Читать книгу Becoming a Counselor - Samuel Gladding T., Samuel T. Gladding - Страница 33

Because I was not big enough to play football or basketball and was a klutz at baseball, I decided to try sports where I had a chance of success. One of my first choices was swimming. My parents had provided my siblings and me with Red Cross swimming lessons when we were growing up, so I felt confident in a pool, especially doing the breaststroke. There were no tryouts for the swim team because not many guys signed up for it. Decatur High did not have a pool, and I had no access to a pool, except in summer. Thus, I practiced my strokes on smooth surfaces, like the floor, and in the air. Neither did much good. Another factor complicating my career as a swimmer was that I did not like the sound of the starter pistol. Nevertheless, I stayed on the team my freshman and sophomore years, and I was mediocre at best. My sophomore year I lettered, though, because of a fluke. Here is how it happened.

The Georgia High School Boys Championship Swim Meet was being held at Emory University that year. Although I was not one of the boys on our medley relay team, one of the guys on the team got sick the morning of the meet. Soon thereafter I received a call from the team captain asking if I was available. I had not practiced with the team and had little idea of what to do, but I agreed. My mother took me over to the Emory pool, and there I became a part of the team. I swam the third leg of the relay—50 yards. The good news is that I made it. The bad news is that our team came in last. Still, we were officially the sixth best relay team in the State of Georgia, and we received ribbons.

A friend of mine, Joe, heard of our triumph. Shortly thereafter, when I was at his house, he tried to give me a rather skimpy blue Speedo swimsuit. I was horrified and politely but firmly said “You shouldn’t have,” which in the Southern speech of the day meant “You really should not have even thought about this!” I wanted to say more directly “I couldn’t possibly accept such a terrible gift,” but I was too polite, and as a Southerner I had been taught to be deferential. Frustrated, I finally made my refusal official by telling Joe I was finishing my swimming career “on top.” I knew I would never finish as high as I had on that fateful morning when I was a substitute swimmer. I hope Joe took the Speedo back to the store, but only the swim gods know if he did.