Yihao /
Sep 8, 2010 #1
This is for common application essay topic six, which is basically write an essay about whatever you want. I haven't seen very many successful essays about sports, so I'd absolutely love some constructive criticism. One of my major concerns was length, is this essay too long?
"Take your Mark. Beep."
The Dive. It's a lunge originating from your tensed legs to the peak of your overlapping fingers. Your body arches as it braces for impact, preparing for the shock of smashing through the water. The Dive is the beginning of my process of discovery, straying from dilettantism to unearthing passion.
I moved to America during the summer after third grade, shocked to find myself living amidst wheat fields in the so-called "Evergreen State" of Washington. Trying to immerse myself in American culture, my parents signed me up for football. Because of my pleasant plumpness, I was reduced to playing lineman all season, which was a repetitive cycle of avoiding fouls. After two seasons, my coach offered me a chance to be quarterback. I'm happy to say that I didn't get sacked, my throw was a decent spiral, and it was caught--by a guy on the other team. Basketball and soccer didn't turn out any better. I always tried to work hard, but my coaches never seemed to care about me or the rest of the team. One more loss equated to an extra set of lines.
The first 25. The adrenaline should be pumping so hard that the focus is holding back. It's about setting a pace that works with your race strategy, something that's different for every swimmer. I've heard coaches lament about how a one second drop in the first 25 could have led to a three second drop overall.
My earliest memories in the water were racing my dad at the local swimming pool. Like a good father, he always let me win. Somehow I never found it strange that someone who was slower than me was teaching me how to swim. When I grew older, I rushed through level after level of swim lessons until I landed on the local swim team, the Titans. Just like every sport, people are sorted by a hierarchy of ability. The fastest swimmers are placed into lane 6, trickling down to the slowest swimmer in lane one, me. Swimming on the team was pretty relaxed. Coaches didn't push and practices were never tough, which meant that improvement came slowly. After getting nowhere for half a year, someone decided that Pullman needed a club with a good coach. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but I was invited to join. I came to practice on the first day, expecting the same old treatment I endured on Titans. Wrong. It was just one coach, John McInturff, who ran all the lanes. At the end of workout, instead of impersonally dispersing into the locker rooms, we would shake hands and congratulate each other on a great workout. A great workout, I truly understood what that meant. A great workout is not fun. It's that look of disbelief when Coach assigns some ridiculous set. It's lying back on top of the water, trying to catch your breath, heart pounding through your chest. A great workout is competitive. It's catching up to the person ahead of you, touching his feet, and passing him. It's the last hundred yards in a set and racing your best friend to the finish.
The 50. Your body finds that rhythm and goes into cruise control. There's still some adrenaline left over that'll keep you going strong. It's important to settle on a pace, to feel strong, smooth, and sleek.
I found competition through another swimmer on the team named Scott. We raced each other every day, not to improve, but because the loser would be unofficially declared as the slowest on the team. We broke swimming etiquette, racing shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking off swimmers coming the other direction. We kept one-upping each other at swim meets, taking turns chipping off time. This was the first time I really saw improvement. I began to outgrow Scott and reveled in the fact that I could consistently beat him. At first it was no small ordeal, and then Scott started slacking. He stopped going to swim meets and, without swim meets, there was no competitive aspect, no motivational force. I forgot about Scott and declared my permanent residence in lane two, competing with faster and faster swimmers. I was shocked when I discovered Scott quit. Shocked that it took me three months to notice. He had slowly faded out.
75. Everything that's been saved up in the first fifty comes out now. It's the best feeling in the world to pass someone who was ahead of you. It's that underdog syndrome, the excitement that comes from being behind and then whipping ahead. It's the mental insult of "I purposely let you get ahead, so I could get the satisfaction of taking you down later."
A year later Mike, the fastest swimmer on our team, was within my sights. That day our main set was ten one-hundreds, last one all out. Mike lead off, and I followed five seconds behind. We finished the first nine right on pace, five seconds apart, no more, no less. We started the tenth, all out, as fast as possible. After the first lap I could touch Mike's feet, a two second gain. Flip turn and second lap, I pulled up alongside him, fingertips nearing his shoulders. I kicked harder, pulled faster, breathed less and we were dead even at the end of the third lap. It was a race now, like we were competing for first place at the championship meet. Fourth lap, I started to pull away, but he wouldn't let me. When I could see the wall closing in, I tucked my head, clenched my eyes, and just swam. I felt the wall and popped my head out of the water to witness Mike coming in.
100. Leave nothing left in the pool. Look to your arms, crank up that turnover. Look to your legs, kick until they cramp. Look to your core, power through the water. Most importantly, find your focus, that time you're aiming for or the person you want to beat. For me it's 55.45, a 40-year old backstroke record.
On the Pullman Swim Team, Coach John had a fairly stringent late policy. If you were late at all, you had a two-hundred butterfly at the end of workout. I was good about getting to workout on time, but when school got hectic, I found myself arriving late. So for the longest two month period (toward the end I realized how good it was for me, so I purposely came late), I would watch my friends dissipate into the locker rooms while I grinded through two-hundred yards of butterfly. One night after finishing, while I was stretching, Coach John told me, "You know, you should think about swimming Butterfly, you could be really successful." I laughed in his face. I told him there was no chance, that I'd be lucky if I could get my Backstroke somewhere. Fast forward six years. I am the sixth fastest butterflyer in the state hailing from a 2A school. I am the District Champion in my backstroke. As captain, I lead a team that has won Districts for the past decade. I guess all I really needed was someone to have faith in me.
