Dave Zook, Contributor

Back when I was young, I was not athletic. Not that anything has since changed. I had been big. But in the way that kids grow up, I had been small too compared to others. There were always those who were bigger, faster and stronger. So I didn’t think of myself at all like an athlete capable of winning at our high school field days

I was willing to concede the long distance running to those guys who were narrower around the middle and me not really wanting to put in all that effort just to come in embarrassingly last. I decided my mandatory three events would be shot put, javelin and discus. Those were being the events that only required a momentary burst of my doubtful strength.

This was in my senior year of high school at a small catholic seminary where all of us had turned to spiritual matters since we weren’t all that good at getting girls anyway. But the good priests wanted us to have a well-rounded education that included academics, disciplined work and of course exercise which we labeled not so affectionately as ~Forced Fun~.

The culmination of the forced fun was a three-day athletic competition that pitted us against each other in a festival of sweat, curses and track events that was field days. The good part was that classes were suspended since there was not much hope of getting us to pay attention on those fine spring days in New Jersey anyway.

So there we were. All of us out in whatever athletic garb we thought was cool. Mostly it was torn up sweatshirts and threadbare cutoff shorts. There were a few of the more devout of us wearing blindingly white sneakers topped by black socks. Of course, being the not-of-this-earth type, we really hadn’t worked on our tans. So the black socks made those pudgy legs look like some kind of white pink animal that lives under a rock where the sun never shines. An animal that emerges only rarely to blink obsequiously at the tyranny of the sun. And there I was.

Being a senior, I was not so devout anymore. I even had pretensions of going off to peace rallies and rock concerts. Even though girls had very successfully eluded my attempts at seduction which I don’t think they recognized as such, I felt I owed it to them and myself to go out into the world after high school and at least make myself available if not actively take up the pursuit.

I say all this by way of giving you an idea that I didn’t have a clear idea of a self-image. I do know that it was not all that positive. That was for sure. So I was going to take my turn with my events and get through the day without breaking too much of a sweat.

In the morning, the lower classmen went through their events. I watched from the shade until they were finished. They tossed the shot put. They hurled the javelin. They flung the discus. Since I was on the edge of the baseball field we were using for the field events, the last toss of the discus landed near me. I picked it up. I looked it over. And while everyone else went to lunch, I decided to give it a twirl.

I wound up like I had seen the others do and gave that thing a toss. Well, you can imagine my surprise when that discus sailed far out over second base and into center field. What could this mean? I knew the answer. Just luck. But I had to be sure so I ran out and retrieved it. I threw it again. It sailed far again. I was amazed. Was this some kind of miracle? Did I possess some kind of special talent? I retrieved it again and threw it again. This time it went further and wound up out in left field.

That’s the way it went for over an hour. I would run and get the thing and throw it out again and it went farther and farther. I was getting good. I was excited. I couldn’t believe it. I had visions of myself walking through crowds of admiring fans, mostly female, my discus tucked under my arm. The crowd would part for me like the Red Sea and adulation would echo loudly off the buildings lining all the streets in major cities across the country while confetti showered down on me. Man, this was going to be great.

So I worked and worked for two more hours until the discus just wouldn’t fly any further. All my fellow competitors were off watching the running events after lunch. So I decided that I would just go over under my shade tree and lie down for a bit of a rest until my glorious event began. Well, as I had worked hard for quite a while I was tired and I fell asleep. I am sure I dreamed of triumph and vast wealth but I don’t remember because I slept like the dead.

Finally, the crowd drifted over to where I was. One of my dear friends dribbled some grass onto my nose and woke me up. I was groggy. I looked around and realized that it was time for me to walk through that portal from dweebhood to major stud territory. Walking to the circle for the first of my three throws, I felt coldly confident and excited as hell. But my arm felt a little stiff. I took the discuss, made my spin and flung as hard as I could.

The discus did not sail at all. It just sort of flopped out a few feet and died accusingly near the pitcher’s mound.

What happened? I was dumbstruck. Since there were no real expectations from anyone else, there was no real teasing. The others were getting it to land out past second base. Of course, I knew I could do better. I had done better for three hours earlier in the day. We all began our second turn. My classmate Ron got the thing respectably into short center. I should be able to beat that. I picked up a shot put while I waited and began to loosen my now deadening arm. I was having trouble holding onto the shot put and my arm felt like a limp rope.

My second toss made it past the pitcher’s mound and stopped at second base. That was better but not much. My visions of knighthood and desirability were fading. My status as some kind of discus prodigy was definitely threatened. The third and last toss would tell the tale. So up I got to home plate. I looked at that discus which now seemed a lot heavier than it had that morning.

I wound up, took my spin and with all the might I had left in that poor overworked arm, I let fly the disk with all my strength, dreams of glory riding with it. I felt something in my shoulder. I grabbed it as I watched the discus fly past second base into center field.

That was it. The last throw was far enough to net me third place. Woopdy doo. I, the great discus savant, could only muster third place. And to make matters worse, I had dislocated my shoulder. So I stood on the box waiting for my metal with my arm in a sling, my head hung low.

As I stood there feeling defeated, I remembered that glorious morning when no one was watching. I had made that thing sail as if it were floating on the wind. I had seen it land, kicking up dirt far into the outfield. And I knew it was no dream. So even though I was the third place guy, I began to feel proud. Who would have thought that I would even come in third?

Something in me changed at that moment. There grew in my adolescent mind a new image of myself. That image was of me trying other challenges and succeeding. It told me that I too could possibly enter adulthood with some vague sense that life could be successful if we just give it some effort.

I never tossed the discus again. I had to have surgery to correct the problem I created by dislocating the shoulder. But that scar reminds me every day that if you try, you may be surprised.