Swimming Blogs - Mike Gustafson

They exited the pool, all seven of them, their perfectly-honed bodies glistening under hot white lights burning at the Omaha Qwest Center. For two women, Herculean smiles radiated larger than John Naber's forehead. The only meet where two contestants always finish first.

New lives, conjured in seconds and tenths.

Cameras flashed. Video rolled. A wild finish -- three women, two spots, one team. Afterwards, each warrior limped through the tunnel to the warm down pool, contemplating those one hundred and thirty-some seconds. Some were ecstatic. A few were heartbroken. As the arena's pulse relaxed, a few keen observers noticed that one swimmer -- in the corner of the pool -- remained behind.

She wasn't the champion. She wasn't second. She wasn't taking a victory lap, signing autographs, or waving to the crowd. Very slowly, eyes in the Qwest Center panned away from the lights, cameras, and action. They watched another story unfold. A story not profiled by NBC. No violins or soft-filters were used in this corner of the pool.

She took her time.

She floated near lane eight, gently treading water, and removed her cap -- very slowly -- allowing her long, blonde hair freedom to float freely on the water's surface one last time. She turned her head toward the scoreboard. Perhaps she was expecting a different result. Perhaps she was remembering a different race. Perhaps she was savoring her name's final bow, the last time it would be seen on the big board next to minutes, seconds and tenths. As seven of those women warmed down on the other side of the arena, replaying in their minds two minutes just past, one woman replayed the last twenty years.

Then -- as if walking away from an old love -- she pointedly turned her head to the ladder, exited the pool, and began to cry.

"I really did love it," she grinned -- through tears -- after her race.

If you were a spectator that night, here's what you saw: a cold, uncompromising scoreboard matter-of-factly announce Kaitlin Sandeno's retirement. Like many stories taking place on the other side of the podium, Kaitlin's is more complex than simply digits and decimals. Like her bronchitis just days before Trials. Or her injury just before boarding a plane to Omaha. Or her class-act sporting of a slower Nike suit -- foregoing the LZR -- as her "final race homage" to the company that supported her career. These "other factors" don't matter to the scoreboard. And perhaps it's true what they say -- life is all about timing. But sometimes I wouldn't mind if timing could look the other way, if only a moment.

You see, in the days before these Olympic Trials, Kaitlin's body handed in its letter of resignation. "No more of this, please," it impolitely stated. But she kept going, just one more meet, one last race.

Hearts can be stubborn like that.

And paradoxically, like the 1,000 other athletes competing at the Olympic Trials, Kaitlin -- a former Olympic gold medalist -- came to swim, not to win. Though she had every reason to scratch, she competed. Though she had every reason to stay home due to injury and sickness, she swam. She said goodbye on her own terms -- body be damned. She savored the moment, remembered the years, and -- when all was said and done -- proudly said, "So long." As her long-time friend, I've never been so proud.

A new life.

One night prior, Matt Grevers shocked the world. The old Northwestern crew frantically called and texted each other. "He did it! Did you watch his race?! Can you believe it?!" Backstage, Andy Grevers excitedly gave his little brother congratulations: the most endearing bear-hug you've ever seen. In front of one hundred stalking media members, Andy wrapped all six foot eight of his little brother between his arms and picked him up; Matt's colossal grin hinted he didn't mind. For Matt, fifty-three seconds separated being "unknown" and the euphoric aftermath: his photograph posted on websites, his name spoken on television shows, his story printed in the New York Times.

A new life.

Another night, Ariana Kukors finished third in the very same race as Kaitlin's last. I don't know Ariana. Her sister, Emily, an NCAA All-American herself, told me, "I get more nervous for Ariana's races than my own. Even when we're at the same meet. That's how much we care for each other." Looking back, I can't help but think about these two women in the same race, Ariana and Kaitlin. One retiring, the other just nineteen. One hangs up her suit; the other would give anything to keep going. The post-race hugs were different that night, but similar all the same.

And, while it seems like eons since three weeks ago, it's not hard to wonder about the thousand other athletes who trekked to Omaha, not to win, but just to swim. If only the media didn't care so much about the Phelps, the Lochtes, the Hoffs, the records, the digits, the scoreboard. If only the event could end before it even begins; new lives could take a respite from race roulette. There would be no post-meet hugs, no new beginnings, and no new endings.

Just the eagerness of hope.

After the finals of the women's 200 IM, NBC interviewed Kaitlin on the pool deck. I don't know what was said, even though I was standing right there. Sometimes it's easy to ignore the cameras and flashes.

michael.lane.gustafson@gmail.com