Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
A conversation from this morning:
Self: What on earth are you doing up at 6:30 am on a Saturday?
Youngest Gel: Dad, it’s Friday.
Dang extended weekends. I’m getting old and confused.
Anyhoo, the big nooz last evening was that Youngest made her school swim team. She just made the cut time and apparently the coach likes her attitude and enthusiasm.
I must say that I’m quite proud, particularly because I had nothing to do with this. The Gel had swum for our pool club team for a number of years but then dropped out this past summah. A couple months ago, however, she decided that she really wanted to get on the school team, so she started training again (she’d worked with this program in the past, but stopped after swimming head-first into the wall and suffering a concussion), and now here we are, all because of her own efforts.
Think she’s pleased? She spent all last evening walking around saying, “That’s right….Youngest Port Swiller, varsity athlete – believe it, baybee!” (There’s no freshman or jayvee team at her school. You’re either in the Show or you’re not.)
I expect a major outlay in purchases of sweatshirts, t-shirts, window decals, and the like, but so what. If she’s on the team, working hard, and pulling her weight, let her have her fun. (Ain’t ol’ Robbo getting indulgent in his old age?)
She also mentioned the benefits to her resume. “Do you think I could wind up swimming for UVA?” she asked me.
“Well,” I said, “competition to get into UVA from around here is wicked fierce. Yes, you almost absolutely need a varsity sport, so this is an excellent start. But you also need a GPA of about eleventy-billion and a Nobel Prize in astro-physics, so get cracking on those books, too.”
I think that gave her some food for thought.
Since the gel’s only a freshman and is at the tail of the team, I don’t know how many meets she might actually make this year. Frankly, the fewer the better, at least from my standpoint: Swim meets are amongst the dreariest and most boring of all sports events, at least from the parental point of view – hours of sitting around on cold, hard benches just to see your kid in the drink for about 30 seconds at a go. (That is, of course, unless your wife has secretly volunteered you to man a shift at the snack bar. Then it’s even worse.)