“CITYYYYY!!”
“SOUTHHHHH!!”
The screams echoed throughout the pool at Great Neck South Middle School. The warm, musty air has nowhere to escape. The entire area reeks of chlorine. This was it. The final home meet of the swim season was here. The one that the Nassau County swimming community would not stop talking about; the one that Newsday was ready for; the one that I was swimming in. At each of the prior meets, the other team wished us good luck in our clash with the other titans, Garden City.
We were huddled together in the locker room. Why are thirty guys in Speedo swimsuits huddled so closely together? As we waited for our coach, a small chitchat buzzed around the room. Many side conversations started to build up, but the whispers were obvious. Are we going to win? Is this the meet that we finally lose after all these years? What’s happening?
My coach walks through the door and authoritatively shouts, “Shut the f*** up! You boys listen up. I’m tired of this s***. I’m tired of no one ever believing in us. WE ARE THE G-D DAMN FOUR-TIME INCUMBENT COUNTY CHAMPIONS!” My coach looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. I stared into my coach’s eye with fear. Goal accomplished. My hands were trembling so violently I had to sit on them to control it. My heart was pounding so loudly that my neighbor was making weird faces at me. I had no idea what to believe. Nevertheless, I wanted to believe my coach. I needed to believe my coach.
“Event Number One: 200 Medley Relay. Swimmers step in,” the referee said. “Take your mark.” An uneasy pause filled the room as six swimmers moved into their ready position. Without much warning, the referee fired a loud gunshot which was quickly masked by the splashing and the screaming.
“CITYYYYY!!!”
“SOUTHHHH!!!”
The two swim teams alternated chants throughout the meet. The referees warned both teams and both coaches to minimize the spirited chants. But, no one was ready to do that, yet. It wasn’t distracting the meet; what referee in his right mind would prevent teammates from cheering on their fellow teammates? Looking around, faces were red. No, they weren’t just red: THEY WERE RED!!!!!! People not even in the races were fighting to take a quick breath as if the entire pool area became an oxygen tank with little left.
“Alright boys, let’s pack it in. This is event twelve coming right up. We are TIED. Now I can proudly say we gave it all we had, but we still have two more races. You hear that boys? TWO MORE RACES! TWO MORE OPPORTUNITIES TO WIN THIS F****** MEET! DON’T LET THEM WALK IN HERE, OUR HOME POOL, WITH THAT ATTITUDE. DON’T LET THEM ACT LIKE THEY ARE THE KINGS IN HERE! BECAUSE, THAT’S US! THE REBELS OWN THIS POOL, YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!?!?!? COME ON,” my coach screamed. I know it’s bad to stare, but all I could pay attention were the veins bulging out of his neck and arm with each syllable he had forced out of him.
“CITYYYYY!!!”
“SOUTHHHH!!!”
The last time I heard alternating cheers like that we knew we had lost. It came down to one thing: a touch at the wall. It was done. 93 – 92, Garden City. The streak was over. Five years since we last lost a meet. And just like that, the dynasty, the Golden Age was over.
“SOUTHHHHH!!”
The screams echoed throughout the pool at Great Neck South Middle School. The warm, musty air has nowhere to escape. The entire area reeks of chlorine. This was it. The final home meet of the swim season was here. The one that the Nassau County swimming community would not stop talking about; the one that Newsday was ready for; the one that I was swimming in. At each of the prior meets, the other team wished us good luck in our clash with the other titans, Garden City.
We were huddled together in the locker room. Why are thirty guys in Speedo swimsuits huddled so closely together? As we waited for our coach, a small chitchat buzzed around the room. Many side conversations started to build up, but the whispers were obvious. Are we going to win? Is this the meet that we finally lose after all these years? What’s happening?
My coach walks through the door and authoritatively shouts, “Shut the f*** up! You boys listen up. I’m tired of this s***. I’m tired of no one ever believing in us. WE ARE THE G-D DAMN FOUR-TIME INCUMBENT COUNTY CHAMPIONS!” My coach looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. I stared into my coach’s eye with fear. Goal accomplished. My hands were trembling so violently I had to sit on them to control it. My heart was pounding so loudly that my neighbor was making weird faces at me. I had no idea what to believe. Nevertheless, I wanted to believe my coach. I needed to believe my coach.
“Event Number One: 200 Medley Relay. Swimmers step in,” the referee said. “Take your mark.” An uneasy pause filled the room as six swimmers moved into their ready position. Without much warning, the referee fired a loud gunshot which was quickly masked by the splashing and the screaming.
“CITYYYYY!!!”
“SOUTHHHH!!!”
The two swim teams alternated chants throughout the meet. The referees warned both teams and both coaches to minimize the spirited chants. But, no one was ready to do that, yet. It wasn’t distracting the meet; what referee in his right mind would prevent teammates from cheering on their fellow teammates? Looking around, faces were red. No, they weren’t just red: THEY WERE RED!!!!!! People not even in the races were fighting to take a quick breath as if the entire pool area became an oxygen tank with little left.
“Alright boys, let’s pack it in. This is event twelve coming right up. We are TIED. Now I can proudly say we gave it all we had, but we still have two more races. You hear that boys? TWO MORE RACES! TWO MORE OPPORTUNITIES TO WIN THIS F****** MEET! DON’T LET THEM WALK IN HERE, OUR HOME POOL, WITH THAT ATTITUDE. DON’T LET THEM ACT LIKE THEY ARE THE KINGS IN HERE! BECAUSE, THAT’S US! THE REBELS OWN THIS POOL, YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!?!?!? COME ON,” my coach screamed. I know it’s bad to stare, but all I could pay attention were the veins bulging out of his neck and arm with each syllable he had forced out of him.
“CITYYYYY!!!”
“SOUTHHHH!!!”
The last time I heard alternating cheers like that we knew we had lost. It came down to one thing: a touch at the wall. It was done. 93 – 92, Garden City. The streak was over. Five years since we last lost a meet. And just like that, the dynasty, the Golden Age was over.