Free Whale Talk by Chris Crutcher Page A

this would have to be ugly.
    The other guys want to keep me in the water most of the time because if we are to score points, I’ll be getting most of them, but I won’t take more water time because I can rack up distance during off hours, and at this point camaraderie is as important as miles. I mean, we are going to have to like one another a lot to get through the season, and we are not exactly computer matched for personality compatibility.
    One unexpected gain. Loud music at four-thirty is not conducive to sleep, so Oliver Van Zandt has become our unofficial interim coach until Simet can come on board, just after Thanksgiving, according to state regulations. Oliver knows squat about swimming, but he’s been an athlete all his life, so he studies the workout Simet and I prepare, and yells at us the entire time. This is truly becoming a Far Side swimming team.
     
    I phone Simet late one afternoon after workout. “You need to take me to dinner.”
    “Why can’t we just meet in my room after school, or during your study hall?”
    “Because the best I could get there is that wretched fried egg sandwich your wife sends with you. Why don’t you tell her how cold and hard that thing gets?”
    We meet at a little Italian place he likes, which I’m sure he thought would intimidate me because the menu is hard to read and most of the diners dress relatively well. Guess again. My father and I have a common tie, and I can turn it and a shirt and a pair of Dockers into a G.Q . thing for sure.
    Simet orders a glass of wine and a Coke for me. “So why are you plaguing me? And whatever happened to pizza?”
    “Pseudo-Italian,” I tell him. “It doesn’t cost enough.”
    He reaches over and grips my triceps. “You getting into shape?”
    “Against all odds,” I say. “Getting in five to six thousand yards.”
    “Are the other guys showing up?”
    I assure him they are. “I’m working some with Chris; getting him used to the idea of being on a team and getting on a schedule. I’m worried about what he’ll do the first time he hears a starter gun.”
    “What about DeLong and Mott?”
    “Haven’t seen Mott yet.” I don’t tell him it’s to my relief. You never know what Mott is thinking, whether he’s simply feeling ornery—a natural state for him—or if he’s plotting a mass murder. “Simon’s there like clockwork.” I shake my head in wonder. “He’s the only guy I’ve ever seen who can raise the water level in a swimming pool.” I take a long drink. “We still need to talk about letter requirements.”
    “I told you not to worry, you’ll get your letter.”
    “Yeah, but I’m thinking about the other guys.”
    Simet says, “We can make it a particular number of points. A first place gets you five. Second is three and third is one. You can swim three individual events or two individuals and a relay. Let’s say you earn a letter if you average two points per meet.”
    I consider our personnel. Most of them won’t beat anyone on the other team and will only pick up third-place points in the events I’m not swimming or in events where the other team swims only one swimmer. I say, “How about just if they don’t drown?”
    Simet laughs. “Somewhere between lies a compromise. We’ve got time to think about it. We have to be careful; the athletic department has a lot of pride at this school, and a lot of clout. The letter jacket is the ultimateprize. I’m going to have to be judicious if I want respect in the coaching fraternity.” He is only half joking.
    “Well,” I say, “somehow we have to put it within reach.”
     
    There is something seriously messed up about Rich Marshall being around as much as he is. Since he’s now the head guy at Marshall Logging, he seems able to take off as much time as he wants to play school, which he’s been doing to some degree since the year after he graduated. I mean, the guy never left, was roaming the halls back when I was a freshman. I understand why