The Brocket

The door to Brock’s bedroom opened at 3:30am. He could hear the creak of a footstep just inside his room. His eyes were wide open already, not being able to get much sleep the night before, but he couldn’t see who was there in the darkness. A soft voice cooed out to him, “Time to get up Brock, it’s the big day,” his mother whispered into the stillness of the pitch-black room where 9-year-old Brock Boone lay rigid under his blankets, flags dancing on the backs of his eyelids, the smell of coconut and chlorine still lingering about him, and a pounding in his heart that only he could feel.

Despite not getting much sleep the night before in anticipation, he flung his covers off his bed and ran frantically around his room making sure he had packed everything he needed for the “big day.” Goggles? Check! Suit? Check! Swim cap? Check!

“You ready big guy?” His father said as he leaned over at the bottom of the stairs to look his son in the eyes. Brock, in one sock, the other in hand, a swim bag on his back, and nerves eating his insides, could barely mumble a…”I think so,” before he was rushed into the back seat of an extended cab pick up truck, settled down on a pillow and blanket, and told to “Get some rest,” by his mother sitting in the passenger side, buckling up, and tuning the radio to any station with a semblance of keeping the driver awake for the next 2 and a half hours.

Brock buckled up and promptly fell over in the seat, snuggling up against his pillows and blankets, hoping to steal a few hours of sleep on the way to the Sundance Aquatic Association State Championships taking place in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the next morning. “Or is it this morning?” his brain questioned him, as he attempted to nod off to sleep, amidst a slow hum of the engine, a soft whir of the A/C integral to survival in the desert, even at 4 am.

As he settled to rest, country music playing in the background, the smell of coffee wafting from his parents cups in the center console, he internally retraced his steps of how he got to this moment. His grandmother, Pat, had tried to encourage him to join the swim team at the beginning of the season in April. Though he knew how to swim, he had never had proper training, and he was nervous to join a group of kids that he didn’t know. He attended a small charter school where he only had 12 classmates all between Kindergarten and 3rd grade, and there were not many coordinated sports activities besides “outdoor recreation” in which the kids would sometimes play kick ball, or T-Ball, or frisby. Otherwise, there was no structured type of “practice” and he had trepidations about joining something he had to commit to. Until he saw Gabe…

Gabe was one of his friends from school, and, although he was a year older, they got along really well. Gabe had been in swim lessons since he was 6, and had joined the swim team for the first time this year. When Brock’s Grandma brought him to practice, the coach, recognizing him from her tenure teaching at the small school, encouraged him to stick around and just observe. Brock watched the first practice, and started mentally taking notes. He also noticed that he was as good as, if not better, than some of the swimmers on the team, even some of the older ones! He was excited for a chance to join the team, and, after all, he wouldn’t be alone, because he had Gabe with him!

They practiced daily, from 4pm to 5pm, and Brock felt that he really just wasn’t up to par with the rest of the kids. Though in fierce competition with his friend Gabe, he met others on the team that were taller, faster, and more skilled than him. But it didn’t really daunt him. He continued to do his best in practices, and try to beat the other kids, listening to the coaches instruction, correction, and encouragement. It wasn’t until the first meet of the season though, that he really realized his potential. Swimming the fastest team in the state, he brought in a 1st place in the backstroke, and three 3rds for his other events. He was only 8 years old at the time, but would be turning 9 next month, and he didn’t realize that the age group you swim in is determined by your physical age on May 1st of each year. Gabe, whom he had been competing against for the first two months, was actually an age group above him, and he was now swimming against 8 year olds and younger. A smile crept into his heart.

He fell back into his reflection. Coach D was super excited at his placements at the first meet, and highly encouraged him to attend the special 8 and Under meet taking place the following week. Of the three events he swam, he took first place for the backstroke, and two third places for his other events. Extremely excited by his placements, he doubled down during practices and tried to learn as much as possible. He recalled the night before the State Championships, as his mother tucked him into bed, where he had asked her, “Do they have swim teams in college?” His mother, an exceptional athlete at over 6’4” replied, “Yes..Yes they do!” That inspired him even further.

After multiple wins at further meets, including his District qualifying time of nearly 3 seconds faster than his competition, his coach had started calling him, “The Brocket”, a combination of Brock and Rocket, which made him feel warm and happy inside. He recalled being displayed in the paper the previous week for his performance at the next swim meet where he was perfectly poised on the starting block for the 25 Freestyle, and the caption read that he was “Brock on the Block,” almost like Dr. Seuss.

