I've spent a lot of time this week telling stories.

Today in my 'Cultures of Masculinity' class, we were given an assignment to tell a story - a story about how 'sports/leisure cultures foster certain forms of embodiment and feeling'. We wrote them down, a hundred words or so (mine is too long, of course), and then went around the room and read them out.

I love telling stories - the wilder and wackier the better - and it's sort of fortunate, as for some reason stories just seem to happen to me. I like the feeling of sitting down, face to face, and talking to people, and with people. I like the immediacy of storytelling - while I enjoy writing, there isn't the sense of realness to words on paper that there is in the storytelling circle. There are certain favourites that I tell again and again (getting kicked out of Brownies, being unable to play a triangle, my sister setting my car on fire, staying in a Beiruti brothel ... just to name a few), and then there are tiny stories that I would never, day to day, think of telling. So, I thought I'd share the story I wrote today, just to prove that my life isn't so hyperbolic as it may sometimes seem - especially to those of you who listen to my stories!


I've never been able to dive. There's always that urge to pull my head up at the last minute - to see where it is I'm going - and you know how it is: if you don't keep your head down when you dive, you bellyflop.

Smack.

Water everywhere.

Stinging stomach as I tear off down the pool. I couldn't dive, but at least I could swim.

I once spent an instructive hour or so in private coaching learning how to dive. I'd become quite a competent butterflyer - one of the best in my squad - but my bellyflops shaved vital seconds from my time.

The coach tied my legs together. Tied my arms together at the elbow. This kept my head down - it was trapped below my shoulders and the strap binding them together. I sat on the edge of the pool and tumbled in. I stood at the edge of the pool and tumbled in. I pushed off the rim of the pool. I kept my head down. And at the end of the hour, I dived off the blocks and took off down the lane in record time. My coach was thrilled; my teammates were thrilled; my parents were thrilled. I'd never been so proud of myself in my life.

At the next meet, I strode confidently to the blocks and stood tall upon them. Crouched low, one foot behind the other, hands to the ground. One deep breath, my shoulders behind my head, and the starter's gun went off.

Smack.

Water everywhere.

Stinging stomach.

And me floundering around at the start. I made good time once I pushed off the wall. Not good enough, though. It's never good enough to push off the wall. Fourth place.

I gave up swimming, at least comptetitively, not long after that meet.

And I still can't dive.