I don’t say much on the car ride home with my mom; I just keep my head down and ponder what that man said.
Was he right?
Is this a crazy goal?
What if I fail?
I don’t want to make a fool of myself.
I guess I really don’t know if I can do it.
He’s been in the Paralympic world, so he probably knows best.
As I ponder my thoughts, I begin to doubt my swimming dreams and goals. I am beyond devastated and can’t hide it. One thing about my mummy is that she knows me better than anybody else. Sure, that’s how most moms are, but after what we’ve gone through together, it’s a knowing on a whole different level.
Mummy isn’t saying much, and I can tell that something’s not right with her. She abruptly pulls into a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and turns to me with a passionate, fearless stare and a pointed index finger. In her most intense voice, she says, “Don’t you ever let someone tell you what you can or can’t do. If you believe it and work hard for it, you can achieve anything. And don’t let anyone ever tell you different! You’ve come too far and overcome too much to let some person tell you what you cannot achieve.”
In an instant, my heart is filled, and the fire is ignited. My mom is right (she always is): who is this person to tell me what I could and couldn’t do? He doesn’t know me or what I’m capable of. One thing about me—when you tell me I can’t do something, I become determined to prove you wrong. And one thing about Mummy—she never backs down from a challenge. I definitely get that from her.
And so it begins.
That man’s words become fuel for me to swim faster and stronger. In September of 2011, I travel to my first official Paralympic swim meet in Santa Clara, California. To say I feel intimidated is an understatement. I am the new kid in a very experienced and veteran world. All the swimmers around me have on their special race suits and their USA caps, and they know what they are doing. I do not. I’m just the rookie from New Hampshire. The London 2012 Paralympic Games are just a year away.
The pressure is on.
All I need to do is swim fast and see where that takes me.
Well … not only do I swim fast, but I manage to break an American record, qualify for the Paralympic trials, and become a member of the national team. This is a lot to take in, given the fact that just a month prior, I had been told to not even try. Many coaches and swimmers are baffled. “Who is this kid from New Hampshire?” I had come out of nowhere, and I am starting to make waves, literally and figuratively.
This is only the beginning.
In swimming, it’s all about qualifying for various meets and getting faster. I’m traveling to meets, but even though I broke a record, I’m not improving much on my times. My times are decent, but nowhere close to qualifying for the Paralympics. I know I need something more, but I don’t know where to start.
Coach Tom recommends that I meet with a coach down in Beverly, Massachusetts, named John Ogden. I am incredibly thankful for my former coach’s help, but I need to step up my training and train in long-course meters, something my current coach isn’t able to help me with. The Beverly YMCA has a renowned swimming program, and when I arrive at the facility, I know immediately that this is the place. Coach John is tough, and he meets me with a stern handshake. We go into a meeting room, and he gets right to it. “What are your goals?” he asks sternly.
“I want to make the USA Paralympic swimming team and go to London.”
“You want to make the team and compete at the Games in six months?”
“Yes.”
I was honestly so used to seeing bewildered looks from coaches in the past that I expect John to deliver the same look. To my surprise he smiles and asks me …
“How about winning a gold medal?”
As soon as he says this, I can’t help but laugh out loud. I look over at my mom and shake my head.
“That would be amazing, but I know that is not possible.”
“Why not? Who says so?” John continues to stare sternly at me. His eyes are focused and piercing. I know right then and there that he isn’t kidding. He is serious. Never in my life have I seen someone so sure and so confident, not even cracking the slightest of smiles.
“Wait, are you serious?”
“Of course I am—if I’m going to train you, that will be the goal.”
I am shocked and pleased. For the first time ever, a coach believes in me and has even bigger goals than I do. John sees something even I don’t see.
“It’s not going to be easy, and we are going to have to work really hard. None of this half-a** stuff; you have to promise me that you’re all in. Seven days a week, two to three hours a day. This will be your job; aside from school, this needs to be your focus. So, are you in?”
“I’m in.”
I promise.
I soon learn that I had no idea what I was signing up for. Before I know it, I go from swimming 1,500 to 2,000 yards (on a good day) to 8,000 to 10,000 yards. Never in my life have I been pushed so hard and challenged. I am swimming with elite swimmers who are committed to Division one schools and training for the Olympic trials.
One of the biggest differences about this place is that I am treated like everyone else. At school, my peers look down on me, but here I am an equal. My fellow swimmers talk to me and don’t just see my wheelchair. They treat me like the normal human I am. If I need help, they are there to help me, and when my coach makes me stay for an extra forty minutes after a grueling two-hour practice, they cheer for me and root me on as I get my butt kicked.
My time at this pool is not only motivating; it is healing, and it restores my faith in kids my age. I have a place where I belong; I am respected and treated equally, and after what I have been through, that is much needed and desired.
Not long into my training, I start to see results. Coach John pushes me further and further each week, and there are many times I don’t know how I am going to get out of the pool and wheel myself to the locker room. My arms are complete Jell-O, but I love it. I haven’t ever pushed myself this hard in my entire life. One thing about me is that I love a good challenge and I love to be pushed.
