7. Sixteen years old
Sixteen years old
Kath
The crowd erupts when Sam enters the arena.
The roar reverberates through my chest and I feel like the noise might actually deafen me.
I love how much they love him. It’s a brilliant story; he’s one of the youngest athletes at the Games, just sixteen, a school kid from London who’s getting his GCSE results next week.
He swears he’s terrible with the media, but he’s actually great at it. Two days ago, he spent an hour on the phone to me, picking apart everything he thought he did wrong in an interview, but all the coverage I saw called him charming and grounded.
The BBC even managed to track down our PE teachers. It was hilarious watching Mr Patrick tell stories about eleven-year-old Sam playing football, and how he ‘saved the team’ in every swimming gala. Yesterday, Claire sent me a photo of a London bus with Sam’s face on it.
I always hoped this would happen. But hoping it and living it are two completely different things.
He walks out, focussed, waving to the crowd briefly, before lowering his head. I think he’s talking to himself, but I can’t tell. He’s one of the only athletes without headphones. I wonder what the arena sounds like to him. Is the energy as electric down there as it feels up here?
I’m practically vibrating with excitement in the stands.
I’ve been looking forward to this for over a year.
My whole family flew out to watch Sam swim, scheduling it into our summer holiday.
We spent the week before the Olympics in France, and Tom even came back early from backpacking around Europe with a friend.
Yesterday, we were all in the stands, watching as Sam qualified for the final of the 400m individual medley.
Tonight, I’m sitting between his parents and Josh, watching him swim in that final, before we have to fly home tomorrow.
The smell of chlorine in the air and the waving flags are intoxicating. Hopefully he’ll like the giant sign we made with his name on it. I even liberated some of his old swimming T-shirts from his drawers before I came to France, so I’m now fully decked out in his old junior British Swimming kit.
I texted him this morning—our good luck tradition since Junior Worlds.
Me: Rule 17: Pirates always wish other pirates good luck.
Me: You got this, Champ.
But it’s only now we’re in the arena that the reality is hitting. That this is the actual Olympics.
By the time they’ve taken off their deck coats and are up on the blocks the crowd has fallen silent.
I’m gripping my hands together so hard it hurts.
As I hear the loudspeaker say “Take your marks”, I forget how to breathe.
The screams vibrate through the arena the moment they dive into the water.
I keep wringing my hands, having somehow forgotten from yesterday to today how stressful watching races is.
He’s coming second all the way up until the breaststroke leg, when he starts to flag.
Physically, he’s so much smaller than the other swimmers.
Sam’s always felt so tall to me, but when compared to a group of professional athletes in their twenties and thirties, he suddenly looks lanky rather than lean.
He’s fourth going into the final leg and I think I’ve already lost my voice from shouting. I know that freestyle is his strongest stroke, but I just don’t know if he has enough left in him to pull it back.
Angie’s holding my arm so tightly that I doubt I’ll have any blood supply left in my fingers tomorrow.
I can’t work out whether to keep watching or look away as they turn onto the final length.
He’s slowly beginning to gain ground, but there are only metres left of the race.
I’ve heard Sam muse on the tactics of the medley far too many times, but now that I’m actually watching it at a professional level I’m going to need to start listening to his next monologue rather than zoning out like usual.
They hit the final stretch, and as they touch the wall I can’t tell who finishes second, third or fourth—it’s too close. My eyes are glued to the screen, waiting for the results, as I bounce nervously in my seat.
Third.
Sam came third.
I stare at the scoreboard, double-checking. Is that real? Did he actually just win a medal?
I feel like I’ve left my body as I watch him slap the water before grinning as other swimmers go to congratulate him. Josh is shouting beside me, something about knowing he could do it, but for once, I’m silent. Sam climbs out, scanning the crowd, before smiling when he spots my sign.
“PIRATE’S CODE RULE 22: TOUCH THE WALL FIRST!”
The moment he reaches us, his parents pull him into a hug.
“I’m so proud of you,” Angie keeps whispering over and over as his dad wraps his arms around them both.
When he finally emerges, he turns to me and Josh, beaming. I squeal and throw my arms around him.
“I think you just burst my eardrum,” he laughs.
“You were incredible! This is incredible!” I squeak, hugging him again. “I knew you could do it.” Words don’t feel big enough. I hope he can see it in my face.
“Well done, mate,” Josh says, doing that weird half-hug, half-back-slap boys do.
Angie pulls him in again, and I think his dad might actually be crying. I grab my phone. “Let me take a picture. I want to remember this forever.”
I snap one of the three of them, then Angie takes a few of Sam with me and Josh.
“I’ve gotta go,” he says eventually. “Cool-down, media, medal ceremony—it’s a bit full on.”
“Of course.” Angie wipes her eyes.
I just watch him leave, still trying to process the fact that it just happened.
***
A week later, I’m back in London, volunteering at the nursing home (because nothing screams ‘please accept me into medical school’ like helping Doris wrestle on compression socks). The TV’s on in the corner, and Sam’s relay final is playing.
I absentmindedly open a packet of biscuits for Mabel as the race starts.
All of our eyes are glued to the screen.
After last week the commentators have been talking about Sam nonstop.
His picture was in the paper and he was interviewed on morning radio.
I grip the arm of Mabel’s floral armchair as the second swimmer starts his leg.
The US team are favourites, but when it gets to the final length, Sam somehow finds a burst of speed.
“Go on, young man!” Brian from room 4A shouts, slapping his thigh.
Argus—who usually reserves speech for complaining about draughts—lets out a full-bodied whoop, and I nearly fall off my chair in surprise.
My jaw practically hits the floor when Sam touches the wall first. Gold. Gold.
I’m still in shock when the team makes their way over for the post-race interview. So are most of the residents. We don’t usually do well in swimming.
“How are you feeling, Sam?” the reporter Mel Braithwaite asks, mic in hand. “Two medals—that’s incredible for your first Games.”
“I actually don’t quite know how I feel.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I think I’m in shock. I’ve loved training with these guys at camp, and getting to race together… it still doesn’t feel like it’s actually happening to me.”
“It must be a lot to process at sixteen.”
He gives a sheepish smile. “Yeah, it really is. I’m just trying to compartmentalise. After the Olympics, I get my GCSE results, and honestly? I’m not sure which is scarier—maths GCSE or a qualifying heat.”
The rest of the team laugh, and I just sit there watching in silence. Two medals. I pull out my phone and text him without even thinking. My goodluck text from earlier is the last message in our thread.
“I know that guy,” I say to Mabel, who’s still munching her biscuits whilst staring at the screen. “That’s my best friend.”
The transformation is instant. One minute I’m the girl who helps with cardigans and TV remotes; the next, I’m apparently the nursing home’s official liaison to Olympic royalty.
“Ohhh, your friend, is he?” Mabel raises a grey eyebrow. “Very handsome boy. Tall, too. Good shoulders.”
I nearly choke. “We’re just friends, Mabel. We’re only sixteen.”
“Never hurt anyone to have options.” She reaches for another biscuit and winks at me.
Within minutes I’m being plied with treats. Someone pushes a chocolate digestive into my hand like it’s hush money.
“Could you get an autograph for my granddaughter?” asks Alya.
Argus leans forwards, eyes shrewd. “If he ever needs a manager, you tell him I’m available. I worked in logistics in ’78.”
Not sure when I became the hottest ticket in geriatrics, but you know what? I’ll take it.