Page 27 of Stroked Hard
With a deep breath, I do my pre-dive ritual.
If you’ve ever watched a diving competition before, you will see the weird things we take part in. First of all, we carry around a shammy. It’s our lifeline, our security blanket, a little piece of us that we can show off since all our Speedos are pretty generic. These little scraps of fabric actually serve a purpose, rather surprising, I know. We don’t just walk around with these draped over our shoulders thinking we look cool.
Have you ever performed a tuck flip? Have you ever done one at the velocity we perform, flip after flip until you part at just the right moment before hitting the water? Imagine trying to do one when your hands or legs are wet. Pretty much impossible. You will find quite quickly that water is slippery and if you’re not dry, that tuck flip will turn right into a belly flop.
Shammies are important.
Also, when walking around on the pool deck near the base of the platforms, you might see divers standing in place, acting out their dives. Don’t worry; it’s normal even though it looks like we are trying to swat away a bee.
That’s what I’m currently doing, practicing my take-off and pretending to twist, turn, and pike all the way into the water. I perform this routine five times before walking up the steps to the top platform.
Yes, we have to walk up the steps. There is no elevator or escalator or lift. Nope, we hike it up. Practice is a lot of fun when all you’re doing is dive after dive. You become conditioned rather fast, hence my occasional indulgence in a little ice cream.
Fuck, what I wouldn’t give for a cone right about now. Twist with rainbow sprinkles. Fuck chocolate jimmies, I want the colorful shit, not little sugar confections that will make my ice cream look like a spotted turd on a cone.
I dip in the hot tub to warm up my body, do a quick run of my shammy over my body and start to make my way up the stairs, the whole time playing my dive over and over in my head. Muscle memory, that’s all it is. Clear my head and let my muscle memory do its job.
Don’t let it be your worst.
I’m not going to let her down. I’m not going to let my family down. And to hell if I will give Coach Ted the satisfaction of seeing me fail without him being around.
Once I’m at the top, I focus on the platform in front of me, nothing else. I tune out the crowd chanting my name, wishing for the two-time Olympic gold medalist to once again secure another spot on the team. I run the green shammy Holly gave me when I was in college over my body, making sure everything is as dry as it can get, then I tie it in a knot, lean over the edge of the platform so I hover above the hot tubs and toss it to where I’ll pick it up after my dive.
The announcer introduces me, my cue to move forward with my dive.
Muscle memory. You’ve done this dive a thousand times, a front four-and-a-half tuck. In layman’s terms, I jump off the board, tuck my knees to my chest, and flip four times before parting the water with my hands. The most difficult dive to accomplish but well worth the payoff if done correctly.
It’s been the dive that’s made me and also broken me.
Walking up to position, I ignore the numbers calculating in my head, I ignore the announcer talking about my dive, and I ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head that keeps warning me about what failure of this dive means.
Right then, I hear Coach Wilson’s deep voice in my head.Hollis, you know the dive. You own the dive. Perfect the dive. You. Can. And. You. Will.
I focus on my movements.
Taking a deep breath, I raise my arms in the air, poise my feet, count to three and go.
One . . .
Two . . .
Three . . .
With a giant leap into the air, I tuck my legs forward hold on tight and count my revolutions. Before I know it, I hit four, untuck, spot the water, take a deep breath and push down into the water with my hands flat, separating them to create a vortex so the water above me is sucked in rather than splashing out, a technique I’ve mastered.
As soon as I hit the water, I know I’ve nailed it. If not from the feeling rushing through me but from the echoes of the crowd’s cheers chanting my name.
I swim to the surface, yank on my speedo before exiting the pool, making sure everything is in place, and then look up at my family who is uncontrollably dancing up and down in their bedazzled Hollis Howlers shirts.
I grab my shammy and quickly head for the hot tub where I warm up, shaking opponents’ hands on my way.
It doesn’t take long for me to receive my score. Within seconds, I’m no longer in a bleak position on the scoreboard. Instead, I’m number two on the board with only one other person to go; the leader. I’m going to Rio.
Fuck if that’s not a relief.
It’s a whirlwind of getting some clothes on, fixing my hair somewhat, and running through interviews. The one thing going through my mind isn’t the fact that I’ve made my third Olympics, but how much I wish Melony was here so I could celebrate with her in person.Fuck how I wish she was here.Maybe I’ll give her another call tonight.
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