One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure

So it’s clear my blogging days are numbered. I was beginning to bore even myself. But I have had some earnest encouragement to at least finish the story I’ve begun about my father. So, Gentle Reader(s), I continue.

Where did I leave off? Third grade. Right. I joined the swim team. I was under the tutelage of the assistant coach, whose name I can’t quite conjure. I went to night practice M,W, and F and swam with the other little lemmings. I wasn’t a standout, by any stretch. My best stroke was the breaststroke and I possibly made an A time by the time I turned 12. I was endlessly razzed about the clearly defined bounce in my freestyle.

My father came to visit some time before that, I’m thinking 5th grade or so. I was very excited to finally meet him -- really for the first time.

Talk about being crushed. Without going into details that might embarrass the rest of my family, let me just say that I was in complete and utter shock that this person was my father. I wasn’t old enough to understand his disease, but it was clear to me after the dust cleared that a father he would not be. He was, however, lucid enough to focus on the blue ribbons hanging in my room and, perhaps as a reward, he handed me a gold and amethyst ring off his hand that I do remember wearing proudly to school on a chain around my neck after he had left.

He soon called to say he had made a mistake and needed to have the ring back.


Meanwhile, around 6th grade I decided to start swimming in the morning. Kim, the head coach, would be my new coach. I didn’t know him well, but he was a charming, muscular, and handsome-by-any-standard 24-year-old recent MIT graduate with a moody disposition and a wicked passion for swimming. He drove an old old turquoise blue VW bug that shifted to the side a bit and was a mainstay in that Y parking lot. Let’s just say that you could hear Kim’s car coming from a few blocks away.

The YMCA was a 10-minute walk from my house (if I cut through a couple of yards through to Massasoit Street) and I didn’t want to be late. I set my alarm for 4:18 AM. I remember arriving the first day a little early. Helen Heminger, a 16 year old, walked into the locker room, took one look at me, and exclaimed huffily, “I can’t believe your mother is making you come to morning practice!” I was wounded but not deterred. I joined lane 1.

Over the next two years or so, I worked my way through the lanes. Kim was the kind of coach who ruled not just me, but every person in every lane. Kirsten, go first. Kirsten, your time was 1:20, do a 1:18 this time. Kirsten, move to lane 4 from now on. And so on and so forth until I was in lane 6. By the time I was 14, the bounce in my freestyle had been eradicated and I was leading the lane when we did 500s. I had found my groove and Kim had taken notice of me. He asked me to do double practices and I felt proud to comply.

Kim was the best coach I have ever had. (And I have had Olympic swimming and rowing coaches since…) He had a way of motivating each and every swimmer, no matter what level. I have to say I felt singled-out. And I was. I wasn’t necessarily his favorite, but he expected more of me, in every way.

He expected me to get As in school. He expected me to excel at every practice. He expected me to show up sick. He called me at my house when I didn’t show to one of those 9 practices per week. When I took a morning off to mourn the sudden death of my beloved rat, Templeton, he scoffed. Yes, I was completely intimidated and under his spell.

But for someone without a father, this worked. No matter how tough the love, I felt special and I strove to please him. When I cut 20 seconds off my 400 m free time, he immediately got out the junior national cuts and exclaimed, “only 30 more seconds to junior olympics!” I didn't think I could make the cuts, but I did. I always accomplished more than I thought I could with Kim pushing me. He did mention the Olympics a couple of times, but, alas, it wasn’t to be. It felt great to know he thought I had that kind of potential.

I wish every kid could have a Kim in his or her life.