IN THE SWIM

               Eons ago—way, way back when—a fish with stumpy fins took a deep gurgle, humped himself out of the ocean and began to explore the land. He liked it and stayed, bidding some of his mates to join him. Eons more later the evolutionary cycle turned again and people emerged, no longer fishlike. Nonetheless, deep in our genes there must remain a trace of fish because I’m never happier than I am in the water. These days my four-times-a-week swim is the center of my calendar; it is, in fact, my answer to the “what do you do?” question retirees often are asked.

             I swim, therefore I am.

This is a good time to write about exercise, I think, because our semiconfinement to ward off the corona virus puts a premium on it. Sitting around indoors all day isn’t good for us; it’s boring as well as unhealthful. In the Arizona desert where I live, where summer daily high temperatures regularly top 110 degrees, just getting out can be a problem. The inviting waters of our outdoor pools make that easier.

And by all accounts swimming is about as good an exercise as one can do. It’s a low-impact, whole-body workout, and it’s cheap— a 30-swim card at the Scottsdale municipal pools, which I frequent, costs $72, which comes to $2.40 per. For equipment one needs only a suit— little Speedos are best for swimming laps even though they don’t flatter most of us, uh, mature guys—and goggles, to protect the eyes from the chlorine in the water. Total cost for both is around $40. I also use $25 fins— so-called “trainers.” They improve the quality of the workout and give me a little, much-needed speed.

Lap swimming is supposed to be good for the heart and lungs and helps control blood pressure. It’s said to reduce the chances of catching colds or the regular flu in the winter. I sleep better when I swim.  I swear I read somewhere that it makes people taller and better looking. I’ve tried to look that up, and couldn’t, but I believe it anyway. It’s especially appropriate for this virus-ducking time because lane dividers keep swimmers separated and chlorine kills germs indiscriminately. Get in and out without being social and you’re OK.    

As a kid growing up in Chicago I couldn’t get enough of the city’s Lake Michigan beaches. The lake’s water temperatures rarely top 70 degrees—too cold for many—but they felt fine to me. I first swam in a pool at a day camp at age 11 and quickly discovered I could swim. Bike-driven outings to the wonderful Whealan Pool in the county forest preserves were a highlight of my pre-teen and teen summers, as were plunges into the big lake off “the rocks”—i.e., the breakwater-- at Waveland Avenue. Pals and I would dive for balls in the scummy, muddy water hole at the Waveland public golf course, and sell the balls when we could. It was a miracle we didn’t catch typhus.

I spent a year on the swimming team at Roosevelt High School but wasn’t fast; the best I ever did in a race was a third-place finish in a four-swimmer field in a 50. Our coach was Mr. Marx, whose claim to fame was that he coached 1936 Olympic backstroke champion Adolph Kiefer, the best athlete the school ever produced. I don’t recall Mr. Marx providing any coaching; indeed, I don’t believe he spoke to me during my team tenure.  I’m guessing he didn’t say much to Kiefer, either.

While I was in college I spent a couple of summers as a day-camp counselor, among other things helping little kids learn to swim. My main discovery was that any kid who would put his face in the water and blow bubbles could be taught, while those who wouldn’t couldn’t. From this I concluded that fish DNA might not be universal in the human genome.

I’m sorry to say I neglected swimming post-college, seeking more competitive and social sporting outlets. At one time or another I played softball, golf, tennis, racquetball and handball, and hiked. Alas, they’re all on my “used to” list now. Lured by Scottsdale’s lovely municipal pools, I took up lap swimming to supplement my hiking in 2005, and when strangled nerves ended the hiking seven years later it became my sole exercise outlet.  My initial workouts as a spry 67-year-old were 60 laps of 25 meters each. They’re 44 lengths now, or about two-thirds of a mile, equally split between stroking and kicking.

  I’m in the water for about 33 minutes, and for fun I worked out that I go 50 meters in about 80 seconds. That’s about four times the 20-22 seconds of world-class swimmers. That means the difference between duffers and the pros is a chasm; they’re a whole different species. At Scottsdale’s Cactus Pool I’ve been in the water with collegiate-level swimmers and they zoom by me like torpedoes. It’s an awesome experience.

Submerged as the competitors are, swimming isn’t much of a spectator sport. (What do you call people who attend swim meets? Parents.) It surfaces (ha-ha) only every four years, during the Olympics. There, people who are built for speed prevail-- tall ones with broad shoulders, long arms and hands and feet like shovels. The Aussie Ian Thorpe was one such model, Michael Phelps is another. They also must be willing to endure long, solitary hours of practice in a foreign medium with little to distract them. Americans have long dominated the international sport. I don’t know what this says about us, but it’s not all bad.

