What is a story? Is a story something that you save for telling over camp fires and s’mores? Does it have to be about bravery and heroism? Does it have to have a beginning middle, and end? Is a story something that inspires emotion?

My story today is not about bravery or valor, and it most certainly may not be told over a campfire. I did not act courageously. Nor have I ever told anyone this story.

It began in October of last year. I was only 16 and it was chilly out. The leaves freshly fallen on the ground. I had come home from another school day, and quite frankly I didn’t want to do anything. I most certainly did not want to swim a few thousand yards. I was doing off season swimming for leaning tower YMCA. Practices were held at my high school, and the program was called high school training. Now, my parents paid 250 dollars for me to practice three days a week for eight weeks, but I also gave them 30 dollars out of my own money, which amounts up to three practices. It was october 28th, a monday, and all I could think of was how I didn’t want to swim that day.

I did not want to swim.

I glanced up at my watch and it said 5:30. I really did not want to swim, but I knew that my parents would get angry with me if I did not go, because then they would be wasting their hard earned money, and I didn’t want a confrontation with them just as much as I didn’t want to swim.
I decided to go.

The time was now 5:40 and I got my sports bad with my swimming gear in it and left my house through the back door. My bike was in the back. That’s where I keep my bike. Anyway, I got on my bicycle and rode it to Western and Touhy, the first intersection, but all I could think was how I really did not want to swim.

The reason I did not want to swim was primarily because of my off season coach, Bryan Liederhouse. Bryan Liederhouse was a tall, slightly thinner than average man, but not too thin. Thin might even be too fragile for his complexion. He had a slight build to him that might suggest that he once swam competitively, but nothing of large significance. However, that was not the aspect of him that discouraged me from swimming. What truly discouraged me was his personality; it was one of the ugliest things one could witness. kicking me out of practice was a weekly occurrence. He would kick me out for the littlest things, either because I couldn’t keep up with everybody else in my lane, or if someone passed me up during a set, especially kick sets. He would even set it up so that I couldn’t keep up with the other people sometime, and the worst part about it was the new rule he made; if you attend the school and you show up late, then you can’t practice with them. I showed up one minute late.

One measly minute.

It wasn’t even late enough for him to notice that I was late. When I got onto the pool deck, I just jumped into the pool. Not one person even finished one lap before I got in, and when I finished the warm up, he removed me from the pool and asked me when I got there. Of course I did not lie; I told him the truth. I told him 6:01. He then asked me what that meant, and I said that it means that that I am one minute late. he again asked me what that meant but I told him I didn’t know. He then told me that it meant that I had to go home. I helplessly tried to argue with him but I could not change anything. I then took an hour long shower in the locker room, and then got changed and aimlessly waited the remaining 45 minutes in the locker room.

Anyway, going back to the main story, I really did not want to swim. After I passed the the first intersection, I rode through Centennial park and made my way past all the side streets to the second and final intersection; Talcott, and the jock lot entrance.

I half stood there, half sat there on my bike, still debating whether I should actually go to practice or not. I let a few chances to cross the street go by before I crossed. Even then with every pedal towards school I felt more and more as if I did not want to swim. I pedaled down the long path into the school, and through the parking lot. I put my bike on the bike rack and locked it. I took short steps into the school. I turned left, passing the field house. I turned into the boys locker room. The feeling in my stomach intensified; the feeling of not wanting to swim. I went down the hallway, passing the bathrooms and turned right into the locker section of the locker room. I continued down a few rows of lockers and then put my bag down. I sat there for a little while, pulling out my phone to check the time; 5:50 it said. I took out my water bottle and took a swig. I glanced at my phone again. It said 5:55. I took out my jammers. I stared at them. I stared at them for a good minute. I then decided to put them on, but instead of going to the pool deck, I went to turn on the showers. I took a long hot shower, maybe an hour. I'm not sure, but all I remember thinking was how good it felt to not swim.

After about 45 minutes of taking a hot shower, I went back and changed. I sat down on the bench and pulled out my phone. I played a few games. It eventually got boring.

I look over to the door that led to the pool deck.

In my whole life, I never wanted to swim as much as I did in that moment.