At long last, it's time for me to type out the final part of the story of how I wound up in a Taylor Spatial Frame, was bored for months on end, and ultimately picked up some of the pieces. I can't say the solution was a hundred percent perfect, but as far as completing my main objectives, it did pretty well. Also, it is worth noting that equally helpful was the fact that I still had classes to go to and (no matter how much I might grumble) homework to complete.
But the real topic of today's post is track.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I am not an athlete. This has, to some extent or another, always been a sore point for me (a lot of the reason I went through with the frame in the first place was so I'd have more approved activities). For the first three years of high school, I had a very successful stint at absolute last place in my school's athletic conference. All I can really contribute to a school team is showing up and trying to cheer, though I'm less than stellar at that, too.
This all boils down to a fairly pleasant May afternoon in 2012. I was at the end of two back-to-back AP exams, English Literature and Latin: Vergil, and was checking my phone to see if I had any new emails. Earlier in the day I'd finally bit the bullet and emailed my coach to tell him that the odds of my showing up the next season were rather low (by then I'd figured out I was probably going through with the frame).
Coach D replied asking if I might like to come back as a sort of captain/assistant coach/manager. If I could throw, great. If not, well, I'd be able to make myself useful in other areas.
At the end of year banquet, I was officially named a captain.
For months, my captain duties meant more or less nothing other than sending the coaches an email once it was official that I was going through with the frame.
And then the frame came on. I sat around the house, living in my chair and on my couch. I started coming up with ideas I never started creating, I stared into space and wondered when the whole frame experience would be over.
At one point in February, Jake, the other throwing captain, called a sort of practice session. We were indoors, since winter was in full bloom, meaning that disc was out of the question. I decided to go over, watching the form of some people trying shot put for the first time. At one point, I sat in a chair and tried to throw, being careful not to exert pressure on the leg.
It felt freeing, really.
Later that evening, I was roundly scolded for being rash—what if a shot put were to be dropped on the frame? what if I were to hurt myself while trying to throw? did I have the common sense to be trusted near throwing implements?
The answer to most of those questions, as far as my parents saw things, did not reflect well on me.
In the weeks leading up to the official start of the season, my mother started discussing the track issue with me, pointing out all the various reasons why my participation should be under question. She raised questions about my ability to make it down to the track, raised questions about the probability of a shot being dropped on the frame, raised questions about the frame's ability to endure the weather at some of the less pleasant meets.
Silently, I formulated responses, most of which assumed that some problem solving could be used if the time came, others of which assumed I'd be standing behind fences while supervising throwers. There were other responses I formulated, too, such as that doing track would force me to have contact with people my age, would force me to be outside, would get me out of the chair, would keep my mind active and engaged, would give me some sort of focal point for the end of my senior year of high school, would make things feels more complete…
There were numerous one-sided conversations in our golden Kia minivan on the way from the house to various errands, my mother explaining her caution towards my participation and my wanting to say something but not sure how to respond, how to word my answers in a way which would allow me to be listened to without being blatantly disrespectful.
It was all, in short, going to come down to what Dr. Sundberg had to say. The March 14 appointment was gaining more and more weight, until—
We brought up the issue of track. Dr. Sundberg cleared me for participation. He seemed to think that the frame could withstand the force of a 12-pound metal ball being dropped on it, if such an event occurred. He just warned me not to try actually throwing, as he had concerns with the pivoting motion.
So I emailed my coaches. My mother also sent an email, making her concerns known. And the next day, I showed up for practice. Not wanting to be yelled at for being incautious with the frame (his phrase), Coach D set up a barrier for me to stand behind while I watched practice. I also got to help time things and shout encouragements at people during the workout.
Several weeks into my latest engagement with track, Jake threw a shot put which entered a forcible collision with a water fountain. I was out of town that day; my fellow throwers assured me the water fountain did not so much break as explode. We then involuntarily moved outside, where we've been pretty much ever since. I have been out there while it snowed, while it rained, while the temperature was barely above freezing. The frame handled it fine, the pin sites were never infected and I was still participating, still being helpful, still not sitting on the Recovery Chair doing nothing.
The barrier went away with the move outdoors. As of now, Coach D has not been yelled at by my mother for a lack of caution regarding the frame.
So that's how I finally pulled bits of myself back together, by doing bits of what I would have done anyway. I'm not sure if I'm the most productive track captain ever. There are bits of form I'm able to pick up on, but I've still got a ways to go, learning-wise. I have, however, gotten rather good at timing people. And I'm certainly not the greatest student ever. My work ethic this past semester has been rather decisively up-and-down. But it's better than nothing.
If you ever have to wear a frame, I think that's what it comes down to. You have to hold on to as much of life pre-frame as possible. Your old responsibilities, your old interests and passions and maybe even an old deadline or two. There's a temptation, I think, to assign these devices some sort of weight they never ought to have. A Taylor Spatial Frame is an object which holds your bones together. There was a part of me which thought that perhaps wearing the frame would be some sort of weighty transformative experience. It wasn't. It was simply an experience, something I did and completed. A few months down the line, I seriously doubt any of my definition of self will be related to the frame. And a few years down the line…I think I'll still remember it. I've written too much here to not remember it. But will it be first and foremost or anywhere near there?
No. I don't think it will. The frame is a piece of metal. Compared to memories and people and to everything of that nature, it is nothing.
The frame holds bone together. In the end, you're the one holding the other pieces together.
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