Lost Move Syndrome: A psychological condition in which athletes find themselves unable to perform a skill that was previously automatic.
COACH PORTER isn’t smiling when he calls me over at practice the next day. “What’s going on out there? You guys look worse than the JV.”
“Honestly, I don’t know, Coach. I wasn’t paying attention to what the guys were doing. But I can take a step back and help out more if you want.”
He stops glaring at me to do a double take. “You feeling all right, Mackey?”
“You mean beside crimping, stomping, or killing the spring on every dive?”
Coach narrow his eyes and pulls me farther away from the team by my elbow. “Normally, I don’t mind a little sarcasm, but today I have to ask … Are you on something?”
“What?” The headline from the article about my mom moves across my mind like a running news ticker. “Did you go into the school newspaper archives?”
“Archives? What in the hell are you getting on about, Mackey? I asked you a simple question. Are you on something? I don’t have time for this crap. Not from you.”
“Nothing. Just the Adderall my uncle prescribes me. Why?”
“Because you’re all pupils, like a cat. There’s hardly any green left.”
“I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night and drank a ton of coffee.” (Or Phoenix—now with even more caffeine.) “Other than that I’m fine, I swear.”
Total lie. I haven’t been fine since I left Uncle Phil’s last night, and took two Adderalls with that Phoenix before practice.
Coach considers this excuse for half a second. “Maybe it’s the lighting. I told maintenance we had bulbs out a week ago. But pull it together out there, would you? We have a meet coming up. You’re running out of time.”
A clammy sweat rises on my skin. Of all the things Coach could have said—
“You listening to me, Mackey?”
“Yes, Coach.”
He blows his silver whistle next to my ear and it pierces my brain with such lobotomy-like sharpness I swear I can taste metal. The guys stop in their tracks and rotate toward the sound like a group of synchronized swimmers.
“You have five minutes to remove your heads from your behinds,” he yells. “Or we might as well wrap up practice and forfeit the Andover meet.” He turns to me. “Unless you’re still having trouble with whatever complex put that bruise on your back, get up there and show me something that will save this sorry excuse for a team on Friday.”
Actually, I am. More than trouble but I say, “How about a Reverse 3½ Tuck?”
“307C. Good. Let’s see it.”
Les is waiting at the base of the ladder. “You want to go first?” he says. “I’m feeling pretty good about the meet.”
“Nah. Go ahead, Les. Ladies first.”
“Do you enjoy being such a jerk?” he asks.
“Not really. I think you just bring it out in me.”
Les expels an irritated puff through his nose, then climbs the ladder and does a perfect repeat of his new dive.
I try to refocus once I’m on the board, but it’s tough. I’m sick of having to play nice with him and my frustration surges through me like a live wire. I crack my neck, roll my shoulders, even the chlorine smells too strong today and stings the insides of my nostrils.
I take extra time preparing for my dive, cracking my neck, touching my toes. Coach gives me a puzzled glance from the floor and taps his watch. Time’s up. A diver can get points deducted from his scores for hesitating. I move to the end of the board quickly and use my irritation with Les to get the best height of my diving career. I stretch higher than ever while reaching back, one with the air, and grab my knees yanking them to my chest into a tuck, rotating, once, twice, here come’s the third. Centripetal force out of control. I should be spotting my entry.
Coach yells, “Kick-out.”
But I can’t stop spinning.
The water below turns as red as all the anger I’ve been holding back over the last five days. I’m in my fourth or fifth rotation, heading straight for a gory, blood-filled bath, when I finally pull my shit together and come-out of my tuck to slow down. But it’s too late. My arms and legs splay, like a cartoon character falling from a building and I smack the water with the side of my face and body. The last thing I hear is the wicked crack of the impact.
Immeasurable time passes in dreamlike darkness: seeping red blood on the water, sharks circling my limp body, the whip-crack of punishment hitting me over and over. My true vision telescopes in and out of focus. Blurred faces stir around me like a circle of aliens, moving closer to examine my body before retreating. Their muffled voices rise and fall, drifting to me from a different dimension. I shut my eyes to make them go away, and I return to darkness.
Someone says my name.
“Theo. Wake up.”
My head jerks to one side with a stinging slap. Sharp ammonia stings my nostrils. My eyelids struggle against substantial weight. I force them open in protest to a flood of light. Coach Porter’s wizened face is inches from mine, flashlight primed to blast me again. My teammates form a human halo around him. As my focus returns relief claims their faces. One by one they straighten up and leave my line of vision.
Coach Porter hangs his head, huffing a gust of relief. “He’s okay.” He puts his hand flat on my chest and pats twice.
I squeeze my eyes to combat the residual haze and the first thing I feel is the throbbing, unilateral pain in my face.
My failed dive rushes back to me.
Fuck. Not again.
I try to sit up and reel.
“Easy,” Coach Porter says. “Your nose is bleeding.”
Chip rushes up and hands me a water bottle. “Here, have a drink.”
“A drink? Christ, Langford. He drank half the pool,” Coach says. “What happened, Mackey? Weren’t your eyes open?”
“I’m not sure. Everything went wonky in the rotation and I lost control.”
“Help him up and take him over to the bench,” Coach orders.
Chip and Sully link their arms under mine and help me to my feet. “How bad did I mess up my money maker,” I ask Sully. “I’ve got a hot date tonight. Think it’ll earn me some extra love?”
