 The boys can handle maybe two lap stops. I blow my whistle hard, so hard it pops my eardrums. They don't seem to notice. Some of them hang on to the chain-link fence that surrounds the courts. One of them lies down. One pretends to gag. Looking good, I say. One more lap. But none of them can make it past three. By the end, they're all on the ground, on their hands and knees, calling for water. Water! Water! Water! Water!