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Cartter says he doesn’t want summer swim team to be over. I appreciate the sentiment. Running free with favorite teammates on deck amid the prolonged twilight, backstroke flags at either end of the pool flaunting the neighborhood’s colors – greens and yellows, bold reds and blues – bursts of cheers following each blare of the…
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On a Saturday morning, I know I can count on my dad to be in his upstairs bedroom at the Sullivan’s Island house, propped on a pillow doing the crossword puzzle. He’s up there on Fridays too. And Thursdays. Not Sundays, though. He golfs on Sundays. Every now and again, I’ll be surprised to round…
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Cartter takes his guitar all over the house with him. He sits on the couch with it resting in his lap. He lies on the living room floor with it laid across his stomach. His mother bought him a stand so he could set it in his room, but when an urge strikes (and an…
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By 8:00 p.m. at the summer season’s first home meet, the stress is starting to wear on me. I’m running the timing system, which means I’m basically a one-man IT department responsible for verifying results and ensuring the meet runs on time. There are at least 300 people, probably closer to 400, crowded onto the…
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Easter weekend 2025 was a lesson delivered by the children in what we ought to consider “inappropriate.” It started on Thursday, the last day of school before break, when I was invited into Cartter’s classroom as the “mystery reader” for the week. I’d thought that Cartter might not want me to participate in this potentially…
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As the final pair painstakingly made its way around the last holes late Sunday at the Masters, the empty fairways were a sad sight. Not long before, they glistened with dew in the morning sunlight; players strode down their centers after blistering drives; and patrons stood scattered around their edges admiring the spectacle. Then, there…
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I’m starting to wonder if our next dog will sing along the way our lab Sammy does while I play the piano. I imagine trying to play her song without her, and I think keeping it a duet would help. Some things are better with a friend. While I worry about becoming a solo act,…
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Lately I’ve found myself talking very excitedly about my son’s swimming, mostly to my wife, but also to his friend’s father, my physical therapist, my parents, my coaching colleagues . . . basically, anyone to whom my son’s nascent swimming career is even remotely relevant is aware of his budding talent. “He’s doing that already?”…
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Over the years I’ve developed some rules for dealing with young kids at swim practice. One is, never ask a swimmer, “What are you doing?” The question is totally unproductive: it’s almost guaranteed to be uttered in anger and frustration, and the kid’s not going to have a good answer. Better to just go ahead…
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The Raging Elitist 