“It sounds like something that might eventually land you in a hospital.”
Despite myself, I smile.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “It’s tough, sure. But that’s kind of the point.”
“Tough?”
“Competitive.”
“Ah.” There’s a faint understanding in her voice now.
“You do like competition.”
“That’s not exactly a secret.”
“No. Your father noticed that about you very early. And I can’t convince you to pick something safer?”
“No.” The answer comes out more firmly than I expected.
“Even if it’s hard?”
“Especially if it’s hard.”
Silence lingers on the line.
Then my mother laughs quietly.
“Well,” she says, “that does sound like our family.”
I picture her sitting at the kitchen table back home, coffee mug in hand, reading some wildly alarming article about underwater athletes passing out and drowning at the bottom of swimming pools.
“Besides,” I add, “I’ve got a bit of extra help.”
“Oh?”
“Someone from the team to help as I’m getting started. Kind of… a safety coach.”
That part, at least, is true.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. That sounds sensible.”
We talk a few minutes longer - about campus and my classes and, of course, about Markus’ blossoming career - until eventually the conversation winds down the way it always does.
“Call me if anything changes,” she says.
“I will.”
“And be careful.”
“I promise.”
The irony of the conversation and my lie isn’t lost on me.
My mother is worried about underwater hockey injuries.
Meanwhile, I’m secretly playing left wing on a men’s college team and getting body-checked into the boards every two minutes.
I grab my gear bag from the chair and sling it over my shoulder.
