Swim Meets, Snow Cones, and The Brightest Green Caps
There are days that begin like cannonballs, sudden and loud and a little chaotic. The swim meets are those kinds of days.
Lolo, in her green swim cap and blue-and-neon suit, looked like a tiny superhero. She stood on the edge of the block like it was the precipice of a great adventure, knees bent, arms back, coached hands steadying her until she launched, flying for the briefest of moments above the chlorinated blur of the world, a blur she would soon cut through like a neon torpedo.
Next to her, the chaos unfolded in the form of kids trying to find their goggles, eat ice pops, line up for relays, and remember what stroke they were supposed to swim next. Somewhere in the crowd, Wyatt stood tall and proud on his own block, legs slightly apart, chest forward like he was waiting to be painted by a Renaissance artist who really appreciated dramatic lighting. He was ready. Not just to swim, but to be someone. And in that moment, he absolutely was.
There were cheers. There was shouting. There was Ms. Carole, whose job was, I think, officially “timekeeper,” but who might as well have been listed as “commander of small humans with wet feet and no sense of direction.” She directed with the fury and precision of a Broadway stage manager and the patience of someone who has learned that life is much easier if you just lean into the noise.
Between races, there were snow cones. Wyatt with pink, Lolo with blue, evident not just from the cups in their hands but from the way their tongues betrayed their icy secrets. It’s funny how something as simple as a snow cone can feel like a reward for bravery, even if the only thing you’re brave about is jumping in cold water while half the neighborhood watches.
And then, there were the moments in between, the ones not captured in heat sheets or timers. Lolo and a teammate locking arms and spinning around in their suits. Wyatt laughing mid-chew as if happiness had bubbled up from somewhere deep and unexpected. A quick hug from Mom on the grass after a race. Small things that didn’t seem like much at the time but would probably be remembered longer than the lap times.
What I learned that day, what I seem to keep relearning, is that kids are often better at life than we are. They know that racing and playing and snacking can all happen in the same ten minute window. They know how to cheer for other people even when they’re tired. They know that sometimes the best part of the race is the snow cone after.
And maybe, just maybe, they know something we forget: that life isn’t made up of trophies and records, but of cannonball days and chlorinated joy and the kind of friendships you form while waiting barefoot in a puddle.
So this was a swim meet. But also, it wasn’t. It was a moment of life, lived fully and loudly and with the brightest green caps imaginable.
