The Swimming Diaries: The Comeback

Prologue

October 21, 2008—NAIA 3, Pre-Departure Lounge

Fire and Desire—two words my coaches have constantly been barking ever since I started swimming. Fire and Desire; Passion and Hunger; Determination and Diligence; the list of synonyms goes on and on. Every time I arrive home from training before facing my books, I spare a few moments just thinking about these words and reflect just how my life would be had I not realized the importance of these two in swimming.

Before anything else, I want to make something clear. I am a swimmer—always was and always will be. Though my true dedication to the sport blossomed a lot later than it should have, I am more dedicated to achieving greatness and perfection in my swimming than anyone else I know or am acquainted with. I just do not wear it on my sleeve like most. I like to keep things close to my chest, you see. While I do not necessarily hide my motivations and reasons, I only reveal such things when I feel that it is right for me to do so. Otherwise, I make it a point to do my own thing regardless of what people might or might not think.

However, with everything that has transpired last semester, I feel that I must explain myself to some degree. When I said that my dedication to swimming blossomed a lot later than it should have, I literally meant a lot later. I have been swimming for almost a decade but to my everlasting shame, this loyalty I feel to swimming manifested only a month ago, around late September. Actually, now that I think about it, it happened exactly a month ago. How about that?

At the moment, I am at Ninoy Aquino International Airport 3. My teammates and I are waiting for our boarding call for our flight to Dumaguete City, Dumaguete as we are participating in the 13^th University Games. I look out the massive windows of the pre-departure area and witness the sun slowly rising from the horizon. No doubt, the cool October air will dissipate pretty soon. Scanning the massive holding area, I notice that the entire Ateneo delegation has pretty much mellowed down; a while ago, everyone wearing blue and white Adidas jackets was bursting with energy. Seeing their teammates this early no doubt shot surges of adrenaline through their bodies that now, almost every Atenean is starting to feel restless—the effects of early morning flights I figure.

With most of my teammates either sleeping, listening to their iPods or conversing with friends from the other teams, I retreat to this corner with my Coke trying to remember the events which led me to this very moment as accurately as possible. Boarding time is 7:45; my watch says that it is only 6:30. Plenty of time to put this all down, I find.

I started this entry with two words—Fire and Desire. No other words could best describe what took place this past year and half. Taking a quick drink from my cold soda and putting on my earphones, I close my eyes momentarily, willing my memories to swirl in a whirlpool-like collection. As I open my eyes, I can instantly feel the memories I have recalled flood through my mind. It is as if I am watching video montages of blurry, foggy scenes that are not related yet, from a larger perspective, are interconnected nonetheless. I smirk a little as I begin to wind the clock backwards a year and a half ago.

Chapter 1 – The Decision

October 12, 2007—3^rd floor, Rizal Library

This week has truly been one of the most overrated weeks of my college life so far. To be honest, this entire semester has been overrated in a sense that everything I dreaded coming into college never manifested with regard to my academics. Perhaps I put too much stock in the horror stories some of my older friends shared when I asked them about freshman life in the Loyola Schools. I recall sweating bullets and worrying endlessly when a friend related how he dreaded coming to class every Tuesday and Thursday because he got the dreaded math professor a freshman could possibly get.

“She has a Ph D in mathematics, Jim!” he told me. “It seems as if she’s talking her own language composed of variables, numbers and some language deader than Aramaic!”

I scoffed at the idea at first. After all, what kind of teacher would make the life a non-mathematics major freshman a living hell? It was standard math, for crying out loud! Later that night, when I told me brother about it he told me that every word my friend said was true. With what I can describe as a milder version of the infamous thousand-yard stare, my brother turned to me and said, “Bro, she was my teacher…” All at once, the room started spinning and I had difficulty breathing. 

In hindsight, I never should have worried about it so much. While I was demoted from Math 11—the standard, credited subject—to the basic, no-credit, pass-or-fail math or Math 1 after failing spectacularly in a diagnostic test, it was actually a blessing in disguise. With absolute minimal effort, I breezed through the class, perfecting all the long tests and getting a B+ in both the midterms and final exams. It was second year high school Algebra so the solving part was mechanical, borderline natural. I have Mrs. Arianne Lopez to thank for that, by the way. She was my second year high school math teacher who was both the strict schoolmistress and the caringly patient mother. For homework, she had my classmates and I do at least two back-to-back sheets of intermediate pad’s worth of problems and equations. I was always ambivalent towards such homework but while I was taking Math 1, I was mentally thanking Mrs. Lopez over and over again. Thank you, ma’am!

As the problem sets were quite easy to solve for me, I spent majority of the time tutoring some of my blockmates. Usually, when our teacher would give us problems to work on and beckon the class to work in groups, majority of those within the vicinity of my seat would flock to me and ask for my help. As much as I could, I helped my classmates with their equations and word problems to the best of my abilities. And I had fun doing it too. Nothing pleased me more than seeing a classmate I helped solve a problem he could not understand a few minutes earlier.  

