I was twelve years old, swimming in my first race for the Sears YMCA. I was to swim in the 50 yard butterfly race, which was my best stroke. I climbed up on the starting block. My heart was beating like an out-of-control metronome. I pulled my swim cap over my ears and my goggles over my eyes.

The starter, in his white uniform, yelled, “On your mark!” I took a deep breath, crouched into my starting position. Every muscle taut, aching to spring from the block. He raised his gun. I cocked my head. A loud crack echoed through the humid air. My legs uncoiled, my arms shot forward, and I launched myself into the air like a sleek arrow. I pierced the water, saw the black line on the bottom of the pool. Began my double arm stroke and butterfly kick, but something was wrong. I felt a tug and a drag. My brand new green and black Lycra racing trunks were dangling from my right ankle. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. Then my suit slipped from my ankle and fluttered to the bottom of the pool. Stopping my stroke, I took a deep breath, dove to the bottom. I grabbed my flapping suit and slipped it back on. Not knowing what else to do, I continued the race. As I climbed out of the water, rousing cheers interspersed with laughs from the crowd greeted me.

My swim coach put his arm around me and said, “Son, I think you need a smaller size suit.”

 The next day, my smiling dad took me to the swim store and brought me a new smaller suit.

The next week at a swim meet, with my new suit clinging to my body, I won two races, the 50 butterfly and the 50 free style. However, I still must endure the family’s enjoyment when my brother or sister tells of how I became the talk of the Sears YMCA.