Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
I woke up, and Dad was there, kneeling by my bed.
‘Michael,’ he was saying, his face all blurry. ‘Rise and shine. Rise and shine.’
I blinked the sleep out of my eyes, and Dad’s round face and brown eyes came into focus.
My eyes were the same colour as Dad’s, but I reckon that’s about all I’d inherited from him. He was short; I was tall. He was, well, chubby; I was thin. And as for swimming, Dad would be the first to admit that I didn’t get my talent from him.
‘Rise and shine!’ he repeated.
Go away, Dad, I wanted to say. I need to sleep. And sleep. And sleep. But instead I said, ‘Sure, Dad,’ and threw off my doona.
Dad smiled, and started, ‘We all know . . .’
As always, I helped him finish the sentence: ‘. . . those laps aren’t going to swim themselves!’ But for some reason this morning the words didn’t come so easily.
‘Mum’s getting your porridge ready,’ he said, getting to his feet.
Once out of bed, I opened the drawer where my many Speedos were kept. Which ones to wear today? I picked out a black pair, the ones I’d worn when I’d broken the State underage record last year. As I put them on, I heard familiar noises: the chirp of the birds in the garden, and the exhaust of the milkman’s van. It was the same with tracksuits – which one to wear? This morning I decided on the newest set from Nike, one of my sponsors.
My school uniform was already packed for me; Mum always did it the night before. So I just grabbed my bag and made my way out of my bedroom and into the kitchen. Immediately I could smell the porridge. And then I could see a huge bowl of it sitting on the table. Next to it was a jug of milk, and a container of brown sugar.
‘Morning, darling,’ said Mum.
‘Morning, Mum,’ I said.
Mum was an even worse swimmer than Dad. So my talent didn’t come from her, either. So where did it come from, then?
My parents sometimes played this game where they went back through the family trees, hopping from branch to branch to branch, trying to discover where I had inherited my ability from. But no matter how many times they played, they couldn’t find him (or her!). It seemed that I came from a long line of really bad swimmers!
I sat down next to Dad, who was peering at his laptop, tapping at the keyboard. Heaping sugar onto the porridge, I flooded the bowl with milk. Digging my spoon in, I got to work.
‘You’ve got plenty of time, Michael,’ said Mum. ‘No need to wolf your food down.’
When you swim all the time, you eat all the time. And like my coach says, ‘Eating is about stoking the fire, about getting fuel into your body.’ I slowed the shovelling down, but I was still shovelling, still stoking.
‘We got quite a few orders last night,’ said Dad, looking up from his laptop. ‘I’ll be busy at the post office today.’
‘That’s great news, Dad,’ said Mum.
‘Yes, it is, Mum,’ said Dad.
Yes, my parents have that habit of calling each other Mum and Dad. Annoying, much?
‘These rubber swans looks like a real winner,’ said Dad.
Dad used to work as a sanitary inspector, making sure kitchens in restaurants weren’t overrun with cockroaches, but when I became serious about swimming he quit that job so that he’d have more time to drive me around. Okay, swimming is obviously about time in the water, but it’s also about time in the car – driving to training, driving to meets.
Dad now works from home, selling stuff on eBay. When I say stuff, that’s exactly what I mean. He started off selling sports memorabilia. Now he’s selling pool toys: blow-up rubber swans that are made in China. I sort of felt guilty about my swimming, because I knew Dad used to love working in sanitary inspection, and I wasn’t sure he loved sticking blow-up rubber swans into packages as much. But Mum still had her old job, working at Woolies.
‘I found some cheaper plane tickets on the internet last night,’ said Mum. ‘Looks like we’ll all be coming to Perth to see you swim at the Nationals.’
Actually, this was another sort of game that my parents played: will we or won’t we be able to come to Michael’s meet? Fact is, my parents had never missed one of my meets, not since I’d started competing seriously. And there was no way they were ever going to miss the Nationals, even if it did cost them a lot of money to get there.
‘That’s great news,’ I said, playing along with the game.
‘The McCanns have found a reasonably priced hotel close to the venue,’ said Mum.
‘Well, we should stay there too,’ said Dad.
The McCanns were the parents of Dave McCann, backstroker.
Backstrokers are very strange units – spending half your life swimming on your back, looking at the ceiling, will do that – but Dave McCann’s parents and my parents had become besties.
Dad checked his watch.
‘Okay, let’s get going.’
I finished the last of my porridge, kissed Mum, and followed Dad out through the front door and into the car.
When Dad worked in sanitary inspection, we had a new car practically every year. But now that he sold rubber swans on eBay, we’d had the same car, a beat-up Commodore, for ages. And ages. And ages. Dad turned on the ignition, the engine coughed into life, and we were off. I checked the time. It wasn’t yet 6 a.m.
‘I was just doing some research on the net last night,’ said Dad, as he changed down gears at the start of the huge hill. ‘It seems like the new trend in training is breathing out continually.’
Sometimes I wished Dad would be a little less involved with me and my swimming, and did the things that other dads did – like watch cricket, or play golf, or even just drink beer. But then I’d realise how mean that was – how lucky was I to have parents like mine, parents who were behind me every second of the way?
