I am walking into the water, to my thighs, to my crotch, to my belly. It is cold cold cold and I think my legs will snap with the pain of it. I dive. Breath is stolen from me.
Muscles that haven’t moved in years, muscles that have been in abeyance, they are singing now.
And I am swimming.
I can’t hear them back on land but I know what they’re shouting. What are ya doin’, what are ya doin’, ya mad bastard?
I am in water. It is bending for me, shifting for me. It is welcoming me.
I am swimming.
I belong here.
First week of term, February 1994
The first piece of advice the Coach ever gave Danny was not about swimming: not about his strokes, not about his breathing, not about how he could improve his dive or his turns. All of that would come later. He would never forget that first piece of advice.
The squad had just finished training and Danny was standing shivering off to one side. The other guys all knew each other; they had been destined to be friends from the time they were embryos in their mothers’ wombs, when their fathers had entered their names on the list to attend Cunts College. Danny kept repeating the words over and over in his head: Cunts College Cunts College Cunts College. The nickname he and Demet had invented when he first told her he had to change schools. ‘Have to or want to?’ He’d had to turn away as he answered, ‘It’ll make me a better swimmer.’ ‘They’ll all be rich,’ she countered. ‘You know that, don’t you, only the filthy rich go to Cunts College? But she left it at that. She wasn’t going to argue with him, not about the swimming; she knew what the swimming meant to him.
Danny glanced at the other boys. They had hardly said a word to him all morning, just offered grunts, barely nodded to him. It had been like this all week. He felt both invisible and that there was nowhere for him to hide. Only in the water did he feel like himself. Only in the water did he feel that he could escape them.
Taylor, the one they all followed, made towards the change rooms and as he passed Danny, he said in a loud effeminate lisp, ‘Dino, I like your bathers, mate, they’re real cool.’
The others cracked up, turning around to look at him, to look down at his loose synthetic bathers, cackling like a pack of cartoon hyenas. They were all wearing shiny new Speedos, the brand name marked in yellow across their arses. Danny’s swimmers were from Forges, there was no way his mum was going to spend half a day’s pay on a piece of lycra. And good on her. Good on her, but he still felt like shit. The boys continued sniggering as they passed by him, all following after that pompous dickhead Taylor. Scooter, who was the oldest, the one with the palest skin but the darkest hair, Scooter bumped him. Just a touch, just enough of a nudge so it could seem like an accident. ‘Sorry,’ Scooter said abruptly, and then laughed. That set them all off again. The same stupid cackling. Danny knew it was no accident. He stood there, not moving, nothing showing on his face. But inside, inside he was coiled, inside he was boiling.
‘Eh, Scooter, you’ve got nothing to laugh about, mate. You weren’t swimming today, that was fucking paddling.’
That silenced them. The Coach was the only one who could get away with swearing at them. Even Principal Canning pretended not to hear when Frank Torma let fly with his curses and insults. The school needed Coach Torma. He was one of the best swim coaches in the state, had coached Cunts College to first in every school sports meet of the last seven years. That was power. They immediately shut up and continued to the showers. Danny went to follow them.
‘Kelly, you stay behind. I want to talk to you.’
The Coach was silent until the other boys had disappeared into the change rooms. He looked Danny in the eyes for the first time. ‘Why do you take it?’
‘What?’
‘Why do you take their shit?’
You could hear his accent in the way he pronounced the word, ‘chit’.
Danny shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘Son, always answer back when you receive an insult. Do it straight away. Even if there’s a chance there was nothing behind it, take back control, answer them back. An insult is an attack. You must counter it. You understand?’
One side of Danny’s mouth started to twitch. He thought the Coach must be joking; he sounded like Demet’s mother or Sava’s giagia, as if an insult were the ‘evil eye’, as if he needed to wear a nazar boncuðu to ward against it. Danny’s jaw slackened, his head slumped back. He was not even aware of it, he had just assumed the pose; that was how you reacted to instruction back at his old school, the real schooclass="underline" you just looked bored when an adult was giving you a lecture.
But Frank Torma’s expression remained serious and Danny realised this wasn’t a joke.
‘Listen, you stupid boy, if there is no spite, no hate or jealousy in what they say, then it does not matter. Nothing is lost.’ The Coach patted his enormous stomach, the huge gut hard and round like a basketball straining his t-shirt. He was pointing to something beyond his gut, something inside, but Danny didn’t know what that could be. ‘Trust your instincts, son, don’t let them poison you. You have to protect yourself.’ He pointed towards the change rooms.
‘They’re all jealous of you.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
For a moment Danny thought the man was going to hit him: the Coach’s right hand danced, spun, jerked in the air. Instead his fat finger drilled hard into Danny’s chest. ‘Listen to me, they’re jealous of you, of course they are. You have the potential to be the best in the squad. The others can sense it.’ The Coach’s finger was now pushing harder. ‘They’re going to want to get under your skin, and they’re right to. You are not friends, you are competitors.’
It hurt where the Coach’s finger was stabbing Danny’s chest. But he didn’t care about the pain at all. He was the best, he was the best in the squad. Better than that dropkick Scooter, that chickenshit Morello, that poofter Fraser, that spineless rabbit Wilkinson, that up-himself spoilt-rich-kid Taylor. He was better than all of them. Stronger, faster, better. Strongest, fastest, best.
The Coach followed him into the showers. Danny was relieved; the boys wouldn’t have a go at him with Frank Torma there. The others were still showering, making lame jokes about soap and Wilkinson. The silly faggot was taking it all, giving nothing back to them. The Coach was right, Danny realised. You had to give it back. Hurt them before they hurt you.
Torma sat on the bench as Danny slipped off his swimmers and got under the shower. He turned on the hot tap but the first blast of water was freezing. Only when the steam began to rise did he loosen the cold tap. He soaped himself all over, scrubbing vigorously, almost violently, using the friction to warm himself up.
‘Having a wank, Dino?’ It was Taylor, his tone full of pretend disgust. The rest of the morons brayed again.
Danny looked over his shoulder to the Coach, who was silent, sitting on the bench, looking straight at him. Always answer back. He understood now what the man meant. Take control, always take control.
Danny turned to the boys, his feet planted apart, hands by his sides: let them look at him. The water falling on him, drilling his back and shoulders, made him feel powerful. ‘Yeah, Taylor,’ he said, tugging at his foreskin. ‘Why ya asking? Did ya want me to come in your mouth?’
He could tell he had struck Taylor; the boy’s eyes were immediately averted, he was floundering hopelessly for a comeback. Then Morello laughed. And Frank Torma was grinning, his eyes aglint.