I sat down on the wet, hard cement. The place smelled of chlorine and piss. How long would I have to choke back the tears before this would all be over? The damn string broke on my swim trunks. I had no idea how to fix that – I was only 6. Sitting in a stall of the locker room when I was supposed to be out there swimming. I cried. Crying was all I knew to do.
Some older kid poked his head in, “whatsa matter kid?”
“My string broke.” I cried.
“I’ll get The Coach.”
“No. Don’t!” see, the coach had earlier said that if he caught me crying again, I’d have to be with the girls for the rest of the week. Which was not with my older brother. Which was somewhere I didn’t want to be.
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“Get my brother. He’s the tall one, with blonde hair.”
Salty tears ran into my mouth. I would give anything to be able to tie my shorts.
Mike finally came. Tied my shorts for me. Yelled at me. Told me to grow up.
The swimming part wasn’t much funner. Couldn’t swim.
While I was in the pool someone stole my cowboy hat. I hated Baptist Day Camp.