The Amateurism of American Swimming Commentating

Courtesy: D. R. Hildebrand

In recent years, the swimming community has increasingly contemplated how it might bring more attention and interest to the sport. The conversation has resulted from various factors that include the void left by Michael Phelps’ retirement following years of piquing the curiosity of millions, Covid and its manifold effects, and the tectonic shifts rumbling through the NCAA—most notably the arms race surrounding an athlete’s earning potential and how it might impact the existence of college swim teams.

This discussion has been dominated by what we can do ahead of, and at, swim meets to make them more intriguing, such as enhanced visual effects, the sale of alcohol, broader streaming options, even adjustments to scoring, line-ups, and events.

One component that we rarely discuss is the voices that narrate our sport: the commentators. As the primary—often the only—people communicating directly with thousands of viewers, what do they do with their influence?  How do they inspire emerging talents while keeping veterans engaged?  What impression of our sport do they leave on less-informed spectators who stumble upon a Pro Swim Series, a conference championship, a Nationals?

Frequently, the answers are negative. They present themselves as unaware, self-aggrandizing, manic, and inarticulate. Their amateurism is acute to the point of embarrassing.

Such embarrassment is the last thing we—including commentators—should want for our sport. Below are six practices that most viewers would expect from a commentator. Each is drawn from real events, with names omitted to help avoid further embarrassment.

Know the Facts

There is no greater responsibility or expectation of a commentator than to know and present the facts. Recently, I watched a women’s 50-meter freestyle in which the commentator told us throughout the race that someone was winning who wasn’t. Eventually, after the race ended, he corrected himself. He then said the winner had swum just seven tenths of a second slower than her personal best. That, too, was incorrect. It was seven hundredths slower. Regardless, anyone educated in swimming knows that seven tenths from a best time in a 50 for this athlete isn’t noteworthy. More so, anyone educated in swimming would know how different the form of these two swimmers is; he’d see their names and their team names printed on their caps; he’d read the start list that his fellow commentator just used to announce the competitors. Why do we permit such flagrant ignorance?  How would basketball fans react to hearing something like, “Embiid out to Lowry. Lowry back to Embiid. Fakes left, goes up, two points, Joel Embiid, and the Sixers extend their lead to eight,” while Embiid is sitting on the bench, Lowry is on the other side of the court, and the Sixers are down by four?  Someone would lose their job—immediately. In American swimming, it’s just another day at a high-level meet.

Observe Everyone

A year ago, while watching the consolation final of a premier college meet, it occurred to me that the commentator was oblivious to the swimmer in lane 8, who, during the final 100 yards of the race, leapfrogged from seventh to first. She closed so fast that her final splits outpaced that of the winner from the championship final by nearly three seconds. It was an electric, unanticipated, and remarkable swim that makes our sport exciting. The commentator never mentioned her. To be more specific, he didn’t even see her. In fact, it wasn’t until he reviewed the scoreboard and saw the official results that he attempted to laugh off his own perplexity. He said that she had been hidden in lane 8 and he had completely missed her. My impression, based on what he said, was that from where he sat, he quite literally could not see her. Yet, whose fault is that?  Would the commentators for an NFL game be content not to have a view of the sidelines?  The end zones?  This swimmer represented one of the few mid-major schools at this meet. She swam a best time. The race might have been her break-out performance. But the event was called as if she weren’t even a part of it.

Never Predict

There’s one significant difference between pundits and commentators. Both are, or should be, experts in their field. A pundit, however, is called upon to present his opinions, his predictions on an event before it transpires. A commentator is not. A commentator observes and reports. A good one does so with neutrality. Yet, the number of times U.S. swimming commentators predict outcomes is too many to count. It’s not required and it’s not appreciated. To be frank, it’s insulting. Everyone competing has prepared to the best of their ability. They’ve sacrificed. They’ve shown up. They’re on the verge of competing. Spectators are excited. We’ve waited months, possibly years for a particular race to arrive. Hearing a commentator give predictions moments before the competition begins not only ruins the enjoyment but tells the spectator that the commentator, not the athlete, sits center stage. It’s tactless. It’s uncouth. It’s wrong. In the milieu of American swimming, it’s the norm.

Say Less

It can be tempting, surely, for a commentator to want to convey everything that is unfolding. It’s also not possible, and the attempt to do so invariably leads to confusion and mistakes. Recently, I watched a race in which the commentator couldn’t seem to decide who was winning and as the race neared its end, without a clear leader, the commentator started spewing names in such frantic, incomplete sentences that what he was saying no longer passed as English. Yet, many races, especially sprints, unfold in this manner. All one needs to say is that it’s too close to call, then pause a moment for the results, and announce them. In a word: edit. Say less. More only leads to gibberish and gibberish to annoyance. Sometimes, suspense lies in silence.

Don’t Shout

There are only but so many scenarios that merit a raised voice. Of these few situations, surprises comprise the majority. We exclaim when we’re surprised—and we do so differently depending on if the outcome matches our desire. Shouting might get someone’s attention, but it will never sustain it. So, when a commentator’s level of excitement has reached an 8 or a 9 and the race has barely begun, what more is there?  How can the commentator effectively convey the remainder of the race and all its unknowns when its most mundane elements elicit an uproar?  If we can’t hear you, we’ll turn the volume up. If we can hear too much of you, we’ll turn the volume off—as far too many of us have. One of the many irritations of listening to persistent shouting is that it begins to redirect the spotlight from the athlete to the shouter. Yet, the race isn’t about anyone observing it or their desired outcome. It’s about the athletes and what they’re pursuing. Often, the quieter one is the more captivating the communication. We tend to lean in to what is quiet and push away what is loud, as is evidenced in baseball, golf, tennis, to some extent football. Commentators needn’t whisper; they should speak normally with realistic intonations and save their outbursts for rare, appropriate occasions.

Focus on the Events in Progress

A professional, dynamic, confident commentator identifies nuances in a race and weaves them into the story he tells about it. This shouldn’t be ordinary bores that one repeats and hypes, like a swimmer’s breathing pattern in freestyle or their reaction time off the block—unless it is truly unusual and merits discussion. Rather, a commentator might note subtle signs of fatigue based on changes in hip position or stroke count, which novices would learn from and experts would appreciate. Or one might note a distance swimmer gradually descending splits, an IMer who’s made significant improvements to a weak stroke, someone who’s developed more speed or endurance or simply poise behind the block. It might be worth noting that this improvement bodes well for another event, but that is all. Leave it alone and move on. Saying the same thing in different pitches multiple times is dull.

Mature commentating won’t suddenly make swimming in America popular, but it will increase its credibility. Adopting these practices alone will enhance a viewer’s experience markedly. Commentators’ words are forever tied to the experience and posterity of a thrilling moment. They’re obligated to consider how they sound. As a general rule, we tend to be more appealing and more successful when we approach our endeavors with curiosity rather than conclusion. Commentators are no exception. The more they inquire, observe, discover, adapt, and convey this command in their commentating, the more engaged spectators will be and the wider our sport will spread.

ABOUT D. R. HILDEBRAND

David Hildebrand manages a private swim club in Philadelphia. He competed for the College of William & Mary and now races Master’s with Club Tribe.