Chapter Eleven #2
“Because that’s not proper technique,” I explain. “The chin is supposed to remain neutral throughout the stroke to keep the athlete’s airway open, maximizing the efficiency of breath.”
Adrian snorts as he pushes himself onto the seat of the erg across from me. “Did you just quote verbatim from The Rower’s Guide?”
Okay, never mind. If he knows where the quote came from, then he knows the technique advice. “Yeah. Which is exactly the reason I’m trying to do it.”
“Well, notwithstanding The Rower’s Guide”—he lets himself glide down the slide, crashing into the base like a kid riding a swing—“sometimes you need to do what feels right instead of what the textbook says.”
“Notwithstanding?” I spin so I can face him down and administer exactly the right level of indignation. “You can’t notwithstand the seminal text on rowing technique.”
“Sure I can. It’s not like you’re losing your eyeline. But you are wasting mental focus fighting what comes naturally to your body.”
I cross my arms and my chin lifts slightly, just the way it does when I’m at the top of a stroke. I force it back down. “With enough time and work and discipline, I can get my body to do what’s right instead of what’s natural.”
Adrian stills his pseudo-swinging and folds his arms over his knee. I avoid noticing the way his forearm muscles crease.
“How many years have you been rowing?”
Ten years, three months, and twenty-two days. “Ten.”
“And for how many of those ten years have you been trying to correct your chin?”
The answer, unfortunately, is all of them. It’s basic technical stuff. I’ve heard this correction from at least five different coaches, even Darlene. Drop your chin. Relax your forehead. Eyes down. One of my coaches even made me hold a rolled-up towel under my chin during endurance sessions.
Admitting all this to Adrian, though, would be like saying that I’ll never have the textbook technique. “I don’t want to give up.”
“That’s fine. I have the rest of the summer to change your mind.”
I gape. “Wait. So, you’re conceding, just like that?”
Adrian nods thoughtfully. “Here’s the way I see it.
I’m trying to coach you for the next couple months.
So, if it has to do with how you’re training or what you’re doing in that time—it should be my call.
At least if you let it. Afterward? That’s squarely your domain.
Or, hopefully, Carla’s. And correcting your technique isn’t just about the next two months.
It’s about how you row for the rest of your life. ”
This is surprisingly reasonable from my wannabe personal dictator. “So, I’m free to keep working on my chin?”
“Yep. And I’m free to keep telling you to let it tilt.” Then he stands swiftly and that wolfish grin returns to his eyes. “And, also, to win this erg test.”
. . .
Adrian wins by four and a half seconds.
I saw it coming. I knew it was happening as soon as he started pulling the handle, legs and arms gliding with strength and precision.
The inevitable barreled toward me as I remained frozen on my own seat and the meters ticked down on his display.
He’s kept himself in shape, which means that, even though it was close, I was doomed from the start.
When Adrian releases the handle, a mess of emotions strangle my throat. I’ve lost the bet. I have to return to the mercy of his scrawling handwriting and plans B and C. This summer could set me back months if not years. I have goals—big goals. Olympic ring–sized goals.
“Kath?” Adrian’s cheeks are still red from exertion, and a glaze of sweat has dampened the edges of his dark blue Lycra. His concern is palpable.
My eyes sting and I clench my jaw like it’ll force the tears from seeping out.
I don’t cry in front of other people, especially coaches.
I can’t count how many times I’ve seen my mom break down in front of a confused bank teller or grocery store clerk.
I once watched her sob to her boss, clinging to his shoulders in the drizzling rain outside a concrete-lined office building.
He stared out over her shoulder, stone-faced, and idly patted her back until she pulled away.
I have always promised myself I will never be like that.
Still, I can feel that sharp prick at the back of my nose. Tears are threatening to leak out despite the set of my jaw and the tight balls of my fists. So, I bolt upright, snatch up my gym bag, and start backing away. My calf whacks against the long slide of an erg.
“I need to go,” I say, not looking at Adrian.
“Kath. What’s going on? Talk to me.”
I spin, nearly toppling over another slide, and beeline toward the stairs. Adrian’s footsteps pound after me. I pick up my pace. I know how ridiculous I am, bag thumping as I practically sprint out of the erg room, but the tears are coming.
Just as I drop down the first step, Adrian’s fingers glance against my shoulder.
“I can only help if we talk,” he says softly.
This does stop me. “What do you mean ‘help’?”
