By Lisa Price

In my first year as assistant coach of the swim team, I got the group of kids who were probably going to quit, the ones who were destined for the “B” group, the ones who weren’t “keepers.”

You must start them young, the good swimmers, and that requires parents who can afford lessons, pool memberships — these are the foundations of the “A” group, the keepers. On the high school team, they were the ones who got good grades, whose parents supplied the funds for swimsuits, goggles, practice equipment, the ones who had already won a few races in the summer leagues.

In the B group were the kids who were overweight, who’s been cut from other sports teams, who were clumsy, the ones who instinctively stood on the fringes, even during the warm-up stretches, prepared all their lives for leaving unnoticed. Instead of the sleek Lycra racing suits they wore their summer suits, girls with straps tied together with string across their backs, boys with knee-length baggy shorts.

As distances built up in practice, the B group dwindled as predicted, with the exits of kids who couldn’t meet your eyes when they told you they’d decided to quit, or kids who just didn’t show up anymore. Eventually the B group fit into one lane. They were a scrappy group of athletic misfits, who wanted only to be on the team, any team.

His name was Don, but all the kids called him Smokehouse — both his parents were smokers and his clothing smelled. He was very thin with a mane of long hair. He washed dishes at a diner every weekend and most nights, and he wore the same bathing suit every day.

Before he joined the swim team, he had never crossed paths with the other kids, the kids who drove their own cars to practice — they didn’t travel in the same circles. At the pool, though, everybody traveled in the same circles, up and down the lanes. Smokehouse was a nickname, but it was also a kind of acknowledgment — you are still here, you are one of us.

Don wouldn’t have made the starting lineup, but he volunteered for an open spot in the event no one wanted to swim, the 200-yard individual medley, two pool lengths of each stroke, butterfly, backstroke, breast stroke and freestyle. Don stayed late at practice to learn the strokes.

In the league championship meet, the final match of the season, Don was listed for the individual medley. His time was the slowest of three heats, eight swimmers in each heat, and he was stuck in a lane next to the wall of the pool.

After butterfly and backstroke Don was leading his heat and our whole team was standing. After six lengths of the pool the other swimmers had caught up, and members of the team were walking on the pool deck next to his lane, shouting for him.

For the final two laps, his teammates were cheering, swinging towels, jumping up and down. Smokehouse was on fire, feet kicking, arms flailing, no form left, all splash as he fought to the wall, to win his first race.

When I think back on that season, here’s what I remember most — Don touching the wall far enough ahead to be able to watch all the other swimmers finish. He knew he’d won, and I remember him looking over at his teammates. I remember his big grin when he saw them all cheering.

That was years ago, but every so often some odd thing will remind me. I’ll spot some straggle-haired kid heading into a school or just walking down the street, and I’ll wonder if inside there is a will and a heart, untapped, ready for discovery.

I coached Don, but he taught me to believe that there could always be a chance to find a keeper in disguise.