one hundred!’

  ‘Last effort! Dig deep! You can do it!’

  We try to propel one another up and down the lanes with sheer enthusiasm. And it works. I dig deep. I find the energy I need. I get so much more out of myself in a squad like this. There is a good atmosphere, a good vibe. We’re all in it together: I like that feeling.

  And the sense of community doesn’t finish at the pool wall either. We’re good friends, all of us. We’re always going out for breakfast or to the movies together. Rohan encourages us to socialise outside of training. This is very different to the way things were back with Stephan in Brisbane. Back then, I was lucky if I went out for breakfast with Mel Schlanger and Jo Fargus once or twice a week. These girls were amazing but they were my only close friends the whole time I was there. Here, I am always hanging out with friends – either from my squad or Marty’s team – or I am round at Rohan’s with him and his family.