“Go ahead, Antonio.
Jump.”
I looked down at my feet before looking back at the line
of the other six-year-olds behind me. My toes clung to the concrete, curling
just around the wet grey edges.
It
was the last day of swimming lessons. It was a hot day in June and every kid’s
family showed up for the occasion. Our mission for the day: to jump into the
pool. My swimming coach smiled, her wet hair resting on her shoulders as she
reached her arms out.
“Go
ahead, Antonio,” she said. “I’ve got you.”
I
shook my head and looked back again. Just beyond the pool was a resting area of
itchy grass, towering trees and an ant hill or two. My dad took time off of
work to show up, his blue polo tucked into his khaki slacks. Even from afar, I
could see his brows furrow, his eyes staring at me through his sunglasses. His
arms, bulging with muscles and hair, were crossed. He wasn’t happy.
“Jump
already,” he shouted at me.
My
eyes met the pool’s body of turquoise waves, rocking back and forth. The scent
of chlorine surrounded me and made me feel nauseous. I took one step back.
“Antonio,
if you won’t do it, I’ll do it for you,” I heard him shout.
I
took another step back. I was never a fan of swimming. I was terrified by the
act of being submerged, of being swallowed whole. It was a problem I struggled
with as a child. I dreaded nights where lights throughout our house were turned
off, enveloped by the absence of color – I regularly slept with a night-light. My
fear translated over to summer swimming lessons. Days of practicing bobs, where
we held on to the pool’s rails and bobbed our heads back and forth into the
water, were moments filled with stress and anxiety. To be plunged, fully
immerged – I wouldn’t have any of it if I could.
As
I made my decision and took one last step away from the ledge, I heard a gust
of giggles from the students behind me. A rush of wind met my sunburned back as
the hands of my father hurriedly picked me up, lifting me off the ground before
thrusting me in the air. It was over in a flash.
Splash.
*
·
My father always carried a small
notebook with him when I was a child.
·
His notebooks were often red, his pen a
ballpoint blue.
·
He was the coach of my youth soccer
team, from the time I was five until I was nine. We were the Taylor Ranch
Thoroughbreds.
·
At practice he would take notes. At the
dinner table he would take notes. In his bedroom he would take notes. In the
living room he would take notes.
·
“Gilbert really needs to pick it up,” he
would tell me after practice. “That Patrick, he needs to learn to stop
dribbling the ball and pass it to someone,” he would tell me after a Saturday
morning game.
·
“I’ll need you in the back today,
Antonio,” he told me one morning in the car before a game. “You’ll be sweeper.
We’ll push Patrick up to right mid, Jonathan will be at center mid. Sam will be
our forward. Still trying to figure where to put Andrew.” His hands scribbled
away.
·
At practice, his large arms would be
crossed. After practice, he would give me a hug at home.
*
Before my father would go off on business trips, I made
it an effort to throw a baseball with him in the backyard. Our backyard was a cramped
lawn of thinly stretched out grass, a crooked wooden fence surrounding the
yard.I may have only been in fourth grade in 2001, but my fear of flight had
increased tenfold after September’s attack. My dad was traveling by plane to
California and I was nervous and worried for his safety.It was a few months
later in March and my mother’s flowers were beginning to awake, nestled in a
bed far off to one side of the yard.
We talked as we threw the ball, a small clap resonating
every few seconds as my soil-caked baseball met each brown leather glove. I
tugged at my Atlanta Braves baseball cap as my father adjusted his trimmed hair
with his fingertips, pushing from left to right. I smiled at the sound of the
ball traveling from my hand to his glove – a quiet whiz in the air. I threw the
ball a little rougher with every other toss. My skinny right arm pushed out as
hard as it could, the released ball making a satisfying thud in my dad’s glove.
He winced, shaking his left hand.
“There was some heat on that ball,” he said.
We laughed.
*
·
I’m 20 years old and a desk editor at
the Daily Lobo, my college newspaper.
·
I always carry a small notebook with me
and a blue ballpoint pen.
·
I’m always on the job, I have an
interview to conduct almost every day.
·
If a gas leak were to happen on campus,
I’m there. If a student gets hit by a bus, I’m there. If a protest is happening
near the entrance of the university, I’m there.
·
I’m always taking notes. My intermediate
reporting teacher once told me to practice observing, to take notes of details
and features I find important.
·
My dad reminds me that I’m never home.
He reminds me in the front yard, his hands and arms cut from trimming the
yard’s bushes. He reminds me in the back yard, arms dirty from keeping up the
lawn. He reminds me at the dinner table, his arms crossed, his aging beginning
to wear down his once-bulging muscles.
*
“Come on, Dad. Just a little further.”
It’s a hot day in July and my family is trying to enjoy
one of our last days on vacation in Maui. I had just graduated high school and
was enjoying every minute of Hawaii. We’re swimming off the shore of a nearby
beach, taking advantage of our rented snorkeling gear. My dad clung to the life
preserver strapped around his chest, his legs kicking below him.
I looked back behind us to the beach, searching for the
sight of my mom relaxing on the shore. I looked back to my dad, took a deep
breath and looked down into the water below us.
A sea of small fish swam far below us, navigating the water and kicking
downwards. I couldn’t see any sand below us. I looked back up, took a deep
breath. My father looked scared.
My father didn’t know how to swim. He often told my
family of an experience he had in college, when he fell into a nearby river and
almost drowned. My father was a veteran wrestler and high school football star,
but the water’s undercurrent was far stronger than he was. He was submerged,
swallowed whole. Luckily for him, a friend of his dove in and rescued him.
I looked out at my father, his hands wrapped tight around
his life jacket. I could tell he was
trying to be brave. I shook my head and reached out a
hand.
“Let’s
head back in, Dad.”
