THE SHOT PUTTER
He stands in the circle,
His right arm cradling the sixteen-pound iron ball under his chin.
His left arm is bent and dangles above his head.
He will take five breaths, deeply and steadily.
He rhythmically taps the big toe of his left foot on the concrete
And scans the strangers in the stands.
So many unfamiliar faces, fans of the Weight.
He is ready.
An ounce too much weight shift
On his first throw.
Momentum carried him over the toe board
And out of the ring.
Foul.
An ounce of overcompensation
On his second throw, and
Four feet short of his best.
The fans of the Weight
Exchanged puzzled glances.
Down to his final throw.
Too old and too broken
For another event
After so many years and
So much Weight
Lifted, pushed, pulled,
Reps upon reps,
Sets upon sets,
Over and over
In dingy gyms and stinking sweats.
He leans into his glide
And pushes back with his right leg,
Pushes with all his might
And remembers the Weight
Of the cafeteria taunts.
You oaf you slob you ugly goon,
No wonder girls laugh at you.
When he talks about Camus
They laugh even louder.
But when he throws,
The laughter stops.
So he lifts and pushes and pulls.
Muscles ache, skin stretched over muscles
To the breaking point.
Inch by inch he throws farther,
And inch by inch emptiness turns into iron.
He goes into his pivot
Violent but controlled, readying his arm for the release,
His entire body moving into alignment behind
The Weight.
He knows what he can do
By sealing his soul in the iron ball
And holding it in his hand.
The Weight is the world.
The Weight explodes from his outstretched arm
And sails into the sunset.
He cannot see it,
Because at last he is in it.
He knows where he will land.
(Top image: Photo of author by George Feldman, Colorado Springs Sun. Bottom image of author and God created by Dave Joseph and Michelangelo.)
