"Final. Should break a hand or a foot. And suddenly will not break?"

How to win the European championship without any hope and forces – in the second release of an author's heading of Dmitry Volkov "Mr. Swimy". The debut of an author's heading of the well-known swimmer of the 1980-90th years Dmitry Volkov turned out explosive – exactly as that condom, which burst in its swimming trunks in the first history . Bags of letters came to edition with a request for continuation. Therefore we continue – with the only specification: at the request of the author (which word for us the law) the heading is renamed in "Mr. Swimy". All the rest – unique stories of the world record-holder on swimming – remains invariable.

Today the story about a victory in the European championship of 1985 which simply should not have been.

"Than to feed with br athletes? Only meat from the market! "

I floated and, apparently, cried. Ached – so absolutely precisely. As puppy. Felt sorry for itself and complained about a share. The body wadded, disobedient, with each sluggish fungus moves ahead by inertia, the current does not stop, and I inevitably come nearer to the treasured finish. Ahead last turn. Distance 200, breast stroke. European championship. All affairs. I on the third path. I hate swimming two hundred, and here still this ambush …

the European championship of 1985 took place in the capital of Bulgaria, warm and hospitable Sofia. There was a difficult season. Round, Eshera, Round, Tsakh, Round, Baku, again Tsakh … Few months ago the legendary trainer of Leningrad "Screen" Igor Koshkin replaced on a post of the chief director of the national team of Anatoly Pimenov . Cat's received carte blanche, having made a speech at conference with words: "You know, than it is necessary to feed athletes? Only meat from the market! " — and its nomination supported practically all in Moscow without presence of the operating management of the national team. And later couple of days someone told me about it by phone. We were in GDR then, on a match of teams. Anybody officially knew nothing, but Pimenov went crestfallen, and trainers-foremen started hissing mischievously to him following.

Igor Mikhaylovich Koshkin came on a wave of vague enthusiasm of "starper" to federations, and everything was, it seems, is so promising. But by July, on the last collecting before the continent championship, people started pouring. The crew of Kapshuk with his sprinters in the days went with thermometers under mice, koshkinsky stayers – Igor Mikhaylovich continued work on a side – Sal's ( Vladimir Salnikov – a comment of the author ), Syava (Svyatoslav Semenov. — Bus comment) and Bazan (Aleksanda Bazanov) crept slightly live on water one after another, passing trainings and vomiting continually. Zenov and told

: "Wolves, you shit! " Even it seemed to me, too often. And the word it was its crown definition at the time of our communication of that time.

We, breast-stroke swimmers, in general swam not at Zenov's , and at Vladimir Nikolaevich Yurdashev's , the trainer Yura Kis and Kuzi, that is Dima Kuzmin's . Turned sour, the champion of Europe of 1981, on the main start of a season was not selected – as well as finished the water drudgeries my dear druzhban, the Olympic champion of Moscow-80, Zhul's inimitable (Robertas Zhulpa. – Bus comment) . And Kuzya tore claws to cause a stir especially as year before it owned the second result of a season in the world.

Boris Dmitriyevich Zenov, my trainer, to us then on final collecting did not arrive to Armenia. What to it prevented, now it is hard to say. It, however, as well as all of us who had access to the abroad, was the speculator in foreign currency, the speculator and a fartsovshchik — approximate such dealer in the Astrakhan caviar, the Cuban cigars, the Russian white and nested dolls on trifles, there was often because of a strastishka of this ours not eligible to travel abroad, but that the abroad, and here practically the native land. Probably, there were circumstances: paperwork, purchases of necessary goods and other, also it was necessary to solve problems more difficult, than creation of training microcycles. I remember how at me hands became blue during cross-countries as darkened in eyes when I walked upstairs on the third floor of hotel, I remember how obediently oprokidoval jars with numerous and quite doubtful pills after each meal …

the Faecal context

Stood then not all. And those who did not die, looked sadly. Epiploons got sick with suspicion on cirrhosis, Bazan hanged in infectious office of erevnsky hospital, Slava Semyonov, the silver prize-winner of the World Cup — 1982, held on to Europe, but was blown off there and looked a pale shadow itself, without having managed to exchange 16 minutes on "poltorashka". We strained to be in action, but cartridges dampened. Failure. Was not worse, appear. Horror. Or its illusion. Not important. Rare happiness — hit someone from rushunok in the final. We yet did not know then that maybe is worse, for example, as in the European championship in Berlin in the 2014th. But the mankind should live as early as 30 years to concern a bottom, and then …
Then it seemed to br that we already in a chasm. Though there were also enlightenments: Glade (Igor Polyansky) , surprised a planet for half a year before, it is predictable won swimming on a back. Not without reason in the spring it broke a world record of Mahmoud (Sergey Zabolotnov) on 200 m. Blew up all on that match of the USSR — GDR in Erfurt where in absentia dismissed Pimenov. Generally, Igoryok had to win and won. Its gold slightly shaded all-command fiasco.

