“You idiot!” 12-year-old Michael Phelps’s swimming coach swatted him on the head with a rolled-up newspaper. “You call that swimming? Don’t make me laugh! Michael!” he continued to holler, “You’re not some cat drowning in a puddle! Swim, darn you! SWIIIIM!” He immediately dropped to the ground, not even bothering to jump into the pool three feet away from him. “I’ll show you how it’s done so watch closely you slow piece of crap!” Little Michael took out his notebook and began to take notes as his teacher began his lecture.
“In freestyle, pull your arms out of the water, elbows first!” He demonstrated this to his protégé. “Then take that arm out and reach out in front of you! Make sure you extend it all the way! Don’t forget to breathe!” He wheezed. “Then dip your fingertips into the water and follow through with your entire arm! Don’t slap the surface of the water like some pathetic twat! Water resistance is huge!”
Dully noted Michael thought, not wanting to interrupt his teacher.
“Then! Part the water with all of your strength! This is where you accelerate! Everything will be decided by how much strength you put into this motion!” Michael quickly scribbled this down. “Crawl with all your strength! With all your might! As if your life depended on it! Go for the gold at the Beijing Olympics!!” He started to swim on the ground. “Un! Deux! Trois! Do it with me, Mikey-boy!” As Michael watched his coach being taken away by men in white suits, him still shouting “Un! Deux! Trois!” one thought suddenly came to mind.
He forgot to tell me how to kick.