Adrian’s hand finds my elbow and he tugs me around, gently, until I’m facing him. Then he drops his hand again.
“I’ll listen. I want to know why this scares you so much. And I want to try to reassure you—in whatever way I can.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling seasick.
I didn’t even realize it until Adrian said it, but he’s right.
I’m terrified. I’ve felt that way ever since I stood in Carla’s makeshift office and my future crumbled before my eyes.
The last few days—being literally locked out from everything I know and love—have only made that fear more palpable.
“I just lost everything,” I say, and I hate the way my voice nearly cracks. “And I know what I need to do to get it back. But you’re—you’re not letting me do those things. And now—I had a glimmer of hope, but you won and I lost and now I have nothing again.”
I blink my eyes open, raw with repressed tears.
Adrian gazes back at me with more sympathy than I expected. “Okay. I see. Maybe I can help.”
“You’ll let me do my program?”
He shakes his head, but there’s a soft, inviting smile tugging at his lips. “You give determination new meaning, Parker. But no. You have to do my program. Still, I think there are two things I can do.”
“Okay?” I sniff.
“As a coach, I can see now that firm rules and boundaries are all wrong for you. I’m not going to cave to your demands, but I also think you need more explanations than what I’ve given.
You need to understand my decisions so that, even if you don’t agree, you also know they’re not based on whim.
So, no more declarative coaching. I mean, I still want you to hold up our end of the deal, but I’ll also try to explain things.
And I promise to listen when you have a different view. ”
My first instinct is that this is hardly a concession at all.
But if I really think about it…I do like to understand decisions and, if there is a method to Adrian’s madness, I certainly want to know it.
I’ve also never had a coach offer to completely change their style for me before, and while I realize this is part of Adrian’s shtick, it is moderately heartening.
Besides, I suppose this new approach will at least give me some opportunities to make my case.
“I’d like that,” I say. “What’s the second thing?”
Adrian’s eyes crinkle. “You need a chance for a win.”
“A win?”
“Against me, specifically. It’s only fair, given what you’ve been going through.”
Not for the first time, I search his face for insincerity, but find none. “What kind of win?”
“What was in the basement when you were in high school?”
I lift an eyebrow. “That’s possibly one of the top five creepiest things you could have said to me right now.”
He laughs. “Seriously.”
“Um, dirt floors and cobwebs.”
Adrian nods as though that answer is satisfying in some way. Then he bolts down the stairs and motions for me to follow through a door at the back of the team lounge. When he flicks a few switches at the top of the stairwell, my jaw drops.
The basement springs to life in an array of bright lights and discordant sounds.
We descend the stairs, unveiling the full scope of the transformation.
It’s not a dusty, empty basement anymore, but an arcade.
The air sizzles with clatters, clangs, and whirrs.
Against the backdrop of unfinished brick walls, I find everything from pool to air hockey, Ping-Pong to pinball.
There’s even a basketball hoop next to a Skee-Ball track.
Everything’s worn at the edges, well loved.
But it’s incredible, like a grittier version of our sleek game room in the training center.
“What is this?” I ask. “Where did you get the money for it?”
Adrian drops off the bottom step beside me. “Fundraisers, but it wasn’t that expensive. I organized a few work days last spring and a bunch of the parents came to help lay flooring and install lights. I bought the machines secondhand from an arcade-bar that was going out of business uptown.”
I stopped visiting the boathouse regularly when I moved to the training center, and the last time I practiced here was a few years ago.
But contrary to what I thought when I first arrived, there have been tons of improvements beyond that fresh coat of exterior paint.
The weight room is cleaner and better stocked, the wood flooring in the trophy room got a polish, and the countertops in the kitchenette have been replaced. I guess those were all Adrian’s doing.
But this? This takes the cake.
“Holy shit,” I say.
Adrian purses his lips. Shrugs again. “I want everyone to enjoy themselves when they’re here. We work hard, but I don’t want this place to be only about hard work.”
“It’s impressive. Seriously.”
Adrian’s chin drops and I think I catch a tinge of pink on his ears. “So, what do you say? You want a win?”
I look back at him. “You’re not going to let me, are you?”
“Parker.” His expression goes serious. “I wouldn’t dare.”
My mouth cracks with a smile. As much as everything is dark and crumbling around me, the idea of crushing Adrian at one of these otherwise meaningless games sends a surge of excitement through me that’s so intense, I can barely suck in a deep breath.
“Challenge accepted,” I say.