They say that high school is about opening doors, exploring your opportunities and expanding your horizons, so as an optimistic freshman, terrified of joining a new school and hoping to find a place where I would belong, I joined the most obvious, extremely popular activity: water polo. Me, the girl who has not participated in organized sports since my soccer team in second grade. Me, the girl who had not been in a pool since I was pronounced a “Guppy” at the Y when I was seven years old. Me, the girl who cannot run up the stairs without having an asthma attack, much less sprint across a pool. Me, the 5”2’, 135 pound freshman, with a sprinkle of acne and leftover baby fat that would the most intimidating water polo player the pool has yet
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The 100 m warm up turned into 25 m as I struggled to make it across the pool without holding on to the wall and gasping for air. The first game went even better. Three days after the season began, we had our first tournament, in which despite adamant refusal to get into the pool, my coach put me in for the last 30 seconds of our last game. As I timidly played defense upon the girl in front of me, her muscles bulging, her cold stare piercing through my soul, I felt a tug as I was pulled under by my legs. I was pushed down and no matter what I did, there was no way I was coming back up till she let me go. That shrill whistle finally ending the game was a gift from above, saving me from a very unpleasant death. From that point on, I focused on my own progress, learning to swim at practice and played the all-important position of benchwarmer for a majority of freshman year. But, at least I had a place on the team. Whether it be making sure everyone had enough water, keeping track of score, grabbing balls or even congratulating the team members who were switched out, I was able to find a spot that I knew I would enjoy. While other coaches may turn away such an unathletic candidate, mine chose to endure my slow progress for four years as she taught the basics of the
The 100 m warm up turned into 25 m as I struggled to make it across the pool without holding on to the wall and gasping for air. The first game went even better. Three days after the season began, we had our first tournament, in which despite adamant refusal to get into the pool, my coach put me in for the last 30 seconds of our last game. As I timidly played defense upon the girl in front of me, her muscles bulging, her cold stare piercing through my soul, I felt a tug as I was pulled under by my legs. I was pushed down and no matter what I did, there was no way I was coming back up till she let me go. That shrill whistle finally ending the game was a gift from above, saving me from a very unpleasant death. From that point on, I focused on my own progress, learning to swim at practice and played the all-important position of benchwarmer for a majority of freshman year. But, at least I had a place on the team. Whether it be making sure everyone had enough water, keeping track of score, grabbing balls or even congratulating the team members who were switched out, I was able to find a spot that I knew I would enjoy. While other coaches may turn away such an unathletic candidate, mine chose to endure my slow progress for four years as she taught the basics of the