Chapter 6.
"Representing Canada, Nathan Poon!"
Gordon sucked in a breath and nearly choked on it.
"Representing Sweden, Lukas Alshammar!"
Another breath. No choking this time.
"Representing Australia, Victor Campbell!"
A hand was on his back.
"Representing the Netherlands, Levi Veldhuis!"
"You've got this, kid," Sam whispered, squeezing Gordon's bare shoulder, "Try and stay calm. Worst case scenario is you lose. No one's gonna die."
"Representing Germany, Klaus Steffen!"
Gordon wanted to retaliate with the counterargument that his brothers, long-dead mother, father, grandmother, Kayo, Brains, Captain Taylor, and every other member of Team Tracy might, just might, be disappointed in him if he didn't win.
"Representing The Bahamas, Charles Wallace!"
Which in his eyes, was a fate worse than death.
"Representing The United States of America, Gordon Tracy!"
Panic gave way to numbness as Gordon heard his name. Moving as if in a dream, he zipped his hoody up and walked through the door that was now being held open for him, ignoring the cheers of good luck coming from the stewards, Sam, and the athletes who were lucky enough to have already finished their races.
"And finally, representing Kenya, Declan Njeru!"
The cheers that had reverberated around the stadium for Gordon were nothing compared to the earthquake-inducing screams that greeted the home athlete as he followed Gordon over to the changing benches. Somewhere in the crowd Virgil, Alan, and Jess were working overtime to try and turn the tide back in Gordon's favour, but their efforts were in vain. They simply weren't loud enough.
The steward sat behind Gordon's bench smiled encouragingly at him as he unzipped his hoody, fished his goggles out of his bag, straightened his swimming cap, and mounted the starting block for his lane. He'd been trained by Sam to ignore whoever he was competing against right before a race, but curiosity was getting the better of him and he was desperate for a distraction from the blender-like sensation inside his stomach.
Eight seconds and a quick glance to his left and right later, and Gordon was kicking himself. He'd never been one to question the authority of his fathers, brothers, or coach, but he did occasionally test the boundaries that had been set for him, just like any teenager. Sam had warned him from day one that familiarising yourself with who you were competing against only served to exaggerate the other person's strengths and underline your own weaknesses, especially when your judgement was impaired by nerves.
The Canadian, Swede, Aussie, Dutch, German, Bahamian, and Kenyan all looked to be a good five to ten years older than him, not to mention three to four inches taller than him. And there could be no denying the fact that more bone meant more muscle, and more muscle meant more power.
Quiet descended over the stands as Alshammar mounted his block and assumed the same stationary position as the rest of them. Quiet transitioned into silence as the starter instructed all eight athletes to take their marks.
Gordon felt a brief ripple of peace overtake his nerves as he stared at the smooth, crystalline surface of the yet undisturbed pool. Despite his rather undignified appearance (butt in the air and fingers grasping the edge of his block), he could feel the support of his family and friends flowing through his veins as each one of their faces briefly appeared in his mind's eye.
It was in that moment of utter silence and with the eyes of the world on him that Gordon realised that Virgil hadn't been lying. They were indeed proud of him.
Bang.
The butterfly was widely regarded as the most difficult swimming stroke to master. It required a high degree of strength and a very exact technique and rhythm, not to mention it took significantly longer to master than it's more straightforward cousins. Gordon had only been learning it for just over two years, but had shown more skill and proficiency than people who'd been learning for ten, at least according to Sam, anyway.
Nothing could compensate for the fact that with his age also came a variety of physical limitations that put him at an immediate disadvantage to his rivals. He lacked the wingspan of his Canadian and Kenyan counterparts, so couldn't pull as much water with each stroke as them. He wasn't double jointed like the Swede, Bahamian, and Aussie, so couldn't infuse his kicks with as much power as them. And he was nowhere near as tall as the German, so was saddled with considerably more wave drag than him.
