Sometime around watching the new Pacific Rim trailer for the fifth or sixth time to watch a giant robot smash a giant monster with a boat, I realized that I am deeply excited for summer movie season. Now, it snowed again today in Minnesota, but even though it may not look like it, summer movie season is right around the corner, kicking off Friday as Iron Man 3 attempts to break The Avengers' domestic opening weekend record. Box office numbers are on the list of things I get way too excited about, so of course I could tell you that the mark Iron Man 3 would need to beat to set the new record is $207.3 million (it stands a shot, actually).
But, despite all the excitement that arrives on this Friday, May 3, 2013, with summer movies and giant box office numbers, there is also the trick that Friday is when the frame comes off. If you're like me, you choose to look at the coinciding of the start of summer movie season and the removal of the frame as a sign that the universe likes you.
Or you could look at it in the more practical way, the one which includes slightly fewer giant robots hitting slightly fewer giant monsters with boats. The less fun way, if you will.
That method of looking at things goes something along the lines of, "In less than 36 hours you will be having surgery! Oh, and by the way, just one full day of frame remains."
Which means I really need to return to continuing this blog.
FRESHMAN YEAR, PART TWO (STARTING TRACK)
There was half a part of me that dreamed I had some previously undiscovered talent for throwing shot puts and discuses. This was a part of me blissfully unaware of some of the traits required to throw a shot put or discus any reasonable distance at all: leg strength, arm strength, upper body in general strength, lower body in general strength, ability to pivot, ability to explode upwards, ability to have good form (and more).
My delusions about being any good at throwing were put to rest the first practice. In those days, we were still allowed to throw indoor shots in the small gym. From one end to the other is thirty-plus feet. I didn't even make it half that distance; the other throwers were starting to approach the wall. It was a sort of wake-up experience.
After practice that day, my mother had a chat with me as to my logic of deciding to join the throwers without any conditioning (or, more specifically, any upper body strength). In the end, she agreed that I could stay on to gain some strength.
So I stayed.
The first year was pretty straightforward, at least compared to the other three years I've participated on the team. I was able to do every throw assigned to me (the basic power position in both shot and disc, a shuffle step in shot), was able to head down to the weight room with the team, was able to compete. As I said, pretty straightforward.
The first meet of the year was an indoor meet at one of the colleges around the Twin Cities. I can't remember which college for sure, but the indoor track was a vast space and, to my untrained eye, the meet was a horribly complex affair. We brought our indoor shots and threw.
I think my first-ever mark was sixteen feet, one inch. Of course, this was good for dead last. And yet…and yet I was kind of proud of myself. Sure, 16'1" wasn't great, but it was a start. There was always next time to do better. Since I'd only thrown at (I believe) one practice, my form could also use some help. I felt optimistic.
I asked our coach how much farther he thought I could go in the season. He told me that twenty feet wasn't unreasonable. In that moment, he set a bar I would be chasing for the next twenty-five months as my nascent throwing career was buffeted by factors such as surgery and a complaining hip.
The next few meets saw me making little progress. During practice, I bonded with my fellow throwers, learning all their names, whether they were gliders or spinners, how far they tended to throw. I got somewhat of a reputation for taking more throws than strictly necessary, jumping into the circle at every available opportunity regardless of if it was my turn to go or not.
My next breakthrough came a few weeks into the season. We had moved outdoors for practice. Our discus ring had opened up and I was starting to come to terms with the basic concept of holding a disc. The weather had taken a decisive turn for the nicer. There had been, I believe, two meets since the first. One I failed to surpass the 16'1" mark; the other I did so by a couple of inches.
On the bus to my breakthrough meet, another thrower, a girl in the grade above me, made projections for everybody's performance. She had me getting a PR, landing somewhere near seventeen feet.
Halfway through my four shot put throws, I realized that maybe it would be helpful if I aimed the shot up. During practice, I'd received the "don't throw at the ground" lecture a few times, but apparently the words had never managed to sink in.
The thing went about two feet farther.
For all intents and purposes, my season failed to make significant progress from there. I added some distance, not a lot. There were good practices and bad practices and practices where the conditions were just not good. Looking back, it's remarkable how much has changed since then. Of the group that threw in my first year, this year only two remain. There's me, not allowed to throw but allowed to help keep time and try to watch the other's forms. And then there's Jake, in eighth grade when I joined and now an unbelievable athlete with a school record in shot put.
And, of course, there is another thing which changed.
It was in the spring of my freshman year while I was doing track that I had my first appointment with Dr. Sundberg. I thought of him then as a sort of replacement Dr. Abel who would, if needed, operate. I assumed the operations would be rather not-scary (which mostly means that I assumed there would be no hardware poking out of my body).
First time in, he orders an x-ray taken of my leg. We return to the room and he pulls the image up on the computer monitor, starts drawing lines on it and proclaims that the one leg is crooked and the best way to change that would be a Taylor Spatial Frame. He then began to describe the Taylor Spatial Frame and offered to show us pictures of a girl whose legs had been corrected with one of the devices.
I panicked and asked to leave the room. I breathed deeply in the hallway until I was given the all-clear: the topic of conversation had shifted.
Two years later, I would return to Dr. Sundberg. And less than a year after that, I would undergo surgery to have a Taylor Spatial Frame placed in my leg. And less than five months after that, the frame will be removed, leaving me with a straight leg.
No comments:
Post a Comment