I sat about half way up the bleachers in the middle of Joe Perkins Natatorium at Southern Methodist University for the first preliminary session of the National AAU Swimming Championships in 1967. In the warm Spring afternoon, the Dallas humidity made the temperature inside the poorly ventilated building almost unbearable. While my chin rested on my clenched fist, I could feel little droplets of perspiration running down from under my armpits along my rib cage. Heat six of the men’s 200 yard individual medley (IM) had just been called to the starting blocks and suddenly, the half-interested crowd of mostly swimmers and coaches turned its attention toward the swimmer in lane three.

Mark Spitz stood relaxed, shaking his right arm first, then shaking his left arm. The powerful muscles dangled loosely from his long arms, as if they were attached to the bones by mere threads. Balancing his left leg on the ball of his foot, with the knee bent slightly, he shook his thigh slowly from side to side until it seemed those big upper leg muscles would also loosen to the point of falling off. Then he did the same motion with his right leg. For a moment, while he stood on the back of the starting block staring at the other end of the pool, contemplating the task ahead, his typical swimmer’s slumped posture, complete with rounded back, small rump and hyperextend knees, created an oversized portrayal of the number 3 painted on the side of his block.

When the whistle sounded for the start, the limp, curvy, yet powerful body of Spitz suddenly stood erect. He shook his arms for the last time and bent over to take his mark. The gun went off and so did he, gliding with seemingly effortless motion through each of the four strokes, easily qualifying for the finals.

I was simply awed. How had this swimmer from Northern California, that I had first met just five years ago, turned from the skinny, scrawny twelve-year-old kid into a teenaged superstar? Even though he was just one and a half years older than I was, he was already breaking American records. People were predicting how many gold medals he would win in the Olympic Games of Mexico City in the following year.

There I was in the stands, sweating as if I were the one swimming his race, recognizing that I had found a new hero; one who was barely older than me. I went back to my hotel after that, beginning to think about my one and only event for the entire meet, the 400 IM. I jumped into the bathtub and for the first time in my life, shaved all the hair, which was mostly peach fuzz, from my arms and legs as swimmers do to reduce drag, all the while visualizing Mark Spitz’s 200 IM.

The following morning, in lane one for my preliminary heat of the 400 IM, I was still dreaming about Spitz. Momentarily, I forgot who I was and what I was capable of doing. I swam the first hundred yards of butterfly, going out faster than I had ever swum a 100 butterfly in a race before. The problem was I still had 300 meters yet to swim. The backstroke wasn’t quite as nice as the fly and by the time I reached the breaststroke, I was in such pain and in such need of oxygen, I literally gasped for air with each breath, dreading the thought of having to lower my head again. It was as if someone were torturing me by dunking my head underwater, allowing me up for air only to keep me alive. On the final 100 yards of freestyle, I was sick to my stomach, unsure of how I could manage a flip turn, yet too embarrassed to do an open turn at this level of competition.

Somehow, I finished the race, dead last, and hung my head over the lane rope. Big Ed Olson, the meet manager, reached down and squeezed my arm tightly with his strong hand and with one motion, pulled me out of the water. Gently, he layed me down on my back on the pool deck. The natatorium was spinning above. It took everything I had to keep from heaving.

In just over 4 minutes and 20 seconds, I had come to the painful realization that I was not Mark Spitz. Having him become my hero was one thing, but remembering who I was was far more important. From that moment on, I never forgot that. Mark was an inspiration, a hero; someone to shoot for. He had raised the bar. Every other swimmer in the pool, including me, would have to follow him … or get out of the pool. Mark made us all better.

The moral to this story is this : Find a hero. Dare to dream … but know thyself.

Yours in swimming,

Gary Sr.