That goes the same for my other subjects—Filipino 11, Physics 1, English 11 and Literature 13. I never had major problems with any of these classes since they were the subjects I enjoyed immensely in high school. While there were the occasional stressful requirements that demanded my utmost attention—something I rarely gave throughout the entire semester—I found them easy enough to accomplish once I had the momentum going.

However, as overrated as this semester has been—not to mention extremely enjoyable thanks mostly to my course blockmates as well as my English and Literature block—there is one reason why I am having a relatively easy time. It is quite obvious but I dare not mention it unless absolutely necessary.

I am not swimming varsity anymore. After eight years of swimming for the Ateneo, I am no longer part of the team I grew up in. As angry as I still am with the people who I personally hold responsible for my quitting swimming, there is a tinge of regret shimmering at the deepest recesses of my soul. No matter how much I blame other people for tearing out my heart and draining every drop of loyalty I once held, the decision to walk away and call it quits was my decision. Mine and mine alone. My parents and older brother tried to talk me out of quitting but at the time, I was so full of inconsolable rage that the only thought running though my mind was getting even—an eye for an eye and all that.

I still recall the day I quit the varsity entirely. It was the first week of June and the Freshman Orientation Seminar was a couple of days a way. No training that day so I went with my mom and older brother to Ateneo to take a look at the list of accepted athletic-scholars. With the coaching turmoil the team suffered coming into summer training, I was under no illusion that the scholarship our former coach promised me was guaranteed. With his sudden departure, I knew that my chances of receiving what was promised to me were up in the air so to speak. When I voiced my concerns to our interim-coaches, who previously served as the team’s assistant coaches, they told me not to worry and just attend focus and preparing myself for college swimming. My mistake was naively following their advice.

Needless to say, I did not find my name among the freshmen scholars. There was no James C. Salva anywhere. Thrice I ran through the list, determined that I simply overlooked my name but determined as I was, I could not find something that was not there to begin with. My first instinct was to ram my first on the glass cover of the bulletin board. It took all my effort and control to walk away from where I was about to destroy school property. As I trudged along the corridor, a myriad of emotions ran through me like series upon series of livewire—anger, frustration, disappointment are the three I could clearly distinguish.  I felt like my whole world was crashing down on me; everything I had ever built around me as well as the very foundations I stood on were violently shaking, sending tremors of cocktailed emotions to my very soul.

The drive home was a long and silent one. Alone in my room that night, I stared up at the ceiling and began processing what had happened to me that day. I was still angry but my anger had now been tempered so much so that I could think straight. Unable to sleep, I tore myself apart thinking why I was not given a scholarship. What did I do wrong?  I asked myself.  Were not my six gold medals in the juniors division last season enough to merit me a scholarship? Am I not the current UAAP Juniors record holder of the 50, 100 and 200 meters butterfly as well as the 200 meters freestyle? Was leading the Ateneo High School to back-to-back UAAP championships as well as the first ever PRADA and PAYA titles not make me eligible to be given a scholarship? Did not my achievements speak for themselves? I am the reigning back-to-back MVP, for crying out loud! Did I not follow the right scholarship application process? I have a document stating the receipt of my application form after all. How could the Ateneo do this to me?

I realized then that more than the anger and the frustration, I felt betrayed. I was betrayed by the institution, which I have represented for eight long years in all the meets I have been to nationally and internationally. I swam honorably for my school and not once have I asked for anything in return. I kept my mouth shut when my teammates and I were not given due recognition even after winning the very first UAAP Juniors Swimming Championship all because the basketball team did not win their trophy. And when I have earned my stripes—when I have achieved all that I could possibly achieve during my four years in the Juniors—my school tells me that it is not enough. While they thanked me—sparingly—for the contributions and honors, which I have given my school throughout the years, they deem that athletes who will never make it to their UAAP teams are more deserving of full athletic-scholarships than I do. That is the most difficult I realization I had to swallow.

Even now, five months later that betrayal still lingers deep inside me. But, to be honest, now that I have had a chance to calm down a bit and get away from all that turmoil, everything other than the betrayal is gone. I am no longer angry. Nor am I frustrated that much. Replacing these emotions is one that I never thought I would feel—regret. A small part of my being, but a part nonetheless, now regrets walking away from varsity swimming since the team was indirectly affected with the rash decision I made.

