His own pontificating surprised Isaac, but Jake was practically eating his words up with a spoon. “You’re totally right. It’s just a meet.”
Since Jake seemed to be hanging on Isaac’s words, Isaac tried to think of what advice he’d want if he were freaking out before a race. “Don’t worry about what the Chinese or the Russians or… who the heck is good at gymnastics? The Brits, the Japanese, whoever. Don’t worry about what they’re doing. You can’t control how well they perform. But you can control yourself. And if you’re good, that medal’s yours. You nail your routine in the meet, it’s yours.”
Jake nodded. “I never really thought about it that way. I mean, I completely understand what you’re saying. But my coach is always, ‘You need to do this, Jake, you need to do that.’ Hosuke from Japan does this triple layout dismount from the high bar, so I have to do it higher, more perfect. Boskovic from Russia does this pommel horse routine that he once scored a sixteen with, so I have to make mine more difficult.”
Isaac agreed. There would always be a faster swimmer than Isaac. At this Olympics, there were likely many, particularly younger guys whose bodies hadn’t been ravaged by age and alcohol. This made Isaac burn with the desire to swim well, because he loved his sport. He loved it so much, he sometimes ached when he was out of the pool. So he asked Jake, “Do you love gymnastics?”
“Huh?”
Isaac considered. “If you know who I am, you know what happened. And my life, it’s all swimming. I love swimming. I love the feel of the water on my skin. I love the thrill of racing. I’d spend most of my life in a pool if I could. I got back into swimming after rehab because it made me feel sane again. Anyone at this level has to love their sport. Do you love gymnastics?”
“Of course,” Jake said. “I see your face, but I do love it. I love tumbling. I love that thrill of flying over the high bar. Of sticking a landing. And I… I like the burn when I push my body as far as it goes.”
That was the key. Isaac nodded. “Get that burn back. That’s the ticket to winning. Forget about everything else.”
“You’re one hundred percent right.”
Isaac smiled. “And if you lose, you lose. What happens? The TV network talks about how disappointing it is—and it is disappointing to lose—but whatever, you’ll be back in the gym in two weeks, doing what you love again, and that’s all that matters. I mean, really, fuck everything else. Fuck the gold medal, fuck the Wheaties box, just get out there and do the goddamn best you can do. If anyone thinks it’s not good enough, fuck ’em.”
Isaac closed his eyes and let that truth wash over him. He was convincing himself as much as Jake, at this point.
Jake laughed. “So that’s how you became the second-most-decorated swimmer of all time? ‘Fuck ’em.’”
“Pretty much.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. It doesn’t make for a good postevent sound bite, though.”
Isaac held up his hands in a “so what?” gesture. He hated doing those interviews anyway.
Jake and Isaac watched the pomp on TV for a minute before Jake gestured at the screen and said, “Does it go on like this for a while?”
“The host cities are always trying to outdo each other. Tonight we’ll see hundreds of years of Spanish history distilled into one flourish of artistic expression.”
“You know, I think I can sleep now.”
Isaac laughed.
THERE WAS a vending machine somewhere in the building that housed Team USA that had protein bars, but Tim couldn’t remember where it was. So far he’d found a soda machine and a machine full of chips and candy that looked like no one had touched it. Tim wouldn’t let himself have any junk food until after his events, but after an hour at the gym, he could have used a snack.
Thinking maybe the protein bars were in the lounge, Tim stuck his head inside. There was only a soda machine, and Isaac Flood, curled on the sofa and wrapped in a blanket, staring at the TV. He was alone.
“Hey, Isaac.”
Isaac lifted his head. He met Tim’s gaze and smiled. “Hi.”
“You’re not going to the Opening Ceremony?”
He shook his head. “I’m swimming tomorrow. I’d rather rest. Not to mention, a bunch of the track-and-field guys were smuggling booze into the