The Olympics have ended so you can go back to your regularly scheduled life of not caring about swimming.
I don’t mean to belittle the impossible, inspiring physical feats of Michael Phelps, Katie Ledecky and Ryan Lochte’s storytelling abilities, but come on, didn’t most of us stop caring about who could swim to the other side of the pool fastest after our friend’s 10th birthday party?
OK, I’m just being bitter. We all now know Ryan Lochte really wasn't robbed at gunpoint and was stripped of his Speedo. I can relate. Twenty-nine years ago, I too had my dreams of Olympic glory smashed to pieces -- I was cut from my high school swim team.
Sure it was just one of the many teams I got cut from, which you might not guess were you to witness my height and 37 percent body fat in person, but it still stings like that green under-chlorinated Rio pool water.
Let me paint a picture for you: Sachem High School, Long Island, 1989. I was in ninth grade and at this point in my scholar-athlete career I had tried and failed to make the basketball team (again, height, shocker), the wrestling team (wait, you’re not supposed to cry during workouts?) and my mom cut me from even trying out for football (she still held hopes at that point that my brain was something worth protecting).
So my likewise team-repellent friend Alex and I put our mulleted heads together and realized, “Wait, we know how to swim, let’s try out for the swim team!”
The flier in the hallway said all you needed for tryouts was a swimsuit and goggles and a towel. No problem; I got those!
We showed up to the pool and -- wait a second: READ THE ENTIRE STORY HERE