Getting my driver’s license is not part of the equation yet, so Mummy—once again being the amazing human she is—makes the two-hour round-trip, seven days a week, rain or shine. We often get punchy during the 3:00 a.m. commutes and precarious-weather trips. I am so tired that one morning, I actually open the sunroof instead of turning on the overhead light, allowing a significant amount of snow to pour into the car. And despite the two-hour car ride, if I am even a minute or two late, John sprays me with a cold hose as I make my way onto the pool deck and into the water. And sometimes, if I don’t go fast enough, he’ll do the same because he “feels like it will motivate me.” Although it isn’t always pleasant to get sprayed, it is nice to have my coach treat me like all of his other swimmers and not like the “special” wheelchair kid. And that cold hose definitely made me swim faster.
My swimming mentality begins to change: being surrounded by so many elite athletes, I am more determined than ever to swim really fast. At first, my goal is not to get lapped, but that goal quickly becomes “get to the front of the lane and keep up.” Coach John pushes me to limits I don’t know I am capable of. And he sees something in me that I still don’t quite yet see. When I question why I have to do these crazy drills and stay for extra practice, John says, “You want to win gold?”
“Yes.”
“Well, all of those other swimmers have been training a lot longer than you; we must not only catch up, we need to be better, faster, and stronger.” He reminds me of this every day and every moment I think I can’t go any further. But this really is my kind of catch-up. The loss of all those years has become the motivation—though sometimes borderline insanity—for me to train like crazy. My hard work pays off at the next meet.
“What is she doing here?” I hear a girl who is around my age say to her mother. Her moth
er then looks at me and my wheelchair and rolls her eyes.
It is the final of the 800-meter freestyle, and since this is a timed final and we’re swimming in a massive pool, we will be splitting the lanes which means that two swimmers will swim next to each other splitting up the lane. It’s pretty common for this to happen with local meets and with the longer distance events. I have never swum the 800, but my coach is optimistic that I can do well, given that most distance swimmers don’t use their legs much. Distance swimming is all about endurance, timing out your speed and energy, and finding the right momentum. It’s also about remaining calm, cool, and collected.
My daddy is with me, and being a hockey guy, he knows nothing about swimming. All he knows is that he has to press the red button on the stopwatch to get my time. During longer races at local meets oftentimes parents or swimmers help with the timing. This is a first for my daddy. “Good luck, sweetie.” He pats my back and steps next to the mother of the swimmer I’ll be sharing the lane with—the same swimmer who made the rude remark about me. She takes off. Twenty seconds later, it’s my turn.
“Take your mark …”
BEEP!
Swimming, especially distance swimming, is always a very calming experience for me. I love having the time to inch my way slowly but surely up. Distance is all mental, and you have to get yourself into somewhat of a meditative state and keep your mind and body relaxed. The key is to trust your training, always.
Just keep swimming.
As the event goes on, I see Coach John on the side of the pool signaling me to go a little faster with each lap. Trusting my training and realizing that this is nothing compared to what I swim on a daily basis, I oblige. As I follow his signals, I start to see the kicking feet of my lane buddy. She is running out of steam, and we still have about halfway to go. Being a bit sassy, I turn up the speed.
“What is she doing here?”
I play the words over and over again in my head, like gasoline fueling me to catch her.
John begins to jump up and down excitedly, as I pass my lane partner. I can hear my teammates freaking out, and I can see John waving his arms up and down. At this point, I have about two hundred to go and decide to sprint the rest. My arms fly, and I can feel my body literally being lifted out of the water. That is when I know …
I can go far.
I can win.
I can beat her.
I’ll never forget the moment I lapped that girl and touched the wall. I am so excited about lapping her that I don’t even realize my time. My daddy—being the naïve “hockey guy turned swimming timer”—pats me on the head and says, “Good job, sweetie.” I could’ve had the worst race of my life, and he’d still be proud. That is just who he is and who my parents are. They never pressure us or act like those “sport” parents who live vicariously through their children. They just want us to be happy and have fun. Dad winks at me and directs my eyes to the girl’s mother, who sits baffled that I have beaten her daughter. That woman is not happy. I am relishing that moment when my coach starts to scream, “World record, world record! She broke the world record!”
World record?
I had been made vaguely aware of the record, but I had no expectations of breaking it. After all, I have never swum the freestyle 800 competitively, so I am just getting my feet wet. Breaking a world record has never actually felt attainable. Growing up I have been obsessed with The Guinness Book of World Records, but I never thought that I would one day achieve a world record. Until I started training with John, I’d never even focused on times; I had just been trying to get to the other end of the pool in one piece.
You can do this.
Everything changes after that moment. Even though the 800 is not a Paralympic event in London, it still sets the stage and the expectation for the trials. The momentum and fire I felt from that race ignites a spark that my coach has been trying so hard to get hold of. I am swimming fast—fastest in the world—and I like that feeling. Who wouldn’t? After I break that first world record, I want to keep breaking them. This becomes my all-consuming focus. I want to keep being the fastest. Like a race car driver, I want to keep going and beating everyone else.
