Dead But Alive

chapter ten: letting go

The buzzer sounds.

I dive.

There's a lot at stake here. It's the Senior Sectionals Championships, and I'm racing the 400 IM, which consists of a hundred yards each of butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, and freestyle. There are college recruiters at this meet, and one from the college I really am aiming to get into. My team is counting on me to score points for them, to seal the rivalry between us and an opposing team. My coach is counting on me to prove to the college recruiters that he taught me well all these years.

I'm pretty relaxed, though. The four IM is actually one of my favorite races.

I try to pace myself through the fly, but all the pent-up energy is making me swim a couple notches faster than I should.

When I hit the backstroke, I am regretting it.

My legs hurt, and my lungs are burning.

Oh no. It's never a good sign if I'm already tired. I'm halfway done.

I manage to keep up a strong kick throughout my backstroke (it is a mostly kick-driven stroke) but when I turn and begin the breaststroke leg, I can't breathe. My legs ache every time I kick, and my arms aren't pulling much. I can hear my teammates cheering, but there is an edge of disappointment to their tone.

Am I losing? I'm losing. I must be losing. I'm exhausted. Why? What is going on? This is my best race. My favorite. I should be cruising. Should be crushing everyone else. I've taken first in this race ever since I began racing it, and I always win my heat.

I normally dominate the 4IM.

So what is going on here?

When I turn for freestyle, every muscle in my body has turned to lead and jelly and ice, all at the same time. I can't kick; I can't pull.

Somehow I manage to reach the end. Everyone else is already there. I surface and whip my head around to stare at the scoreboard.

Lane five is sixth. Lane five has a horrible time, six and a half full seconds added to my best time.

I could normally go faster than this in practice, AFTER five fifty fly sprints, after a 300 race pace.

UGHHHHHHH.

I lean my head in the gutter and my eyes tear up.

I can't help it. I'm horribly disappointed.

"Reid," I hear Symon saying from above me. "Reid, it's okay. It's okay. Don't cry."

It's too late. As our heat climbs out, I lean over and bury my face in my hands and I cry. Symon grabs my shoulder, pulls me to him so he can talk in my ear. "Reid! Reid. Don't cry. Please don't cry."

I am too far gone to be brought back. I lost my race. MY race, the race I've won since I was nine and a half years old and Coach signed me up for it without my consent. The race I was counting on to get me into my dream college.

Why is everything going wrong?

Since it's a championship meet, my parents came too. I see my dad up in the stands, looking worried and concerned.

I turn away. Symon takes my elbow and guides me over to Coach, and I know he's waiting for me to talk to him but I can't. I can't talk. I'm too upset. I can't quit crying, and even though I can't see him through the palms of my hands I know he's just watching me. He has to be incredibly disappointed in me. I've thrown it all away-thrown everything away.

I've let them all down.

Let myself down.

"Reid," Coach says gently. "Reid, come here, bud."

I let him hug me. I let him hold me up. Because everything in me is going loose.

"Reid," Coach says, finally showing some emotion, some feeling. "It's okay. You just had a bad day. I'm not going to yell at you. You've been punished enough."

I manage to gulp down my sobs and wipe the tears. "I'm sorry," I say meekly.

"You just had a bad day," he repeats. "We all have them. It's not fair that yours reared its ugly head at Sectionals, but it happened and we can't do anything about it. Okay? Do you understand, Reid?"

I straighten up and nod. "Yes, sir."

"Okay. Now this isn't going to ruin your world, Reid. You're just going back to practice and you kick butt like before. Mmkay?"

"Yes, sir," I repeat, but the truth is it has ruined my world. It's done. It's over. I failed. I failed. I lost. Doesn't he understand that?

"Go warmdown," Coach says, patting my shoulder. "And you only get sixty seconds of tears, Reid. You won't get recruited by feeling sorry for yourself."

That pours salt in the wound, but I know he's only being a coach. It's his job.

Still.

Stubborn defiance rises inside me. I may not be able to control what time I get in a race, but I can decide how I want to react to that news. And the fact that everyone wants me to do one thing is pushing me to rebelliously do the exact opposite.

A/N: *Mini lecture* Do not try this at home! Call a friend, go for a jog. Don't go against people you trust. *OK, mini lecture over, keep reading ;P*

I rip off my cap and goggles, clenching them in my hand until I feel the nosepiece snap, breaking my favorite goggles into two pieces. It's a small sound, but a mighty one. Symbolic.

Closing the door on all I've ever wanted.

Yes, I can get new goggles.

But it just drives home that it's over.

I failed. Didn't make it. Lost.

I'm done.

"Reid, what are you doing?" Symon hisses, hurrying after me. "What are you doing? Coach said go warm down!"

"I don't care what Coach said," I say, resolute. "He's not my coach anymore. I'm quitting."

"REID!" Symon cries, attracting the attention of everyone around us. "You're-you're being an IDIOT! What kind of immature cowardly cop-out is that? Just because of one bad race, you don't get to throw in the towel. That's dumb. That's-that's-" He struggles to find a word awful enough to fit me. "That's so cliche. That's every single coming-of-age drama there is to watch on TV. That is possibly the worst idea you've ever come up with. And there have been many."

"Mm-hmm," is all I respond with, head high as I pass the warm-up pool and walk towards the locker rooms. "Have fun at practice, Symon. I'll watch for you in the 2020 Olympics."

"You-you-" Symon is frantic, but again comes up empty. "You're the worst role model there is," he finally spits.

That hurts. Symon and I have always been together since we were about two years old. We've grown up together. I'm slightly older, and he's looked up to me like a big brother.

It hurts to know I've failed at that, too.

But it's too late.

"Reid," Symon says desperately, as I stand in the entrance to the locker rooms, my back to him. "Reid, remember what Coach said? Winners never quit and quitters never win?"

"That's the point," I say. "I'm not a winner. And I'm done trying to be a winner. I'm not giving up, Symon. I'm letting go."

Symon is stunned into silence as I walk into the locker room. Away from my team, my support group, my second dad, the water, everything I've thrived on.

I'm letting go.

I know this is a little cheesy. :O I struggle with emotional not being cheesy. Any tips or advice would be welcome! I love improving as a writer. What do you think of Reid's reaction and how he deals? How is Symon as a friend? Thanks for reading!