G3+Group+2

__**One**__

I knew I was going to win my heat about halfway through; when I checked on either side of me there was nobody there, and I could hear labored breathing and frantic splashing far behind me. I was not even tired. I triumphantly pulled myself out of the pool at the far end, and beamed as I scanned the crowd to find my father. My victory was cut short when our eyes locked; I knew by the disappointed and angry look on his tanned face that I hadn’t done well enough. It did not matter to my dad that I won the heat, or that I had just beaten the pool record. I had not beaten my old record. So he was not satisfied, so I could not be satisfied.

My dad wanted to be in the Olympics in 1988 for swimming, but he didn’t make it. He tried and failed again in the next Olympics, and after that he was too old to have a chance of getting in. My mom left when she got sick of him always talking about how he could have been a champion. I haven't heard from her since. My dad's been training me to become an Olympic champion since I was five years old. He’s so serious about it that I can’t help but hate it.

As I dried off with my towel, though my friends were congratulating me, I did not smile, because I knew that my dad was coming closer with each long stride.

"Conrad, do you know what your time was?" he asked angrily. I shrugged. "11.32!" he yelled. "That's almost one second slower than your last time! You'll never make the Olympics if you can't even beat your own record!" My friends dispersed at the sight of my dad, even though he was their own coach. "Go finish drying off, and then get in the car." he ordered me.

The car ride was silent. I tried turning on the radio, but my dad grabbed my hand, preventing me from turning it on. As we entered the house, my dad said,

"You'll be training an extra 30 minutes every day 'till you set a new record for yourself. Now go to your room, and think about how you'll do that." I went upstairs, locked my door, and pulled out my fender guitar from behind my bookshelf, and quietly strummed the chords to my band's latest song. At exactly 5:00 I heard the garage door opening, followed by a car engine. My dad had left. I knew now was my chance. I quickly packed my guitar, hopped on my bike, and rode down the street to my friend's house. Inside the garage, the whole band, One, was already there.

"Right on time." said Quin, our drummer. "We got a gig on Friday at 9:00 p.m. You in?"

"Dang, I got swim practice!"

"Aw, come on, man!" said Mick, the rhythm guitarist, and my best friend. "You always swimming. You know... we been thinking about replacing you. You never practicin' with us."

"What?! We been a band for four years. You can't just kick me out now!" I replied angrily.

"Well, then ya just gotta stand up to your dad and tell him you don't want to swim anymore," he countered.

"Whatever. Let's just practice."

I could barely hear my phone ringing over our playing. I could tell from the ringtone that it was Dad.

"Oh no! It's my dad!" I exclaimed. "Everyone shut up!"

"Hey dad," I answered.

"Where the heck are you?!" My dad hollered.

"Uh...I...er..." I panicked.

"Are you practicing with that stupid band again?!"

"Hey!" said Quin, eavesdropping on our conversation.

"Shut up!" I warned Quin as I muffled the phone with my hand. "No," I responded.

"Well, where ever you are, you better be back in five minutes."

After he hung up, I still was holding my phone, unable to move. My mind raced. How could I get home without letting my dad know I was practicing with my band? I couldn't leave my guitar here, and my dad would be suspicious if I arrived home with a guitar on my back.

"You alright dude?" asked Mick.

I couldn't answer. All I could do was shake my head.

My guitar bumped against my back as I rode home. As I neared my house I searched for any presence of my dad. I didn't see him outside, so I decided to try to sneak around the back. If I could hide my guitar somewhere and then come in the front door maybe I'd escape punishment. I almost made it, but as I rounded the corner of the house I discovered that my dad was waiting for me on the back porch. He silently held out his hand, and I reluctantly handed him my guitar. He walked to the end of the porch, and in one swift motion he snapped it in half and threw both pieces into the woods behind our house.

My knees buckled underneath me, and I fell to the ground with a hard thump. I just lay there on the porch as he turned around and walked back inside.

I don't know how much time passed before I got up and retrieved my shattered guitar. I carried the pieces to my room, silently passing my dad in the living room. He didn't even look up from his newspaper. Up in my room I laid the pieces out on my bed, and then went back down the stairs. My dad was still reading the paper in the living room.

I felt my heart beat fast and hard in my chest as I stood steadfast in front of him. "Dad?" I said in a frail, soft voice. He didn't respond. "Dad?" I said more confidently. He kept on reading. "I don't want to swim anymore." As my dad slowly put down his newspaper and stood up, I could feel the tension in the room. He punched me right in the face. I stumbled and fell back on the floor, my arm falling through the glass table in the middle of the room. I tasted warm blood in my mouth, and I was beginning to see double.

"Get out." I heard my dad say calmly. I glared at him as I got up and limped towards my room. "Get out of my house this instant!" my dad yelled as he hit the wall. I flinched as I heard the plaster fall from to the ground as my dad dented the wall. As I got into my room I grabbed my broken guitar and stuffed it into my bag. I felt my dad's eyes bearing into my back as I limped down the stairs and headed towards the garage. I didn't look back as I rode away on my bike.

I knew exactly where to go. As I limped up the steps to his house, I could hear Mick practicing his guitar upstairs. The music stopped when I rang the doorbell, and a few seconds later he opened the door.

"Oh, my god. What happened to ya, man?"

"I took your advice," I answered sarcastically.

"You told your dad you didn't want to swim? And he did this to you?!"

"Yup." I answered. "He also broke my guitar in half. Can I stay with you for a while? My dad kicked me out."

"Ya, sure," he answered. "My parents are gone this week."

"Thanks," I replied gratefully. I followed him inside, and as I shut the door behind me I felt as if I was shutting my dad out of my life forever.



I haven't spoken to my dad since our fight 12 years ago; Mick's parents let me stay with them until my 18th birthday, and after that I was able to get my own apartment away from my dad. I know that he knows my band is a hit, because since we met with that big record producer, our labels are everywhere. We're also on the radio all the time, but my dad never listens to the radio. We played a gig in Boston last year, and I'd actually hoped that he'd show up, but even though we had a record audience of about 18,000 people, none of them were my dad. I don't even know if he's still alive.

I’m still sad that I couldn’t be the Olympic Champion of a son my dad wanted so badly. But I had to make a decision about who I wanted to be, and that wasn’t it. I’m not a swimmer; I am One.