The Winning Stroke (2 page)

But then his eye fell on his leg. All right, he figured, I'll go along with what she says. But
I'll
decide how much of this therapy I need to do to get back to full strength.

So, three days a week, right after school, Jerry reported to Bob Fulton at the rehab center. At first, he just tried to breeze
through his exercises. But soon, he realized that Mr. Fulton didn't stand for any goofing off. He was giving his all — and
expected nothing less from his patients. Jerry respected his straightforward manner and, even more important, he felt Mr.
Fulton really cared if his leg improved.

Even so, after two weeks of the same routine of exercises, Jerry was getting bored. Relaxing in the whirlpool was nice, but
he itched to be doing something more strenuous than leg lifts. He missed the action of the baseball field and the friendly
joking of his teammates.

So today, after he finished his session of exercises, he confessed his frustration to Bob Fulton. His therapist looked thoughtful.

“Well, I can't let you back on the baseball field quite yet, because your leg wouldn't stand the pounding of running on hard
turf. But I have been considering some optional therapy for you. There's still a little stiffness around your knee and ankle,
and those leg muscles need more of a workout than you're getting here. So, starting Monday, you'll be meeting me at the swimming
pool at Bolton Middle School. You can swim, can't you?”

“Oh, sure,” said Jerry “I learned at the Y when I was a little kid. Gee, I never thought of swimming as therapy. I figured
it's just something you do at the Y or at the beach.”

“Believe me, there's a lot more to swimming than just clowning around in the water,” said Mr. Fulton.
“I ought to know. I've been coaching for fourteen years.”

Jerry felt a little foolish. He hadn't meant to knock the sport of swimming. He really had never thought much about it.

“Well, uh, then I guess I'll see you at the pool,” said Jerry. “When do I start? And what am I supposed to do?”

“You start next Monday,” said Mr. Fulton. “Come down to the pool and see me as soon as school lets out. I'll put you through
your first round of exercises, and then you'll be on your own.”

“See you at the pool, then,” said Jerry.

That evening, after his eight-year-old brother, David, and four-year-old sister, Lucie, had gone to bed, Jerry told his parents
about the doctor's and therapist's newest plan.

“I mean, swimming!” he said, grunting. “Why couldn't it be something like … like … like hockey!”

“Oh, sure, skating around on nice slippery ice,” said his mother, putting down her newspaper. “That's just what you need to
build up your leg.”

“Right,” said his father. “When your leg buckled under, the other team could skate right over you. And then you'd end up in
a full body cast.”

“Probably for a year,” said his mother.

“At least one,” said his father. “Maybe two years. Could I have the business section, Liz? I want to check out my investments
in plaster of paris.”

“All right, all right,” Jerry grumbled. “I'll do the swimming.”

When he arrived at the school pool Monday, Jerry felt uncomfortable. He was used to knowing his way around sports arenas.
The baseball diamond was like a second home to him. But the pool was like a foreign country. None of the guys he knew went
out for swimming as a sport. He'd just have to play it really cool and get this pool stuff over as quickly as possible.

Mr. Fulton stood in the shallow end of the school swimming pool. Jerry splashed awkwardly down the ladder beside him. The
cool water raised goose bumps on his arms.

“The purpose of these exercises is to adjust your leg to different forms of stress gradually,” Mr. Fulton explained.

He showed Jerry each exercise. Then he waited to make sure Jerry had them right.

At the end of the last one, Jerry clung to the edge of the pool with his fingertips while his body floated behind him just
below the water.

“Now,” Mr. Fulton went on, “do you have all the counts?”

“I think so,” said Jerry. “I do fifty of these —” he demonstrated a kick under water. “Then I do fifty pushing with the other
leg, the good one.”

“Right,” said Mr. Fulton. “And then?”

Jerry went down the complete list of pool exercises, which ended up with swimming a half dozen laps up and down the pool.

“How long is all this going to take?” he asked.

“About a half, maybe three-quarters of an hour,” said Mr. Fulton. “That should get you out of here before swimming practice
begins. Even if some of the kids get here early and do a few extra laps, you won't be in the way.”

“Oh, great,” Jerry mumbled.

“What's that?” asked Mr. Fulton.

“Nothing,” said Jerry. “Just thinking out loud.”

“Never mind thinking,” said the coach. “Start
those exercises.” He hoisted himself out of the pool and slipped into a pair of white rubber thongs. Toweling off, he pulled
a gray Bolton sweatshirt over his head and left the pool area for his office next to the locker room.

As soon as he was gone, Jerry let go and floated out toward the middle of the pool. Now that his body was used to the temperature,
the water felt good.

But not as good as sweating in the hot sun on a baseball diamond. Darn this leg, Jerry thought angrily. More exercises! And
I still might not be ready for baseball season.

Suddenly, a voice broke through his thoughts. “You'll never get that leg strong enough to do anything if you don't start doing
your workout.” It was as if Bob Fulton had read his mind. Jerry hadn't heard him return to the pool area. He hastily paddled
back to the edge of the pool and went to work.

“Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight —”

Jerry counted out loud, his voice echoing through the silence of the pool area. But before he had finished, excited calls
and loud splashes told him he was no longer alone.

“Hey, Fred, wanna see my new butterfly kick?”

“How'd you do in the hundred yard?”

“Don't forget to lift your head, Sally.”

Just what I need, Jerry thought. A bunch of real swimmers watching me paddle back and forth. Well, the heck with them. I'm
only here for therapy, anyhow.

