Victory

The team had been building towards it all year: the state swimming championships. The final event would last only two days, ending a season of six months.

Jose was one of the best sprinters the state had ever produced. His specialty was the fifty-yard freestyle. He had a great start and a lightning-fast flip turn, and he was tall, with a long reach. And he had a temper! All who knew him called him Tabasco. He was a sprinter’s sprinter.

Jose and his teammates had to travel by bus all day to get to the state meet, and they slept in an unfamiliar motel, four to a room. The night before the competition began, all the boys shaved their bodies. Some shaved their heads bald. Jose and his friends laughed at each other. "Where’d you get them panties, honey?" "Whoo!" Shave cream went all over everything, the walls and floor and ceiling. One of the maids came into Jose's room during the height of the party. "Shame on you! Put some clothes on!" she said. "Shame on you," said Jose, "and eat your heart out!"

The preliminaries began after ceremonies that heightened the tension. The swimmers swam their warmup laps, and then sat shivering, toes curled, lips blue.

Jose qualified fourth, so he got into the championship finals. "Cut it a close, there, Dude," said his coach. Jose had not swum hard. He had no doubt that he would set a state record the following day.

That night at the motel, nobody got much sleep. The boys talked about all kinds of things, anything except swimming. John was in the two-hundred-yard freestyle, and he talked about camping with his dad. Alex was in the one-hundred-yard breaststroke, and he talked about pizza, and then threw up at three in the morning.

Jose lay silently and thought about his own race. He would be in lane five, next to the guy who had qualified second. He was sure he could win, but the fifty-yard event is over with almost before it starts. What if he missed his turn? What if he flipped too close? And what about the start? Suppose he hesitated and got a hand’s length behind the guy who had qualified first?

During warmups the next day, Jose practiced in lane five, so that he would be used to the wall, and the lines on the bottom, and the starting block, and the positions of the stands. His confidence returned.

The events proceeded. Jose’s team came in second in the first relay, the two-hundred-yard medley. Jose swam the freestyle leg, the last of the four, and had the fastest split of his life. The coach said, "You look great, Jose. Never seen you look better."

Finally, Jose found himself standing on the block for his race.

"Swimmers, take your mark," said the starter, holding the gun in the air high over his head. There was an interminable pause. Waiting ... waiting ... waiting. Then the starter called the swimmers back: "Stand up." All the swimmers had to get off the blocks, stand on the wet floor, and then climb back up on the blocks.

The man with the gun called out again, "Take your mark." Then the gun went off, and the race was underway -- but no! The gun went off a second time. Someone had false started. The swimmers had to stop, swim back, get out of the water, dry off and get ready to start again.

"False start on lane five," the starter said as the swimmers mounted the blocks again. It was Jose! He felt his face redden. Another false start and Jose would be disqualified.

Jose's coach stood behind him, and said, "Don't worry about it. You show ‘em now."

The starter raised his gun.

One of the swimmers flexed his arms and made a cracking noise. Jose ignored him, but he did it again, and again. The swimmer in lane three burped. Another one coughed. Some girl tittered. "Go, bubbles!" Another swimmer fiddled with the drawstring in his suit. Another sniffled.

"Take your mark." The swimmers went down. Then the waiting began. "Let ‘em swim!" someone shouted from the stands. "Stand up," said the starter. The crowd began to boo. The swimmers stepped down off the blocks.

"I don't like that guy," said Jose.

"Nobody does," said the coach. "Forget it."

Again the starter raised his gun: "Take your mark." Silence ... silence ... silence ...

The starter stood, transfixed. He seemed to be waiting for someone to fall.

And then Jose did fall, with two thousand people watching, his legs spread apart, his arms akimbo. The chill water hit his face. Jose was out of the race.

The crowd booed the starter.

Jose started to go back to his team bench. But then he turned around and approached the starter.

"Shut that mike off," said Jose.

"You're disqualified, Son."

"I want to talk to you."

"Sit down."

"Let me swim unofficially," said Jose.

"Sit down!" said the starter.

Jose advanced on him, and Jose was a head taller and at least fifty pounds heavier. The booing changed to cheering.

"Throw him in the drink!" some man roared.

The judges came over, and Jose’s coach came, and they had a conference. Spectators talked and watched. The noise faded. "What's this all about?" "Maybe there’s a problem with the timing system." "That kid is making a fuss." "Wouldn't you?" Someone shouted, "Let him swim!"

So they let him.

"Lane five will be swimming exhibition," the announcer said. The crowd cheered. Jose could not place, but he could still swim fast. "You show ‘em, Tabasco!" someone shouted.

"Swimmers, take your mark," said the starter. Then he fired the gun.

Jose sprang from the blocks. He skimmed over the water. He was a speedboat, a hydroplane. The words of the coach echoed, "You want to feel like you’re swimming on a cloud, as if you're flying, as if it is a dream ..." Jose beat the state record by more than a second. In the fifty-yard freestyle, that is almost unknown.

Jose’s state record didn’t count on paper, but it counted in people’s memories. For years thereafter, swimmers in Jose’s state used, as their standard of speed, the fifty-free time of Tabasco, the kid who swam disqualified. People talked about his time as if it was the official record. Who knows? Maybe the record still stands.

Copyright 1998, 1999, 2000 by Francisco Carrera.