Body Lengths

by Leisel Jones

  Our Australian chef de mission, Nick Green, says the reports are ‘disgraceful’ and ‘extremely unfair’. The sports minister, Kate Lundy, calls it ‘an appalling attack’. Even Whoopi Goldberg gets in on the action, defending me on her show The View. Hearing Whoopi Goldberg – Whoopi Goldberg! – say my name is such a highlight in my life to date that I almost – almost – consider Paul Kent’s article worth the pain.

  But I keep thinking: what if this had happened to someone else? What if they’d picked on some newbie on the team, whose skin wasn’t as thick as mine? What if it had happened to someone as green as I was when I joined the team? Imagine if a middle-aged male journo plastered a fourteen-year-old girl in her togs across the papers and implied she was ‘fat’! If that happened, I would be livid; it would be unforgiveable. You can really damage people with implications like that, and the thought that it might happen to someone else – someone more vulnerable – makes me angry. I’ve been around the traps: I can handle it. It was lucky it was me who was singled out.

  I spend the next twenty-four hours eating, sleeping and keeping my head down. I do a light swim at the pool, watch a bunch of DVDs, and hang out and enjoy village life for a bit. I go to the games room for a bit and record funny videos with Mel Schlanger on her phone.

  Finally, on Monday night, it is time for the 100-metre final. I’m in lane two, away from the action. The USA’s Rebecca Soni is in lane five and expected to win, although the fresh-faced Lithuanian in lane four, Ruta Meilutyte, has qualified fastest. In the marshalling area, I am relaxed. I feel calm. I have enough butterflies in my stomach to know I am alive, but nothing like what I experienced in Beijing four years ago. This is my job. I know what to do. I repeat my mantra over and over, but it suddenly occurs to me that I won’t be able to say that soon. This is my job. I know what to do. But for how much longer? The rest of the year? The rest of the week?

  There is no time to think about that now. We are being called for our race; we are being announced. I walk through the tunnel and out onto the pool deck just in time to hear the voice over the loudspeaker boom: ‘Appearing in her fourth Olympic Games …’ But I never hear my name. The stadium goes wild. They raise the roof, screaming and stamping and whistling like mad. I have never been as thankful for the support of the public as I am this week. And never as thankful as I am in this moment. I grin, wave and soak it up. I love these people. I love this sport.

  I stand behind the blocks and swing my arms. I have energy to burn. Energy in spades. I will give this my best shot: you know I will. It’s strange, because after Sierra Nevada I thought I’d lost my hunger forever. No matter what I did, no matter what I tried, nothing ever felt the same again. But in this instant, staring down the barrel of my lane – in this Olympic stadium, this Olympic final – I feel that hunger again. You can’t be here and not feel it.

  This is my job. I know what to do.

  We are lining up now, ready to go. We are jumping and shaking. We are focused and cool.

  But then somebody cracks. There’s a splash. Twelve thousand gasps. Breeja Larson in lane six has jumped the gun. She is in the pool. She has made a false start.

  The rest of us on pool deck shudder and bounce. We windmill our arms. The tension is back. I look down, look away. Look anywhere but at Breeja. I can’t imagine her pain. Breeja qualified immediately ahead of me yesterday. She was one to beat. One down, I think grimly.

  We step away from our blocks.

  No, wait – is that a technical issue? Breeja’s back in? Officials swarm around and test the equipment. Rikke Pedersen has put her jacket back on. No, she’s taking it off again. We’re on? We’re on. There was a malfunction with the starting gun, but we’re good to go again. Breeja Larson is back in contention.

  We line up behind the blocks again, hearts pounding, blood pumping. It’s worse than before.

  ‘Take your marks.’ The gun fires this time, and suddenly we’re into the water.

  I’m smooth and controlled. I know what to do. I can feel the other girls pull away, but I’m not worried. I will swim my own race, I will do it my way. Mentally, I put the black curtains up along my lane ropes, and ignore what anyone else is doing. This is my office. I control the first 25 metres, and then the first 50. I ignore the others and focus on my turn, my pull out. Smooth, controlled. I know what to do.

