No Limits (20 page)

I was fired up when I dove in. It showed, too. I went 1:43.31, the second-fastest time of all time. We had a lead of more than two seconds when I touched, Ryan—then Ricky, then Peter—looking at nothing but open water ahead.

I swam in the relay with the same pair of goggles that hadn't worked in the 200 fly. They didn't work right in the relay, either; one side filled up a little bit. But this time I could still see.

Back on the deck through Ryan's swim, I was encouraging Ricky to step it up. “When you have a guy like that yelling at you, you better do what he says,” Ricky said later.

As Peter made the final turn of his four laps, we had already thrown down such a dominating performance that the camera had to pan back to the left just to get the other swimmers in the picture. “Come on!” I yelled at him. “Let's go!” And go he did. When he touched, the scoreboard said 6:58.56.

We had not just gone under seven minutes; we had gone a full second under seven. We had put four guys together who wanted to achieve a common goal, who had the talent and the confidence to achieve that goal, and this race showed what we could do together. Of all the records broken in Beijing, this race was the one in which we lowered the record by the largest margin, 4.28 seconds.

Inevitably, the reporters afterward wanted to know whether the
other guys were swimming in part for me. Peter put it best. He said, “I think it's special to be a part of that, but there's still a ton of pressure on us to win, anyway. We want to win. We want to do it for the U.S.A. and for the team. I don't think there's much more pressure than there already was.”

The gold medal was my fifth in Beijing, the eleventh of my career. The media crews naturally wanted to know what I had to say about that. “You're always an Olympic gold medalist,” I said. “Birthdays happen every year. Christmas happens every year. You only go to be an Olympic gold medalist so many times and it definitely never, ever gets old—you know, listening to the national anthem play with a gold medal around your neck, it's one of the greatest feelings I've ever had in the sport of swimming.”

To keep it going, meanwhile, I was clearly going to have to get a new pair of Speedo Speed Socket metallic goggles. I borrowed a pair from Ricky. He was done competing. As for me: six swims still to go, three of the six finals: the 200 IM, the 100 fly, and the medley relay. Eleven swims were in the books. And I still felt very, very solid.

Whether it was at the pool or in the village, my teammates would not and did not talk to me about eight gold medals, in much the same way that a pitcher's teammates avoid talking to him during a no-hitter or a perfect game.

At night, in our suite in the village, we would play cards or the board game Risk. We'd talk about anything but swimming. Just guy stuff. The games were supercompetitive. One night Lochte and I, playing spades against Cullen and Eric Shanteau, found ourselves down 385–5. The game was to 500; we came back to win. There was lots of hollering and carrying on.

You would never have known that Shanteau had been diagnosed with testicular cancer. Which is just the way he wanted it.

At the 2004 Trials, Eric had finished third in both the 200 and 400 IMs. He hung in there. In Omaha, he made it onto the 2008 team, in the 200 breaststroke. At training camp in Palo Alto, he told us he had competed at the Trials knowing he had been diag
nosed; the tests had come back on June 19, about a week before the start of the Trials. Eric had talked it over with the doctors and they had given him their okay, he could go to Beijing. Surgery could wait until after the Games.

Eric told us all these things at a team meeting after we had finished dinner, taken a team photo, and filed back into a meeting room. Everyone was getting drowsy. Then Eddie stood up and said Eric had something to say. And then we were all, like, oh, my God, what do you say? Fortunately, Eric had the words: “I've been going through this for a while now and it's not the easiest thing. But I've been able to get the okay for being here, and trying to accomplish my goals and dreams.”

That wasn't all to the story, either. Eric's dad, Rick, had been diagnosed with lung cancer the year before.

I hadn't known Eric that well before Beijing. He is an awesome guy. The whole time we were at the Olympics, he was fully alive, fully living his dream. Ultimately, he didn't win a medal, but who cared?

I admired the way Eric was handling the challenge. Just as I was motivated by Dara Torres, who proved over and over again that age was no barrier to anything, winning three silver medals in Beijing, and by her coach, Michael Lohberg, who had been diagnosed with a rare blood disorder, aplastic anemia, after the Trials but before we flew to Asia. Just as I had been deeply affected by the fight against cancer of a boy in Baltimore who had become a good friend, Stevie Hansen.

The day after the 200 fly and the 800 relay, I had no finals—I swam the 200 IM semifinals in the morning, the 100 fly prelims at night—and so I had, for the first time since the Games had begun, a moment or two to reflect on the struggles, the journeys, and the courage of people I knew and what it meant to be a hero.

The five gold medals I had won had already prompted so much talk about me being a hero. After the fifth medal, the president of the International Olympic Committee, Dr. Rogge, had
called me “the icon of the Games.” He also said, “The Olympic Games live around super-heroes. You had Jesse Owens. You had Paavo Nurmi, Carl Lewis, and now you have Phelps. And that's what we need to have.”

