All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Revisiting my first failure
It’s a lazy summer morning, one of those days that just drifts by, with sunlight seeping in through the windows. I sift dreamily through my closet, looking for something to wear. The closet seems to be filled with mostly t-shirts, but my eyes are drawn to a swimsuit hanging in a small corner of the closet. I frown. It looks vaguely familiar, like something from a dream. The swimsuit is red, warmed by orange and yellow flames running down the back. I pick it up and examine it. It looks like it has been worn before. As the harsh scent of chlorine fills my nose, a flood of almost-forgotten memories rushes into my mind…
I was in fourth grade, and swam with girls in middle school (often defeating them). My team competed during fall, from September to November. The final meet of the season would be on November 7th. I was extremely nervous about the meet because I had never swum that late in the year and because the team would swim in an outdoor pool. Now, some may think that swimming on any day during the fall would be just the same as swimming in the spring. However, where I swim, November mornings are as chilly as the winter days, only without snow. I could see my breath freeze and curl upward toward the ceiling of the locker room. Trying to ignore the nervous broodings of “I’m so scared” and “We might freeze to death before we even get in the pool” of the other girls in the locker room, I thought about how much I liked to swim. I imagined myself gliding through the water like I always did, feeling free and relaxed. The splash of the water, the muted cheering of the crowd.
A sharp honk jerked my thoughts back to the locker room. The referee had blown the air horn, signaling that there were five minutes until the meet officially began. I hastily pulled off my shirt and pants, revealing the tight-fitting swimsuit that all the girls on my team were wearing. I shivered. The sight of the warm, bright flames licking the red background contrasted sharply with the feel of the frigid fall air. A warm tingle ran down my back when I looked at the flames. I followed my teammates outside the door of the locker room, to the pool.
I clutched a towel around my shoulders, trying to shield myself from the piercing cold of the outdoors. My teammates also appeared to be startled by the sudden, unexpected burst of cold air. They appeared to be even more nervous than ever, with their teeth chattering and sputtering expressions of fear and anxiety. Another honk made us jump: the meet had begun.
My coach had assigned me to the 200-meter freestyle and the 100-meter backstroke. The 200-meter freestyle was first on the schedule. I stared at the pool, seeming to notice it for the first time. The water lapping at the concrete sides of the pool no longer looked friendly. Today it looked as if it wanted to pull me to the bottom of the pool and make me freeze into a human ice cube. I shuddered and looked away, throwing my towel on the concrete next to my coach. Coach Jaime was a slim, blonde college-age woman, not caring about winning as much as caring about the team having a high morale. When she saw me with an expression of utter distress on my face, naturally, she was very concerned.
“Are you okay? You look like you’re in a trance,” she said.
“I’m fine, just fine”, I replied mechanically.
As I walked to my starting block, I wondered how cold the water would be. It would be much colder than the near-freezing air whipping around me. I clambered on top of the block. I numbly heard the referee say, “Swimmers, take your mark.” I bent down and prepared to dive into the freezing waters below. The loud beep of the start signal sounded. My legs acted of their own accord, springing back and propelling me to the water. It took about a second for my head to touch the water. It was excruciating. My nerves screamed silently in protest. As my whole body splashed underwater and streamlined forward, it felt as if I was being stabbed by icicles. The stabbing sensation subsided to a faint prickling. Meanwhile, my brain, just as numb as my body, only thought methodically, “Reach forward, pull, breathe; keep kicking, I can make it; reach forward, pull, breathe …”
I managed to finish all 200 meters of the race and ended up placing second in my heat. Exhausted and still recovering from the shock of swimming in sub-freezing water, I wanted to do anything but swim again. I was numb and barely noticed as my teammates pulled me out of the pool, clapping me on the back and squealing “Good job, little J!” I had no time or energy left to bask in my glory. I had about ten minutes until the backstroke started, and I felt like I was about to die. The cold air slapped and stung my face and legs as I ran jerkily to the other pool where the backstroke was taking place. I stared at my lane, refusing to jump in and grimacing at the sight of the other girls practicing while shaking uncontrollably in the pool. I bit my lip and was about to lurch into the pool, but jumped back at the last second and ran.
“Hey, kid! Where’re you going? The event’s gonna start soon!” I ignored the hoarse shouts of the stocky male referee and sprinted for the locker room. I couldn’t make myself do it. I didn’t look over my shoulder. I just ran.
I ended up in the parking lot, and fortunately, I was alone. I thought of how I must have looked running, barefoot and still dripping, to the parking lot. I felt so stupid and angry. For the first time in my life, I was ashamed of myself. How could I be such a wimp? Is this who I was, only a girl who couldn’t even handle swimming in cold water? As I dragged my feet towards the locker room, I continued to jab at my own stupidity and weakness. How could I do this to myself? This was the first time that I had ever failed at anything. I could never live it down.
To my relief, the locker room was empty as well. As I punched my arms and head through my t-shirt and kicked my pants and shoes on, I began to wonder what would happen next. I laughed to myself ruefully when I remembered that this was the last meet of the season. I had ended the season terribly, but I wouldn’t have to face Coach Jaime or my teammates. I had been spared from an eternity of shame. I could forget all about swimming.
As my dad drove me home, he asked, “How did you do?” I plastered a smile on my face and cheerfully said that I did well, although I felt defeated. I recounted the whole meet, leaving out the part about the failed backstroke. When I went home and changed clothes, I hung my swimsuit on a hook where it wouldn’t be seen. I wanted to forget about my failure and move on.
Looking at that little swimsuit now, which I had left forgotten in a dark corner of my closet for almost five years, I realize that I have succeeded in overlooking that event. I didn’t realize it back then, but running away from the pool that day had changed me. I wanted to haven’t swam competitively in four years, and have replaced swimming with tennis as my main sport. When I look at the flames on the swimsuit, I still feel those warm tingles travel down my spine although the colors have somewhat faded. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I didn’t lose my nerve during that swim meet. Would I be swimming for my school instead of playing tennis? I would have had different friends, different goals, and most importantly, a different life.