December 1997 — LA Swimming
The pool smelled of chlorine and nerves. Blue banners draped across the stands: "Pritchett's Closets — Organize Your Life!" Jay stood beneath one of them like he'd invented swimming itself.
The announcer's voice boomed: "Heat Three, boys ages seven to eight, two laps, fifty meters."
Claire turned and shot her father a glare sharp enough to peel wallpaper. "Dad, he's three. This is insane."
Jay folded his arms. "Hmph! I won't let my grandson's talent be overshadowed by an overprotective mother. He'll be four next week. And do you know what it means when an eighteen-month-old asks to swim on his own and doesn't drown?"
Phil blinked. "That's oddly specific."
Jay pressed on, proud. "...My grandson is a genius. He finished basic survival swimming in a week. A week! He's been training ever since—since thirty months old to now forty-eight months. Do you know what that makes him? The god of swimming."
Phil—still worried, but unwilling to miss the punchline—grinned while bouncing baby Alex in his arms. "Honey, it's fine. I used to run track in high school. Same thing—just wetter!"
Mitchell muttered, deadpan, "If Neil drowns, I'm suing Dad."
Jay snapped back without missing a beat: "And sue me with —environmental law? For releasing too much chlorine in the water?"
The Dunphy-Pritchett bench burst out laughing. Even Claire had to hide a reluctant smirk behind her hand.
It was just the banter for their family to get under Jay's skin. It is not every day you get to bully the war veteran and see him flutter. Even Claire knew her son's effort over the past year.
Meanwhile, down by the blocks—
Neil adjusted his goggles, heart pounding. Brown hair clung damp to his forehead. His small, wiry frame looked out of place beside the taller boys, but his eyes—blue, sharp, and almost shimmering—were locked on the water. (Imagine Haruka from Free! but pocket-sized.)
Neil (inner):Grandpa's pool is twelve meters. My best time? Twenty-two seconds. But here? Twenty-five meters. Twice. This isn't training anymore. This is jungle law. Ocean rules. Survival of the fittest.
By the officials' table, three judges huddled.
Judge 1: "We don't allow under-sixes. They don't have patience, and if they start sinking, it ruins the competition. Swimming isn't like running—it's eight-hundred times the resistance, technical to the bone. Can a four-year-old even understand drag?"
Judge 2: "Look at him. Kid's got abs. At four. And I watched him warm up—his form's cleaner than half the eight-year-olds here."
Judge 3: "Doesn't matter. Sponsor money talks. This whole tournament's only got a decent prize pool because of that sponsor. First time in years we've had $500, $300, $200 instead of $250, $100, and $50. And the sponsor's name?"(He tapped his clipboard.) "Neil Dunphy."
Claire, close enough to overhear, nearly fainted.
Claire (interview): "My dad bribed the committee. Bribed them! I mean, I knew he was competitive and had his tough-love parenting, but this? This is criminal."
---
Clichés, Let's Get Them Over With
Two of the older boys smirked at Neil, who was crouched in focus, fists clenched, preparing for his first real performance in either life. (Second, if you counted mastering the "gummy bear shape test" or always finding Hailey in hide-and-seek—pro tip: she hides behind the drapes every time.)
Side Kid #1: "Did you forget your floaties, baby?"
Side Kid #2: "You'll sink before the first wall."
Neil tilted his head, voice calm. "Don't worry. Lifeguards will fish you out when you run out of breath. Though, still better to save some for the rounds."
The other kids blinked. The stands erupted in laughter.
---
Before the Start
"Swimmers, take your marks."
Neil crouched low, toes curling over the edge of the block. His chest fluttered with nerves, but his mind was sharp.
Engage battle mode.
The whistle shrieked.
Eight boys dove headfirst, fearless.
Neil sliced the water with a clean entry, compact and efficient. No panicked splash—just a practiced streamline.
The water hit him like a wall. Ripples from the bigger boys shoved his small frame sideways, but he steadied, recalibrated.
The older kids surged ahead, powered by longer limbs and stronger kicks. Their dives had launched them meters in front.
Neil lagged instantly, their wakes slapping him in the face.
Stay calm. Form over force. Three strokes—breathe. Elbows high. Kick steady.
Every pull was a battle. The water clung like glue, dragging him back. Chlorine burned his nose. His lungs begged for panic, but he swallowed it down.
This isn't Grandpa's pool. That was twelve meters. This is twenty-five, twice over. But my rhythm is mine. Hold it.
By the 15-meter mark, the leaders were a full body length ahead. Claire gripped the railing, knuckles white.
"Dad, he's falling behind!" she gasped.
Jay's eyes narrowed. "No. He's conserving. Look at his form—smooth. The others? Flailing."
The Turn
The leaders slammed the wall, flipped, and pushed off like torpedoes.
