It seems like there is no end to the snow in Minnesota. Rather stunningly, the frame actually handles snow fairly well. More accurately, the sweatpants which cover the frame do a nice job of protecting the metal from moisture and the device itself seems mostly impervious to cold. When the frame is exposed to winter air, I don't feel a horrid chill penetrating skin and muscle into the core of my leg. Instead, I just feel a slight tightening—not unpleasant, but noticeable.
It's odd to think I won't feel that any more. Gratifying, but odd.
And, just as it seems there is no end to the snow here, it seems almost like there is no end to entries I need to get written for Leg+Frame. I know that, for both, there's an actual end in sight. It's just…at some point, things do feel like they've gone on for a while. Not that I'm complaining. I adore snow and actually enjoy writing these things here. It's satisfying.
ATHLETIC REQUIREMENTS ARE FULFILLED
My school has three campuses. There is the Upper School campus (Northrop) I attend, located near downtown Minneapolis. There is a campus in Wayzata, about forty-five minutes away, which houses half the Lower School. Then there is the campus in Hopkins, about halfway between the two, which houses the Middle School, the other half of the Lower School, the administrative offices and all the athletic facilities.
Throwers utilize two facilities on the Hopkins campus. First, the shot put and discus circles, which are located adjacent to the track. Second, one of the weight rooms, one of which is located inside the hockey stadium, the other beneath the football stadium. Naturally, the weight rooms and the circles are on opposite sides of the campus.
Long story short, it was during a practice late freshman year when we were doing jumping exercises in the hallway outside the weight room when my coach told me I would be receiving a varsity letter at the end-of-year banquet. I found this piece of information rather surprising, as over the course of the season I had done a rather good job establishing myself as the worst thrower in the Tri-Metro Conference. Not that I was particularly worried to be the worst in the conference—I had figured this out pretty early on and instead of trying to compete with others I competed to out-throw myself and attain that twenty foot mark. But, at the same time, even though I was giving my all I was not contributing in any substantive way to my team's success.
I was rather proud to receive my letter.
The first year of track, in the end, had been a tremendously positive experience. I had learned a new sport, made connections with people scattered throughout the school, gained a fierce sense of team pride, learned that we throwers traditionally had Pie Day, in which we sit around and eat pie while the runners run, on runner hard days, felt like a part of something. I had learned how to throw, a motion which is tremendously satisfying and good, good fun. In short, there was no way I wasn't coming back for my sophomore year.
Now, remember, the athletic requirement is for one season each freshman and sophomore year. After so many years in Virginia where I traded in medical excuses rather than going through the motions everybody else did to prove to the school that they were physically motivated, I desperately wanted to earn the requirement for myself.
That summer, summer 2010, and into the fall I discovered that my right shoulder was having issues. There were clicking noises when I raised it in certain ways and sometimes pain. An appointment was made to meet with a shoulder surgeon, talks were had and we decided to operate.
Around Christmas 2010, I was administered anesthesia and a large amount of bone was removed from beneath the right scapula. This was relatively routine as far as how my previous surgeries had gone and was certainly not the first time I'd had bone removed from the scapula area. This was, however, the first time the surgeons had needed to detach muscle from bone in order to access the growth.
What had initially looked like a non-track-threatening recovery of a matter of weeks now stretched into months. My initial plans for participating in track were in desperate straits.
Technically speaking, I'm left-handed. I write left-handed (if you call the chicken scratch I put on paper "writing," that is). However, when I learned to throw a year previous, using the left hand just felt wrong. Perhaps it was just that single day, perhaps it was because I was forging my ideas on what felt right based on what everyone else was doing. Regardless, I learned to throw right-handed. With the surgery, I would be unable to use the right arm for months.
Track season began. I did not sign up for the team or come out to practice.
That spring was not looking up.
Being at times rather desperate and longing to re-experience some of what I had experienced the previous spring, I started dreaming up plans to get myself medical clearance for track. What if…?
What if I learned to throw left-handed like I ought to have done in the first place?
It wasn't a desirable scenario. A large part of learning form in shot put and discus is getting used to the weight of the implement (for high school guys, a shot put weighs 12 pounds and a discus 1.61 kilos). Though we're told that it's best to have equal strength between your arms, that rarely happens. Beyond that, the actual release is critical, particularly in discus, which is much more finicky than shot.
I had an appointment with the shoulder surgeon scheduled shortly into our spring break, a week into the track season. I brought up my idea. My mother was skeptical. I got approval, provided I did nothing to threaten the connection of the muscle to the bone.
The next day, completely unannounced, I showed up for practice alongside my brother, who was competing in his first year on the high school track team (he was in eighth grade at the time). The coaches seemed pleased to see me, but if I'd been expecting some sort of large welcome, that didn't come. It was much more of a, "Good to see you, here's the workout."
Attendance that day wasn't particularly high, given that most of the team was away on vacation, and with the arm, I couldn't do all the exercises. But it was good to be back.
Several weeks later, meets started up again. Since I'd failed to reach twenty feet the previous year, I figured that would be as good a mark as any to shoot for. I didn't make it. However, on one of my final meets of the year, I set season-best marks in both events, surpassing my performance the previous year.
Once again, I felt pleased. Not so much with my performance compared to others—as before, I came in dead last. But I'd participated, which counted for a lot.
And I'd honestly completed the athletic requirement.
There was, I thought, nothing which could keep me from returning the next year. I mean, hey, I'd gotten through the surgery. What more could there be?
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