You could almost hear the hearts pounding inside the nervous lean bodies of the six swimmers preparing themselves on the starting blocks for the finals of the 200-yard breastroke. After the starter had blown the whistle signaling for the start, it was that quiet. Most of the eyes of the 2500 spectators inside the Payne Whitney Gymnasium at Yale University on this evening just before 9 pm in the Spring of 1946 were focused on the odds on favorite, Jimmy Counsilman, the fastest qualifier in lane 3 from Ohio State. Most thought that it was Counsilman who had the best shot of breaking Joe Verdeur’s world record of 2:21.0. But even with the meet in the bag for Ohio State, there was so much tension; the spectators, perched in the highest seats five stories directly above, perspiring from the humidity, looking down on a swimming pool that appeared to be no larger than a small tank to a circus diver, could feel it.

Under that kind of pressure, even Counsilman knew the world record might not fall. He was more concerned about just winning the race. He wasn’t too worried about Urstadt from Dartmouth in lane 2 or Siebold from Michigan State in lane 4. He could see them, and if it came down to the end, he figured he could beat them on the final 50 yards. But he wasn’t too sure about Charlie Keating in lane 1, who just barely squeaked into the finals. If it hadn’t been for Keating’s coach at the University of Cincinnati, Tiny Pfeiffer, mouthing off to the press about Charlie breaking the world record in practice two weeks before these collegiate championships with an unofficial 2:20.8, he probably wouldn’t have even thought twice about him. But as Counsilman glanced over toward Keating for one last sizing up before they were to pounce into the water, the 6 foot 4 inch Keating did not reciprocate. Instead, he stayed focused on the end of that 25-yard lane of pool leading to the first turn. The way Keating saw it, it may have been Counsilman’s race, but it was also Counsilman’s race to lose.

When the blast of the starter’s gun echoed throughout the swimming gymnasium and the swimmers momentarily disappeared under the water after the dive, the entire crowd stood to its feet in anticipation of one of the most exciting races of the 1946 collegiate championships. What they witnessed, to everyone’s surprise, did not appear to be a contest of six swimmers, but only five. Just five swimmers from lanes 2 to 6 emerged from the start and surfaced with the traditional butterfly armstroke coupled with a powerful frog kick thrusting them forward to the approaching wall. And they were dead even at the first turn. What most didn’t see, however, is that the swimmer missing in lane 1, Charlie Keating, never emerged after the start. He just stayed under water, taking advantage of a rarely used rule that allowed a breastroke swimmer to stay under water after the start or turn as long as his breath would hold him. But no one in his right mind would consider doing that in a 200-yard breastroke. Even back then, everyone knew that if one tried, he would go into oxygen debt so deeply, that the last 100 yards would be suicidal. In fact, if there was ever a reason to have lifeguards at a championship-swimming meet, this was it. But there weren’t too many like Charlie Keating. He would do it simply because everyone said it couldn’t be done.

Without almost even being noticed in the race, except for the deep, loud gasps of air he claimed during each turn, Keating made the turn at 100 yards in 1:03, way out in front of the pack of five other swimmers. Only after making the turn at the halfway point did Keating emerge and begin his normal lunge above the water and frog kick. But by the time Counsilman could now finally spot him out of the corner of his eye, the race appeared to be all but over. Picking up his tempo, he tried valiantly to catch the fading Keating, who was gasping for air with each stroke like an asthmatic clinging to life with the need of each molecule of oxygen. With 50 yards to go. he was only a body length behind and pulling up fast. 25 yards to go and only 2 yards behind. The crowd was now screaming so loud that the noise was deafening. Could Keating be caught? The entire last lap, Counsilman kept gaining and gaining, but the final wall was getting closer. It was only a question of whether Keating could hold on. When they both swam under the backstroke flags, a few yards from the finish, no one could predict a winner. They both lunged for the wall with two outstretched arms to touch with both hands as the rules required. It was Keating’s 37-inch arms that proved to be the difference, as he hit the wall first in a time of 2:26.2. Jubilantly, he dragged himself out of the pool with his last bit of energy and raised his arms in victory. A disappointed Counsilman walked over to Keating, shook his hand and congratulated him. It was the end of that race, and the last time these two would swim against each other, but it was the beginning of a lifelong relationship, one that would intersect many times.

There were many similarities between these two young men and many differences. They both came from humble beginnings, both raised primarily by loving mothers. Counsilman’s father was an alcoholic who abandoned the family and Keating’s father was an invalid with Parkinson’s disease who spent half his life in a wheelchair. Both were self-made. Counsilman, one of the greatest swimmers of his day, went on to become known as “Doc” and arguably the greatest swimming coach of all time. As a doctor of physiology, he was certainly the first to apply science to the sport. Keating became a successful lawyer and later an entrepreneur, using his wealth and love of swimming to build two of the finest swimming facilities in the country in Cincinnati and Phoenix. But he became best known as the scapegoat for the Savings and Loan crisis of the 80′s and 90′s and was imprisoned for 5 years.

For years, when Doc’s Indiana swimmers would travel to the first dual meet of the season against the University of Cincinnati, Indiana would dutifully trounce UC, yet Keating would respectfully invite Doc and his swimmers over for dinner. Doc always came and tolerated listening to Charlie tell the story about how he beat Doc that unforgettable night at Yale in 46. Perhaps that is why Doc enjoyed annihilating UC each year in the dual meet. Charlie never got to hear Doc’s side of the story in the station wagon on the way home.

It was at one of those memorable dinners where I fell in love with Keating’s second oldest daughter, Mary. Four years later, and two years after our marriage, she bore a son, Gary Jr., the first of six children. Gary Jr, given a swimmer’s gene pool if ever there was one, went on to become one of America’s most decorated Olympians, and one of the fastest swimmers in history.

Last year, Doc passed away, ironically, with Parkinson’s disease. Never before in the sport of swimming has a single person affected more lives in a positive way. No other person in the sport has been so revered and respected by so many. Today, Charlie Keating Jr. lives in Phoenix, and at the age of 81, is making a comeback in the business world, negotiating deals in the hot Arizona real estate market. He is loved by some and despised by others. And on this particular weekend, he is down in Islamorada, Florida, site of the Race Club, where years ago, he once took his six children and wife on annual vacations.

The world of swimming is very small and very tight. We are all in it together. It is, after all, the greatest sport out there. Period. And it is a sport for life. Let us not ever forget that.