Thankfully, he'd managed to eclipse the Dutch by surfacing quicker than him after the starting gun had been fired. He knew from experience that it was almost impossible to make up ground when you were at the back of the pack, so took a small amount of comfort from knowing that there was a good chance he wouldn't come in dead last.
The race was one-hundred meters, or two lengths of the pool. Gordon knew one length took him exactly twenty strokes to complete, however the underwater disturbance caused by the swimmers on his left and right was interfering with his mental routine of updating his stroke tally whilst underwater.
It was with unbridled acceptance that Gordon also realised one other quality that further weakened his chances of winning. With age came experience, but also mental fortitude and resilience. While he possessed all three in quantities that far exceeded other people his age, he lacked the mental maturity and hormonal stability of his older counterparts, which in turn left him vulnerable to distractions and sensory overload.
In all honesty, Gordon hadn't a clue what was going on. He had no idea how many strokes he'd done, no idea who was in the lead, and no idea if he was even swimming in a straight line. All he knew for certain was that he'd just inhaled a noseful of chlorine and the burning sensation that was rapidly travelling down to his lungs had made his stroke falter, and right before he was due to push off from the wall into the second half of the race no less.
He was sure to lose now.
Up in the stands, Virgil, Alan, and Jess all screamed in elation when the live scoreboard updated with the sensor feedback from each of the eight lanes. It was impossible to tell exactly what place Gordon was in, given the mere centimetres separating him from four of the other seven swimmers. Numbers didn't lie though, and the numbers were very much on Team Tracy's side as Gordon began the fifty meter homestretch.
Third.
-x-
Kick.
Pull.
Push.
Kick.
Pull.
Push.
Any energy not spent on propelling his body through the water was spent chanting his trusty mantra inside his head. He could see another set of limbs clawing through the water out the corner of his eye, and knew he'd have to step up his game if he wanted to prove to both his rivals and the crowd that bigger didn't always equal better.
There was one hidden advantage that Gordon's relatively short height afforded him. While the other competitors enjoyed the benefits of being able to glide through the water like whales, his 'compact' build allowed him to deploy explosive bursts of speed over short distances. A useless ability considering the stamina required for the butterfly stroke, but one that was capable of making all the difference when mere feet separated you from your competition.
Ignoring the burning sensation that was starting to engulf him, Gordon began to channel as much power into his dolphin kicks as possible. He might not be able to pull as much water with each stroke as his taller opponents, but the genetic lottery had blessed him with a solid pair of legs that were working overtime to compensate for his smaller wingspan.
The butterfly stroke was unforgiving of mistakes in style, and it was nigh impossible to overcome poor technique with brute strength. The main difficulty for fatigued athletes was the synchronous over-water recovery where the head, arms, shoulders, and part of the chest had to be lifted out of the water to facilitate breathing. Put simply, if you were tired and lacked the strength to propel your torso upwards, then you were rewarded for your exhaustion with reduced opportunities for oxygen intake.
Gordon could feel himself rapidly approaching the exhaustion end of the scale as he continued to kick and pull for all he was worth, snatching as much air in-between strokes as his abused muscles would permit. He'd lost count of how many strokes he'd done and had no way of knowing if he was halfway down his lane, or about to smash headfirst into the pool wall.
Deciding to tempt fate, he pumped every fibre of his being into completing one last stroke before extending an arm to gauge how far he was from the end. The logical part of his brain was confident that he couldn't be any further than a few meters from home, but even logical brains had a tendency to slip up when starved of oxygen.
His fingers brushed against something smooth that felt suspiciously like the fibreglass of the pool's perimeter shell.
The finish line.
-x-
Virgil didn't think he'd ever screamed so loudly in his life.
People unlucky enough to be sitting within ten feet of him glanced over their shoulders and clucked in disapproval at the feral cheers he was throwing at the blond competitor in lane seven. Even Alan had been forced to slam his hands over his ears when his brother had emitted a shriek loud enough to almost crack the glass of the roof above their heads.
Jess's own experience in the competitive realm as both an athlete and spectator meant that she was used to wild displays of emotion like the ones Virgil was playing host to, and it was with practised ease that she tuned the black haired Tracy out and focussed on the information the scoreboard was churning out.
