Chapter 3

Peter gets a chance at Olympics

Friday, April 27, 2001

 

God. Ugh. Oh my god, I’m going to kill that alarm clock. I’m going to step on it and smash it and throw it out the window so cars can run over it--

I felt a pillow slam into my face. A muffled voice �" Sam’s �" mumbled, “Turn off your effing alarm.” I leaned over and slammed the snooze button while catching a glance at the time. Four thirty in the morning. I felt like the walking undead. Like a zombie. Maybe a zombie from one of John Green’s zombie apocalypses. God, my brain wasn’t functioning.

I groaned as I rolled out of bed. Stupid diving practice and stupid Coach Kipp and his stupid lecture. My eyes bleary, I dragged myself to the dorm bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. S**t, that was cold. Towel, towel…no towel. I wiped the water from my eyes and shuffled back to the bedroom. Speedos, video camera, tripod--diving towel. I dried my face, grabbed my Speedos, and changed quickly. Slipping on swim shorts and a faded grey U Albany t-shirt, I grabbed my diving bag and headed to the pool.

The pool clock said 4:46. I had about an hour to dive on my own, and then Kipp and the rest of the diving team would be marching into the pool. I set my diving bag down, set up the tripod and camera a safe distance away from the water, and stripped down to Speedos. I looked at the surface of the pool, the water completely still, like glass. This was why I loved diving on my own. It felt like my pool.

I stretched, feeling myself start to wake up a little. I climbed up to the diving board, just the five-meter one, and executed a simple dive. No twists, no turns, just up and headfirst into the water. The moment I was under, I felt the shock of the cold water make every nerve tingle. Alertness shot through me, and I was fully awake. I swam a little, a couple of laps back and forth, warming up my muscles. Then I pulled myself out and climbed up to the ten-meter platform.

Coach Kipp had criticized my armstand dives, saying I had bad form before the dive, which was why I was making a splash. I decided to work on that for today.

I rubbed my feet against the coarse surface of the platform, so familiar to me. The cold air seemed even colder against my wet skin. I leaned over and put my hands flat on the platform. Slowly, my legs rose, higher and higher and higher, until my body felt completely straight. Like a ramrod is running from your ankle down your spine to your neck. I felt my arms wavering slightly, and tried to let my muscles relax. Too tense, and I could tear a ligament and never dive again. I closed my eyes, took a shallow breath, and let my legs fall over my head.

Release, arms in front, fingers together, legs above, over, tucked in, one somersault, ARMS EXTEND ARMS EXTEND legs up legs up legs up ninety degrees--

And I was in, water surrounding me again, warmer than the frosty air. I stayed under, watching for a splash. I saw only a minimal burst of water, and prayed my entry had been clean. It had felt wrong, though. The armstand was still too wobbly.

I pulled myself out of the pool, dried my face, and replayed the dive on the camera. Pretty clean entry, but the somersault was a little messy, and the armstand before that was just horrid. I sighed, pressed record again, and headed back to the board.

“So this is what you do in the early mornings.” I turned, so startled that I nearly tripped. Coach Kipp was leaning in the doorway, dressed in sweats and holding a clipboard. He gestured towards the pool area. “May I come in?”

I nodded, still recovering from my shock. Kipp walked in, studying his clipboard as he spoke. “You planning to join practice today, Clark?”

“Yes, Coach,” I responded. He looked up, surprised.

“Really? You sure you don’t mind having the rest of the team around, bothering you and breaking your focus?” I flushed.

“No, Coach, I don’t mind.”

He looked at me for a moment, then said, “Great armstand dive there. Nice, clean entry, though you might want to bring your legs up a little higher when you enter. Also, remember to keep that chin tucked down.” I nodded, having come to the same conclusion myself.

“Your armstands are still pretty weak, and you wobble a lot on the board, which means you need to build yourself some biceps.” He nodded at my thin arms, which I crossed over my chest self-consciously. “Nice turn, but you’ve got to remember to keep those toes in line with your ankle; college judges won’t see that, but Olympic judges sure will.”

Olympic??!! “Sorry, Coach, but you said Olympic judges?” Kipp looked up.

“But you shouldn’t be surprised, Peter. You’ve got talent; I’ve said so myself. I coached Greg Louganis for two years and I’m telling you, Pete, you’ve got what it takes. You apply yourself, and you could be an Olympic diver, easy.” I stood still, shocked.

“But my entries, Coach, and my armstands and my form--”

He cut me off. “You’re a hell of a lot better than anyone else on the team, Clark. You’ve got a sense. And that’s not something you can learn; it’s something you’re born with.” We were silent for a moment, and then Coach Kipp clapped his hands once. “Well, I’m done complimenting you. Show me that armstand again so I can tell you what to do.” I felt a smile tug at the corners of my mouth, and obliged.