As I write this entry, a copy of the latest issue of The Guidon is open beside my journal. I have been going through the sports section this past week and perused it for the most part of this morning since I finished my Literature 13 exam earlier than expected. With the basketball team failing to win a championship, the sports headline does not feature them. Instead, it says, “LADY TANKERS SWIM TO PODIUM”. I could not help but smile.  It took some time but finally the women’s team landed a second place finish. I knew that sooner or later, the girls would find a way to make it among the winners. After all, the ladies have three Southeast Asian Games swimmers reinforcing their already seasoned roster. The debut of their three aces paid off big time.

Inside the same article, the men’s team is mentioned in passing with a statement saying, “…that despite the stellar swims of its stars, namely sophomore Wesley Yao and juniors John Haw and Drake Reyes, the Blue Tankers were at the bottom of the standings after the four-day meet”. When I first read about their finish, I expected the soothing feeling of vindication wash over me. But strangely, it never came. Instead, I felt remorse and guilt especially after finding out that the team missed landing third place by merely six points. I could have easily provided those six points had I swam with them. While the vindictive part of me was placated a bit, the knowledge that I had indirectly cost my former teammates a chance to land a podium finish haunted me. I abandoned my teammates who I called friends in their moment of need. Perhaps I will ask for their forgiveness someday. But not before I regain their trust by rejoining the fold.

Yesterday, I ran into Drake Reyes as I was exiting the library. If there was ever a contest for the student-athlete who best personifies Mens Sana in Corpore Sano—a sound mind, in a sound body—Drake would definitely be one of the favored contenders for the title. At five-eleven, the broad-shouldered and long-limbed team captain is a highly decorated swimmer in the collegiate and national scene. Back in high school, I swam against him for two years—from 2003-2004—and it was only in the 50 meters butterfly that I was able to beat him. That was in September of 2004 but regardless of that silver medal, he nonetheless won his remaining six events on route to being named the Most Valuable Player of that season.  His prowess extends beyond the swimming pool I soon discovered. He passed the Ateneo College Entrance Test with flying colors, to say the least. For achieving a score within the top two percent of all ACET-takers, his name appeared on the Director’s List—an achievement that is rarely reached by any college recruit. A consistent Dean’s Lister with a maintaining QPI of 3.70 since his freshman year, he is the living, breathing example of excellence in both academics and athletics. People greatly respect Drake; his achievements alone make it difficult not to. While most of my teammates find him intimidating due to his muscular physique, serious demeanor and his wisecracking zingers and remarks, very few understand that the wisecracks and the teasing are Drake’s way of expressing his fondness toward a teammate and friend. I used to tell my younger teammates that they should be more worried if Drake ignores them than when he constantly and relentlessly teases them. If it is the former, well, he probably does not like you to put it bluntly. Strangely enough, I can never recall an instance wherein he teased me to the degree he does with my former teammates. I like to think that it was because of the many races we had in high school; that somewhere along those races he developed a respect towards me that I unequivocally show him. Or maybe it was just that I was the first one who welcomed him to the team when he was a college freshman and I a high school junior. Whatever the case may be, among my former teammates, I respected Drake Reyes the most and held him with very high esteem as both a former teammate and friend. I still do.

After a few minutes of small talk discussing QPI’s, exams and former teammates, he made me an offer I did not expect. “Jim, we need you back,” he told me without preamble. “Have you ever given any thought of swimming again? At least in the relays?”

“Yes I have,” I answered. “I have been thinking about returning for quite a while now.”

“Since when have you considered it?”

“After I read the Guidon article. You missed third place by only eight points, huh?”

“Six, actually,” he answered, smirking. “We missed second by ten and first by twenty. The field was pretty level.” He gave me a quizzical look before adding, “and that’s with practically zero rookies from the other teams that could match up with you. Aside from the Torrio brothers that is.”

I heard as much. A week after the UAAP swim meet, I ran into Justin Torrio at an Internet and Gaming café in Katipunan called Webtown. I just had lunch with a my friends Dan and Joyce at Wok This Way when I remembered I needed to email something to my English 11 teacher. After finishing my meal and giving my share of the bill, I asked Dan and Joyce to go on back to school without me since I was going up to Webtown to use the internet. Upon entering the Internet café, Justin Torrio suddenly called out my name. I was never really close to him or his brother Jacob but after years and years of competing each other in almost every age group in both interschool and interclub meets, I have gotten to know the two well enough to small talk with. But of the two, I liked Justin more simply because I beat him more than I did Jacob.

After our requisite small talk, he asked me why I was not around during the UAAP; he and his brother swam for UP last season. I told him why and he was genuinely shocked as far as I can tell. Conveying his regret that I was not around to compete with his brother and himself, he asked me if I would consider transferring schools for the season after next. I laughed it off and went my on way before going to the computer I rented for an hour. Transferring schools for the sake of swimming in the UAAP? You have got to be kidding me.

I decided to leave my chance meeting with Justin out and played clueless “Guilt-trip, much, Drake?” I gamely challenged him.

