The thing about water polo is there’s no standing; you tread water or sink. There’s also no crying.

People say water polo sucks; it’s a brutal, nasty sport. So prior to my gold medal-winning Olympic performance, I spoke to Amy McShane, an NIU Water Polo Club player, for reassurance. Our conversation went something like this:

“Am I going to die, break my nose or drown?”

“Ha! It’s not so bad.”

“How long do you think I’m going to last?”

“That depends on how good of a swimmer you are.”

“Well, I haven’t drowned. Yet.”

*silence*

“Can I wear water wings?”

So it was. It turns out these guys are the only guys in the world who can look both cool and dangerous wearing tight, red speedos. Such was the 6-foot-3, 260-pound Brad Donatille, the club’s captain.

Donatille, at my request, cradled the water polo ball like I would palm an apple and chucked it into the brick wall with such ear-splitting velocity that it made a loud snapping noise. Imagine the sound of a million wet, cracking towels, all snapping you in the butt.

The NIU Water Polo Club started practice in the water, treading like dolphins.

I splashed and splashed, struggling to stay afloat, dipping below the surface level, briefly popping up for air. Then the game started.

Minutes before, Travis Shaffer explained everything in great detail — the rules, the defenders, the holemen, the wingmen, the drivers, fouling, whacking, tossing, sticking, man-to-man defense, etc. Meanwhile, I was concentrating on not sinking.

That was where I suggested to sit out for 15 minutes to better understand the game. They agreed, and so it was.

Water polo isn’t too difficult — it’s basketball in a swimming pool. Stick your guy man-to-man or play your swimming-lane zone. Play until the clock runs out and play to win. Play to score.

I played to score and did, for less than five minutes, and I remember those five minutes like it was last Tuesday.

I intercepted a downed pass, sped to the pool’s opposite end and waved my arms furiously like an idiot. Someone passed me the ball.

Defender McShane swam within an arm’s length.

I threw the ball; it moved briefly across the water and trickled into the empty net. Score.

Of course, if it were a real game, McShane most likely would have slapped me over the head, stolen the ball and winged it with her elbow a half pool-length.

Later in practice, Shaffer said something about nicknames. Every player is appointed a nickname, whether they like it or not.

And by that time, I had figured mine out:

“Polish submarine.”