A friend who was within spitting distance of the Olympics told me what it was like. He was part of the Indiana college diving team that had almost a clean sweep of that event.
"Was it fun?" I asked.
He looked at me with a mixture of humor, and the residual memory of
pain.
"We trained three times a day for hours. When Christmas break came along, I said goodbye to the coach. He asked where I thought I was going. I suggested that I would be going home, and he told me that was not happening."
So fun would not be the most accurate description.
"One day I was the first to get to the pool, and wondered where everyone was. I dove in and instantly regretted it. The
heater was malfunctioning, and the water was 105 degrees. I felt like a crab being cooked, and leaped out of the pool."
He described what it was like just before each dive.
"There is no thinking, once you step forward on the board. It is too late for that. Your muscle memory takes over and in the brief seconds in the air your body does what it was taught to do, a two and a half twist, before you slice the surface of the pool with barely
a splash."
My mind wandered to the repetitive practices I sometimes find myself in. Hold my tongue. Listen well. Don't react in anger. It can seem endless, with no vacations off.
But then the instant arrives when I can be present for someone without judgement, without snark. I can slip into empathy, that position that twists me upside down like a pretzel. I leave behind criticism, and friction.
That's
what I call fun.