Castagnetti, the Italian coach who had stirred so much talk about the LZR, said I was “undisputedly the greatest swimmer of all time.” He had a unique perspective; like Spitz, he had competed at the 1972 Olympics in Munich.

There was funny talk about science fiction. After the 800 free relay, Alexander Sukhorukov of Russia, with a silver medal around his neck, said, “He is just a normal person but maybe from a different planet.” Cornel Marculescu, the executive director of FINA, said something very similar: “The problem is, we have an extraterrestrial. No one else can win.” British swimmer Simon Burnett said something much like that, too, talking with Eddie Reese when they ran into each other in the cafeteria. “He was saying to me, ‘I think I've figured out Michael Phelps,'” Eddie said later. “‘He is not from another planet. He is from the future. His father made him and made a time machine. Sixty years from now, he is an average swimmer but he has come back here to mop up.'”

I would find out later that there were other stories in which I would be described as the greatest American athlete of our generation, or comparing me to the likes of Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods. On NBC, Dan Hicks, who called the swim races from the Water Cube, had described me as “Tiger in a Speedo.”

All these comparisons were humbling. To even be mentioned in the same sentence with some of the greatest, most dominating athletes in the world was overwhelming, especially because I was just doing what I love to do. My goal was never to become the best athlete ever; it was simply to become the best athlete I could be.

If what I was doing was helping inspire someone else to stand up and take on a challenge, I was honored by that.

But a hero?

Stevie Hansen was a hero.

Stevie was only seven when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor, in October 2002. He was a promising age-group swimmer; at six, he was not only already swimming but winning awards.

The day before Stevie's surgery, I brought over a flag, some shirts, and a poster. We shot hoops in the driveway at his house and we just talked about how each of us loved to eat junk food. The day of the surgery, I made sure to send balloons to the hospital. Stevie's dad, Steve Hansen, later told me that meant the world to Stevie.

It made me happy to try to make Stevie happy, that's all. This is the way my mom raised me. This is the way I am. If Stevie had wanted to meet me because he thought I was a cool swimmer, I quickly came to learn that he was a cool swimmer, too, and a brave, even fearless, young man.

Over the next year, Stevie seemed to get better. That next summer, I sent a note saying I wanted to come watch Stevie swim at a local meet. Which I did. I showed up unannounced. When he saw me, Stevie sprinted over, leapt into my arms, and said, “Wow, you came!” I got to watch Stevie that afternoon as he raced in the free, the fly, and the relay. We had lunch together and I signed autographs for the other kids, including Stevie's sister, Grace, who never lets me forget that I used a red Sharpie on her forehead. I then got persuaded to swim a relay leg myself in a parents' and coaches' race, even though I had to borrow a suit. Stevie was thrilled. I was thrilled for him.

Throughout the 2004 Olympics, and after I came back and moved to Ann Arbor, I made sure to stay in touch with Stevie and the Hansens as he underwent three more surgeries. So, in April 2007, when Stevie's mom, Betsy, called my mom, to say, “We have a disaster here…he wants to see Michael,” there was no question.

I rearranged my schedule to get to Baltimore. Then I had one
of those days traveling that everyone seems to have at one point. The plane was late. Bags were lost. So, by the time Mom and I got to the Hansens' house it was already after midnight.

We stayed there for two hours, maybe longer. Stevie was only eleven and so desperately ill. But his fighting spirit, that's what had always impressed me about him. I sat there on Stevie's bed, holding his hand, just talking. He was sound asleep and didn't wake up. Even so, I was sure he could hear, which is just what Stevie told his mom the next morning: “I wish I had woken up. But I know he was here.”

The next day, I posted a note to Stevie's personal page on an Internet site for people confronting serious illnesses. I said, “Stevie, it was great to see you last night. I'm really glad I got to visit. You are very brave. You really are an inspiration to us all. Talk to you soon—Michael.”

“Yours was a gift like none other,” Betsy posted back.

Stevie died on May 29, 2007. The memorial service took place a few days later. I sent purple flowers—purple was Stevie's favorite color—and I was honored to be asked to stand with the Hansens as they greeted friends and family.

I was sure Stevie was looking down on us. I was just as sure that, when I went to Beijing, Stevie was cheering from above.

Stevie had told his parents he wanted me to try to win an Olympic medal for him. At his bedside that night, just a few weeks before Stevie passed away, I made Stevie this promise: I'd try to get a medal. Hopefully, it would be gold.

•   •   •

I owed Stevie my very best effort in everything I did at these Olympics. And the 200 IM was going to take every bit of that effort. Just like the 400, it demands consistency and endurance across all four strokes. And just like the 400, it exposes flaws or weaknesses, only faster.

I had not lost in the 200 IM, at least in a 50-meter pool, in a
major competition. Lochte had gotten me at the end of 2007, at the short-course nationals, but that was just weeks after I'd broken my wrist.

I had no intention of losing at the Olympics.