  In the final 50 metres, I come into my own. I am powerful and strong, I am clawing it back. I am gaining now. I am racing them home. This my office, dammit. I can do this. I know how to do this. My lungs burn, my arms ache: I feel like I am burning alive.

  I hit the wall hard and suck in some air. Gulp it down fast. I can breathe! I can breathe!

  I have made it, and the relief is immense. I have completed the race. Job done. I knew what to do.

  I look to the board and seek out my name, seek out the Aussie flag. Fifth? I came fifth. I slip under the water with relief. Fifth is awesome. Fifth in the world. I am proud and amazed. And I am content.

  I congratulate Satomi Suzuki in the lane next to me, then exit the pool and the pool deck. My job here is done.

  Rebecca Soni got silver, second by eight one-hundredths of a second. It’s brutal, but that’s how the Olympics go. I know Rebecca will be dissatisfied with that result. Ruta Meilutyte, the Lithuanian kid, got first, and she can’t believe it. Lithuania can’t believe it. You can practically hear the whole country cheering from here. It’s Lithuania’s first medal of the Games and no-one would have put money on it coming from the pool. I’m stoked for Ruta, the new kid. I couldn’t be more thrilled. There’s some nice synergy in finishing up my career just as a precocious fifteen-year-old hits the scene. The thought of it makes me smile.

  ‘Mission accomplished,’ is my response when I am interviewed.

  ‘Aren’t you disappointed? To finish in fifth place?’

  I shrug and smile. How do I explain to them that fifth is fine by me? Fifth is amazing. Fifth today means just as much to me as first did in Beijing. But they won’t understand that.

  ‘I guess you’ve had a rough ride this week,’ the journalist concludes. This is the first time I have failed to win a medal in the 100-metre event in four Olympics and five World Championships. I know it; the journalist knows it. I bet she’s thinking the least I could do is give her some tears.

  But I’m far too ecstatic for that.

  ‘Smooth sailing doesn’t make for a skilful sailor,’ I reply sagely. And then I wander off into the stands to go and find Mum.

  I try to soak it all in during the next few days. It’s my last Olympics, my last meet. I savour every minute. I still train hard, but it’s bittersweet now. I know this is the end.

  I do plenty of talking. Everyone wants a comment, a quote. They want to talk about the ‘changing of the guard’ in London town. I oblige. I give them what they want. Soon they won’t need any more comments from me.

  The heats of the medley relay are on Friday morning. And, as usual, we have so much fun. This time the medley relay team is Emily Seebohm, Alicia Coutts, Mel Schlanger, Brittany Elmslie (who swims in the heats only) and me. And we’re swimming for pride, doing it for our country. We come first and qualify fastest for the final.

  But then we don’t quite put it together on the night. Emily is up first, with the backstroke leg, but she can’t quite keep pace with the USA’s Missy Franklin. Missy is the best in the world. Then, just as Emily comes in to hit the wall, Japan sneaks in ahead of her – so I enter the water in third.

  I know this race. I can swim it in my sleep. But today I don’t make up the lost ground, and we slip to fourth by the time Alicia gets in the pool. The USA are powering ahead now, they’re running away with it.

  But wait, Alicia is gaining? She’s mowing them down in the butterfly leg. Suddenly we’re back in it. We are firmly back in the race. We are second only to the USA, and although they are body lengths ahead of us, we’re safely ahead of the rest of the pack.

  My mate Mel Schlanger brings it home for
us, and in the end we take out silver. The USA get gold, and they do it world-record time.

  But I’ve set a record of my own in this race – the record for the most Olympic medals by an Australian swimmer. I’ve matched Ian Thorpe’s tally of nine, with my three gold, five silver and one bronze. I feel like I have been doing this for a long, long time. I feel like I have been doing this my whole life.

  I am relieved when the race is over: proud and excited, but ready to go home. I have given my all; I have nothing left. I have done my job, have worked so hard. And I am feeling very, very finished. I made a conscious effort to enjoy this race. To wave to Mum in the stands and to thank the crowd. But now that it’s over, I just feel relief.

