A few years ago, I was sitting in the bleachers at our Pacific Masters
Swimming Championships at DeAnza Valley College, rather depressed about the
state of my swimming. That is actually another topic in itself, and of no
use to you, but I thought the poem I've attached might be. You see, as I sat
there on the bleachers, surrounded by my teammates oblivious to my pain
(they were merely enjoying the sunshine and themselves), I looked over the
shoulder of a teammate, Dore Schwab, who was seated next to me, writing
poetry of all things. I would guess that Dore is a very young 80, but you
know, I really have no idea how old he is. He is a terrible flirt with a
morbid sense of humor. I sat there and spied on him, feeling terribly sorry
for myself, yet mildly curious about whatever it was he was scribbling.
"What ARE you writing," I asked, and he passed his notebook over to me. Then
I felt utterly ridiculous, as I started crying. Everything started making
sense, and I started swimming a lot better. I just found this poem again on
the Internet (on our team's website). Substitute "athlete" with "racecar
driver," and maybe it'll all make sense to you, too.
Cheers,
Katie K.
The Athlete
She wasn't an athlete
In the popular
Sense of the word
She held no records.
Occupied no space
On the sports page,
Of even her local paper,
But that didn't matter.
She approached her event
Intent and focused
On the job at hand
Aware of the joyful pain
Doing her best would bring
But fortified by
Her hours of training,
Encouragement of teammates
She stepped up
To the challenge.
Standing there
Made her
An athlete.
Dore Schwab - TAM
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