It had been close. Nail-bitingly close. After a shaky start, Gordon had managed to steamroll his way into third in a relatively short space of time, only to then end up locked in a side by side battle with the long-limbed German who, in Jess's opinion, was so tall he could probably hunt geese with a rake.
The Canadian and Kenya had been only a sneeze behind, the former holding level with Gordon's hips at the start of the homestretch in a well-known (if slightly cowardly) tailgating strategy. Things had spiralled even further when Gordon's trajectory had fallen victim to a minor deviation, no doubt brought about by fatigue. Much to the delight of the coach's corner, the announcer had been quick to pick up and impassively comment on his rookie mistake, much to the obvious fury of Sam.
A rumble of concern rippled through the crowd as Gordon's head momentarily disappeared under the water. He seemed to be having extreme difficulty treading water, even with the help of the two stewards who were trying to haul him out of the pool. A ringside paramedic quickly scurried over and provided a third hand.
"Is he okay?" Jess asked, glancing to her left only to be greeted by two empty seats. A flash of black and blond signalled Virgil and Alan's rapid departure, and it was with a suitable amount of alarm that Jess double-checked the final times before hurrying after them.
Final times that were collectively separated by less than two seconds, but were shocking to say the least.
-x-
"Mr Tracy? Can you hear me?"
Gordon blinked his eyes open, ignoring the stinging sensation in his throat that informed him that he'd swallowed too much chlorine. He was trembling like a Chihuahua and his heart felt as if it was about to burst. He was vaguely aware of the ceiling moving above him, and deduced that he was either being carried or transported on a stretcher.
"Is he okay?!"
"Gordy?"
Two familiar voices cut through the overlapping background noise of concerned murmurs and the commentator announcing the arrival of the next round of swimmers.
"Virg?" Gordon croaked, his chest spasming when his lungs objected to precious air being wasted on something as frivolous as talking.
"I'm here, Gords. I'm here," came the gentle reply, followed by the sensation of someone attaching a blood pressure cuff to his upper arm.
"Out of my way! I'm his coach!" came the authoritarian tone of Sam as he shouldered and barged his way to the epicentre of the small crowd that had gathered around his floored protégé, "Speak to me, kid. Where does it hurt?"
Gordon managed to shake his head. No one part of him hurt per se. He was just tired. So very tired.
"Blood pressure looks fine," a soft female voice announced, "No need for anyone to panic. His symptoms are consistent with exercise-induced fatigue. This is the third case I've seen today alone. The first week of races is always a killer."
Virgil didn't sound convinced, "So he's okay?"
"Low blood sugar is a contributing factor," the paramedic replied, "Mr Tracy, did you eat prior to your race?"
Gordon opened his eyes and tried to focus on the blurry outline of Alan's face. He was too embarrassed to admit that he'd not only skipped breakfast and lunch, but also dinner the previous evening. Competitive nerves were a major appetite suppressant.
"You fool," Sam hissed, his face sagging in relief, "That's what your Glu-Chew sweets are supposed to be for!"
"I'm prescribing a hot bath to help with lactic acid dispersion and twelve hours minimum of uninterrupted rest," the paramedic instructed, her steely gaze taking Sam prisoner, "Keep him hydrated and be sure to call me or one of my colleagues if he starts vomiting. When's his next race?"
"The semis are tomorrow at midday," Virgil replied, glancing back briefly as Jess admitted herself into the group's ranks, "Will he be fit enough by then?"
"Absolutely," Sam affirmed, his tone offering no room for negotiation, "He's a Tracy, and you lot are some of the most stubborn bastards I've ever had the misfortune of meeting. He's young. He'll bounce back in an hour or two."
Gordon felt the clouds of lassitude abate slightly as he reflected on the words that had just left Virgil's mouth, "I-I made it to the semis?"
A rare smile briefly flitted across Sam's face, "You did more than just that, kid."
Silence descended over the group.
"You won."