Watching the Olympics made me realize that I haven’t done much sport in my life.
It’s not that I haven’t tried.
I spent half of the summer at my dad’s house. He lived across the street from a country club and even had permission to put in a gate to the clubhouse so I didn’t have to drive several miles to the main entrance.
During those summer months, I joined the swim team. My best strokes were breaststroke and freestyle. The best I could do was third in every meet. Of course, I wanted to come first or second, but that never happened. Except when I was five years old and I came first in the Olympic-width race. I still have the blue ribbon. What no one knows except me is that I was the only swimmer in the race! I should have won two ribbons: one for the fastest time and one for being the only child to swim that far at five years old.
At home, where my mother and stepfather lived, there was a half-acre pond where I swam constantly with my brother and the neighborhood kids. Even though I knew I would be on the swim team for the last part of the summer, I didn’t practice. I just enjoyed lounging around, jumping off the floating dock, and swimming through the hot and cold springs.
During the winter months in Michigan, my stepfather would shovel an area at one end of the pond and a circular path down the middle of the pond to serve as a race track.
I was a lame skater, mostly because I wore my mother’s skates, which were too big for me. I practically skated on my ankles. When my brother and the neighborhood kids played hockey, I tried to join in, but to no avail. Total failure.
The same is true in baseball. Whoever was picked last stayed first.
I was playing baseball in my late 20s for the bank I worked at and a ball bounced off the ball and I caught it on my nose. That was the only broken bone that ended my baseball career.
But like all Olympians, I didn’t give up. I learned to row. I even trained with a team of four for a regatta. We met at the Long Beach Rowing Club boathouse at 5 a.m. and rowed the 2,000-meter course several times. To beat the morning chill, we wore gloves, hats, and scarves, then had to take them off when we got warm. Each practice became more difficult as the day of the regatta approached. Three days before the race, I got bronchitis. That damn bronchitis again.
I watched the race from the shore. Sad, sad, sad. Coughing like crazy.
But I didn’t give up. Instead of racing, I rowed a single scull, going at just enough speed to stay upright. Rowing was my absolute favorite sport. I’ve never found a sport that was so peaceful; gliding through the water, in bright sunshine, alone with me, myself, and me.
What’s a girl to do? …maybe start rowing again, somewhere in Clear Lake, after I’ve gotten over my bronchitis!
Lucy Llewellyn Byard is currently a columnist for Record-Bee. To contact her, email [email protected]
