This comment was to be posted on this article here …
It was the hot summer afternoon of my junior high school’s Annual Swimming Carnival in suburban Sydney, and it was a long time ago.
We spectator schoolboys, spaced around the concrete tiers of the open-roofed swimming pool in small groups of friends, each had a copy of the event timetable to which we often referred to see what was coming up next.
There was lots of excitement with the school’s best swimmers entering events of various distances such as the 50 yards race, then the 100 yard and then the 200 yard race, with the fastest swimmers being loudly urged on and the winners always being cheered as they got out of the water. Everything went as one would expect at a happy December swimming carnival until, about two thirds of the way through the afternoon’s events, something extraordinary happened.
The scheduled event was the 400 yard race requiring eight complete laps of the pool. Those entering took their places and at the starter’s signal all dived in. It soon became apparent to those watching that this particularly long race would take a while, and so we lads began talking about unrelated topics while keeping an occasional watch on the swimmers’ progress.
The spacing between entrants gradually increased according to individual talent and strength. Naturally the fastest contestants were increasingly urged on as they neared the finish with the loudest cheering quite naturally reserved for the first three. Eventually all swimmers emerged from the pool; all that is, except one.
Where was this barely-noticed slowcoach? Ah, there he was, way behind and swimming ever so slowly towards the half way point. Oh dear, we’d have to patiently wait a while whether we liked it or not.
Discussions in our small groups, with no event in the pool and the water now still, was how we lads filled the time. Now and again one of us would glance downwards to slowcoach, where, with some scrutiny, forward progress could be detected and then that observer, satisfied for the time being, would report to his chatting mates “He’s still going.” This procedure became ritual and it occurred many times.
All the other contestants were out of the pool but this vexatious soul was barely half way along the course. We had to wonder: what on earth was this boy thinking by entering the longest race of the day? Surely he would have known that he had no hope of winning any race! All spectators, with nothing exciting to watch, fell rather silent. This event had now become boring and we began thinking how we’d get home from an unfamiliar place.
Few of us were interested in watching this swimmer’s progress because his miserable performance had become embarrassing to us. Those who did look at him saw strange sights. Sometimes he swam strongly and sometimes he slowed, even at times stopping while he recovered energy. Refreshed, he’d strike out again but, increasingly tired, he’d occasionally prang into his lane’s left guide rope. Realising his error but probably stressed and confused, he’d then veer to the other side of his lane and prang into the right guide rope. At least once he gatecrashed into the next lane itself. On one or two occasions after treading water to rest he’d start off anew – but alas, in the reverse direction. Loud yelling from a few poolside observers alerted him and he’d stop, then correct his course.
This lad’s weird behaviour now had some of us wondering if he’d drown. We wondered if a supervising teacher would dive in to save him, and then we realised with some shock that along the pool’s entire length there were no teachers anywhere near him. In the wicked thinking of young teenage boys we felt there might be a treat coming up, or more correctly, doing down, as he drowned before our very eyes. None of us had ever seen a “deady” before and so this would be something new in our lives. We knew this thinking was wrong, but then again if it happened we didn’t want to miss it.
Whilst chatting quietly in the tiers amongst ourselves we suddenly heard a voice from down poolside. A single voice had uttered the word “Johnny!” This was fair enough because the name of this swimming housebrick was in fact John. Soon afterwards we heard that voice again, and then a second voice uttering the same name. As Johnny swam onwards with all the style and elegance of a wounded walrus, more and more voices joined the originals and their combined volume increased with each stoke of this tortured soul’s sterling efforts as he passed the half-way point and strove forward. Of course we wondered if he’d ever reach the finish but as the timetable was now wrecked and beyond recovery it didn’t really matter any more.
The voices calling his name became louder as more and more classmates joined in to urge John ever forward with increasingly shrill cries of “John-eee, John-eee, John-eee” and this became a chorus and then a very loud chant. The closer John got to the end of his awful swimming ordeal the louder became the chanting, and by the time he made it to the end and was being helped out of the water the cheering had reached near-deafening crescendos.
How come I’ve remembered the full name and the unusual florid features of this gentle but caring and always quietly supportive but now obvious failure – and that over the intervening sixty years or so have forgotten everything about all winners?
It is because this fine young lad battled so bravely and so impressively ever onwards with honour while unselfishly motivated to earn points for his team just by entering any race – an entirely noble purpose despite his self-known ability to swim like a dying duck, and also because he eventually succeeded, greatly exhausted of course, but without cheating in any way.
There were many winners at the pool that day. They all received due applause, praise and recognition and had their names entered into the school records, but on that special afternoon so long ago, and perhaps for me alone, it was this magnificent, glorious loser who really won the day.
I am reminded of the brief Biblical verse, wholly unrelated of course, that “many that are first shall be last; and the last shall be first.”