‘Yeah, it’s called constant exhalation,’ I said. ‘Coach has had us doing it for quite a while.’
‘Yes, of course he has,’ said Dad, backtracking quickly. ‘How could I ever doubt somebody who has trained as many champions as he has?’
We chugged up the hill, the Commodore making all sorts of strange constipated noises.
‘There he is again,’ said Dad, as we reached the top.
Immediately, I knew who he was talking about: Skate Dude. We’d been seeing him on and off for the last few months.
He wore a helmet, leather gloves with some kind of plastic stuck to the palms, and kneepads under his jeans. It was difficult to tell how old he was, but I guessed that he was a bit older than me. And with all that gear on, there was something superhero-like about him. Which is how I came up with the name Skate Dude. Faster than a speeding bullet. Able to skate down any hill with style and ease.
Right now he was standing very still, his board in one hand, eyes focused on the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill, waiting. I knew that feeling so well, like when you’re crouched on the blocks at the beginning of a race and the starter’s gun is about to go off.
‘If he wants to skate, why doesn’t he use one of the skate parks?’ said Dad, as we rolled down the other side of the hill, gathering speed. ‘There’s plenty of them around.’
‘He’s a downhill skateboarder,’ I said. ‘Skate parks aren’t much good to them because these guys are all about bombing hills.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ said Dad.
Actually I’d become sort of obsessed w
ith skating, but I wasn’t about to tell Dad that.
‘Downhill skating is becoming a pretty popular sport,’ I said instead.
‘Sport?’ scoffed Dad. ‘I’m not sure it’s exactly a sport. I mean, have you ever heard of Olympic skateboarding?’
There was an answer to that: nobody had heard of Olympic triathlons either thirty years ago. Or even fifty-metre swimming races. But I didn’t say anything, because I was too busy watching Skate Dude. The traffic light at the bottom had turned orange and he’d thrown down his board and started pushing. Once away, he dropped down low, tucking his arms in behind his back, lowering his chest to his front knee. Gaining more and more speed, he headed towards the light at the bottom which had now turned red.
‘Look at him go!’ I said.
I was amazed at the risk he was taking. I wondered what it would feel like – I’d never done anything as crazy as that in my whole life.
But Dad didn’t share my amazement. ‘I’ve got half a mind to report him to the police. He’s going to get himself killed!’
Then, just as Skate Dude reached the intersection, the traffic light switched to green and he blasted through safely, still down in his speed tuck, not looking back.
‘Idiot!’ said Dad.
‘No he’s not!’ I said, surprising even myself with how strong my reaction was.
‘Well, if he’s not an idiot, what is he?’ said Dad.
It took me a while to think of an answer, but when I did it seemed like exactly the right one.
‘He’s free,’ I said.
‘Free?’ said Dad.
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘Well, he won’t be so free when the police get hold of him,’ he said.
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into the Aquatic Centre. Even this early, there were quite a few cars in the car park. And I knew who every one belonged to. That was the Marcello car, that was the McCann car, that was Coach’s car.
As dad killed the engine, a huge four-wheel drive pulled up alongside us with a squeal of rubber.
‘Seems like the Jenkins have arrived,’ said Dad.
‘Seems like it,’ I said.
We got out of our car – father and son, Graham and Michael Quinlan. They got out of their car – father and son, Neil and Bev Jenkins.
Except unlike us, it was obvious that this son had inherited his swimming talent from his father. Tall and buff, Neil Jenkins had swum for Australia in two Olympics. He’d even won a medal for a relay. An Olympic medal!
‘Morning,’ we said.
Mr Jenkins moved closer to our car, which was now shadowed by his enormous four-wheel drive, and gave the front tyre a kick.
‘These old girls go forever, eh?’ he said.
I could see the irritation flash across Dad’s face, but when he answered it was with his usual friendly tone. ‘They do the job.’
‘And what’s a tankful cost you? Forty? Fifty bucks?’ said Mr Jenkins.
He indicated his own four-wheel drive. ‘This beauty costs me two hundred to fill!’
Dad checked his watch.
‘We better get in there,’ he said, and he started moving off.
Before I joined him, I snuck a look at Bev and Neil Jenkins. They had the same horrible smirk on their faces – maybe that was inherited, too – as if they had just got my dad a good one.
I mean, who cares if their ridiculous four-wheel drive cost that much to fill up? But as we walked towards the Aquatic Centre, I realised I did care. I really cared. Why did Dad let Neil Jenkins push him around like that? But then I had another thought – I’ll show them. I’ll show them for Dad. And I’ll do it the best way I can. Eat my bubbles, Jenkins!
‘Home sweet home,’ said Dad, when we entered the Aquatic Centre.
He was joking, of course, but sometimes it did feel as if I was here more than I was at my real home. The smell of pool chlorine was the most familiar smell in my life. I spent more time in the change rooms than my classroom.
‘Morning, Mike,’ said Coach.
In his Australian team tracksuit, with all the electronic timers, pens and laminated passes dangling from his neck, I reckon Coach looked just like everybody thought a swim coach should look.
‘Morning, Coach,’ I said.
