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I am a decent swimmer. Ever since I dipped my foot in the pool, my coaches praised my potential. Although I only trained once a week, I felt that I was far better than those who swam fiercely every day. I swept medal after medal—my rank was undisputed.
One day, one of my favourite coaches, Mr. Gauss entered me into a nationwide amateur swimming competition. “You have rare talent, kid,” he said, tapping my shoulder.
After weeks of training, the big day came. Before the race even started, I wondered whether I had enough space on my neck to hang the new gold medals from today.
As I prepped for my heat for the backstroke, silence blanketed the natatorium. I curled my body and placed both feet on the ledge, only to find out that I didn’t know how to adjust them. The horn blared and everyone was off. Everyone, except for me. I dismounted later than the other swimmers in a competition where every second matters. I tried as hard as I could to keep up, passing by the others, one by one.
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Panting, I touched the finish wall. I craned my neck to check the scoreboard. The number next to my name blazed red: ‘4’.
Time stopped as the swimmer on my right and two on my left took off their goggles and celebrated their victory. The shouting and cheering dissolved into silence as the kingdom I used to reign collapsed under my feet. It was my first defeat. It didn’t make any sense.
Dazed, I climbed out of the pool. I still had another round awaiting me: freestyle, one of my best strokes. I had to move on, but I couldn’t. The shock of losing lingered, haunting me like a ghost.
The next moments passed me like a blur. The next thing I know, another number ‘4’ was branded next to my name.
As I towelled off, my mom hugged me and said, “It’s fine, sweetie. You’ll get it next time.” But frustration gobbled me up. “What next time?” I pouted, swallowing my tears. “There is no such thing as next time. The race is over.”
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It felt so weird returning home empty-handed. That night, my room felt too quiet. The gold medals hanging on the wall looked dull in the dark. The flashback of the mistake I made and the number ‘4’ repeated whenever I closed my eyes. I couldn’t fall asleep.
Monday morning came: my weekly swimming drill. Monday used to be my favourite day of the week, but not today. I was terrified to face everyone. All the kids in my swimming club saw me crash. And what about my coaches? I couldn’t bear to look at Mr. Gauss; what if he looked at me with disappointment in his eyes and told me I wasn’t so talented after all? I wanted to run away, but I was already standing in front of the swimming club. I sneaked out of the changing room when familiar footsteps approached. Fear and guilt pooled in my stomach.
The footsteps stopped behind me, and then he slapped my back. I jumped in surprise as he grinned. “First time losing, huh?” I nodded slowly. “You know, when there is a winner, there is always a loser. That’s the basics of sports.” I looked at him, trying to figure out what he was saying. “Even the legendary athletes didn’t always win. Look at me; I didn’t win the gold medal at the Olympics.” His words reminded me that he had once competed on the Olympic swim team. “Yeah, but you still made it up there,” I grumbled. He smiled and continued. “The point is, you can’t always win. You know what real champions do? Instead of crying over spilt milk, they find a way to clean up the mess and get back up.”
When I came back home, his words stayed with me. When there is a winner, there is a loser; I already knew that. It’s just that I never thought I would be on the other side.
Then I thought about the spilt milk. Was that incident with the ledge the sole reason for my defeat, or was there something more to fix? After all, I can’t improve bad luck.
My thoughts shifted to my second defeat: the freestyle. Even though I messed up the first race, I should have done better on the next one. Instead, I was stuck there, clinging to my loss as if it was the end of the world. Everyone makes mistakes. Then why did this hit me so hard? Maybe it’s because I thought I would never lose.
As my contemplation deepened, a certain thought sprouted in my head: I was confident in my talents. But maybe, just maybe, I was missing something. Had my confidence turned into an inflated ego? Was I above seeking improvement? Towelling off, I left that week’s practice more bruised than ever.
When I returned to the pool the next week, I noticed Andy, one of my teammates, doing laps. He was two years younger than me and much slower. Then I saw him making a turn. It was a good turn. In fact, it was fast and precise. Why didn’t I notice that before?
I soon realized I never really paid attention to him, nor the other members on our team, for that matter. Pride had been blinding me; how could there possibly be anything to learn from someone slower than me? My cheeks flushed in a rush of embarrassment.
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While shaken from this realization, my coach’s words echoed somewhere deep inside. Don’t just cry over spilt milk; clean up the mess first. I slowly went over to Andy. Tamping down my humiliation with one arm and mustering up the courage to speak with the other, I opened my mouth: “Hey,” I blurted, “can you give me some advice on my turns?” I winced internally; this was unfamiliar territory. To ask for advice from someone younger than me, someone who witnessed my defeat! But I already hit my rock bottom, and things couldn’t get any worse, right? Before I could start second-guessing myself and flee, Andy just shrugged and said, “Sure.”
It wasn’t long before I began to notice my other teammates’ strengths, and to my surprise, they all had something that I could learn from. Apart from my three- hour practice sessions and four- hour drills on the weekends, I began to ask for advice and listened eagerly. All my embarrassment washed away as I applied the advice and felt myself getting better day by day. In return, my teammates would ask for my advice too, and I felt a sense of vicarious satisfaction as they improved.
At the end of the day, humility became my strongest weapon. I maintained my training for a year as I prepared for the next competition: the same one from last year. The night before the competition, I simulated the heat for the next day over and over, running through all the scenarios of how I’d move through the water.
The day of the final heat, I was fully confident, but this time I was different from the arrogant self who stood here a year ago. It became quiet as I started to climb the starting block. I shook my limbs to relax my muscles and got in my zone, blocking out everything else surrounding me and focusing only on the big blue pool. I didn’t even have to think about my new moves, because it was already in me. It was time to prove myself, not to the audience, but to me.
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The horn sliced the silence. I plunged into the water and the cold liquid wrapped around my body. Each stroke left a trail of silver bubbles behind me. I felt untouchable, as if I owned the lane. I put everything I had prepared for a whole year into every stroke. When I finally touched the finish wall, I felt satisfied.
I glanced up at the scoreboard. Instead of immediately checking my rank, my eyes rested on my record: I shaved a full second off the time from the previous year. After that, I checked the rankings: I came in second place. This time, I wasn’t as devastated as I would have been before; I was proud of myself.
After the competition, I went over to my teammates and thanked them. And to my surprise, I didn’t see any disappointment on their faces. On the contrary, their eyes gleamed with admiration. It was then I realized that I didn’t just prove my skills to myself, but that I’d proven myself to my teammates too.
After the swimming season, I had a lot of my school work to catch up on, especially English. It was my least favourite subject, but a quiz was coming up. I looked through the endless vocabulary list. I was nervously tapping my temple, when I noticed my classmate in front of me. He was the best in class, a walking dictionary. A year ago, I would’ve just gritted my teeth and done it myself, but now I knew what to do. I took a deep breath and tapped him on the shoulder: “Hey, can you give me some advice on memorizing new words?” He nodded, and I grinned.
