He could hear the other swimmers breathing, their chests rising and falling along the pool’s edge, as parents settled into the stands, chanting their loud support. Phones rose like periscopes in their hands—snapping photos, filming clips, proof that they were the showing-up kind, unlike some others.
Maybe it was the pre-race nerves. Or the thickening heat. He tallied everything that could go wrong next. He didn’t turn to meet his father’s gaze.
Later, he would tell the school paper that he swam the whole race imagining he was a butterfly. That he was free, after all.
Maybe it was the pre-race nerves. Or the thickening heat. He tallied everything that could go wrong next. He didn’t turn to meet his father’s gaze.
Later, he would tell the school paper that he swam the whole race imagining he was a butterfly. That he was free, after all.