The other ten or so members of my squad were in various stages of preparation: some were taking off their trackies, others were stretching, others were already in the water.
‘Okay, Mike,’ said Coach, as Bev Jenkins appeared poolside. ‘You and Bev are training together today.’
What’s new, Coach? I thought.
Bev lived on the other side of town, he went to a private school, and really the only time we saw each other was when we swam.
So I wouldn’t say we were friends, or that we even liked each other that much. But we pushed each other hard and he was a better swimmer because of me and I was a better swimmer because of him. Not that we’d ever admit that to each other.
I peeled off my tracksuit, put on my goggles, and slipped into the water. Bevan did the same.
‘Feeling fast today, Quinlan?’
‘Always feeling fast, Jenkins,’ I said.
‘Reckon Coach will let us race?’
‘I hope so,’ I said, because I really wanted the chance to avenge my dad.
The race we were talking about was swimming’s big event, the one hundred metres freestyle, two laps of the pool. Right now I had the fastest time. But Bev Jenkins and I had been trading fastest times ever since we’d started racing together. ‘The Cup’, we called it.
‘Mike! Bevan!’
‘Yes, Coach?’ we replied.
‘Let’s warm you up with four hundred metres at three-quarter pace,’ he said.
I pushed off from the wall. As usual it was the first few strokes that were the hardest, my body complaining. But I knew that after the first lap or so, it would stop. As I turned my head to the left to breathe, I could see Dad sitting in the chair. As usual he was holding a magazine. I’m sure he always meant to read it, but he never did, because his eyes would be on me for the whole training session.
I turned my head again to breathe and this time I could see Neil Jenkins, Mr Olympic Medal. He was walking, keeping pace with Bev. With a stopwatch in one hand, a clipboard in the other, he kept urging his son on.
I was glad my dad wasn’t that pushy, but I also wished he would stop watching me all the time. It made me feel more pressure.
After the warm-up, we did some kickboard work. And then some freestyle sprints. And then some breaststroke. And then some backstroke. And then some fly. And then some more freestyle. A total of three k’s – a pretty standard sort of session.
We got out of the pool, and I thought that was it, but Coach said, ‘You guys up for a head-to-head?’
I looked at Bev and thought of his dad’s two hundred dollars of fuel and smiled. ‘You bet, Coach.’
‘Bev’s keen,’ said a voice from behind. Neil Jenkin’s voice.
‘Let’s go then,’ said Coach.
We took our positions on the blocks.
‘On your marks,’ said Coach.
We both went into a crouch, coiled like springs.
A good start was all about being absolutely still – if you moved on the blocks you were wasting precious energy. But it was also about being anxious, waiting for the words that would set you flying into the water.
We both crouched.
‘Get set.’
‘Go!’
I nailed the start, and my first few strokes were through empty, still water. But then I sensed Bevan coming up next to me. We turned together. And kept at it stroke for stroke. But, with twenty or so metres to go, I was just ahead. I knew I had a stronger finish than Bevan. The Cup would still be mine. Dad and our constipated Commodore would be forgotten.
My head was always clear when I competed, empty of thoughts except for one: I will win this race. But with a few strokes left to the wall, another thought managed to find its way in. A weird thought. Of some
body wearing a helmet and leather gloves, flying down a hill on his downhill board. Skate Dude.
‘Get out of my head,’ I said, but by the time I’d said that I knew Bevan had touched the wall millimetres ahead of me. Bev Jenkins had The Cup, for the first time in over a year. When I got out of the water, I could see Neil congratulating his son. There were smirks all round – it was a smirkarama.
I felt bad because I’d let my dad down. But I also felt excited about this new idea that was now in my head: that I wanted to give this downhill skating thing a go. I wanted to find out if it was as fun as it looked. And, at the moment, swimming didn’t seem fun anymore. But there was no way I could tell Dad that.
Dad said nothing all the way from the Aquatic Centre, but as we pulled up outside Monvale Primary, the morning sun streaming in through the window, he said, ‘Can I ask you what happened today?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The head-to-head with Bevan? You always win from that position, but today it was like you just stopped.’
‘I’m not sure what happened, okay Dad?’
‘Did you run out of juice?’ he said.
‘I told you I’m not sure,’ I snapped.
‘That’s fine, Michael,’ said Dad, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘I was just asking, that’s all. It’s no big deal.’
As I got out of the car and made my way to the school gates I realised that actually it was a big deal. Because ever since I’d started swimming seriously, I had never been distracted like that, never let my father down like that.
Maybe downhill skating was mad, crazy, dangerous fun, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t let it distract me again.
I could see Fadi, another kid in 5H, up ahead. It would be hard to miss him, he was at least a head taller than the rest of us kids. I walked faster to catch up with him.
‘Fadi!’ I said, remembering to pronounce his name properly.
Once, I called him ‘Fatty’ and he punched me. Really hard.
I didn’t dob – in our school only the lowest of lows dobbed – but Ms Lucas happened to see it and Fadi earned himself three lunchtime Time Outs.
Weirdly enough, ever since the punch, Fadi and I had been pretty good mates.
Michael: Michael Page 1
