Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

Once the humid slush of Brisbane air hit them, Danny was glad he was in shorts. The air was thick here, he could sense that it would slow you down. Coach had told them they would have to adjust to that. They would need to slow down the pace of everything they did: walking, talking, eating, and especially their exercises. 'Conserve your energy,' he had said. 'Only push yourselves hard when you are in the pool.'

And then they were on the bus and it was crowded and noisy, it felt strange to be sitting on a bus with girls, he'd forgotten how talkative girls could be, how they whispered close to one another, how they chatted in low voices, as if everything they said to each other was a secret. And there was chattering and shrieking and laughing too, it was deafening.

And then they were at the convention centre and there were huge crowds and what seemed to be hundreds of adults wearing Swimming Australia nametags, and there were queues and more instructions and coaches and trainers and medical staff and more officials. They were signed in and given a booklet to read and one man said impatiently to him, 'OK, you can go now,' and turned around to sign in the next boy and all of this made Coach and Wilco and Danny seem smaller. And then there were the golden boys and the golden girls, the swimmers that Danny had watched on TV winning gold and silver and bronze and breaking world records. Everyone was looking at the golden boys and girls and no one was looking at him or Wilco, no one cared about him or Wilco and no one cared about the Coach. And all of that made them feel small.

They were assigned their rooms. They were assigned their heats. They were given instructions and then they were dismissed.

Except for the golden boys and the golden girls. Everyone smiled and was polite and tried to make jokes and conversation with the golden boys and the golden girls.

Danny couldn't wait to come back next time, to the next Australian Championships, when he would be one of them. When he would be a golden boy.

They passed a huddle of men in crisp white shirts sporting the Australian Institute of Sport logo and one of them looked up and nodded at Coach. The man was beanpole tall, with tanned spotless skin and a clipped salt-and-pepper beard. He peeled away from the others and called Frank's name. The other men looked up, one or two nodding at Coach, but they didn't come over. They went back to their conversation.

'This is Ben Whitter,' Coach said to the boys as he shook the man's hand. 'Ben is a coach at the AIS.'

Ben smiled down at both Danny and Wilco, he was that tall, then immediately turned back to Frank. 'I want to say thanks for sending us young Michael Fraser. He's good, he's very, very good.' He slapped Coach on the back. Danny couldn't believe that someone had done that to the Coach.

'He is good,' agreed Frank. 'But keep pushing him. He has a problem with discipline.'

'Mate, they all have problems with discipline when they come to us. Don't worry, I'm riding him hard.' Ben winked at Coach and again Danny was surprised at such familiarity. 'He just might be your first Olympian, Frank. He just might get there.'

Danny knew that Wilco was thinking the same thing as he was: Frank Torma had never coached an Olympian before.

'He won't be my first,' said Coach, and there was a growl in his voice; Danny could sense the anger there. Coach pointed at him and Wilco. 'One of these boys will be my first.' He was gesturing at the two of them but he was looking straight at Danny.

Ben's laugh was cynical. He said goodbye without looking at Wilco or Danny.

Danny wanted the Coach to give it back. He didn't know exactly how but he sensed that Frank Torma had been slighted. Give it back, he said under his breath, Give it back.

But Frank Torma said nothing at all.

There was a dinner and a small procession through the stadium adjacent to the swimming complex. There were photographers and television cameras and a speech by the Queensland Minister for Sport and another speech by the CEO of the main sponsor and another by another CEO and then a final speech by someone from Swimming Australia. There were many more handsome boys in much better suits, and the ones who were the handsomest were the golden boys, and they were the ones the photographers were crowding around and they were the ones being asked questions by the reporters and being introduced to the CEOs and the Minister for Sport. When the group photograph was taken, with Danny somewhere in the second row, Wilco in the fourth, Danny knew that he would look small, insignificant.

The next time he was here, he told himself, after he had won his races, he would be a golden boy.

All of that was gone as soon as he dived into the pool the following morning. It was the best feeling in the world. The water took his burdens away from him.

But when he was returning to the change rooms, a young official ran up to him and blocked his way. Danny was about to protest but the man hissed, 'Shh, you're in the frame. There's an interview going on!'

One of the golden boys was being interviewed on camera. There were wires and cables and men holding microphone booms. Danny tugged his hand free and made his escape.

He hated them, he absolutely hated them, the golden boys. He hated their blondness, their insincere smiles, their designer sunglasses, their designer swimmers and their designer sports gear. They made him feel dark and short and dirty. He detested them and he couldn't wait till he was wearing those sunglasses, till he had those brand names across his sweatshirt, impatient for when those microphones and those cameras were going to be in his face.

He found Wilco and they headed back to the bus that would return them to the dorms. The humidity made it feel as though they were walking through steam. Danny had made sure not to exert himself too much in the day's training; he knew that he had to learn to manage the air, the humid damp screen that clung to his face, to his skin, that seeped in under his armpits, slipped into the creases between his legs. He told himself that it was not making him itch, he forced his hands to be still. He and Wilco found a seat together in the middle of the bus. The golden boys were all sitting up the back. Danny could smell the chlorine and the bland floury tang of the locker-room soap. He could smell Wilco's sweat, the pong of rotting fruit, they all smelled of it. They all stank of chlorine and rotting fruit and floury soap. The official ticked off the list and the bus rumbled and began to move. Danny's body was bathed in perspiration, his shirt was sticking to the seat. He shifted, he breathed, he told himself that he knew that air, that he did not feel the heat, that there was no itch. He sat still, staring straight ahead. Wilco was saying something and Danny was nodding, but not listening, trying not to think of anyone or anything. He was concentrating on breathing, on the air coming in and the air going out. He was hearing but not listening. There was nothing, no heat, no humidity, no itch, no golden boys, no golden girls, no bodies, no flesh. It was just him. There was no one else but Danny Kelly.

When they filed off the bus, Coach was standing there. He wanted Danny to wait. Wilco kept looking back, wondering what Torma had to tell Danny. He was jealous, Danny was sure of it. The last people got off the bus just as the women's coach rumbled to a stop. Coach stayed silent while the girls left the bus, talking and swinging their sports bags over their shoulders. Danny had his head lowered while they walked past. He could look at them clinically, critically, when they were in or around the pool, when they were stripped to their togs, being swimmers. But he wasn't sure how to be around them when they were away from the pool, when they were in their civvies. There was no breeze, the air was heavy as a curtain, his shirt was plastered to his back and under his arms, he could feel sweat trickling down his arse crack. He breathed in, transformed it into air that he could control.