Waiting for My Medal Round

Watching the Paris Olympics has really inspired me, especially the swimming and diving events.

“O-M-G! Are you wearing a Speedo?” my wife asked, a small hunk of baguette falling from the corner of her mouth.

“Cool huh? Got it from the ‘Old Dudes Rule’ website. It’s a limited edition.”

“Very limited. And, I hate to ask, but did you shave your legs?”

“Well duh. I need less friction when I do my one-and-a-half twisting gainer into the pool.”

“If by gainer you mean your usual kamikaze cannonball, I’d be careful – really, really careful.”

I finished my glass of Trader Joe’s Moulin Rouge, snapped on my plastic nose guard and headed to the pool. In my head I could hear the cheers of the multitudes. Or maybe those were crows. Whatever. It brought back memories of my athletic youth.

As a kid, I learned to swim in Lake Opechee in Laconia, New Hampshire, where the average summer water temperature was somewhere between ice and berg. Matter of fact, the only time the water temperature rose was when it was struck by lightning from all the seasonal thunderstorms. The trick was to get out of the water the instant the lifeguard blew his whistle. 

“That the Witham kid out there dogpaddling like crazy?”

“Yup.”

“Why’s he keep going around in circles?”

“I dunno? Chasing his tail?”

“He could be the first zappee this year.”

“I got fifty-cents says he makes it.”

“You’re on…”

“Back already?” Pat asked, as I trudged in from the pool. “You’re not even wet.”

“Yeah, I know. All the floaties were taken. Thought I’d go to the gym instead. Do my rigorous training regimen.”

Watching an interview with one of the American gymnasts on Peacock – which a million people have signed up for this month and a million people will cancel next month – I learned that these premier athletes spend an average of six hours a day in the gym, running, leaping, flipping and swinging blindly from one uneven parallel bar to the next, chalk filling the arena air with puffy clouds of magnesium carbonate. 

I have a more refined gym technique of sitting on the reclined bicycle for twenty minutes peddling fast enough to raise my heart rate without pedaling too fast to miss the action of the daytime soap operas on the overhead televisions. Then I lift weights – deadlifting as much as 25 pounds while grunting loudly – until the alarm on my iPhone tells me my 75 minutes of free parking is about to expire. 

Though baseball was my favorite summer game, and I was sure I would eventually end up a switch-hitting center fielder for the Boston Red Sox when my little league coach kept moving me from one side of the plate to the other – “Try leftie again and this time open your eyes… never mind, just try to get a walk” – turns out I had a natural ability for track and field.

“Hey, there’s Ernie! Whose turn is it to beat him up today?”

“Mine. Wow he sure can run.”

“And hurdle. He cleared that baby carriage by six inches at least.”

Other Olympic sports I’m really looking forward to this year are the racket sports. I used to play tennis for what seemed like hours. “Think we’ve broken any world records yet?” 

“Almost. If you hit the net on one more serve. I will have won win six games to zip without ever having to return a ball.” 

Another racket sport I loved was badminton. Almost every backyard barbecue I ever went to included burnt hot dogs, mosquitos and setting up a badminton net. “A little tighter. Still tighter.” Ripppp. “Too tight, too tight.” 

Then we would pick teams and I would always be chosen to play close to the net. “I’m playing back here. I’m tired of Ernie always hitting me in the back of the head with the shuttlecock.” That’s where I would use my infamous sky-high hit that was impossible to return. “Oh, man, it’s in the tree again.”

Ooops, almost prime Peacock time again. Can’t wait for cycling. I might even get my bike out of the garage and do a few laps around the neighborhood.

“Thanks for the warning,” Pat said. “I’ll get the first aid kit ready.”