Neil touched, hesitated a half-second, then shoved with everything he had. His little legs screamed, weaker than theirs. For a split second he felt the same burn he'd tasted when Claire had once left him wheezing during that jog.
It wasn't pretty—but it was clean. He surfaced, gasped, and locked into rhythm again.
Halfway done. Don't panic. Push.
Jay muttered under his breath, almost a prayer: "Come on, boy. Show them."
Second Lap: The Fight Ensued.
Twenty meters left. Arms burning. Legs like fire. Breath stabbing at his chest.
Two of the bigger boys broke first—their early sprint betrayed them. Strokes fell apart, kicks sloppy.
Neil surged past one. Then another.
Don't stop. Don't fear. This is the battle you asked for.
The crowd noticed. The noise swelled, people rising from their seats.
"Look at him!" someone shouted. "He's catching up!"
The Final Meters
Ten meters left. The leader still ahead.
Neil's lungs clawed for oxygen. Every stroke felt like pulling through bricks.
Stroke. Stroke. Breath. Stroke. Stroke. Breath. Repeat.
Five meters. The world blurred. His arms screamed mutiny. His legs begged to stop.
Almost there. Past me would've quit. But I'm not that man anymore.
He pulled harder, wringing the last ounce of strength from his tiny body.
Hand. Tile. Impact.
The scoreboard blinked to life.
1st place: 62.0 seconds
2nd place: 63.5 seconds
3rd place: Neil Dunphy — 65.7 seconds
Two seconds behind gold. Third place.
The stands went dead silent—then erupted like fireworks. Cheers, gasps, applause, a wall of noise crashing down on the smallest swimmer in the heat.
---
Neil floated a moment longer, then pulled himself out, dripping, silent. His head lowered.
The crowd blurred to static. Cheers, laughter, applause—miles away.
Is this what it means to lose? His undeveloped body still aching from the over-exertion of pulling tons of water with his tiny palms.
Two seconds. I'm so far ahead of my past self. That man would've quitted. I finished. I won against him. So why does it still hurt? Is this burn just fatigue—or pride breaking?
He turned his head upward, eyes wet but sharp, catching the blur of his family—worried faces in the noise.
Why do I want to cry? Is it because I'm actually becoming a kid again?
The noise rushed back in. Applause crashed down like water. He saw his family rush towards him and the noise inside quit again. He finally smiled.
Whatever. Not like I was a winner before anyway. He shrugged his worries and walked towards his family. Not before, giving the quiet smirk to the two bullies from before. They came 6th and 7th. Better than the boy that quit during return.
---
Phil (interview): "That was poetry! Like a dolphin with real-estate experience."
Claire: "He's not a dolphin, Phil."
Mitchell: "No. But he's amphibious. You saw it. Jacuzzi at two years old—kid wasn't walking but already swimming like he was born there."
Claire (interview, flushed): "I once tried to jog without him. He nearly broke his leg keeping up. Maybe… I overreacted that day; but I knew he is not a quitter."
---
The Viral Moment
A local reporter pushed forward, microphone in Neil's face. Almost hitting him. Clearly looking to antagonize him.
Bro, chill. Did I steal your wife or something?
"Neil Dunphy, third place against eight-year-olds. Are you really four? are you sure, you aren't lying?"
Neil stared, deadpan. "Almost four. Do you want to talk to Ms. Hailey—she is my kindergarten teacher?"
Hailey (inner, confused): "When did I become a teacher?"
Reporter, flustered: "You don't sound like four."
Neil: "Should I take out my supper? I left it at my home though. Maybe I'll send you a picture. I do look cute—dare I say."
The bleachers erupted.
Reporter (unperturbed): "But you should also know, you don't talk like four-year-old?"
Neil (intrigued, smirking): "Then shall I act like one for the camera? I learnt it from my sister:
"Uwaah! Mom, this uncle stole my candies!""
From the sides, Hailey screamed, "That's NOT me!" and hurled her juice box at Neil. The camera caught it all.
The crowd lost it.
---
Aftermath
Mitchell (interview): "He beat older kids, then assassinated his sister's reputation live. And made the reporter question his life choices. Brutal."
Phil: "Honestly? Star power. Dunphy's shine the brightest in front of the camera. I was hilarious at his age too."
Neil (inner): Star shine because of the lights behind the camera. Hehe.
Claire: "Phil, you were bald at his age."
Phil (smirking): "Bald and handsome—I might add. But Neil is really good at the camera. Maybe we should send his videos to the America's Funniest Home Videos (AFV). He might even get invited to the Letterman show"
Neil (inner): Isn't such a bad idea. Doesn't harm to get early exposure to show-biz. Might even help me get some auditions for the movies that are to come. Late 90s and Early 2000s were the era of proliferating child actors: Sixth Sense, Spy Kids, Harry Potter, AI.
---
Neil sat on the bleachers later, sore and quiet. The ache was real. But so was the fire.
This is only the first dungeon. Next time, I'll win.