The top four seeds in the Beijing final were the same top four going into the final in Athens: me, Lochte, Laszlo Cseh, and Thiago Pereira of Brazil. In 2004, though I got the gold, my winning time was well off the world record; I pushed the pace but simply didn't have the physical strength to get home over the final 100 meters. By that point in my Athens schedule, I was probably more worn down than I knew, and you could see that the polish and pop in my stroke was just not there.

This time I had no doubt. It would be there. I was going to take it out hard early, like the 200 free, and dare the other guys to match what I could do.

Laszlo sat on my shoulder through the first 100, through the fly and the back, and even into the turn for the breast. Maybe I would flinch? No chance. I reeled off far and away the fastest breast split of the top four, 33.5, a second faster than Laszlo, more than a half-second faster than Ryan. Coming off the 150 turn, I was already a body length ahead of Laszlo.

This time, I could drive hard for the finish. My last lap: 27.33. Nobody else even broke 28.

I touched in 1:54.23, 57-hundredths of a second better than the 1:54.8 world record I had gone in Omaha.

Laszlo was second, Ryan third. Both those guys went faster in Beijing than I went for gold in Athens; even so, I had touched more than two seconds ahead of each of them. When the results went up on the big board, I reached over to Ryan's lane; we shook hands and patted each other on the head.

Ryan's bronze has, in some quarters, been overlooked, too. No way should it be—and this is no knock on Laszlo, who earned the silver. Laszlo, in fact, was the definition of sportsmanship after the 200 IM, saying, “It's not a shame to be beaten by a better one.”
Ryan, meanwhile, tackled one of the toughest doubles imaginable that morning. At 10:19 that morning, he swam the 200 backstroke final, winning gold and setting a world record in defeating Aaron Peirsol, among others. The 200 IM final went off at 10:48. Ryan only had twenty-seven minutes in between the two races. For him to medal in both races was just amazing. Only he and another American, John Naber, have ever done it, John in 1976 in Montreal.

Later, on the medals stand for the 200 IM, Ryan and I got to smile and enjoy what we'd done, but just for the briefest of moments. Now, it was my turn to double, twenty-nine minutes from the end of the IM until the semifinals of the 100 fly. As soon as the anthem was over and some photos taken, I switched from my dress sweats to my parka and shoes, I threw my cap and goggles on, and then they pushed us out there. The medal from the 200 IM—I was now six-for-six, twelve career golds, fourteen overall—was in my warmup jacket.

•   •   •

After I won that sixth gold, I was asked in a news conference, “What do you say to those who think you may be too good to be true?”

I wasn't surprised by the question.

If anything, I was only surprised that the issue of doping hadn't come up until this point in the Games.

“Anyone can say whatever they want,” I replied. “I know, for me, I am clean. I purposely wanted to do more tests to prove it. People can say what they want, but the facts are the facts.”

I knew going into Beijing that anything I might do there, any medals I might win, would without doubt be viewed by some with skepticism. Doping scandals will do that, and, in recent years, there had been far too many doping scandals in sports. Since I had won my medals in Athens, the Mitchell Report had fallen upon baseball. Floyd Landis had failed a doping test and had his 2006
Tour de France victory taken away. Marion Jones, who had won five Olympic medals in track and field in Sydney, was sentenced to federal prison at the beginning of 2008 for lying to federal agents about her use of performance-enhancing substances.

So, I understood why there might well be skepticism. Somebody somewhere does something and immediately the first reaction now is, well, he or she is on the juice. It might be unfair, but it's reality.

I wanted to help do something to help change that reality.

I understand that kids look up to athletes. If any kid anywhere was looking up to me, I never, ever would want to let that young person down. Growing up, I watched the Olympics. I watched Cal Ripken, Jr., play baseball. I looked up to Michael Jordan, too. I watched all these great athletes compete for the love of the game, because they were having fun. That's what I wanted to do, too.

When I was younger, I proved I could do without Ritalin. Then, in ninth grade, I did a school project on drug cheats, at about the time I started to be tested myself, when I was fourteen and just onto the national radar. Then, later in high school, I saw how devastating it could be for someone to be accused of doping. When Beth Botsford, the North Baltimore swimmer, grew up, she became engaged to Kicker Vencill, another swimmer. In January 2003, an out-of-competition doping test found evidence in Kicker's system of a by-product of the banned steroid nandrolone. Kicker told everyone he was innocent. A nutritional supplement he was taking, a multivitamin, must have been tainted, he said, and there was good reason to believe this was very likely what had happened. In 2001, an IOC-financed study had found that 15 percent of the hundreds of products tested contained steroid precursors, a building block that the body turns into steroids, even though the precursors weren't listed anywhere on the label. The contamination might happen during the manufacturing process, might be the fault of tainted ingredients. Doesn't matter. The rules
of international sports are that if something is in your system, it doesn't matter how it got there; it doesn't matter in the slightest whether you intended to cheat. All that matters is if it's there. Ignorance is never an excuse. Kicker was banned from competition for two years. Later he went to trial, and in a California court won a jury verdict against the vitamin manufacturer; after that, the case settled. But Kicker's Olympic dream was ended.