I as the specialist in short distances in a breast stroke, shot back on the main distance in the first day. The result did not become surprise, on the favourite one hundred I came the third and with it was quite satisfied: against performances of companions the bronze squeezeed out by me looked not fatally. But my native mentor, unforgettable Boris Dmitriyevich, spoke so: "Wolves if you begin to swim one hundred, you will be necessary to nobody. At least, your value for team will fall at least twice". Also it is the truth. It had almost always very sharp tone of conversation with me, and he never minced words. Quite often I served br as br at it under the name of shit. He and spoke: "Wolves, you shit! " Even it seemed to me — too often. And the word it was its crown definition at the time of our communication of that time. Also can quite be that I deserved that. Poe-krayneyo to a measure, in his eyes. Thus he said the first sound of "" softly, in an Odessa way, and his charisma, authority of professor of a breast stroke and the trainer of Olympic champions already completely ruined my hung will, burning seeming injustice a flesh overloaded with the water kilometers. Sometimes it happened even ridiculously because Boris Dmitriyevich was a humorist and constantly joked, in a familiar way, smiling broadly, sparkling white teeth and losing a severe look: "Wolves, such shit as you, in a market day on ten kopeks the bunch" — me seems, it in general often used this word to show off, without having a fecal context in the message.

Anyway, those years I tormented myself with the long end to insanity, even succeeded in it somehow. 2.15,95 on 200 m a breast stroke – in alternative the Olympic 84th year I lovingly smoothed pages of the American ratings, finding in them the name near result. There at once three Soviet swimmers – Zhulpa, Kuzmin and I – appeared on a two-hundred part at the beginning of ten, right after terrible on the strength of Victor Davies , departured in the Olympic final of "The city of angels" on couple of seconds from all other, unusable contenders for gold.

Year of work — and on selection in Baku I fail till 2.18, becoming the second, right after Dima Kuzmin. Already then it seemed to me that something goes not so. Yes, let dark, absolutely opaque water in the pool where to opening of the championship the cleaning system refused, let it 32 Celsius and long exits after turns and start — at random, in a pitch haze, but the result really did not please. Also I then lost to Kuza of all the one 100-th! I remember, came a scent in a scent, our dear ayzerbadzhansky brothers to themselves concerned a finishing side, and a board electronic did not get, we wait, we wait for the announcement on a public address system as suddenly the judge-informant — great and infinitely bald Mischa Rudnitsky — at last starts squeezing out b from himself: "A victory and a rank of the champion of the Soviet Union at a distance of 200 meters a breast stroke among men won …" — we with Kuzy lap in come up near, we look at each other and we turn into continuous ears. "Dmitry …" — a name solves nothing, at us they are identical, we cease to breathe. "… Kuzmin! " — I exhale, and Kuzya exults, and it is echoed by a thin applause from thin tribunes. So, I am the silver medallist of the Union with fig result, and now I should test again myself for 200 meters among Europeans, protecting scarlet color of a flag of the Country of Councils in friendly and nice me personally Bulgaria in the continent championship.

"God me loves br. If it is the end, not the worst"

And here, that European brassovy marathon. Bulgaria, Sofia. 200 meters. Since morning it was not set. Dreadful feelings of a predvarilovka as it is impossible more precisely were expressed in time on the finish: 2 minutes 21 seconds with the superfluous. Shame. But — an honest shame. I gave all the best to a bottom. Foot hands — all that is necessary — was poured by lead and drooped at the end of a distance, having turned into very heavy weights. It was succeeded to save nothing. Merged all that was. Concerned, looked at a board and as Shtrilits thought: "It is the end, and where the gun? " — precisely by the final. Became sad not childly and began to wait for starting lists for the evening.

But – a miracle! One by one my natatorial colleagues from all Old World show even more terrifying seconds and leave for line of applicants for dismantlings in the final. Flew by by and well-known Adrian Murkhauz , the Englishman who won on one hundred and has hardly reached the finish Dima Kuzmin who was to crown it all disqualified though his chances of a victory in this type of the program were quoted above all the others. Other boys, still a year ago flying are so four-five faster than seconds, were picked till 2.21-2.22 and, already said goodbye to hope for participation in the final, I suddenly understand that I get there the third number. Both laughter and sin.