  After our medley relay final we don’t swim down. We never do. It’s a point of honour: one small act of rebellion against our coaches. After all the hours of training that have led to this point, we give ourselves a break, a reprieve from jumping back in the pool and warming-down properly, from swimming some more. Instead, we celebrate. We hug and cheer. We make some noise. After all, it’s what we’re best at.

  It means that when I spring from the pool at 8.10 p.m. on Saturday, 4 August 2012, I never get back in the water. I don’t swim down. I don’t do another training session. I don’t go back to squad when I get home.

  In fact, I rarely get in a pool again.

  Occasionally I’ll go for a swim at the beach. Once or twice I’ll do laps just to see how it feels. But beyond that? Nothing. It’s a line in the sand, and it’s how I want it to be. I’ll take the sand over the water from now on, thanks. The girl from the desert is back on dry land. I’m heading back to my roots. I want to stay dry and get away from swimming.

  But most of all, I want to go home.

  We pile onto the bus to Heathrow. From here: Dubai (plenty of sand there) and then home. The bus is almost full when I climb on board. There are only two or three free seats left, so I trudge down the aisle to the back of the bus to take one. I slide into my seat, clutching my backpack across my body. There’s not a whole lot of room back here.

  And then Jarrod Poort, who has copped a rough ride on this team, climbs on board, and I get a sinking feeling. He spies one last empty space on the back seat of the bus and makes a beeline for it.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, fat boy!’

  ‘No way you’re going to sit on the back seat with us!’

  They start up before he even begins down the aisle.

  ‘Not for you, fat boy!’

  ‘This one’s taken!’

  The three boys on the back seat jostle and slide over, making it clear there’s no room for Jarrod there. Everyone on the bus is aware of what’s going on, and Bindi Hocking, who’s sitting nearby, calls out gently, ‘I’ll swap seats with you, Jarrod, if you want?’

  Jarrod shakes his head. ‘Nah, it’s okay,’ he says.

  But it’s clearly not okay. Nothing like okay. With dozens of eyes burning into the back of his head, Jarrod turns back to the front of the bus to sit in a spare seat next to one of the managers, like the kid sitting next to the teacher. The loner. I feel so much for poor Jarrod in this moment. My face is burning hot. How dare they treat him this way? I put my headphones on and slide low in my seat.

  We arrive at Heathrow and flood off the bus. Uncorked, we flow fast into the airport. We go through security, passport check, the usual routine. Then my good mate Matt Targett comes up behind me and pokes me. ‘Cheer up, Charlie,’ he says to me good-naturedly.

  I turn to face him. ‘What?’

  ‘Cheer up,’ my friend says to me again.

  ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’ I shout at him.

  I have had enough. Enough of the bullying, enough of him. Enough of this Australian swimming team. London is our single worst performance at an Olympic Games for two decades, and it’s no coincidence that this happened while the team behaviour is so poor. In the coming months, I will make statements to the media about the bullying within the team. About the terrible culture, the poor management and the bad behaviour of some of the team. But what I won’t say publicly – what I want to say, but don’t – is that I feel the ones who’ve treated Poort and other junior members of the team worst are Matt Targett, Eamon Sullivan and James Magnussen.

  And right now I have Matt in front of me. So I let rip.

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me to cheer up! Don’t you fucking dare! I’ve had it up to here with you.’ I indicate somewhere in mid-air high above my head. ‘For three weeks I’ve had to put up with your shit. I’ve had to watch you treat Jarrod like dirt. How dare you think you’re better than anyone else!’ I swear there is smoke coming out of my ears. But I’m just getting started. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, Targett? Who the fuck? I’ve been on four of these teams. I’ve seen it all. But your behaviour over the past few weeks has been something else. How dare you think you can pick on someone else and act like you’re better than them?’

  Everything I have bottled up for the past three weeks comes pouring out. The whole team is staring at me in horrified silence. The airport security people have stopped work to watch.

  ‘Stop picking on Jarrod Poort!’ I shout. ‘Just leave him alone! You think he’s ever going to want to be on another Olympic team again? Do you? Do you? I wouldn’t! Why would you? I’m not going to be around for the next Olympics to stick up for him, so this has to stop now. Now, Targett. You hear me?’ Matt stares at me, dumbfounded. ‘You need to know that, as my friend, I will not tolerate this from you.’

