In the early 1970’s Mark Spitz was the man. His face was emblazoned on the Wheaties cereal box for several years. Between 1968 and 1972, Olympic swimmer Spitz won nine Olympic golds, a silver, and a bronze. He was only the third athlete in history to win nine Olympic gold medals. He won seven gold medals at the 1972 Summer Olympics in Munich, all in world record time. This was an achievement that lasted for 36 years until it was surpassed by fellow American Michael Phelps, who won eight golds at the 2008 games in Beijing.
In an era when other swimmers, male and female, were shaving body hair, Mark Sptiz swam with a moustache. Spitz is quoted as saying, “When I went to the Olympics, I had every intention of shaving my moustache off, but I realized I was getting so many comments about it—and everybody was talking about it—that I decided to keep it.”
Needless to say, Mark Spitz was an American hero to me and everyone else in the USA. I think he’s the reason I decided to take swimming courses to complete my physical ed 
requirements in college in 1974-75. I actually earned six credits for swimming in my college days. I was a fairly good swimmer although I was a late bloomer– not learning to swim until I was about nine years old, and despite several frustrating years of swimming lessons. (For details, see my January 2017 post– The Lady of the Lake)
Besides the name “Mark,” I shared some things in common with Mark Spitz– swimming experience, a thick helmet of dark hair, and a mustache. But it was what I DIDN’T have in common with Spitz that was the most telling.
At Samford University, I was placed in the advanced swimming class for some reason. It was probably because that semester there were only two choices– beginners and advanced. I was happy to be considered “advanced” but in reality I was apprehensive about what was expected of me. After a couple of classes I saw that I was not over my head, but was clearly up to my nostrils.
Our instructor was the Samford ladies swimming coach. She was friendly, fair, and tough. After a few weeks of remedial training on the four strokes used in competition, she introduced freestyle sprinting to us as a method of pushing us to improve. At the end of each class period, she made everyone race against another class member until everyone (except the last poor soul) had won at least one sprint.
The freestyle sprint included swimming as fast as possible down the length of the olympic sized pool, performing a flip turn, and sprinting back to the starting position. The winner of each sprint got to exit to the locker rooms and was done for the day. The loser had to get in line to race against another loser, until there was only one multi-defeated loser left.
I broke out in a cold sweat in fear that I would be the loser of losers. How embarrassing would that be? Unimaginable. Of the twelve members in the swimming class, I could easily end up the runt of the litter. It all rested on who the coach paired me with in the initial sprint.
Fortunately, she had pre-arranged the matches. They were all based on what she perceived to be pairings based on similar swimming skills. I don’t remember the name of the guy I was first paired with, but I do know that he looked nothing like Mark Spitz and me. I was just happy it wasn’t a tall dude with a legit swimmers build. Luckily I had eaten a hearty breakfast that morning and felt quite full of energy.
When it was my time to swim, I stood at my lane and stared into the sparkling blue water below me praying that my thick head of hair and mustache would not slow me down. I would definitely need all the aquadynamic help (that’s aerodynamics in water) I could get. Then in mid-thought I heard the magic word ring out– GO!!
I made a smooth entrance into the water and gave it all I had. I don’t know if I was breathing correctly (not sure I was even breathing at all), but I made it to the other end neck-and-neck with my opponent. Doing a perfect flip turn was not my specialty, but I performed it well that day. In fact, it was just a little bit better than the other guy’s turn, giving me a quick boost of confidence and a tiny lead.
Adrenaline kicked in and I swam like a crazed man in an alligator pit, skimming across the water like my life was in jeopardy. Approaching the finish I stretched out my fingers to touch the wall right on time! Victory! With one fluid motion I touched the wall, pushed myself up and hopped out of the pool in a blaze of glory. I had punched my ticket out of that day’s class on my first try, and breathed in the satisfaction of my accomplishment. No embarrassment for me today! No doubt Mark Spitz must have felt this way in Munich.
Taking two confident steps down the side of the pool in the direction of the locker room, I suddenly felt woozy, dizzy, sick. And then without warning, I puked all over the pool deck and into the water. The hearty breakfast had come back to haunt me– literally.
There were no more sprints to be held that day. The pool had to be closed and disinfected. I had become the reason there would be no biggest loser. Every hypothetical loser in the room thanked me for their timely escape. Let’s just say that my name, like Mark Spitz’s, was left in high regard after I had won the big race. It’s as close to Spitz and olympic gold as I would ever get.
“The race is not to the swift
or the battle to the strong,
nor does food come to the wise
or wealth to the brilliant
or favor to the learned;
but time and chance happen to them all.”
Ecclesiastes 9:11
