The Gauntlet
The boys all swam nude, of course. Nothing unusual, that’s just how it was in high school, though no one ever said why. Still, it was awkward for me at first, having transferred from a Catholic school. Showering with other guys was one thing; swimming naked with them cranked it up a notch—in a way I couldn’t say.
On recreational swim days, we’d bolt from our boring classes, strip in the locker room, and stampede down the frigid stairwell to the pool, yelling and shoving all the way. The warm chlorine air would hit us in the face as dove in, and our screams would echo off the green tiled walls. We kicked and fought until the piercing blast of Coach Minor’s whistle called us to the side of the pool.
On Mondays and Wednesdays, we had the pool while the girls used the gym. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, we’d switch. When the girls swam, they wore blue tank suits. Once, Mike Miller and John Passel snuck into the pool area during the girls’ session. They came back all excited, saying you could see right through those blue suits when they were wet. It was never confirmed, but that didn’t stop us from discussing it in detail. Coach Minor heard about it and quickly put an end to the spying.
Coach Minor was a swimmer himself and held several school records. Sometimes he’d march us down to the trophy case and point them out like a tour guide. He was the kind of guy who always wore his whistle, even while eating a sandwich at lunch. He had a handsome, sun-wrinkled face and a V-shaped torso earned from years in the water.
He looked good for his age, although he carried some middle-aged softness. His eyes were the same blue as the bottom of the pool, but dark circles had started to bloom underneath them. He always wore swim trunks with “M Go Blue” printed on one leg and a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned halfway down. His thick black chest hair peeked out, almost hiding the silver whistle.
Sometimes he’d gather us around and spin a basketball on the tip of his index finger while he talked. He liked telling us the same stories over and over, but we didn’t mind. His voice and manner were magnetic.
“Listen up, guppies. When I was at Michigan, they called me ‘Aquaman.’ At the state meet, I took first place in three events. No one was even close. But it didn’t come easy. Every morning, I would do a hundred-meter freestyle before breakfast and still make it to class on time. Then there were the gym workouts after school—many reps on the arms and legs. And we didn’t have those fancy suits. Just form, muscle, and heart. Sometimes on that last lap, when the gas tank’s empty, that’s all you’ve got left is heart.”
I always wondered what his life was like outside school, but nobody knew much. Scooter said he saw him once checking out at the supermarket with a pretty woman and two young boys. They said hi, but he just nodded. Another time, we saw him in the school parking lot, sitting in his Corvette. He was staring into his rear-view mirror, like he’d just seen something he couldn’t look away from. I waved to him, but he just kept staring.
But when he blew that whistle, it was go time. Some days, he’d stand at the edge of the pool with a basket full of dodgeballs and announce that we were going to play a game he called “The Gauntlet.” He’d line us up at the diving board, twelve dripping guppies, and bark commands in that deep, gravelly voice, echoing like a drumroll.
“Jump. Twist. Do not get hit.”
One by one, we’d leap off the board; dive, flip, somersault—trying to dodge the speeding ball midair. And he could throw. Fast and accurate. One time, he almost took out Darren Cooper’s braces. When one of the boys pulled off a clean evasive corkscrew, he’d reach for another ball and shout in his best John Wayne voice, “Next time, you’re mine, pilgrim!”
When he nailed somebody square in the back, he considered it a bullseye. He’d roar like a demon and pump his fist.
“That was your mistake,” he’d yell, “You move too slow! You don’t hesitate; you commit!”
We joked about it being a little weird, but we embraced the high energy, the camaraderie, the mystery. For a while, it felt like we were in his world, playing some strange sport that only he knew the rules to.
Then one day, Coach Minor was gone. No notice, no warning. We never did find out what happened to him. The official word from the school was that he took another job out of state. Maybe he did. The pool felt different after that, soulless and sterile.
Looking back, that whole stretch of time feels dreamlike now, a little unreal. He never tried to teach me anything, but something in the way he moved through those days stuck with me—how to be bold, how to push myself, how to deman more than I thought I had.
And sometimes, in a quiet pool, when the chlorine air is thick, and the water is still, I catch myself hearing a loud whistle that isn’t there. For a moment, I can see him again, standing on the deck in his Hawaiian shirt, silver whistle in his mouth, calling me to the deep end.
The End