It was a long-standing joke that their high school swim team was the only one in the state that required a lifeguard on duty. They were that bad, coming in last at the state competition every year.
A few weeks after the season ended, and another coach quit in disgrace, the boys were summoned to the parking lot.
There, leaning against the yellow bus, was old man Finnegan. After 37 years as the school’s head custodian, Brian Finnegan retired to his rocking chair, spending much of his free time fishing in the river that cut like a snake through the mountains.
For years, he quietly watched the boys’ swim team fail, so, when he heard they were without a coach, he raised his hand and offered to help under one condition. The boys would have to do as told without exception.
The bus took the team 20 minutes away, stopping by a swamp on the edge of town.
“That is your team,” he said pointing at the mucky water, stinky and still. “No shape. No direction.”
They then drove to the river where Finnegan fished. As they climbed off the bus, they saw a rope stretched from one side of the water to the other.
“I want you to swim across and back,” he said.
A couple of the boys chuckled before one said, “We’ll drown.”
Coach Finnegan explained that the water was only three feet deep and that if the current was too strong, they need only stand up and grab the rope.
“How far is it?” another asked.
“Fifty yards each way,” he replied. “But with the current, it’ll feel twice that.”
The boys did as instructed, all making it across, but on the return swim each faltered and chose to stand, grabbing for the rope, just as Finnegan knew they would.
Once on the shore, he passed out towels and a single piece of paper for them to sign.
“What’s this?” one asked.
He explained that it was a contract, not between them and him but among themselves. They would all agree to eat a healthy diet, except for one “cheat day” each week, between then and the start of swim season.
They would avoid distractions and focus on schoolwork and the team.
They would also agree to swim 16 laps, five days a week, at the local YMCA.
“It’s hard to get time in the pool there,” a boy with red hair explained.
“Not at 5am, when the manager promised to keep it free for you boys,” he answered.
“FIVE AM?” one questioned sharply.
“The price of victory, paid in advance,” Finnegan said, his expression hard as a stone.
He then pointed towards the river and said, “Rock, current, banks. Say it. Loud.”
The boys answered in unison, “ROCK, CURRENT, BANKS.”
As they boarded the bus, one of the boys asked, “What does that mean?”
Finnegan smiled wryly. “A year from today you’ll understand.”
Exactly one year later to the day, the proud swim team returned to the river’s edge holding the trophy that came with the state championship. Without prompting, the boys joyfully jumped into the river, swimming across and back with ease.
Finnegan pointed toward the river. “Rock, current, banks.”
He explained: “The rock is an obstacle, so the water flows around it just as you did with the distractions in your own lives.”
“The current is consistent; like your diets and training.”
“And the banks?” a boy asked.
“The banks support the water, giving it direction and speed, as you did for each other.”
The retired janitor added, “You boys are the banks. The river flows in you.”
