Guest commentary by Kimberly Duquette
SPRINGFIELD, Missouri, October 25. SHE reaches over the starting block for a bird's eye view of the swimmer stretching for the touch pad. Two stop watches hang heavy around her neck. With one hand she pushes the plunger; with the other hand she presses the first timer to stop. She drops them both, and focuses intently on the official through the crowd. A horn blows, a camera light flashes, and she starts the second timer for a new race.
As the swimmer from the first race gets out of the water, she dutifully records the time and shows the athlete. But this is a 50, and there's no time to breathe. Immediately, she clears the time on the first stopwatch as another swimmer strives to the finish. Again, she stops the plunger and the watch, drops them both, and grabs the first timer. She turns her attention to the official signaling a new race. She starts the watch right on time. Relieved, she swipes a hand across her forehead. It takes a while, but she gets the hang of it–eventually. This nonstop chaos goes on for the next five hours.
Most spectators at swim meets hardly give the volunteer timers a thought. While most teams are sitting together enjoying the meet, these hard workers miss their families, and the thrill of watching their own swimmers race.
The pressure's on. Expectations of timers are extremely high–every millisecond counts. Fans know this, and that's exactly why there is always a shortage of timers at meets.