The Winning Stroke Read Free Page A

long skinny arms. Wayne Cabot, with wavy brown hair, was a few inches shorter but much more muscular. He looked as if
     he might be a weight lifter when he wasn't swimming.
    Suddenly, the group around the coach broke up. One by one the swimmers took their places on the blocks at the edge of the
     pool. Jerry realized another race was about to start and quickly took a seat in the bleachers.
    Everyone had quieted down now. All eyes were focused on the lineup of swimmers in blue-and-white striped suits poised and
     ready to plunge forward.
    As he saw them crouch slightly to get the most spring, the athlete in Jerry began to stir. He, too, could sense the tension.
     He, too, could feel the cold, clammy chill of excitement surrounding the pool.
    Screeeeeeech!
    The whistle blew, and the swimmers were off like a shot.

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    The six swimmers worked their way up and down the pool, arms drawing the water back as their legs flashed beneath the surface.
     Jerry had a little trouble seeing who was ahead. Wayne and Lars, swimming in lanes next to one another, were at least three
     feet ahead of the others.
    At first, it looked as if Wayne had the lead. His muscular arms worked furiously, his shoulders knotted with exertion, dragging
     his body forward by their sheer power. But, then, Lars slipped ahead. His long arms parted the water in front of him in clean,
     regular strokes.
    As they started the fourth and final lap, they were side by side, so close it was impossible for Jerry to see who was ahead.
     It really didn't matter. He justwanted one of them, clearly the two best swimmers in the pool, to be the winner.
    “Come on, Lars! Come on, Wayne!”
    He found himself shouting and cheering along with the other spectator swimmers.
    People must think I'm nuts, he figured. I don't care. I just want to see the best one win!
    And then it was over. In a final burst of speed, someone had touched the edge of the pool first. Coach Bob Fulton had been
     crouched right there in his white thongs, watching to see whose extended fingertip had made first contact with the tile.
    Now, the coach stood up and blew his whistle for attention.
    “The winner is — Lars Morrison!” he announced.
    There was a scattering of applause from the stands. Lars and Wayne slapped high fives on each other. Then they splashed a
     little water in fun at the other guys and climbed out of the pool.
    “So, what did you think?” asked Tanya.
    Jerry had been so caught up in the race, he hadn't seen her come up beside him. She stood next to him carrying a jacket and
     an armful of books.
    “It was okay,” he admitted. “Is that it? I mean, are there any more races?”
    “No, we had a meet last Saturday, so Coach made it a light workout for the team today,” she said. “Some of the others will
     do some extra laps now, but I have a lot of homework. Are you ready to leave?” she asked.
    “Sure,” he said.
    As they left the pool area, he glanced back and saw Lars and Wayne. Both of them were thrashing their way through the water
     again. You couldn't even tell that they'd been in a race a few minutes ago. They really must love swimming, he thought. I
     don't get it.
    Dr. Gold and Coach Fulton had agreed that Jerry should do his pool therapy only every other day. So he wasn't back in the
     pool until Wednesday after school.
    As he got into his swimming trunks, he felt a little more at home than he had on Monday. He wondered whether there would be
     a regular team practice today. Who would be there? Both the guys and the girls? Would Tanya be swimming again?Would Lars? Wayne? And what was practice like, anyhow?
    With those thoughts running through his head, he got into the water to begin his therapy. Therapy? Hah! It was a real workout.
     He was surprised to find his arms still hurt from Monday's laps. It sure was nothing like the warm-up exercises he'd done
     at baseball practice last year. Gee, they'd probably be getting set for spring training, and he'd be splashing