But how do I tell him before we hit the water?
Every pike, every tuck, every inward layout, every meticulous, splash-free entrance into the frothy waters. They leave my lovestruck heart anguished.
We’ve trained together nearly every day for seven years now. We talk about diving, and politics, and music, and, of course, how his deepest fear is not living up to his own impossibly high standards. He’s a true perfectionist, but never in a garish, braggy sort of way. He’s managed to stay so grounded throughout this whole process.
But every time I work up the courage to tell him that the sound of his laugh makes me flutter with nervous excitement, I barely managed to croak out a syllable before WHOOSH, we’re under water, making our way back to prepare for our next dive.
Inevitably, I then steel my nerve to let him know that the flash of blue in his deep, icy eyes reminds me that love itself is not some manufactured ideal foisted upon us by the greeting card industry, but instead a very real truth that makes the stresses and agonies of modern life seem worth it, and then WHOOSH, we are back under water, where I’m left both literally and emotionally breathless.
Please help me. The Olympics are about dreams coming true. And my dream involves Jamie (or “Jam,” because he loves my homemade strawberry jam so much 😍😍😍) finally looking in my direction, and saying “Hello. I see you. I truly see you. Now let’s go destroy the Chinese in our weird sport.”
David Ingber is the managing editor of Above Average and The Kicker. He loves ping-pong, poker, and crossword puzzles. And dogs. And the Red Sox. And TV. But that’s it. His twitter is @davidingber1.