Faster.
Faster.
Faster.
I break several of the American and Pan-American records, and I start inching my way closer to several world records, which puts me in medal contention for the Games. I have broken the distance world records, but those events are not in the Games. Only the 400, 100, and 50 freestyle will be events in London, and these are what I’m aiming to compete in.
Coach John is my rock, and at meets it feels like it is just me and him. I don’t know many of the national team members yet, and being the outsider, I’m not always welcomed warmly. But I am used to doing my own thing, and as long as John is by my side, I am good. We have a system and a mind-set going into every practice and meet. We are a team, and our focus is plain and simple.
Go for gold.
But in the back of my mind, I truly just want to make the US Paralympic team. Anything after that will be icing on the cake. Nonetheless, John keeps pushing me and motivating me to go faster and be greater. Through the grueling practices and various meets, with little time to rest, we develop a momentum that sets out a pretty clear golden path. We are trying to achieve the “impossible,” with just under six months’ training time left, and that is at times incredibly stressful for John and for me. But little by little, it seems less impossible, and John won’t let me slow down. It is all or nothing. Although, it took him a little while to understand my quirks and superstitions …
I have always been a very superstitious person when it comes to sports and my routine. Since I was little, I had my swim routine down to a science. Same type of PowerBar, blue Gatorade, goggles, cap, and swimsuit. I also have a very “interesting” way in which I prep for an event I am swimming. Between my superstitions and mental preparedness approach, I think John thought I was nuts. And what I do right before a race probably sealed the deal on me being nuts.
“So, this is the one hundred free?” I ask John. “I move my arms like this?” (Doing the freestyle motion.)
“You’re kidding me, right?” The look he gives me is a mixture of confusion, worry, and concern. What John hasn’t realized yet is that this is how I work and how I prepare. But after that first world record, John realizes that whatever quirks and superstitions I have, they work really well for me. So instead of questioning me or looking at me puzzled, he just smiles, shakes his head, and pats my cap. “Just swim fast, kid. Trust your training.”
Most of the meets we attend (aside from the required Paralympic meets) are able-bodied meets, which means I am the only person in a wheelchair and without the use of my legs. I am no longer getting crushed by eight-year-olds, and I am keeping up with the best of them. I’m not coming in first, but I’m never last, and that’s all that matters to me.
Just don’t be last.
It’s crazy writing and saying that I just don’t want to be last, but I’ve spent so much time behind that I appreciate even being second-to-last. It’s a sign that I am getting stronger and getting faster.
However, I know that one of these days, I’m going to be first. I am determined. But you can’t truly appreciate being first without coming in last over and over again. It’s humbling, maddening, and frustrating to be last. But it only makes coming in first all the more amazing and exciting.
9
FROM BREAKING RECORDS TO NEAR DEFEAT
June 2012 to September 2012
“A new world record has been set!” The crowd screams as I emerge from the water. Since coming back into the world, I’m not a fan of loud noises and huge crowds. I look around and try to get my bearings. I hear something being announced about a world record. Trying to shift my focus from the race I just swam, I lean over to the swimmer next to me and ask, “No way, who broke the world record? That’s so cool.”
“You did,” she says matter-of-factly. “
Congrats.”
Wait, me?
I did it?
In front of all these people?
It’s day one of the London 2012 Paralympic swimming trials, and I am swimming the 400 freestyle. Just a few months ago (before I started to train with John), I thought of this race as a cool-down, and I didn’t really know how to swim it. In fact, I didn’t know how to do sprint work in general.
Because I don’t have the horsepower of my legs, sprint work is so much harder for me than distance swimming. My arms like to go one speed and trying to make them go faster is incredibly challenging. Distance (once I figured it out) came easy to me—even when competing in able-bodied events. You do not necessarily need your legs to be good at distance swimming.
But when I’m told I’ve broken the world record, all I feel is shock. I needed to do well in this event so I would be in good contention to make the US team. I was not rested for this meet, and leading up to it, I was pretty beat up from practice. But because I trust John and his coaching and training, I do what I always do—get to the wall fast.
Coach John is going to be so proud.
I swim over to the side of the pool where John is waiting with my wheelchair. I am expecting a little compliment from him, but in true John fashion all he says is, “You could’ve gone faster.” And this is the closest thing to a compliment I get from John that day. I have gone faster than anyone in the world, and yet Coach John wants more. This is part of what makes him a great coach versus a good coach. Even after reaching the “best in the world” in this event, John reminds me that I can always reach higher.
Many people are satisfied when they break a record or reach a specific goal (and there’s nothing wrong with that), but my goals and John’s goals and visions are beyond what I can do at any given moment. He and I believe that I should never stop being challenged and setting goals. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating and enjoying, but you’ve got to keep climbing and stay hungry.
Locked In: The Will to Survive and the Resolve to Live Page 8