  Matt reaches out to place a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ I spit.

  I shoulder my bag and head for the gates, then out into the airport lounge beyond. A handful of our teammates are already ahead of me, so they missed my tirade. They see me approach, red-faced and breathing hard.

  ‘What happened to you? Did you get a cavity search?’ someone jokes.

  I smile grimly and plonk myself down. ‘Don’t even ask.’ I am breathing so hard. I am seething, shaking and sweating like mad.

  I fly home in exile, cut off from my team. It is self-imposed. I have had it. I just want the job done. I sit in silence on the plane, dozing and staring out the window. A fish out of water, 35,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean.

  In the end I am glad that I said my piece. I just wish I had said it earlier, when I could have made a difference. Although Matt later apologises, for which I am grateful, our friendship is never the same.

  When I get home to Brisbane, it’s not to my old life. Not how I’d left it. Who knows what life will hold now that swimming is over? It’s like Mum said in her text when I made the medley relay team: ‘Job done’. My job is done. There is no unfinished business here.

  At least not until the day I run into Paul Kent of the Herald Sun. It is six months after the London Games, six months since that horrible article, and I am at Fox Sports for a TV interview. A man who I have never seen before approaches me. He sticks out his hand and smiles a wry smile.

  ‘I’m Paul Kent,’ he says. ‘I believe you know who I am?’

  I stare at him, and then at his hand. I make no attempt to shake it. ‘I know who you are,’ I reply.

  I swear at him and shake my head. Then I turn on my heels and walk away.

  Now, it’s job done.

  29

  My Way

  I announce my retirement on 16 November 2012, at the Valley pool where I used to train with Stephan. It’s almost three months to the day since the London Closing Ceremony. My press conference is simple and cruisy: just how I want it.

  On the way to the pool, I take Mum out for tea and cupcakes. Nothing fancy. But then, the most expensive restaurant in the world would never be enough to thank Mum for everything she’s done for me. In her own quiet way, Mum has been the biggest influence in my life. Always one hundred per cent supportive – but never pushy or opinionated. She let me do my own thing, make my own choices, but without her I couldn’t have achieved what I did.

  Whe
n I arrive at the pool for my press conference I am guided to a ten-foot photograph of my own head. I am to sit in front of it. In the picture, I am mid-stroke, head raised, goggles blazing. I am grimacing with effort, all teeth and flared nostrils. Each nostril alone must be thirty centimetres wide. It’s a little off-putting, but then I think about some of the crazy things I’ve seen during my career, and thirty-centimetre nostrils don’t seem so weird.

  There must a dozen journos and photographers here today. I start by telling them that my retirement was a hard decision for me to come to. ‘I took my time after London to make sure it was the right decision for me,’ I say.

  But this isn’t exactly true. Deep down I always knew I would retire after London. I always knew London was the end. For me, the only question was whether I could hold on for as long as I did.

  I don’t prepare a speech. I prefer to just talk off the cuff. Be myself. I know what I want to say without having to write it down. I tell everyone how thankful I am for my career. And for my sport.

  ‘I’ve ticked every single box in my career and there is nothing else I want to achieve,’ I say. ‘I’m retiring from swimming, but I still have a very warm place in my heart for swimming.’

  I am honest: ‘I can’t say I’ve enjoyed every minute of my career,’ I say, ‘but the highs, when they’ve come my way, sure have been bloody high.’

  ‘I’m so grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given, and for the spirit to make the most of them.’

  Mum smirks at this. She is always saying she doesn’t know where I get my stubbornness from. It’s not from her. And it’s definitely not from Dad. We’ve all seen the extent of his stickability. And yet here I am, stubborn as all hell. I am driven and determined and pure bloody-minded. I have never given up, just kept going and going, even when I doubted myself. I’ve made so many mistakes, done so many things wrong. And I’ve taken some big risks. Switched coaches, switched states: risked it all so many times. But even though I haven’t always made the best choices, I’m proud to say I’ve always done it my way.