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Authors: Matt Christopher
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himself down and tried to concentrate on the next event he'd be swimming. The two-hundred-yard freestyle wasn't
just double the distance; it called for a lot more discipline. The increases in his output had to be more gradual, but more
powerful if he were to make any headway. He knew that the coaches often saved their best swimmers for just one or two big
races like the two hundred.
Paul Prescott and Kevin Kincaid, who had gotten over the measles, would be swimming in the twohundred for the Bolton team along with him. When the event was announced, they clapped their arms around him as they left
the bench.
This time Jerry discovered that he was swimming in lane six. He'd have just one competitor on one side. The tiled wall of
the pool and the fans above would be on his other side.
Hope it doesn't make me lopsided, he thought to himself, grinning.
As he stepped up on the diving stand at lane six, he felt really comfortable. After all, he'd been in a race just a few minutes
ago. There was nothing to it. All he had to do was swim eight laps. Eight! That was twice as many as he had just finished
swimming.
Suddenly, all the fears buried deep down in the pit of his stomach rose up. Would he measure up? Was the hundred just a fluke?
Or would he be able to swim well enough to help out the team?
Jerry knew what he had to do. He had to swim the race exactly the way the coach had taught him. There was no room for any
mistakes.
BANG!
Jerry unflexed his knees and dove into the waterstraight ahead. He cut through its surface like a sleek surfboard and started to swim.
One strong arm forged its way through the cold green water as the other forced the backwater away like a powerful paddle wheel.
He kept his breathing steady as his head emerged from the water with each stroke. There were no extra flips, no unnecessary
motions. He cut his way through the water like a well-oiled machine.
Alongside, the swimmer in lane five had stayed with him lap after lap until midway through the race. As he headed into his
fifth lap, Jerry could see the distance opening up between the two of them as he took the lead.
But what was happening in the other lanes? There was no way to tell.
Jerry remembered what the coach had told him way back: never mind the announcer or anything else. Swim your own race.
That was exactly what he did. Lap by lap he stretched himself further and further. Stroke after stroke, his powerful arms
never let up. Both legs kept up a steady kick, helping to propel him fasterand faster through the water. His whole body responded in perfect sequence at the turns, and his lungs seemed to expand more
and more to contain the deeper and deeper breaths he had to take on the way to the finish.
And then it was over. He could hear the shouts from the stands as the Ridgeway and Bolton fans broke out into loud cheers.
Before the public address system could make the announcement, Jerry knew that something special had happened. Paul and Kevin
had come rushing over to him while he was still in the water, and Coach Fulton was approaching with a smile that went from
ear to ear. The whole Bolton team was jumping up and down at the bench.
Finally, the sound of the announcer's voice broke through the rest of the noise, and he could hear:
“
The winner of the boys two-hundred-yard freestyle is Jerry Grayson
—”
He had won! He had come in first!
Jerry managed to work his way over to the Bolton bench, where everyone couldn't wait to lay high fives or tens on him, hug
him, or just shout congratulations in his ear.
But the meet wasn't over. As Jerry sat down to watch the rest of the events, he glowed with an inner pride. He had proved
that he could compete in this new, exciting sport—and that he had what it took to win.
Still, he knew that he hadn't completely conquered swimming.
There was another thought hidden way, way in the back of his mind. It was definitely something he didn't want to discuss
just double the distance; it called for a lot more discipline. The increases in his output had to be more gradual, but more
powerful if he were to make any headway. He knew that the coaches often saved their best swimmers for just one or two big
races like the two hundred.
Paul Prescott and Kevin Kincaid, who had gotten over the measles, would be swimming in the twohundred for the Bolton team along with him. When the event was announced, they clapped their arms around him as they left
the bench.
This time Jerry discovered that he was swimming in lane six. He'd have just one competitor on one side. The tiled wall of
the pool and the fans above would be on his other side.
Hope it doesn't make me lopsided, he thought to himself, grinning.
As he stepped up on the diving stand at lane six, he felt really comfortable. After all, he'd been in a race just a few minutes
ago. There was nothing to it. All he had to do was swim eight laps. Eight! That was twice as many as he had just finished
swimming.
Suddenly, all the fears buried deep down in the pit of his stomach rose up. Would he measure up? Was the hundred just a fluke?
Or would he be able to swim well enough to help out the team?
Jerry knew what he had to do. He had to swim the race exactly the way the coach had taught him. There was no room for any
mistakes.
BANG!
Jerry unflexed his knees and dove into the waterstraight ahead. He cut through its surface like a sleek surfboard and started to swim.
One strong arm forged its way through the cold green water as the other forced the backwater away like a powerful paddle wheel.
He kept his breathing steady as his head emerged from the water with each stroke. There were no extra flips, no unnecessary
motions. He cut his way through the water like a well-oiled machine.
Alongside, the swimmer in lane five had stayed with him lap after lap until midway through the race. As he headed into his
fifth lap, Jerry could see the distance opening up between the two of them as he took the lead.
But what was happening in the other lanes? There was no way to tell.
Jerry remembered what the coach had told him way back: never mind the announcer or anything else. Swim your own race.
That was exactly what he did. Lap by lap he stretched himself further and further. Stroke after stroke, his powerful arms
never let up. Both legs kept up a steady kick, helping to propel him fasterand faster through the water. His whole body responded in perfect sequence at the turns, and his lungs seemed to expand more
and more to contain the deeper and deeper breaths he had to take on the way to the finish.
And then it was over. He could hear the shouts from the stands as the Ridgeway and Bolton fans broke out into loud cheers.
Before the public address system could make the announcement, Jerry knew that something special had happened. Paul and Kevin
had come rushing over to him while he was still in the water, and Coach Fulton was approaching with a smile that went from
ear to ear. The whole Bolton team was jumping up and down at the bench.
Finally, the sound of the announcer's voice broke through the rest of the noise, and he could hear:
“
The winner of the boys two-hundred-yard freestyle is Jerry Grayson
—”
He had won! He had come in first!
Jerry managed to work his way over to the Bolton bench, where everyone couldn't wait to lay high fives or tens on him, hug
him, or just shout congratulations in his ear.
But the meet wasn't over. As Jerry sat down to watch the rest of the events, he glowed with an inner pride. He had proved
that he could compete in this new, exciting sport—and that he had what it took to win.
Still, he knew that he hadn't completely conquered swimming.
There was another thought hidden way, way in the back of his mind. It was definitely something he didn't want to discuss
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