Chapter 43 Twenty-five years old Sam
Twenty-five years old
Sam
Austin shoots me a look during the medal ceremony, and I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile.
Though it feels as though it might look more like a grimace.
The world’s no longer blurry but it doesn’t quite feel back to normal yet.
It’s almost echoey, like being underwater…
except with cameras pointing at me from every direction.
My heart starts to pick up pace, and I take another deep breath to try and slow it down.
Looking out at the empty stadium, I can’t help but think about Kath. Being the best isn’t enough when you’ve pushed everyone else away to get there. You just stand at the top of the hill and realise there’s no one there with you. I miss my mum and I miss my best friend.
And in that moment, I make a vow to fix things. To apologise to the people I hurt along the way… if they’ll even listen to me for long enough to accept my apology.
“Thank you.” I squeeze Austin’s shoulder as we make our way to our relative media rounds. “And thanks for calling Kath.”
I don’t think I would have made it up onto the podium without the two of them. Without Austin and that phone call, I’d probably still be sitting in the showers struggling to breathe, feeling like the walls were closing in on me and all the tiles were shining and distorted.
“Any time.” He squeezes my shoulder in return. “I’m just glad you’re doing better now.”
As I make my way towards the British reporters, I wish I had Austin’s easy confidence.
I thought I’d gotten over my fear of the cameras.
But then I lost the golden boy status. I started to lose.
I got older. When I consistently came second or third, they were always saying how disappointed I must be that I didn’t get gold.
Like I needed someone else to tell me what I was already thinking. To remind me that I wasn’t good enough.
The interviews pass with the usual blur of questions. How are you feeling? How are you finding the Olympics? Tell us about the build-up to the event. I try not to say anything stupid. I try to make sure I sound grateful enough and humble enough, so that I don’t get torn down for a whole new reason.
But really, I don’t want to be there. I want to be back in my room so I can talk to Kath again.
I need to apologise to her.
I need to thank her.
I just… need to talk to her.
She’s the only person I want to talk to. Even after years of convincing myself she’s not, Kath’s still the person who knows me best. The person I always want to talk to really.
If she can forgive me.
I’ll understand if she can’t. I’m not sure I deserve forgiveness.
“How did you feel when you realised you had the world record?” someone asks. It’s Mel Braithwaite; she must have interviewed me dozens of times now. I’ve always liked her. I never felt like she was gleefully waiting for me to fail.
“Honestly, I was just surprised,” I tell her, and she laughs. “I’ve spent so much of my life chasing this record. It’s been so long in the making that I didn’t believe it had happened. I had to look at the results board two or three times just to process it.”
I pause. What do I want to say now that I’ve done the thing I’ve always dreamt of?
“But really it’s not just me that’s been doing the work behind this. So many people have supported me along the way and I really need to thank them, because I can never thank them enough. The British coaches, as well as Coach Campbell at the University of Florida. My family, my teammates.”
“Weren’t you racing one of your university teammates?” Mel asks, smiling.
I nod, waving at Austin as he heads back to the changing rooms. The camera pans from me to follow him.
“Yep.” I turn back. “He’s one of my closest friends.
We were roommates in our first year at college and have lived together for the last few years.
Having him beside me in the pool feels strangely reassuring.
And we’ve never let our rivalry in a race get in the way of our friendship.
He’s racing again tomorrow, and I’ll be in the stands cheering him on. ”
“Well done, Sam,” she tells me. “I think everyone at home will be loving the replays of that race and so proud of your world record. What an achievement for both you and for the British swimming team.”
I’m about to leave when I feel compelled to turn back. “Can I just say one more thing?” I ask her.
“Of course,” she says, looking surprised. I’m aware that she knows exactly how nervous I get about interviews. I think she even saw me throw up before one at Paris on our media day. Something which I haven’t ever told anyone else and appreciate that she never shared.
“I’m really proud of today and all the work that's gone into it. But at the end of the day, I’m just a guy who gets to swim up and down a pool.
” I frown. “I know how tough things are for everyone at home at the moment. And how difficult the last few years have been. And I just wanted to say that I’m thinking of all of you. ”
I rub my neck awkwardly. This is accidentally turning into a longer speech than intended, but I need to get it out.
“I know so many front-line workers. My dad’s a policeman.
My best friend is a doctor, and the rest of her family are teachers and nurses.
They were doing amazing things whilst I was just training.
I’m so lucky to have them in my life, and I want to thank them all. ”
“That’s a lovely message,” Mel tells me.
“Yeah, well, what I do isn’t all that impressive when you realise I just got off the phone with my best friend, who’s spent the last eight hours working a shift in an emergency department overnight,” I tell her. “I literally just swim lengths.”
“World record speed lengths,” she tells me, and I laugh.
“True. Well, fingers crossed for tomorrow, and I hope you have a lovely evening, Mel.”
When I get back to my room in the Olympic Village, I check my phone. Our swimming chat is blowing up. I scroll past the messages about the record, thanking them all.
AJ: Sam just professed his love of Austin on national TV. I feel left out.
Seb: And Kath
AJ: Wait, Kath?
Seb: Rewatch the interview
AJ: How?
Seb: You’re a smart guy, figure it out.
AJ: Woah! Are we allowed to mention her name now?!?!?! It’s no longer banned?????
I pause.
Me: Yes, you can mention her name
AJ: Phew. I really need her advice on this girl Katy.
Me: I’m sure she would be happy to help.
A text from Kath appears on the screen.
Kath: Just home.
I take a seat on the bed. The room’s starkly empty. White walls, white ceiling, bed frame made out of some sort of cardboard like material.
“Hey,” she answers on the second ring, and I feel myself starting to relax again. I’ve missed her voice.
“Hey, KitKat.”