                

LOCO PARENTS

               I delight in quirks of language, even in languages not my own. Take, for example, the phrase “in loco parentis.”  In Spanish, where “loco” means crazy, it seems to mean something like “crazy parents,” but in Latin, its intended tongue, in loco means “in place of,” and applies to people or institutions that might assume parental responsibilities for youngsters. Quite a difference, huh?

               The phrase often is, or was, applied to schools or colleges. In ancient times, when I went to college at the U of Illinois, it was aimed mostly at women students with such rules as 10 p.m. weeknight curfews (men had none) and the notorious “three feet on the floor” dictum for couples who were, uh, necking in dorm sitting rooms and such.  Times change, though, and such strictures now are in history’s dustbin.

               But “in loco” has come up with a vengeance in regard to college sports during the present pandemic. Members of the “Power Five” football conferences (the SEC, Big Ten, Pac 12, Big 12 and ACC) called their teams back to campus last month for so-called “voluntary” workouts in preparation for the scheduled season ahead, with eye-opening results. At LSU 30 football players in an initial group tested positive for the coronavirus, at Clemson the score was 23 and at the U. of Texas 18, to name a few examples. Some schools cancelled their workouts, others put them off until better conditions prevailed. To say that it was an inauspicious start to the season would be to put it mildly.

               Trouble is, things are likely to get worse given the recent virus surge, and more appalling.  Asking young men in the 18-to-22 years-old age group to endanger their health and the health of others in the name of sport by institutions that should be protecting them strains credulity.  The double meaning of the “in loco” line never has been more apparent.

               If you follow this blog you know that I view skeptically the chances of any our major team sports to successfully open or reopen their seasons while the virus persists; for details scroll down to my offering of June 1. My basic argument is that the exercises will contain too many parts that could fail, and whatever can go wrong probably will. Of our Big Three professional sports, I think that basketball (the NBA) has the best chance of making a go of it, followed by MLB baseball and NFL football. That judgement is based on the numbers, the NBA having the smallest casts and the NFL the largest.  The NFL also trails because its sport negates any kind of “social distancing,” in practice as well as during games. The league probably will require players to wear some sort of face shield, but many kinds of bodily fluids fly after foot meets ball.

               But if the NFL will have a tough time meeting its schedules, the colleges will have it tougher. For starters, “Power Five” conference teams have squads of more than 80 players in season compared to the 57 permitted in the pros, and while most professional players can repair to private homes when work is done collegians generally live in dormitories or shared apartments, in close quarters with others. College campuses are fertile grounds for the spread of diseases such as meningitis during ordinary times, and the pandemic multiplies the risk.

               The NBA will try to create a “bubble” around its players at Disney World in Orlando, Florida, during its renewed season. MLB and the NFL discussed but rejected such a course on grounds of practicality because of their bigger squads and the greater geographical spread of their operating plans. The idea of a college-campus bubble is ludicrous; those places will be full of “civilians” when classes are in session.

 The subject of what to do when the inevitable “positive” hits arrive is similarly fraught; where will infected collegians quarantine and who will take care of them when they do?  Going home to the folks won’t be a good option. Youth and good health will save most collegians from the worst effects of the virus but their parents have no such protection.

The differences between the pros and the colleges continue, also reflecting poorly on the latter. Professional athletes are adults who at the major-league level are well paid for what they do and for any risks they may take. They have unions to represent them as a group and agents who to do that for them individually. Collegians don’t have either and they’re not paid, at least by check.  More basically, professional sports exist to entertain and turn a profit for their owners. Period. Colleges pretend to other, more-exalted goals, although you wouldn’t know it from the way many of them behave.

It's not clear how much parenting people in their late teens and early twenties require, but the answer surely is some. The stereotype of a coach in recruiting mode has him promising mom and dad to treat their boy “like a son” while he’s at Gigantic State U., but too often the guy has more in common with Charles Dickens’ Fagin than with the Robert Young character in the old TV series.

Colleges’ failure to protect can touch the criminal, as in the cases of the Michigan State University team physician who was sentenced to 60 years in prison for sexually abusing women athletes in his charge over 20 years, and the Ohio State University doctor who did the same to male athletes, including wrestlers and football players, for a similar period. My alma mater, Illinois, fired a head football coach a few years back for belittling injured players and pressuring them to play. A spate of college coaches, both women and men, have lost their jobs in recent years after complaints about verbal abuse arose.

Perhaps worse are the cadres of “academic advisors” who steer young jocks into easy, low-content courses that keep them eligible, rather than toward more-demanding but more-rewarding offerings. Don’t be misled, every big-time sports-school does it.  Asking the kids to risk their health for Old Siwash is a short step from that. With “parents” like those they don’t need enemies.