Bluegills Win

              We were a motley crew, especially compared to our competitors from the local country clubs.  They wore matching, state-of-the-art swimsuits, designed for speed.  We wore cut-offs and hand-me-downs, some with straps so loose they required a piece of twine or shoestring tied tightly around them to keep them from slipping over the girls’ shoulders as they raced.
 
              The country club kids dove from starting blocks made of stainless steel that bolted securely to the edge of the pool.  They practiced in waters blue with “purification” chemicals.  They had wide, black lane markers painted along the bottoms of their pristine pools.  Our starting blocks, which were made of scrap lumber and painted an ugly green, rocked and teetered unless someone sat on the bottom steps to steady them. 

              We swam with silt and willow leaves and blue-gills and sporadic clumps of algae in various degrees of bloom.  We had to learn to swim in a straight line by checking our distance to the floating lane markers as we rolled our heads to take a breath.  The country club kids smelled of chlorine and many had hair so blonde it turned green.  We smelled of fish and often caught strands of green seaweed in our hair.  They often beat us on their turf mainly because our little swimmers in the youngest age categories could not handle the chemicals; they stung their eyes and made them gasp for breath.

         On the other hand, we always won on our own turf.  Their most experienced swimmers, completely dependent upon being able to follow the black line at the bottom of their pools, could not adjust to our murk; they zigzagged down the lanes, which slowed the fastest of them down considerably enough to give us the edge.  Some of the teenage girls would not go into the water to warm up.  It was too cold; it was too dirty; there was “stuff” floating in it.  Some of them freaked when they saw a fish or two.  Often, in the calm waters before a meet, dozens of blue-gills flocked toward the wall.  They were rather tame, like stray cats, accustomed to being fed pieces of Slim Jim or of a baloney sandwich.

         My cousin, Anton, and I may have been responsible for the last “home” meet at the Lake.  We were feeling particularly ornery that day.  We hung out casually leaning against one of the large willow trees near the racing area within earshot of the challengers.

         “So, have you heard if they caught that snake?” I asked Anton with a wink.

         “Nah, I don’t think so,” he played along brilliantly.  “I think it lives under the dock,” he added nodding toward the dock at the end of the racing lanes.

         Looks of horror crossed the faces of several well-clad Brookside swimmers.  Just then, as if on cue, a turtle popped its head up several yards from the dock.  Turtle heads are very snaky-looking if one does not know what they are.  Nonetheless, if docile blue-gills could scare that bunch, even if they did know a turtle head from a snake head, they would have been sufficiently frightened.  “There it is!” I exclaimed as I pointed toward the dock.

         Our team won by default.  Most of the Brookside swimmers would not go near the water.  One of the little ones cried, "Don't make me swim with snakes!"  How were Anton and I to know that our little joke would put an end to all “home” meets?  We were just having fun with the snobs.