No one knew who Dylan was swimming for. Everybody watching him rock his arm muscles before he mounted the block and bent forward following his loose hands down to the lip of the platform assumed it was for the title or maybe for college. Girls, maybe.
His dad watched from the stands. He could see the clock and the block when Dylan pulled back for the spring and looked one last time down the lane because I was down at the end of 25 watching every muscle but also hearing him laugh when we talked about the girls who hid in corners thinking he was perfect when he actually farted a lot and liked Carney’s hotdogs because they made him fart more until his room stank to high heaven and his mom yelled to stop farting so much because it was “stinkin’ up the whole damn house” while his dad laughed and asked from the living room if some of that gas would help in the pool.
All fun and games until we were poolside and Dylan made a deal with me: “If I come in over 20, name your prize.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
There was no way he was going under 20 seconds. It was a gimme. His way of saying he wasn’t afraid.
He dove through the hoop and dophined once before cresting into power that took our breath in a gasp and then a shout. Dylan beat water to the wall and flipped. A wave crashed on deck. Dolphin. His legs forged a wake. I grew proud. It’d be close.
We sat in his car. It was dark. It smelled like chili dogs.
“Loser,” I said.
And he let another one rip.
*
Greg Beckman 