Prove it on the bench

I am not an athlete. But my undergraduate college, Duke University, includes me on their list of "student-athlete" alumni in, of all things, Swimming and Diving.

Therein lies a tale.

There were only two fixed requirements for graduation from Duke in those days: one had to pass a course in Freshman English, or place out of it (as I did, with a perfect 800 score on the verbal part of the SAT), and pass a swimming test, the equivalent of the Red Cross Beginner's level. That was not so straightforward. I had taken a beginning swimming class as a child and failed miserably. I did not even attempt the test during freshman orientation; I stood at the side with a handful of others and was enrolled in a semester-long class in the subject.

Even after a full semester of (I think) three hour-long sessions per week, I still was unable to pass the test (I alone of the class of a dozen or so young men), so I took a second semester. It was fascinating, and I thoroughly enjoyed it despite my humiliating lack of ability. Duke was (and is) primarily a school for elite prep school graduates, most of them white and from wealthy backgrounds. But the swimming classes consisted mostly of disadvantaged African-Americans who, unlike their country-club peers, had not been able to go to swimming pools -- many of which were still segregated when they were children. I made friends in this class that I probably would not have otherwise made.

The teacher was W. S. "Jack" Persons, the head swimming coach, by then an old man nearing the end of a distinguished career.

It was only much later that I learned just how distinguished he was, one of the legends in the sport. He had been swimming coach at Duke for upwards of forty years, and had led the team to championships and undefeated seasons back in the 1930's, before the non-scholarship Duke team fell behind the conference schools such as N.C. State and Chapel Hill whose swimmers were on athletic scholarships. He had also coached the Duke Lacrosse Team for twenty-six years, building it into a national power in the 1950's. Perhaps more significant still (and I believe it was to Coach Persons), he had taught many thousands of people to swim, including Navy pilots during the Second World War, pioneering in the training of survival swimming.

So here he was, this legendary head coach, patiently teaching beginners to swim. Over the course of two semesters, I got to know and respect him, and I think he viewed me as a challenge. At the end of that second semester when I finally passed the test, he invited me to be a student manager with the men's swimming team the next year. I was very glad to accept.

My work as the lowest assistant manager consisted mostly of helping to mix and serve the Gatorade, passing out (and laundering) towels in immense quantity, clocking lap times, straightening things up after practice.

I held the swimmers in immense awe. These young men, all of them carrying full and challenging academic loads, came to the pool several afternoons a week and worked hard. Unlike athletes in the prestigious sports, they received little recognition. Few people came to the meets, and we lost many of them, sometimes by huge margins. Looking back at the records, I see that we lost to N.C. State by a score of 91-22. We finished 1-4 in the conference one year and 0-4 the next, though both years we posted overall winning records.

There are many similarities between athletics and music. A sport such as swimming that is essentially individual is much like the work of a keyboard musician. The hours of laps in the pool are comparable to the hours on the organ bench and piano bench. No matter how hard you work, there is always someone better than you - faster, stronger, more talented. But that does not matter so much, in the end; you are "competing" against yourself as much as any opponent, seeking to improve your personal best. For a swimmer, it is measured with a stopwatch; for a musician, it is less tangible but equally real. All these years that I have been on the bench, I have sought to play better, to improve my "personal best."

One of the sayings in the current Duke Swimming and Diving program is "prove it in the pool." In music, as in athletics, talk is empty; one must "prove it" by one's playing. Every Sunday, there is a sense in which I must "prove it on the bench." And every Sunday, there is a strong possibility of failure, no matter how well I have prepared.

Because of my tenuous connection with the program, I receive regular updates and newsletters. They seek to make me feel like part of a family that includes not just the swimmers but the famous athletes who have come through Duke in other programs, mostly in basketball. I find it interesting that the department has gone to such lengths to keep me connected, while so far as I can tell, the Department of Music could care less whether I ever existed. I believe they could learn from the athletes on this.

For Christmas, my wife got me a Duke Swimming and Diving T-shirt. Although I have little right to wear it, I do so with pride. And I still have my Red Cross Beginning Swimming card, signed by Jack Persons.

But don't throw me in the pool.