“You gotta go Joaquin Phoenix big if you want to impress the ladies.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
“There better not be a next time,” Coach barks. “You damn near gave me a coronary.”
The guys deposit me on the bench where I have to watch Coach put Les-freaking-Carter in charge before taking a seat beside me.
“You’re not gonna call my grandfather about this, are you?”
“You lost consciousness, Mackey. I have to fill out an incident report.”
“But I’m okay. Still breathing. I think I can get back out there…” I start to stand and Coach puts a hand on my shoulder, pressing me back down.
“Don’t even think about it. You’re sitting out for the remainder of practice. Stay here while I’ll go grab you an ice pack for that cheek. It’s already starting to bruise.”
Not as much as my ego, watching Les lead the team from my position on the bench.
* * *
AFTER PRACTICE, I slide into a vinyl chair across from Coach Porter’s desk with the sloshy ice pack pressed against my cheek.
“You think you’ll be okay to dive Friday?” he asks. “The last thing I want to do is bench you for the Andover meet, but you’ve had a run of bad dives this week.” He slides an incident report across his desk, and I sign the bottom. “Do you know what it’s called when a skilled diver suddenly can’t perform?”
“Lost move syndrome. But Coach, I don’t have LMS. I’m just dealing with a massive amount of sh … stuff, and it’s messing with my concentration.”
“Normally, I’d recommend a sports psychologist. But in your case, it might be better to avoid an LMS blemish on your athletic record. Did your dad have any colleagues you might be able to talk to on the sly?”
Jeezus.
“Yeah. I can think of one.”
“Don’t look so depressed, Mackey. Once you flush the shit that’s bogging you down, it’ll be gone forever. It’s all up here.” Coach taps his temple. “And get some sleep, for goodness’ sake. You look awful.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Yes, Coach what?”
“I’ll get some sleep and make sure that shit gets flushed before the meet.”
I don’t bother reminding Coach what happens when you have so much shit it clogs the pipes. That shit usually returns with a vengeance.
I place the photo I found at Uncle Phil’s house on his desk as casually as possible while he searches for an incident report.
“Isn’t this the photo that went missing from your case? It was on the floor under your desk.” It’s only a half-lie. I check the clock on his wall, playing it cool, but my right leg is jittering.
“I’ll be doggoned.” He flips it over. “I searched the whole room for this.”
“Guess it took a younger eye.” I give him a lopsided grin hoping he’ll change his mind about calling GP. Because I am a strong finisher. I got this. Something’s just off with me.
And with Uncle Phil since it’s clear he had Coach Porter’s photo.
“Don’t get smart, Mackey, or I’ll drag you back out to the pool and show you what that dive is supposed to look like.”
“Yes, Coach.”
I leave the swim complex late to pick up Iris and paranoid as hell about what’s happening to me, in and out of the pool.
I’m halfway to the exit door when I hear, “Theo. Hey, Theo! Wait up.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose before turning around. Les couldn’t have picked a worse time to come at me.
“I’m glad I caught you,” Les says then notices my cheek. “Wow. That looks bad. Nothing gives a bitch slap quite like water. But hey, I was thinking—if you wanted—we could do some extra training together before the weekend. I have some stuff I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Maybe we could—”
Miles skidders around the corner, but stops short when he sees Les and me talking.
“What do you want?” I ask, feeling a quick flare of anger.
“I was trying to catch up to my ride,” Miles says. “Excuse me for breathing, Captain Smackypants.”
“Jesus, Miles,” Les says, looking over his shoulder. “Meet me at my car. I’m almost done here.”
Miles huffs and leaves, but the sound of his footsteps stop too soon. He’s listening, but I don’t care.
“What I was saying,” Les continues, “was maybe we could grab a cup of coffee and—”
“I appreciate the offer, Les. But my routine and schedule are set.”
“I know. Mine are too. I’d have to squeeze it in. But I thought we should have each other’s backs. I learned some stuff at Masters that I’d like to talk to you about. Especially after I heard about your smack on Monarch Night.”
My jaw clenches. “Listen, I think it’s cool you went to Masters; it’s great for the team. But what you learned there applies to your skills. Not mine. Just because we have to work together on the sociology project doesn’t mean I want or need your help with diving. I got this.”
“Why do you always snub me?” he asks earnestly. “Is it because of what happened at regionals last year? I had the flu.” He tips his head after a pause like he just caught on. “Is it because I told Coach I want to go to Stanford?”
Yes and no. I can’t believe how good he is at pretending.
“I just like to keep my private training—private.”
“I get that. And it’s not like I don’t know what you say behind my back. Les is less.” He gives a quick shrug. “But I’m not less, Mackey. I’ve been loyal to this team and a little more appreciation and support from you, as captain, might be nice. Especially since Coach Porter thinks it could be this season’s big take.”
Jeezus.
I rub my eyebrow to keep from losing my shit.
“Les is less is a joke,” I tell him. “A play on words. If your last name were Moore, I’d do the same thing. But you’re right. Your one new dive is killer. I’m sure the Stanford scouts will be all over it. But right now, I’ve got somewhere to be. So if there’s anything else you need to tell me, just find another article and leave it on my truck. So far, that’s been working for you. Messages received. Loud and clear.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Les. It’s not helping your game.”
“Whatever you say, Mackey. Don’t say I didn’t try.”
He makes no additional apologies before lumbering away and the restraint it takes to not punch the nearest locker kills me.