Dreaming of starting blocks, and lanelines, and backstroke flags, nestled into pillows of luxury, and thoughts of exception, Brock was torn from his final slumber as the door he was resting his head on abruptly opened. The sun was up now, shining crisp and bright over the Sandia mountains, illuminating Hot Air Balloons floating along the lower valley of Albuquerque. He saw kids his own age wander into the meet, he also saw kids that were ten sizes larger than he was! His bag on his back, and a cart packed full of food and drinks rolled by his parents preceded him inside the largest swimming pool he’d ever seen!

It was enormous! Almost twice the size of the pool he had practiced in! With ceilings so high he would never be able to touch them! Flags were strewn about horizontally at the west end of the pool, and vertically at the east end. Metal rafters with walkways and lights abounded above, while 50 meters of water, ranging from 5 feet to 12 feet centered the facility, separated by a huge floating bulkhead that housed starting blocks on both ends of the pool, hooked up to electronic touchpads at the western edge of the “competition” pool. His eyes blazed and his heart raced again as he drank in everything his eyes and mind could process.

Brock settled down in a grassy area, under a canopy in camp chairs, with coolers, heat sheets, and various children sporting the tigerprint team suits. He looked around to spy his Grandma and Grandpa, his mom and dad and older brother Cole, his Aunt and Uncle, cousins, and extended family around him. He was in awe of his surroundings, and in awe of his progress. And then, a new feeling crept in. Domination.

The culmination of the swim season was this meet. It was his last chance to excel at all of the things he’d been taught, to show his natural talents, and to truly display his own aptitude and dexterity for swimming. He had had chlorine up his nose, and water in his ears, and sunblock in his eyes too many times this season NOT to come out on top!

He had qualified with the second fastest 8 and under time in the state for backstroke. And though he missed the top spots for the 25 and 50 meter freestyle at districts, he pulled a wildcard for the next fastest times in each. Therefore, he was prepared to swim all three events, plus relays, totalling 5 events for the championships. He flicked an ant off that was crawling on his knee as he settled in the grass. He looked up at his team and thought, “It’s now or never.”

He counted how many strokes it took him to hit the wall after seeing the backstroke flags during warm up. He double and triple counted them. He knew it would take 7 strokes and then he would hit the wall, kick into it, just glide into victory. He double and triple checked. He was seeded as the 2nd fastest 8 and Under boy in the state! Despite turning nine a few days prior to the meet. He practiced his start, his turn, his finish. He practiced his dive, his stroke, his own plan and agenda for securing the top time. He was as ready as he’d ever be.

He had a practice round during the first event, the 9-10 Boys Medley Relay, where he practiced his backstroke for the team. His short freestyle was a blur, as was his long free, but his backstroke was on point. As he jumped into the 12 foot deep pool, and slid his hands into the notched bulkhead, placed his feet, and calmed his heart, the starter said, “Take your mark!” And after practicing starts all week with a fellow state champion, he dove backwards off of the horn, butterfly kicked underwater, and surfaced into second place, a position which he held to the end.

He saw the flags pass his eyes and he counted, “One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six…” in his haste he had taken shorter strokes, and the wall wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Coach D had told him not to roll over, but he couldn’t see the wall, and he couldn’t feel it. He could be in the middle of the pool for all he knew, just kicking back, relaxing, one arm up, gliding in… This was it! This was victory! THis was GLORY! He just needed to find that wall, find that pad, slam it shut! Unsure of the end, he slightly rolled over to look at the wall. It was there! He slammed his hand in, and secured the 2nd place, silver medal, for the Sundance State Championships!

His heart stopped racing, his mind resumed thought, and he clambered out of the pool once more. He looked back at the scoreboard, a blur of numbers and places and times, and his coach gave him a high five, and his mother swept him into his arms, and a smile big enough to cover New Mexico when it rains crept into his face. He had done it. He had succeeded in doubt. He had overcome his fears and found himself equal and ready.

As he settled in at the booth at the restaurant after the State Championships, he dug his fork into a well earned treat. The moist chocolate cake, his only request for victory, melted upon his palate, and his family centered around him, exuberant of his accomplishments. He remembered Coach D hugging him upon the exodus of the meet, congratulating him on his victory, and encouraging him further. “If I grow up to be as tall as my mom,” he thought, “I might just challenge Michael Phelps…” Though he didn’t know it, his coach beamed with pride.