My husband and I walked into the vast, domed chamber of our local aquatic center. We were there to watch our grandnephew’s high school swim meet. The kid is an ace at butterfly.
Attending our grands’ sporting events is, we feel, one of the perks of aging. Free of any obligation except watching and cheering, we get the benefit of inclusion in these kids’ journeys along with an infusion of vicarious youthful energy.
The aquatic center’s space, turgid with humidity, echoed with the cheers of spectators, the amplified calls from race organizers, the slapping of bare feet, the excited voices of Speedo-clad competitors socializing between events.
We took our seats with our teammate’s dad, and watched races. Our grandnephew acquitted himself well in the 50-yard freestyle, but I had an appointment, and his next event was several categories farther down the schedule. When it was clear we couldn’t wait longer, we stood and waved him a reluctant goodbye.
We’re not sure he saw us from his vantage point on the opposite side of the enormous pool, where he hung out with his buddies. We could spot him easily, though — at fourteen, he’s tall, broad-shouldered, still coltish, with a mop of caramel-and-honey hair and a face favored by the gods.
One of the lucky ones.
Our presence, or lack of same, at his meet would barely register as a ripple in his day, but it was fun for us. We headed toward the exit, along a walkway very close to the pool’s edge.
The current race had just about finished, but in one lane as we passed it, a competitor still charged through the water. There was something about the boy’s stroke that caught my attention.
It took me a moment to understand what I saw. He had no visible legs and only vestigial stumps for arms. With powerful undulations, he surged down the lane. A small knot of supporters knelt at the water’s edge, cheering him on.
Other than that, nobody was making a big deal out of it. The kid was simply another member of his school’s swim team.
My husband and I made our way to our car, feeling our perspective shift and expand. What had been an ordinary, overscheduled Saturday morning was suddenly illumined.
With no fanfare or warning, we’d witnessed resolve, courage, and a sublime kind of stubbornness. The boy’s, certainly, but also his family’s, his coach’s, his friends’, everyone who refuses to accept that a young man is diminished because his body is formed differently than most others.
“We have no problems,” said my husband as we settled our taken-for-granted limbs into our seats
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