"Take your Mark. Beep."
The Dive. It's a lunge originating from your tensed legs to the peak of your overlapping fingers. Your body arches as it braces for impact, preparing for the shock of smashing through the water. The Dive is the beginning of my process of discovery, straying from dilettantism to unearthing passion.
I moved to America during the summer after third grade, shocked to find myself living amidst wheat fields in the so-called "Evergreen State" of Washington. Trying to immerse myself in American culture, my parents signed me up for football. Because of my pleasant plumpness, I was reduced to playing lineman all season, which was a repetitive cycle of avoiding fouls. After two seasons, my coach offered me a chance to be quarterback. I'm happy to say that I didn't get sacked, my throw was a decent spiral, and it was caught--by a guy on the other team. Basketball and soccer didn't turn out any better. I always tried to work hard, but my coaches never seemed to care about me or the rest of the team. One more loss equated to an extra set of lines.
The first 25. The adrenaline should be pumping so hard that the focus is holding back. It's about setting a pace that works with your race strategy, something that's different for every swimmer. I've heard coaches lament about how a one second drop in the first 25 could have led to a three second drop overall.
My earliest memories in the water were racing my dad at the local swimming pool. Like a good father, he always let me win. Somehow I never found it strange that someone who was slower than me was teaching me how to swim. When I grew older, I rushed through level after level of swim lessons until I landed on the local swim team, the Titans. Just like every sport, people are sorted by a hierarchy of ability. The fastest swimmers are placed into lane 6, trickling down to the slowest swimmer in lane one, me. Swimming on the team was pretty relaxed. Coaches didn't push and practices were never tough, which meant that improvement came slowly. After getting nowhere for half a year, someone decided that Pullman needed a club with a good coach. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but I was invited to join. I came to practice on the first day, expecting the same old treatment I endured on Titans. Wrong. It was just one coach, John McInturff, who ran all the lanes. At the end of workout, instead of impersonally dispersing into the locker rooms, we would shake hands and congratulate each other on a great workout. A great workout, I truly understood what that meant. A great workout is not fun. It's that look of disbelief when Coach assigns some ridiculous set. It's lying back on top of the water, trying to catch your breath, heart pounding through your chest. A great workout is competitive. It's catching up to the person ahead of you, touching his feet, and passing him. It's the last hundred yards in a set and racing your best friend to the finish.
The 50. Your body finds that rhythm and goes into cruise control. There's still some adrenaline left over that'll keep you going strong. It's important to settle on a pace, to feel strong, smooth, and sleek.
I found competition through another swimmer on the team named Scott. We raced each other every day, not to improve, but because the loser would be unofficially declared as the slowest on the team. We broke swimming etiquette, racing shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking off swimmers coming the other direction. We kept one-upping each other at swim meets, taking turns chipping off time. This was the first time I really saw improvement. I began to outgrow Scott and reveled in the fact that I could consistently beat him. At first it was no small ordeal, and then Scott started slacking. He stopped going to swim meets and, without swim meets, there was no competitive aspect, no motivational force. I forgot about Scott and declared my permanent residence in lane two, competing with faster and faster swimmers. I was shocked when I discovered Scott quit. Shocked that it took me three months to notice. He had slowly faded out.
75. Everything that's been saved up in the first fifty comes out now. It's the best feeling in the world to pass someone who was ahead of you. It's that underdog syndrome, the excitement that comes from being behind and then whipping ahead. It's the mental insult of "I purposely let you get ahead, so I could get the satisfaction of taking you down later."
A year later Mike, the fastest swimmer on our team, was within my sights. That day our main set was ten one-hundreds, last one all out. Mike lead off, and I followed five seconds behind. We finished the first nine right on pace, five seconds apart, no more, no less. We started the tenth, all out, as fast as possible. After the first lap I could touch Mike's feet, a two second gain. Flip turn and second lap, I pulled up alongside him, fingertips nearing his shoulders. I kicked harder, pulled faster, breathed less and we were dead even at the end of the third lap. It was a race now, like we were competing for first place at the championship meet. Fourth lap, I started to pull away, but he wouldn't let me. When I could see the wall closing in, I tucked my head, clenched my eyes, and just swam. I felt the wall and popped my head out of the water to witness Mike coming in.
100. Leave nothing left in the pool. Look to your arms, crank up that turnover. Look to your legs, kick until they cramp. Look to your core, power through the water. Most importantly, find your focus, that time you're aiming for or the person you want to beat. For me it's 55.45, a 40-year old backstroke record.
On the Pullman Swim Team, Coach John had a fairly stringent late policy. If you were late at all, you had a two-hundred butterfly at the end of workout. I was good about getting to workout on time, but when school got hectic, I found myself arriving late. So for the longest two month period (toward the end I realized how good it was for me, so I purposely came late), I would watch my friends dissipate into the locker rooms while I grinded through two-hundred yards of butterfly. One night after finishing, while I was stretching, Coach John told me, "You know, you should think about swimming Butterfly, you could be really successful." I laughed in his face. I told him there was no chance, that I'd be lucky if I could get my Backstroke somewhere. Fast forward six years. I am the sixth fastest butterflyer in the state hailing from a 2A school. I am the District Champion in my backstroke. As captain, I lead a team that has won Districts for the past decade. I guess all I really needed was someone to have faith in me.
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