“That’s not my style, Jim,” he answered. “I would rather give it to you straight than to beat around the bush, you know that.”

“Right.”

“So, when can we expect you at training?” he asked with a victorious tone.

“You’re asking me that when I haven’t even told you whether I would return or not?” I parried. Truth be told, I had already decided to return by this point. Drake’s guilt-trip did not really do anything other than reinforce my realization that I deserted my team in their time of need. I just wanted to squeeze out some more begging—if you could even call that begging—from my former captain. If anything, it was quite amusing to watch. But of course, he was onto what I was trying to do. I did not have to be Cal Lightman to see that he was just humoring me.

“Stop pretending that you haven’t decided on returning when you already made the decision I know you made,” he said, again with that triumphant voice. “We need you; the team needs you. No one will admit to this but when we found out by how much we lost by, the entire men’s team knew that those six to eight points we needed were yours.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Good to know I was missed after all.”

“Listen, Jim,” Drake said in a calm but firm voice. “We all knew what you went through last June. We understand that you felt betrayed by the whole scholarship mess. We get it. You were pissed and thought everybody was your enemy. And I agree with you, by the way. Back-to-back MVPs and four individual records is no small feat. Personally, if I had the power, I would strip the scholarships of some of my teammates and give it you. God knows you deserve the honor more than any of them do. I know it is asking a lot but try looking pass that issue and swim for us again—”

“Swim for you guys?” I interjected.

“Alright, if that is a tall order, swim for yourself. You miss it, anyone can tell.”

He was right about that. I do miss swimming. As easy as the past few months have been being the normal college student, nothing I do—not even playing basketball—could permanently distract me from this insatiable desire to put on my trunks, wear my goggles and swim thousands upon thousands of meters. Which is what I have been doing, to point a fact. I created my own swimming program and I have been swimming at least four times a week since July. After all, I needed to maintain my physique since I am in college and all. Vanity aside, training alone just does not cut it after a few weeks. I miss varsity swimming; I miss swimming with my teammates. I miss swimming with my friends.

I was speechless for a moment. I was debating whether to walk away and forget the conversation or snap a retort. As much as I liked Drake and respected the hell out of him, he really knew which buttons to press to get under my skin. It annoyed the hell out of me. Gathering my thoughts, I decided to do neither. Instead, I parried once more.

“Yeah, I miss swimming. But that does not mean that I don’t swim because I still do.”

“I heard. Self-training at Celebrity,” he said smugly.

He must have read my reaction because he simply shrugged and added, “my brother and sister saw you swimming there. They told me you were swimming and I told them to ask around. Turns out, you’ve been quite busy these past few months.”

“Got to maintain the V-ody,” I offered.

“Sure, sure,” he said. “Anyway, I know the scholarship thing is still an issue. Hell, if I was in your position, I would be hesitant about going back with that stuff hanging in the air. And…” he trailed off.

“And?” I asked, suddenly curious.

“Look, Jim,” he finally said after a moment’s silence, obviously trying to find the right way to phrase what he was about to say. “I can’t promise you anything but there are still some people in the team who are very much connected with people of influence and are very sentimental to your plight. If you swim, put in the work and show the right results, I’ll put in a good word for you. And it won’t be just me. Eddie, John even Felix will support you. In fact, don’t be surprised if Felix talks to you sometime within the week. He’s been asking Coach Clark to try and convince you to come back ever since he found out that you left the team.”

Before I could answer, Drake looked at his watch and started up the library steps. “Anyway Jim, that’s all I wanted to say. I hope you can decide soon whether you’ll swim again or not. In any case, training’s still the same time, same place.”

“Same old, same old, huh?” I asked as I watched him ascend the steps.

“Just don’t forget to bring a decent pair of running shoes. Or else, Clark will have your ass,” he answered without looking.

As I watched him enter the library, I suddenly realized just how great friends my former teammates are. That was enough to send pangs of guilt throughout my insides.

It is a little bit after quarter to three in the afternoon. In a few minutes, I will be off to SEC-A 203 for my three thirty Physics 1 final—my last exam this semester. I prepared for this exam as best I could but I am still thankful that it is open-notes. I honestly cannot memorize fifteen or so equations and learn how each are interconnected with each other mathematically and conceptually.  

Some of my friends have invited me to celebrate the semester’s end by going out to catch a movie and possibly have a few drinks after. As tempting as the offer is, I have already made plans and have turned them down, promising that I will join them next time. After the exam, I am heading straight to Celebrity to swim. If I am mounting a comeback to competitive swimming, I have to prepare myself. With what I heard about the team, they are a lot stronger now than they were when I left, even the high school guys. They are going to be a tough bunch to face after leaving them high and dry, let alone training with them once more.

All the same, all I can do is to keep my head down and lunge for the wall.