After an hour of armstands and bicep strengthening exercises, Kipp said, “The others will be here soon. You still want to stick around, or are you too good for them?” I opened my mouth, then closed it, not sure of how to respond.

Kipp made it easy for me. He waved his hand as he said, “Ah, go on, get outta here, Clark. You look like you pulled an all-nighter, and anyway, you are better than everyone else.”

I nodded, relieved. “Thanks, Coach.” I packed my camera and tripod and pulled my shorts over my Speedos.

“Peter?”

I turned. Kipp was smiling. “How’d you like it for us to do this every day?”

“Every day?”

“Yeah. We’ll come in early, like around a quarter to five, and I’ll coach you. Personally. Just like I coached Greg Louganis. And you don’t have to waste your time during group practice. How’s that sound?”

I swallowed. It sounded amazing. It sounded perfect. “But Coach, what about team competitions?”

Kipp waved that off. “Nah, diving, true diving, is an individual sport. You just won’t do the synchronized pair diving, and that’s not a strength of yours anyway.” I laughed, remembering some pretty embarrassing moments in my past experience with synchronized diving. “You’re in it for you, Clark. And I’m right behind you.”

I nodded, infinitely appreciative. “Thanks, Coach.”

As I exited the pool, I heard Kipp shout from behind me, “I’ll be expecting a salary and a bit of the spotlight once you’re famous, Clark!”

 

*                *                *

 

The rest of the day whirled by. My classes were unbearably long, and by ten o’clock, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I slept through my Ancient Symbols class and French, where apparently, Madame Martin had whapped my head with rolled up papers, and I hadn’t woken up (according to Sam).

Finally, it was four, and I was done with classes for the day. I dragged myself to the dorm room, stripped down to boxers, and slept.

 

*                *                *

 

I woke up groggily, faded sunlight drifting in through the cracked blinds. Sam was lying on his bed, wearing computer glasses and staring intently at his laptop, which featured a complicated-looking jumble of binary code and computer geek language. “Hey,” I mumbled.

He glanced at me. “Oh, you’re up. Rachael came by earlier looking for you.”

At “Rachael,” I was up and alert. “She did? Why? Did you talk to her?”

“She said she forgot to give you her phone number, and she came all the way here to give it to you.” Sam was smirking wickedly, holding out a crumpled slip of paper. I jumped up and grabbed it from him.

“Oh. Oh. Oh Lord. Go put on a shirt. Your abs are making me feel fat.” I chuckled and slipped my U Albany shirt over my head. I rummaged around in my backpack and fished out my cellphone, and proceeded to program Rachael’s number into my speed dial.

Sam was muttering to himself. “What kind of girl crosses the city to give a guy her phone number? And why’s Peter so good that he gets that kind of girl? I wish I had that kind of girl. I wish--”

“Hey, man, don’t get all jealous just because I’m what girls are looking for.” Sam snorted.

“Sure, so that’s why you haven’t had a girlfriend in four years.” I shot him a look, and he smiled apologetically. “Low blow, low blow, I know. Sorry about that. I’m happy for you man, Rachael’s…well, frankly, she is smokin’.”

I whirled around. “You did not just say smokin’.” Sam began to laugh.

I jumped him and managed to get him into a headlock. “Take it back or you get a noogie--Peter Clark style.” He kept laughing, pulling at my arms. I rubbed my knuckles against his head, hard, then clunked him on the head for good measure. As I released him, he drew a deep, wheezing breath. His face was bright red. “Oh, man, that is an awesome word.”

“It’s revolting.”

“It’s true!” I turned and waved my first threateningly, and Sam backed off. “Okay, okay, deep breaths. My face looks like a tomato, doesn’t it.” I nodded, laughing. “It feels like a tomato.” He went back to his laptop, working on some programming thing for his Computer Science class.

“Hey, I talked to the dorm supervisor, and he still won’t let me bring Sandy into the dorms. She’s getting lonely at home all by herself with my crazy mother, man. I told him that if she couldn’t live here, she’d probably end up barbecued by my mother or something, but he didn’t care.”

Sam rambled on about his golden retriever and batty old mother, and I nodded sympathetically at the right times. I wanted to call Rachael, but I didn’t know whether or not I should. I considered asking Sam, but he seemed busy ranting and working, and anyway, he was NOT the go-to guy for dating advice.

I sighed, deciding not to call. As Sam wound down and stopped talking, I worked on my physics homework as he did his computer programming. The only sound in the room was the clacking of Sam’s keyboard.