Joseph McElroy: Cannonball

And why out of nowhere this diver who’d stood before me many times back home? His own person another foreigner had said of Umo when he was fourteen (which sometimes means, I see, Look out , or Trouble ). Whose home, though? I ask, like a why or a how I would put together to understand for myself this Competition our at first not quite postwar Hearings are about. The dive, once up and happening, will be thoughtless, opening, closing — what my father meant by “character”—you just do it. It speaks for itself. Is what it is — which seemed to say, is , not what . To me, though, retired from diving at sixteen, now home-from-the-war sports psychologist-in-the-making at almost twenty-one as it happened (years after quitting diving), the instants of the dive, infinitely little, half-known to intent derived from all the little I know, and reckoned in your chin and armpits, arching back and calves, as I have so far worked it out (helped by a struggling eleventh-grade teacher who was an assistant coach but more) from increments of flight infinitely slowing and small — like interruption, my sister said (but what of? she said) and you don’t mean they’re real like snapshots or (she also said one night when I came home from my own enlistment party) what was it in you close as the person so close up you can’t see her or say what it is, a double-talk narrowing really the thought down, even if Dad cut you short, or a fine, sometimes puzzled, wild teacher taking your speeds to show you where you were at one instant, till years later you cared.

A math that I later linked with life — or slowing down, or reliving, even the lunch hour between morning and afternoon sessions on a day of the Hearings reserved in part for me, careless with figures, honestly. And my own memorial for Umo in particular this big person’s entry into the waters of a onetime luxury pool in the basement of an appropriated palace during the war which came up to meet him though that was not the end of it: which recalled all over again a future of my own not that descried by my mother through her daily windshield missing nothing at the wheel or by my father, Reservist big-time who the Spring I graduated high school had made his peace with the coming war across the board (meaning little to me as he reported it except to place on me some curious decision unless he was salting me up), and he would have to reconcile himself and my mother (he said) to my serving, though maybe not her. What did it matter? It was the last thing he said about it to me at any rate. A father is a father.

My teammate Milt wouldn’t think of going, and if elected would not serve. He often quoted his dad, North-side Lutheran minister, whom I photographed bowling once, right arm out-thrust in follow-through so long ago with Milt in the foreground and blurred but his diagonally slanting, almost converging eyebrows visible, as my sister pointed out, and the minister’s very own black-and-white “DNA ball” we called it bending down the alley ambushing the head pin to bring them all down, a first strike — a father for you — and once, surprising him when I took a picture of him in his living room his hands clasped together talking to Milt and me, there would be no Draft and if there was had we heard of civil disobedience? A father for you.

For have I begun really with mine, my dad I will call him (and not after all with my friend and with the Scrolls sent under the Mesopotamian desert by water)? — a father who because everyone needs a hobby, not knowing it should be your life, taught me, when I was so young it was still The Dark, how to make a darkroom with a sheet of plywood half covering the bathtub: work slow then fast, change the whole look, the take, lifting a picture with your tongs, agitating it in its bath sometimes diluted (not by me) of TD3 turning its (no telling what)… spirit I could now not then say to my testy teacher aware that I would soon get back to working on Lego castles and precarious balconies with my sister, “E,” who was willing to follow with her delicate hand (though not as my father taught me) and would join me in our improvised darkroom for experiments parenthetical and blurry she had thought up so we ran out of printing paper and had to ask Dad to get us some more though how it curled up at the edges killed him — whose face itself would have been something to work with, my sister said, a crowd in itself, teaching me important things about crowds, I saw, as well as our father, though she was younger, and giggling in the middle of something in the dark remembering how our mother was the one who…who…who said the word “spirit.”

How to swim as well, I was willing to believe our father taught me, though I began with more there; and had less of him because my father belonged to hundreds of others in the tile-hard, watery fields (yes) of two unforgiving swimming pools in particular — a somewhat well-known coach at our club targeting Zone meets and always Olympic shortlists but at my high school too, though there, at the risk of getting fired he relied on our cherished assistant, Wick, it is always coming to a head long ago and then recently at the Hearings, it comes up at the Hearings, my dad trained with the Reserve every year and went to meetings, though I see he was away a lot Umo’s second summer among us. There were postponements and, putting it all together (but what?), I recall as a habit my father’s trips to Sacramento on swimming business and a week’s East Coast “DC junket,” announced by my mother after he was gone. Travel helped him “blow off steam.” These trips added up, stopping off at Colorado Springs, an Olympics meeting, on the way home. Wick was polite about it. Get into that loop it’s endless. What loop? “Zone business.”

My father sometimes knew exactly what the score was, and sometimes it was about him. He had the latest news, named names who were for him and was still close-lipped, boiled things down; though who for? Maybe in the end someone, but who would know? Me? Though complained that he had been “pigeonholed” as a backstroke specialist curiously soon after I, his son, quit competitive diving. Our historically AAU-affiliated club in its own small way a fixture here like the Marine Lab (which as I pointed out to a father not amused is also “an independent swimming club sometimes”), kept a weather eye on the Olympics, the now “USA Swimming” affiliates (sincejust-after-Vietnam, my dad once said), the authentication of meet times, alliances read sometimes as if between the lines of directives coming out of Colorado Springs — but within and beyond, where the money came from. This was what was really going on. And to be placed, if not by me, in the overall scales.

(A father is not an older brother either.)

East Hill had sent three freestylers to the early Zone trials the year before, and a 400 butterfly; but not really our coach, his status that of a provisional backstroke backup coach. The funding was quite real to me, I see now, the money, if I never seemed to think about it, and why would I? It often seemed to come from people, and to be private by some smart, even brilliant stroke like a signature or a voice. I heard Colorado Springs — somewhere where a committee “sat”—and Washington, DC. And a Sacramento-based speechwriter my mother said Dad had glommed onto or the other way around, who worked both coasts.

On a shelf in my father’s office at East Hill stood my grandfather’s copy of God Is My Co-Pilot , about the overage Flying Tiger in World War II China. On the wall among many informative photos one outdoor shot, somewhat boring, from 1968 of a Vietnam correspondent he had known standing with an older guy who had on a seemingly white suit and a dark tie and a dark hat, not looking at the camera, the head of the World Bank, hands on his hips, and the difference in the way the two men stood a giveaway, and contrasts of dark and light, it seemed to me, whatever the World Bank was. Well, my father was an expert on government support for true enterprise; on water, which trusts us and is to be trusted; on the body’s forces and vectoring diagonals to a point where, with the will and practice (and team desire), you might become a hydrofoil; expert on a trick with the abs, a kind of hike with the muscles, to get the extra stroke on the man in the next lane (yet keeping it all “seamless”). A difficult man (my own father) — nothing personal, perhaps — who knew the way to lift the elbow just so far to swing the wrist through. The body this thing or raft with side paddles (“let the tool do the work,” he said in his shop in the garage) and a kick motor that never stops, while, face down except to breathe (like a religion with him), the pool floor glimmering below like the ground, you were a bird on the wing, the planes of air your depth.