Still, he hesitated to start his laps. Their strokes looked so smooth.

“Hi, Jerry,” came a voice nearby.

It was Tanya Holman. They had known each other since kindergarten and were in the same class at school. Tanya had tucked her
short, honey-blonde hair under a bathing cap. She had on a blue-and-white diagonally striped bathing suit. The others on the
swimming team were wearing similar suits. Jerry had on his usual aloha print boxer-type swimming trunks. There was no mistaking
him for a member of that team.

“Hi, yourself,” he said. “I didn't know you swam — I mean, on the team.”

“I haven't really made the first team yet,” she said. “But I'm trying. I baby-sat at the beach club last summer and practiced
in their pool after work.”

“But hasn't the season started?” he asked.

“Uh huh. We've already won two meets — and lost two,” she said. “But sometimes people drop off for one reason or another.
And Coach Fulton always knows who's ready to come in as a replacement.”

With that, she dived into the green depths and began her laps.

Anxious to get out of there, he got down to the same business himself. In his usual seaside fashion, he swam back and forth,
paying no attention to anyone or anything. He did a nice, easy crawl that sliced neatly through the water. When he finished,
he pulled himself up to the edge of the pool. To his surprise, he felt tired all over, and his leg ached. He sat for a moment
to rest. Tanya swam up to him.

“Pretty good for a first baseman,” she said cheerfully. He liked the way the freckles around her turned-up nose seemed to
dance when she smiled.

Jerry shrugged. “I just hope I'll be back playing ball in a little while,” he said. “I'm only here to make the doctor happy.
She thinks I need a little more therapy. You know, for my leg.”

“Right, I remember when you had the accident,” she said. “But this is a pretty nice place to be if you can't play ball. Ever
seen a race?”

“Sure,” he said.

“In person?” Tanya asked. “You know, not on TV like the Olympics.”

Jerry hesitated. “Not really,” he admitted.

“Well, then, why don't you stick around for a little while and watch a few,” she suggested. “Lars Morrison is going against
Wayne Cabot in the hundred-yard breaststroke. They were the top two swimmers in that stroke last year, but they kept trading
places for the number one spot. Coach Fulton wants to see who's the stronger this year.”

As she spoke, Jerry could see two swimmers vigorously ploughing their way through the water at opposite sides of the pool.

“It'll only take a few minutes,” she said.

Jerry hesitated. “I don't know, I feel kind of dumb sitting around in a wet bathing suit.” He hated to admit that all he could
think about right now was getting home to a hot shower and a comfortable chair to relax in.

Tanya shook her head. “Maybe some other time, then.” She turned and took off like a shot, doing more laps.

Jerry sat for a minute longer, then slowly stood up.
He limped to the locker room to collect his things. He'd just pulled on his sweatshirt when he realized he'd left his towel
in the bleachers.

Jerry was amazed at the change of atmosphere in the pool area. Before, all the swimmers had been in the pool, doing leisurely
warm-up laps and joking around with one another. Now, only six swimmers, one per lane, were in the water. Each was swimming
the crawl as if his life depended on it. The pool water sloshed over the sides from the waves they made as they raced from
one end of their lanes to the other.

Shouts of encouragement rang off the tiles. Jerry heard Bob Fulton's voice boom out over the others. But he was too busy watching
the lead swimmer to hear what the coach had said.

The front-runner was one arm's length away from the lane's end. Jerry expected him to slow down and turn in the water. But
instead, in a movement too quick for Jerry to see clearly, the swimmer's hand brushed the pool wall and his head disappeared
beneath the water. His feet broke through the surface for a split second. Then, suddenly, his head reappeared five feet from
the wall — pointed in the opposite direction.

One after another, the other swimmers performed the same swift turn. Jerry's eye was too slow to figure out how they reversed
direction. It seemed they were doing a somersault of some sort.

What a crazy sport, Jerry thought. Then the race came to an end, the lead swimmer winning easily.

He could see Coach Fulton talking to the guys who would be racing next. Since they were all wearing the same practice suits,
they looked an awful lot alike. But gradually he could see differences. Lars Morrison, with deep auburn hair, had wide shoulders
and long skinny arms. Wayne Cabot, with wavy brown hair, was a few inches shorter but much more muscular. He looked as if
he might be a weight lifter when he wasn't swimming.

Suddenly, the group around the coach broke up. One by one the swimmers took their places on the blocks at the edge of the
pool. Jerry realized another race was about to start and quickly took a seat in the bleachers.

Everyone had quieted down now. All eyes were focused on the lineup of swimmers in blue-and-white striped suits poised and
ready to plunge forward.

As he saw them crouch slightly to get the most spring, the athlete in Jerry began to stir. He, too, could sense the tension.
He, too, could feel the cold, clammy chill of excitement surrounding the pool.

Screeeeeeech!

The whistle blew, and the swimmers were off like a shot.

3

The six swimmers worked their way up and down the pool, arms drawing the water back as their legs flashed beneath the surface.
Jerry had a little trouble seeing who was ahead. Wayne and Lars, swimming in lanes next to one another, were at least three
feet ahead of the others.

At first, it looked as if Wayne had the lead. His muscular arms worked furiously, his shoulders knotted with exertion, dragging
his body forward by their sheer power. But, then, Lars slipped ahead. His long arms parted the water in front of him in clean,
regular strokes.