The fraternity of the blue stripe

I blogged that I turned down an invitation to a company party because I no longer knew anyone there and didn’t feel a connection. I may have erred in equating the two.

My schedule’s a bit askew this week, so I find myself swimming laps at varied times. There’s a different set of swimmers and the activity doesn’t facilitate much interaction. You’re basically staring at the stripe on the bottom of the pool for an hour, which doesn’t facilitate spontaneous interaction.

As I was toweling off, one of the others finished up dressing. As he walked by, he left one of the gym’s bottles of lotion on the bench by me, saving me a trip to the sink area. Pool water is hard on the skin.

The consideration is part of being in the fraternity of the blue stripe. (Most sororities refer to themselves as a fraternity of women in their charters, so the term isn’t exclusive). He didn’t know me, but there was a connection in the shared discipline of the activity.

The fact that we weren’t competing is irrelevant. My son swam for a university, and home team parents always went out of their way to accommodate opposing swimmers and their parents. That was ten years ago and he still often travels with little hotel or meal expense, staying with people he competed against back when. The fraternity endures.

This is true to varying degrees in other fields, but not always. A few years ago, I attended a 40th high school reunion. As some old teammates (not swimmers) leaned on a bar in the wee hours of the morning, one mentioned that his new neighbor had played against us for Woodrow Wilson High School. The motion was made and seconded that we go kill him. I’m not feeling the love here. Fortunately, the argument that there would be too much paperwork and legal expense prevailed.

A connection exists in many activities, professions and other subsets. I paddled with some other kayakers this weekend and there’s a definite bond. One of them referred to the membership we share in the brotherhood of the ink-stained fingers (publishing).

But, there’s something about swimmers. There are no adoring crowds at meets (aside from family and a smattering of friends), few paychecks, no fun gear and endless weeks of grueling practice to compete in a race that lasts seconds. Nothing comes easy. It certainly lacks panache, except for the scant occasions when a Mark Spitz or Michael Phelps spices it up for fifteen minutes. It’s not for everyone.

Someone asked me how I could stand the tedium and effort, given the alternatives that provide play, scenery and other amenities. Part of it is personal discipline. The rest is the connection to the fraternity of the blue stripe.