Chasing Water. Anthony Ervin

      1.

      The Ready Room

       I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness—a real thorough-going illness.

      —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground

       Are you ready for a good time? Are you ready ready ready?

      —AC/DC, “Are You Ready”

       London Olympics, 50 Free Final, August 2, 2012

      The reigning Olympic champion is beating his chest. His hand is cupped, which makes the sound even louder. A few others start doing it too, some sitting, some standing. The chest-slapping echoes through the makeshift room. Does inducing blood flow to these muscle groups really make any difference? Or is this a war cry, a preparatory battle sound? Maybe it’s a confidence boost.

      Drop these thoughts. They’re distractions. There’s no room for error in the 50 and distractions lead to error. It is a truth universally acknowledged that an athlete in pursuit of victory must be in want of an empty mind—why is Jane Austen in my head? My thoughts are swinging like monkeys from vine to vine. I try to turn my focus back to my upcoming swim: the start, the breakout, the swim, the finish. It’s a constant tug-of-war, rehearsing my game plan without letting other thoughts interrupt it. If the thoughts come along I try to just recognize them and let them go. Same idea behind meditation.

      But I can’t maintain my focus, can’t help but circle back to the chest thumping. César’s pecs are mottled red from the blows. Maybe all the hitting is a cry for attention. I look down at all the tats covering my arms. Who’s to say these aren’t a cry for attention too? Maybe I’ve also inflicted pain on myself to stand out and be noticed. I’ve always talked about them as my way of reclaiming my body after I left the sport, but maybe that’s just me trying to make something noble out of my peacocking.

      Races are won and lost in this room before they even begin. It can get intense: some pray, some smack themselves, some try to intimidate their opponents by staring them down. Right now a few guys are bouncing on the balls of their feet, pummeling and kneading their muscles, shaking their dangling arms. A couple are praying and murmuring to themselves. I’m sitting perfectly still—ironic, because my mind is all over the place. How’d I get here again? It’s been twelve years and I’m back in the ready room of the 50 free Olympic final. In a few minutes, I’ll once again vie with seven other swimmers for the title of fastest swimmer in the world.

      In this room, the ready room, time is compressed, magnifying my isolation. There are almost no familiar faces this time—no Bart Kizierowski, no Gary Hall Jr. But there is Roland Schoeman, who’s older even than I and still in the game. I first swam against him freshman year of college and we’ve been friends since. A knowing look passes between us. A fiber also connects me to the people I care about who are in the stands right now, who’ve flown across an ocean to watch me. I try to shake off the pressure of their expectations and redirect my attention to my start.

      But that only makes things worse. My start in yesterday’s semifinal is still a radiating, pulsing memory. It’s so raw even my muscles and nerves remember it. When the starting signal went off, I pulled on the block too hard, causing a subluxation of my shoulder. I left the block in a bolt of panic and hyper-awareness. I’ve only felt adrenaline like that once before, when I almost died while running from the police. In the adrenaline rush time slows down. It gave me the space to yank my arm while in the air, causing my shoulder to suck back into place as I entered the water. But I recovered and the rest of the race fell into place perfectly. I caught up, placing third and making the finals heat. Fortuna may have shone down on me then, but I can’t afford another start like that.

      There’s a roar from the crowd. We’re up. This is no time for self-doubt. We stand in file and prepare to make our entrance. It’s far less theatrical here in London than it was at Olympic Trials in Omaha, where the entire stadium was darkened except for spotlights on the lanes. But far from diminishing the occasion’s significance, the austere brightness only makes it stand out more starkly.

      Do I belong here, at the world’s premiere swim contest? I do. I’m not one for false modesty. But do I deserve to be here? Probably not. Others have worked harder, sacrificed more. I’m only here because I excel at a stunt, because I’m able to move my body through water for 50 meters faster than others. It’s just a little trick, a well-performed acrobatic. For this I get to be paraded around the world and ogled over. I’m not saving a life or writing a magnum opus or masterminding some epic heist. I’m just sprinting down a pool, like a prize racehorse galloping around a track. And yet a lot of value is imposed on this. For some reason, the world finds this meaningful.

      Who am I kidding, playing the blasé intellectual? For months now I’ve been correcting reporters for labeling my return to swimming a “comeback,” telling them I’m just here to enjoy the journey, to regain a love of the sport. Which is true. And bullshit. As much as I hate to admit it, I want to win. I know it in my overcharged nerves. I was just trying to trick myself into thinking I didn’t want it. It was my way of keeping the pressure off. But here, at the worst possible time, I recognize it, feel overwhelmed by it. I’m trapped by my own ploy.

      It’s time. The announcer calls us out one by one. Even through my headphones I can hear the crowd. The memory of my shoulder is hovering over me as I step out onto the stage.

      I’m not ready.