The only noise that matters is a loud, automated beep. This starts the clock and initiates us to propel ourselves off the block and immerse into the water. Adrenaline coursed through me; my entire psyche focused on the task of sprinting across the pool and completing the four laps before anyone else. I had no idea where any other swimmer was in the pool, and I was only able to gauge my speed by how fiercely my arms and legs burned with every stroke. I was aware that I was going fast, and when the final wall loomed, I fully extended my arms and hit the pad with the tips of my outstretched fingers.
I am at a swim meet called Zone Qualifiers that pits swimmers of every age-group against each other. Only the top two finishers of each event are selected to compete at a high-level meet in Virginia against other top competitors. I was racing for the last time in the 13-14 age group; I was driven to prove to myself that the efforts of the last year and a half, when I had started training to be a competitive swimmer, had paid off. I was confident in my ability to win. After all, I was already seeded first in the 100 yard breaststroke and the next best swimmer behind me was over a second slower than my personal best time.
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Under most circumstances this would be cause for celebration. But all that registered to me on the board were the names beside mine adjoined with a 1 for first place and a 2 for second. And, next to the second place finisher, a time of 1:04.67. I had been outtouched by the smallest of margins in swimming, only one hundredth of a second. The time it takes for lightning to strike. And as a freshman, this increment of time would provide the catalyst for me to change my perspective on failure and