When I was 12 or so years old, it was becoming apparent that I was becoming a good swimmer. I'd win the occasional 400/500 Freestyle at important meets. Do well in the 200 Freestyle. Suuuuuuuuuuuuck at any of the Backstroke events.
Gordy was my coach at the time. He was a very Tom Selleckian man in the moustache area. Very California. Tan, always in flip flops. Sunglasses.
I liked Gordy. A lot. He was tough coach, but very supportive. He was the first coach to really see some potential in me and push accordingly. He coached the age range that really defined whether a swimmer was going to be serious about year round swimming or more of a hobbyist. Never any personal judgement in that regard, it just was what it was. Some swimmers were on a trajectory to Nationals and beyond, others would peak out at Far Westerns. It was Gordy's job to sort them out for when they advanced to the next stage of development and training.
I was one of the ones who showed enough promise, and dedication to advance to the former track. I was in Gordy's group for 2 or 3 years. He trained me in the 200 - 1500m Freestyle events. I was a distance swimmer. At the ages of 12 and 13, I started beating some of the kids who were pegged at age 9-10 as "the ones to watch", their stars starting to fade around the ages of 13-14. It's not that they were bad and I was exceptional, it's just that their performance at this age range didn't live up to the hype developed for them a few years earlier. I was a quiet, unassuming kid, so no one really expected me to start performing as well as I was at this age.
I had a small group of friends at our team. At meets, we'd hang out in our own little group, play card games, listen to the Scorpions, Motley Crue, Triumph, and Judas Priest, and just generally act a little weird. Come race time though, everyone had their routines and rituals to get them ready.
For me, it was always bundle up in my parka somewhere solitary, the backmost corner of a gym, under the shade of a remote tree, somewhere I could be alone with my thoughts. I'd pop on the Walkman and crank Triump's "Magic Power" as loud as that device would allow, and get myself pumped up. Other than the buzz from the cheap headphones, it was a very boring and quiet moment.
I'd bundle up to keep the muscles warm and loose. Head to the blocks for my heat. Get on the block, wait for the gun or beep... splash... race... done. Look for the time. Look to the coach. Hop out of the water for the post race discussion with Gordy. Quick warm down in the practice pool. Begin the cycle again before the next race, or if I did really well... finals later that night.
At age 12-13, the biiiiiiiiiig event of the year for most of us was Far Westerns. It was held in the spring and again at the end of summer. Usually in Walnut Creek or Concord. It was an away meet and therefore hotels were involved, which was always fun.
I started finaling at Far Westerns around this age and placing well or winning a couple of times in finals in the 400 or 800 Freestyle races. It's also at this age, that basically, we all start turning into monsters of various shades of awful. Some of the guys started developing their bravado and shit talking skills. Some got meaaaaaaaaan. Some just sank into narcissism and pride.
Then there were the others. Those that retreated into themselves. Got quiet.
I was one of those. I didn't play the intimidation or psyche out games. Simply put, I didn't have the self confidence to do so in a convincing or... well... intimidating fashion.
The most effective psyche out I think I ever pulled off was at a meet at Independence High School in East San Jose. I was 3rd going into finals in the 500 Freestyle. I was a frequent competitor of the top seed in the race. We were friendly with one another outside of the pool. I went through my usual pre-race ritual. I was pumped up, loose, feeling good. Ready to do my best. I ignore everyone until we're called to the blocks.
"Lane 4. Take note, Krk." my friendpetitor says as we get on the blocks.
I ignore him. Doing my stretches and jiggling around to keep myself loose.
"ON YOUR MARKS!"
We crouch into our starting positions.
I turn to my friend on my right, "Good luck." BANG!
We fly off the blocks.
I decimated my friend that night. Personal best, first place. My good luck at a key moment of concentration really messed him up. He was third.
That was the most devious thing I would ever do as a swimmer... wish someone good luck at a very inopportune time.
I think this race really said a lot about who I was as a swimmer, but it also said a lot about me as a person. I couldn't pull off the showy bravado of a lot of my peers. I couldn't brag about how great I was... because... I never thought of myself that way. All I was interested was beating myself in the race... beating my personal best. If I happened to come ahead of other swimmers in the course of this... fantastic! It wasn't the point for me though.