In the pause after my words, I can almost see her tying and untying her ponytail. I wonder what she’s thinking.
“Maybe I should call you World Record Champ now.”
“Nah, I prefer the old version.” I sink back into the pillows. “That one doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as well.”
“How are you feeling?” she asks. “Any ongoing tightness in your chest? Any breathing problems?”
“I feel much better. I can’t thank you enough. Seriously, Kath. Thank you.”
She pauses. I stare at air conditioning unit on the ceiling.
I should have brainstormed exactly what to say.
I’ve spent enough of the last few years thinking about what I’d say if I talked to Kath again.
But now that we’re actually speaking, I don’t know how to explain how sorry I am, and how much I’ve missed her.
“I just watched your interview,” she tells me. “It was lovely. I know how much your dad will appreciate that shoutout. And I appreciated it too. Do you really mean it?”
I think I can hear her chewing her nails, or maybe I just know her too well and instinctively know that’s what she’s doing.
“Mean what?”
“That I’m your best friend?”
“You’ve always been my best friend,” I tell her.
“Even when we weren’t speaking, you were my best friend.
And I know that everything was my fault, and I can’t believe I said those things, Kath.
But—” I pause. I don’t know what I can say to repair things.
“I’m so sorry. And I wish I could make it better. ”
I chew my lip, feeling like words are letting me down. “I was an idiot, and I don’t deserve your friendship. And I don’t deserve to be able to tell you how much I’ve missed you. But please hear me when I say that I’m sorry. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologising if that’s what it takes.”
I know that my interview doesn’t erase anything, and that I need to put in a lot of work for her to forgive me.
Achieving my record was special, it’s something I’ve wanted for my whole life, but it felt hollow without anyone there with me.
No record can replace people who matter.
There’s more to life than swimming. There’s always been more to life than swimming, and I was too wrapped up in myself to realise it.
She lets out a slightly wet laugh. “Let’s talk about it after the Olympics.”
“Are you sure? I can talk about it now if you want to.”
“I’m sure,” she says.
“But promise we will talk about it?”
“Pinky promise. Let’s talk about earlier instead so we can make a plan to try and stop it happening again. What do you think caused it?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “I’m still trying to work it all out.”
She gives me a moment to think, and I study the paint on the hotel room wall, trying to untangle my thoughts.
“I think I’ve just been putting so much pressure on myself over the last few years.
Honestly, I’m not even sure I really enjoy swimming anymore.
I used to find that moment of diving into the water the most incredible feeling in the world.
And I got nervous before big races, but nothing like this.
Now, I can’t sleep. Winning has become all I can think about. It’s… tearing me up inside.”
“There’s a huge weight of expectations. Your face is on buses and billboards and the television, Sam. It’s not a normal thing to go through. You’re not a film star. It isn’t something that you signed up for.”
“But I did,” I tell her, frustrated at myself. Annoyed that I shut people out instead of coping with it properly. “I knew that fame was part of being the best. I wanted the sponsorships, needed them, to be honest. I knew that by virtue of racing, people would be watching and analysing me.”
“That’s not the sort of thing you think about when you’re eleven and love swimming.
Don’t beat yourself up about not realising how it would impact you.
But what happened today, Sam? I know you well enough to know it’s not the first time you’ve been anxious about races.
You felt like that before in Rio and Worlds. What was different today?”
I’m still putting the pieces together in my mind.
“Getting the record,” I say finally. “I finished and when I looked around I realised that I’d achieved exactly what I wanted, but I didn’t miraculously feel better.
No one was there. Not my dad. Not my mum.
Not you. I just had this moment in the showers where I realised that I’d spent my whole life chasing one thing with such focus that I lost everything else.
Swimming, no distractions.” I let out a bitter laugh at the phrase that’s defined so much of my life.
“But maybe the distractions were just as important, or maybe they weren’t really distractions at all. ”
I pause for breath. Saying all this out loud really hurts, but part of me realises that it probably hurts her even more to hear it. Because I realised it too late, and Kath was one of the casualties of my decisions. I hate how much pain I’ve caused her.
“I’ve spent so long pushing people away that I’ll be surprised if they come back. They’ve all realised that they don’t need me now. Which was what I wanted anyway.”
There is a harsh intake of breath from the other end of the line and I curse myself.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Let’s save it for another day.”
I’m still surprised she’s even talking to me. But then again Kath’s always been the best person I know.
“How are you?” I ask her.
She pauses. “Let’s keep focussed on you. What are you going to do to get through this week, then? Let’s make a plan. You have six days of races left. Let’s think of a strategy to get through them. Just six more days of swimming, and then you can think about what you want to do next.”
“You’re right.” She is. Six days. That’s nothing. “You should record that. You’re pretty much always right.”
“You need to put that on a mug for me or something.”
I laugh, I probably do.
Ten minutes later, I feel more positive. I know Kath’s shifts, and she says I can call her after my races and whenever I feel a panic attack coming.
Tugging on a spare thread on the bedcover, I try to work up the courage to ask her something.
“Could—” I pause. “Could you maybe record me a message? Just a short one. But in case you’re actually working and I can’t get through. You don’t have to. Sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the loose thread between my fingers, winding it tighter and tighter around my thumb. The silence stretches long enough that I start regretting the question entirely.
For a second I think I’ve pushed too far. That I’ve asked for something that belongs to a version of us that doesn’t exist anymore. A version that will never exist again because I was the one that broke it.
“I can do that,” she says eventually.
The knot in my chest loosens.
“You should probably do some more stretching or something,” she adds lightly. “But I’ll send it over later. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I tell her quietly.
For a second it feels like she might say something else. Then the line clicks and she hangs up.
Six days, I repeat to myself. Then I can think about what I want to do next.