Mariah Burton Nelson: Go, Mom!

I've always wanted Mom to enjoy what sports have given me: fun, friends, a sense of accomplishment and success. —MBN

I don’t have children but that’s okay because I have Mom. Instead of going to Little League games I go to masters swimming meets. Instead of teaching kids about victory and defeat, I teach Mom. Or try to.

Mom’s athletic career bloomed late. Way late. She joined a swim team at age 69 but waited until she turned 70 before entering her first meet so she’d be at the bottom of her age group (70-74). Mom likes to win.

“I’ve always had an intense desire to be the best,” says Sarah Burton Nelson. Problem was, for most of her life she didn’t have anyone to compete against -- except me. We used to race in our neighbor’s pool, eagerly diving into the cool water and paddling as fast as we could to the other end. She always won and always bragged about it afterward. “Ha! I beat you!” she’d say, and we’d both laugh. I was 5; she was 37. Finally, when I turned ten, I started beating Mom. She maintains that I was 11.

Now that she’s competing against women her own age she’s winning again. Gold medals in the 50-meter and 100-meter breaststroke in the Arizona Senior Olympics, which qualified her for the National Senior Olympics, coming up this May. Four gold medals in the Grand Canyon State Games in 1995, and again in 1996. Five victories, one third place in the Arizona State Championship in 1996.

She’s getting noticed, too: The Arizona Republic ran a feature story about the local psychiatrist-turned-athlete on the front page of its sports section.
At first, before meets, Mom was a wreck. (“Do you think if I take just a quarter of one Valium....?” “No, Mom.”). One time Mom’s husband, Bernie Makowsky, had to remind her, just before she stepped onto the starting block for her race, to remove her shoes.

At first, she won every race. Then I teased her about being a big fish in a small pond and urged her to enter the 1995 Long Course Nationals. There she was lapped by speedy septuagenarians who graciously offered her pointers afterward. Mom did finish in the top ten in all six events she entered. Not bad for a novice.

But like any novice, Mom can lack confidence. She frets about Clara Lamore Walker, a 69-year-old Younger Woman. “She’s moving up into my age group!” Mom tells me, distraught. “I might never win again!” Clara’s a 1948 Olympian who swims the fifty-meter freestyle in 35.86; Mom’s best is 48.16. “She’s way out of my league,” Mom moans. “Your mother is just a rinky-dink swimmer.”

“Good thing Clara doesn’t enter my best events,” she says, ignoring me.
Mom’s best events are the 50- and 200-yard breaststroke. In those she set two Arizona state records, one of which she later broke. (Her records are now 55.31 for 50 breast; 4:41.37 for 200 breast). She’s learning the “wave” breaststroke that Olympians do; she can push her head high above water, like a volcano, hands out front in prayer. She’s also working on her butterfly since her time for the 100-yard individual medley is within .6 seconds of the state record.

Like any parent and child, we’ve had to sort out who is competing for whom. “I hope I don't disappoint you,” she told me before one meet.
“You can’t!” I assured her. “I'll just be happy to be there, watching you fulfill a lifelong dream.”

Truth is, her competitive swimming is my dream. Mom’s from the three-dribble basketball generation, when girls were forced to “grow up and be ladies” long before they perfected their hook shots. I’ve always wanted Mom to enjoy what sports have given me: fun, friends, a sense of accomplishment and success.

Now that she’s finally competing, the thrill is clearly hers as well. Long gone are her “old lady” suits and the half-mile (800 meters) she used to paddle for fitness. She trains at the Phoenix Swim Club, logging up to 2400 meters per workout at timed intervals. She swims in a slick black Speedo, packs her bag with goggles, fins, pull buoy, and chamois towel. She’s even weight training now; if you meet her at a party she’ll insist you squeeze her biceps. “Sarah, you’re a warrior!” her personal trainer said recently. “I’m tickled pink!” she told me on the phone that day. Perhaps the world’s first pink warrior.

I’m her informal coach; her real coach is Troy Dalby, former coach of 1996 Olympian Gary Hall. Dalby won two gold medals himself in the 1988 Olympics. “Come on, Nelson, get off the wall!” he’ll cajole Mom, grinning. Mom grins back, loving the encouragement, the teasing. Dalby told me that if mom “had had the opportunity to swim as a young lady, she could have been great - on the Olympic level.” That made me sad, in a way: how tragic that so many women like Mom never got to fulfill their potential.

Mom doesn’t waste time crying over what might have been. She’s too busy reading Swim magazine, studying the times of her fastest rivals, training for the Senior Olympics. Like any happy kid, she’s savoring what is. And imagining what might be.