Winning was never the point for me. Being better than others at any given activity or pursuit was never the point. Being "the best" was never the point.
I've always had one competitor, one opponent... me. Sometimes that resulted in a "win", where I was measurably the best at something. I'd feel a sense of accomplishment, a sense of pride of course, but it was always fleeting. There was more to do. More to know. More to accomplish.
I'd have a discussion with Gordy about my prospects as a swimmer when I was 13 or so. It was pretty blunt, and super heavy for someone so young to hear. "I've never had a swimmer like you before. You don't care about winning. That killer instinct is lacking. You're good and your ability will take you pretty far in this sport, but you're never going to have that something that pushes you to beat the person in the lane next to you at all costs. That's what separates the swimmers who simply qualify for Nationals and the swimmers who win at Nationals, the swimmers that win at the Olympics. That burning desire to win, to be the best." It sounds pretty damning. It wasn't. It was an accurate description of who I was and where it would take me in the sport.
I would swim for another five years. I would go on to compete at 4 Junior Nationals. I would swim well at 2 of them, topping out in the top 8 in the 800 and 1500 meter freestyle in 1988. Gordy's assessment of me 4 years earlier didn't prevent me from progressing in the sport. Rather, it inspired me. I was going to be as good at this sport as I possibly could be, whatever form that took. At the time I still enjoyed it and went on to train with Cindy, Carol, Jonty, and Tortsten at San Jose Aquatics and then the loathed Jay at Santa Clara, a man who single handedly destroyed my love for this sport I had devoted so much time and energy to.
Fast forward past swimming... 1989 to present. I'm still not terribly competitive with people who aren't me. Ii understand that drive to be the best intellectually, but I can't summon the will to embrace it. In the last 30 years, this need to be better than myself has warped itself in some truly destructive ways. When I can't live up to my own self-imposed standards, I beat myself up... badly. It's transformed into depression and social anxiety that simultaneously reminds me that I need to do better, be better, but a voice always pops in pestering me that I won't live up to those standards and I shouldn't even try. Order a pizza and watch Shaun of the Dead again. That will make you feel better.
For years it told me, "Good thing you gave up on writing. You were never as good as Brendan or Charger anyway. Save yourself the pain of the comparison."
Therapy has helped me silence or quiet this pernicious voice more often. It's also helped me develop a new relationship with the concept of "best". I try to use that word very sparingly now. Only when something can objectively be measured to be "the best". "The Vikings are the best football team in history!" my brother likes to say despite them never achieving literally the one thing that really determines whether a football team is or isn't the best in a given year.
"The best Mexican food I've ever had is in Cypress." says a friend who's largely only ever experienced Mexican food in the greater Seattle region.
"Jimi Hendrix is the best guitarist ever!" basically everyone who's ever had an opinion on a rock guitarist except for the camp who have an unhealthy obsession with Eddie VanHalen.
"New York pizza is the best!" says one particularly annoying group of people.
"No! Chicago pizza is the best!" says another equally annoying group. (Hint: they're both wrong. There is no "best pizza")
This notion of "the best" or "the greatest" rubs me in totally the wrong way. Over the last couple of years, I've worked hard to reframe how I use "the best" or "the greatest" in my everyday vocabulary. Unless it can be measurably, and demonstrably proven that something is empirically the tops in its particular category, I don't use it. My 3 cats aren't the best cats. They're my favorite cats. My dog? He's not the best dog... just my favorite. Jimi Hendrix... not the best guitarist ever... just one of the most transformative and influential of the rock and roll era. New York pizza... not the best... just on average better than most because there is a deep culture to the food in that particular region of the country. Best writer? Best band? Best actor? There are none. Just a fantastically huge spectrum ranging from terrible to fantastic... and which is which is largely dependent on the tastes of the person making the assessment. Now, I have my favorites instead of "bests". Except for Roscoe. Roscoe really just was the best dog. End of story. Period. Nah nah nah nah nah! I can't hear you!
Коментарі