Short Story: Nice Work John

I had a different name for a couple of years there. But only as far as my swimming coach was concerned. It was hard to correct him from the pool – so I never did. I just demonstrated the strokes as best as I was able, and only whenever he asked ‘me’ to.

“Everybody watch John”, he would say. And the kids in the pool would all look around. There was no one named John in our group. I’d wait a second or two, then point at myself as if unsure, and the coach would nod. I’d push off and show everyone how to do a nice big arm-circle: fingers together, pointing, cutting into the water. Arm high. And strong. Breathing bilaterally, feet pushing me forward.

John was bloody good eh!

One day, and I guess in a way it had all been building to this, the coach was in the changing room, and he had been talking to people about the big swim. (It was the first time we’d completed a continuous mile, which was 88 lengths of that particular pool). And he was high fiving everyone back out by the pool. Hair still dripping, jandals slapping.

“Nice work John!” And I took that high five just as if it really was for me. And someone walking alongside said, loudly, “Why does he call you John? Why do you answer to that?” I looked down. Coach looked gutted. Like some kid had basically just called him a very dumb cunt. I looked up and cleared my throat. I had made my choice. “Because that is actually my name!”

“No it’s not”, said my mum, her keys jangling as she stood by the door.

There were to be no more demonstrations from John in the pool.  And that coach left for some other pool after about a month of silence. We never spoke again. And I couldn’t even try to reconnect. Not then. And certainly not now. You see, I never actually knew his name.