"Would not get better — I thought. – Anything good all the same it will not turn out". And with these thoughts went the pool to sweat in hotel, to prepare for an evening heat. And before departure, minutes forty under a shower inspired in itself half-whisper: "Anything, I made everything that could, I had a good and long sports life, and career too good, long. God loves me. If it and end, not the worst! "

Evening was stuffy. Heavy and broken I got up after a recovery faint. Podskoblil gray from irritation of a muscle of hands and feet where could reach, and, glancing for hours, started collecting things to the final. In the hall of hotel at which we stayed, was ten elevators, and I knew that problems with their expectation will not be — the distance to the bus will take no more than three minutes. Exactly in 180 seconds prior to its departure I left in a huff of the number and began descent. On the first floor I even braked, the route was not such long as I counted and, counting about itself seconds before shuttle departure, a vrazvalochka moved to already hooting voices of companions to the car. My chronometer was synchronized to within a fraction of a second with Central European time therefore, I was absolutely quiet.
Photo: Dmitry Volkov
Dmitry Volkov

"This Europe will be your last vypendryozhy! "

But, having entered the bus, at once ogryob obuly from the mentor: "What horse-radish, Volkov? All team waits for you, and you are late! " I lawfully react: "I marked movement and was not late for a second". "Well, all right, wait, you will receive the! You will receive on - full, … Nyuk! " Mine and without that the lousy mood was completely disconnected. As from the burst ball as if all air left me. Weigh covered with a perspiration, overcoming painful weakness, I continued the implementation of the schedule set by destiny: expectation of warm-up sitting on a side, half an hour — warm-up, a shower, disguise, stirring at the massage therapist, and the final, anyhow is farther.

Somewhere at the beginning of this way accept to me Zenov: "Wolves, you know that? " "That? " — I ask again hopelessly. "If you do not win, you p … ets". For politeness I am surprised a little, and it continues: "And I will personally do everything possible that to prove it to you. You can not doubt: grant, equipments, trips – it you precisely any more will not see how ears, and this Europe will be your last vypendryozhy! ". Me felt sick from weakness and without that, but having like an ardent parting word of the mentor, I hardly restrained from an attack of real vomiting. To a throat drove a lump, pity to itself as if an octopus clasped my shaven body, and I desperately became sad.

Swallowing of salty water from a nasopharynx, on the habit developed on years wound off the warm-up, crept out on a side and on feet turning in from decrepitude trudged on massage. I lie at Mikhalycha and I dream: "Here, now I will go to the final and I will fall. I will break a leg. No, it is necessary to run that it was reliable. And not the leg should be broken, and a hand. And that the foot is already too. And how I will break it? It is necessary to fall directly as I once fell at a change, to a brush, in a habitual place. And suddenly will not break? " — I am gnawed by doubts, I roll on a plank bed, and the wizard our regular, Anatoly Mikhaylovich Yeliseyev, extremely talented manual, shakes and rumples my grown dumb members.
I even could not imagine br at that moment that it is possible to rise and go to the final. I felt perfect, opposite and sticky helplessness with nausea from noradrenaline which has hammered my blood, on neck, the course. As if paralyzed I try to restrain not to burst out crying before all as suddenly, the room is run in by Vadik Yaroshchuk and shouts: "The demon, what you here do? Your heat already went for start! " Me as if with current hit, I fall from a plank bed, I suffice accreditation, a rubber hat, points, and without feeling feet, I run in the direction kolruma. I run in a stuffy prestarting zone. "Ouch em Dimitri Volkov! Tu handred breykstrouk! " — I hysterically declare to the stupefied judges.
runs in the room Vadik Yaroshchuk and shouts: "The demon, what you here do? Your heat already went for start! " I fall from a plank bed. Me it seemed to blockquote it is strange, but they encouraged: "OK, OK: yu mast mugs ap! Public educational institution! Public educational institution! " While without trusting in a miracle, I run out on the street, by the way, we had an opened pool, and the road of finalists rush to start.

When I appeared in a demonstration bathtub, participants of a heat already efficiently shivered at the bedside tables. Trying to calm down heartbeat, being dripping with sweat, I approach to the deserved chair near a path No. 3, exactly under the beginning of the announcement of a payroll of a final heat and I do not fall nearly. I pull together belongings, few times I click tritsepsami about the widest. As if the programmed sleep-walker loudly I inhale and I exhale air – it never was pleasant to my rivals – and under a whistle of a starter it appear on a bedside table. "Teyk yo Marx! " — and further …

"I die, but to me to spit"

the Signal vzryayet air and breaks from a place. Anything more does not hold on the earth. Hard string I pierce in hissing whirlpool. Around the fluid chasm curls. In the become wet membranes the roar of waves pulses. I catch a current and I slip as it is possible further. The stream swallows and bears. There is a wish to learn where rivals, but I restrain: the slightest turn of the head brakes the body which was poured by fatigue. By inertia I continue myself to be sorry and to complain about destiny. Fifty, hundred, hundred twenty five meters — float as till … well I creep. Slowly and sadly.

