I live my life in a small circle. One big enough for myself, but not much more. Each day is full of fast pace, ending with a sudden stop; stepping so quick, but also so soft. Never to step at the wrong place at the wrong time. Although my circle is small, there are times when I stumble out. Not contained, and a little bit frazzled, I pull myself together and get back to work. I am used to a crowd surrounding my very existence. Watching every breath, every movement, and every decision I make. I am used to background noise as well as silence so utter, you can hear the release of breath as it escapes your chest. My life is full of claps and cheers as well as surprising ooohs and ahh’s. My life is full of chalky air and unforeseen grunts. It is full of repetition, superstition, and ice baths every night. I am somebody who takes pride in being called a beast; I am a Thrower.
I live a life so surprising to some, that it actually comes off as rude. I am asked constantly what I do. When I mention I do track and field, a surprised look overcomes their face. “You do track and field,” I am blatantly, and sarcastically, asked. Calmy I explain that I am a thrower and do not partake in any running, jumping, or leaping ventures of track and field. Throwers are used to the comments like “Oh, that’s not a sport” or “throwing is easy, I wish I could just be a thrower.” Most of the time I humor their sarcastic remarks, but inside I am just dying for them to try what we do.
Throwers are a work of art. We were prepped, primed, and sculpted into the powerful human beings we are today. Throwers are not born overnight. Nobody can wake up one morning and train to be a thrower thinking they will be great in less than six months. Instead, it takes years. It takes dedication in the weight room and in the ring. While some may stay away from carbs, we live for them. Building muscle isn’t just wanted, it is needed to be a thrower. If you aren’t gaining, you aren’t improving. Lifting our body weight and then some is an expectation. Back aches are never an option, they are a lifestyle. Sore muscles start to feel good, because without pain, there is no progress. Throwers must be quick in their step and fast with their reactions. They must have a strong muscle memory and enough balance to pull themselves back in the ring. Each event has specific form that can’t be altered. One wrong step, tilt of the head, or flick of your wrist, your chances of first place just moved down to sixth.
We live a life of doubt and undermining; not given enough credit where it is deserved. The road to success is a lonely road. Although throwers might amount to greatness, the applause is always downsized by those who don’t understand. They don’t understand the crave we have to gain that extra pound. They don’t understand the love we have for the new callus on our hands. They don’t understand the pride we show with a new implement being worn down. They don’t understand, but I do. As a fellow thrower, I understand.
We live a life not desired for the weak. We live a life in the shadows of what is beautiful. You know what is beautiful? Every drop of sweat, blood, and tears shed to be where you are today. We might not be pretty athletes, but we are for sure some of the best. Stay strong and stay beautiful. Your time is coming.