And here last fifty-kopeck piece. At the long exit nevertheless I risk and I turn the head towards the fourth path – anybody. Without trusting eyes I squint them to the left – too anybody. Anybody ahead! All heat trudges behind meters in two! It was so embarrassingly that, having forgotten about the tears and lamentations, I am with all the might torn to the finish. To jerk I jerked, and power of that and is not present. That is it is, but it is not enough of it. With the last bit of strength I control position of feet and I try not to strain a neck. I feel taste of blood as if veins in the head burst. I die, but to me to spit. I manage to think something in human language as light grows dim and I faint. I do convulsive movement by the case, and the body casts ashore a wave. I concern a side, dreamily. I emerge. I come back to myself. I look at a board and I am surprised the seen. I am a champion.
Photo: Dmitry Volkov
Dmitry Volkov

On it could and stop, but there was a moment: time, 2.19.51 – I even put out language from surprise, this, we will directly tell: the nevazhnetsky result will not be the best even in the past evening, in five minutes Murkhauz will float on 2 of the 100-th (!) quicker in the final of "B", but all the same I will get gold. Andryusha the ninth. And, it seems, all "chiki-bunches" but though congratulations especially also were not, I was really lucky, the question torments still, is fine I, and they, my rivals, healthy children, breast-stroke swimmers-Olympians-European as well as I, perhaps, everything, fell ill this day? Neprukh? We know, what is it? Transformations in day when everything is solved?

And then still it is unspent hatred of commanders. Those who, appear, waited for other deal. And still they will manage to recoup and me will dismiss from the national team in October, in two months, on the first adjusting collecting. At first will lecture for the photo — someone's chamber caught me in that pose of the person, with the put-out language, after the finish. Cat's at meeting of team will give me then as a bad example for youth, now I completely agree with it, and will put by sight.

"Videorecorder? And what he will look on him? Porno! "

But will be there and other case. During cross-country. Having smelled rat, Zenov will reach quickly gallop the lake where we idled with children instead of running to Fishermen. Red from natugi, out of breath Boris Dmitriyevich will appear on turn, and will find us lukewarm and cheerful, instead of such with what ordered, hard-working and purposeful. Uvidet also executes. Not everything, only me.
And before still. One, probably from the first in the country, in personal possession. He and it will remember. Generally, for discredit fitted. "And on what it could get it to itself(himself)? Precisely, farsovka and currency transactions! And what he will look on him? Porno! " — the teacher unmistakably reflects and, having taken in hand a feather, composes the report in "where it is necessary".
Ya I die, but to me to spit. I manage to think something in human language, light grows dim, I faint. I do convulsive movement by the case, the body casts ashore a wave.
It is Cat's then told. The truth it or not – is not important. Generally, it was right, of course, Boris Dmitriyevich. But from it then it was not easier: for anti-Sovietism and potential moral decay me deleted from all line-ups and sent home. But did not forbid to float, thank God!
After all once also! For example, with Samsonov in 1975. Vayts (the head coach of USSR national team of that time on swimming Sergey Vaytsekhovsky ) then forbade b him dismissed from Ioseliani to take somebody else from trainers. Also satraps obeyed after all. Let rot the guy. It so from the national team on a stage also went. From the pool in prison. But, probably, or times were any more those, or, perhaps, people. The cat's will soon have a talk with me about it. It then it will be perfect other and unlike itself, resolute and imperious: confused, pathetic, he will say goodbye to an office, no, with a folding commander stool in the Olympic committee, leaving a wheel of the national team to Vladimir Kachkurkin , young and revolutionary …

generally, I let out between heaven and earth after all this with mesyatsishko: crept in gyms, from where I was driven still yesterday by friendly people, swam away on others waters that pomochit a body and though it is a little to train of it, and in December it was unexpectedly invited in CSKA. There also met the friend. And all twirled with even bigger, but joyful force. Vladimir Stanislavovich Radomsky . Wash Radom. He inhaled in me new forces and returned motivation, we stayed with him in one boat shoulder to shoulder as early as long and fine ten years. And then, in only two months of trainings at it, I swam in during a season of 1986 with the best results in the world, and on one hundred and as it is not strange, on two hundred meters. But it already absolutely other history. Source: "Championship"