Javelin
By Kris Simonson
The day had lost its sharpness as had the wind. She tilted her head to face the cool greyness of it and shrugged her jacket up higher onto her shoulders. The cross-wind that she had hoped for gave way to a gusty tail wind that shook her balance unpredictably. She picked up her marker and ran her steps before deciding on a spot, then sat and stretched and stood and stretched and looked around at the others. She knew a few of them. Others she recognized. Some she’s only heard of.
The clay-colored synthetic runway jutted out from the grass infield where the competition would take place. Last instructions were given and run-throughs taken and warm-up throws thrown. The air was thick and anxious and weighed down on her as she watched and participated in the game that took place in those minutes before an event. She could always tell the good from the bad at a glance. It was the way they carried themselves and answered to their names in flight call. They didn’t speak much until afterwards and then only sparingly. She wondered if they thought of her that way.
She bowed her head to hear no one talking but judges and the spectators and the wind in her ear.
The breeze ran up her back as she sat on the ground and laced up her spikes. She tightened them deliberately and slowly and pulled the leather strap over the top and fastened it. She practiced in long spikes that held the ground with every step. Grass and dirt clung to them and she found herself digging it out periodically and tossing it away. On synthetic surfaces she was required to wear shorter spikes that barely broke the ground. She didn’t like them, but wore them for fear that she would be disqualified if the long ones were detected. They called her name and she repeated it, then listened for her flight number and position. She would have to wait awhile.
The weight room was damp and smelled of chalk and sweat and as she stepped in for the first time, she wasn’t sure that this was where she wanted to be. Rows of black cast-iron plates in different sizes stood along the wall and were spread around the room. Big, loud boys heaved them up and down. They stopped and looked at her as she stood in the doorway because she was a girl and because she was new, and, at that moment, she truly wished that she had never come. She took a breath and her heartbeat thudded in her ears as she tightened her belt and fastened the strap on her gloves. She ducked under the bar and settled it on the hard muscle between her shoulder and neck. She lifted if of the rack, backed into position, and began her workout.
The cross-wind picked up again and the sky was several shades darker. She reached for her javelin. It was sleek and smooth and fit her hand agreeably, comfortably. She cleaned the bits of grass and mud from the tip and stuck it in the ground beside her.
Across the field the 400-meter relay team was warming up on the track, and the storm clouds rolled in from the west.
The locker room was crowded and naked bodies emerged from the steam talking and laughing with hot, red faces. They slapped across the floor wrapped in towels. She stood at her locker changing silently amid the chatter around her.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know – a thrower I think. Probably a shot-putter.”
“Oh.”
The room got smaller, and steam clouded her vision. The noise got louder and louder until it was almost deafening. She stuffed her things into her bag and hurried out into the hall.
She sat alone on the ground and rested her head in her hands. The first flight was over, and the second was warming up. She felt like stretching some more too but didn’t. She got up to get some water instead. It was cooler now than before, or maybe her buzz had been doused slightly in the long wait. In any case, she was cold and she quickened her pace toward the bus and the water cooler. The rest of the team, or those members who were not competing at that moment, was lying around inside the bus. Some were chatting, some studying, most sleeping. It had been a long trip. She grabbed a cup and got her water without saying a word. No one looked up. It was that way most of the time. She understood. She crushed the cup and made her way back to the grass infield and sat down again.
The flight ahead of her had finished. She retied her spikes and to up feeling stiff and weak with anticipation. Her javelin felt good in her grasp and natural. It was cool and calm and steady – almost unearthly. She fumbled with her jacket and sweats at the sound of her name and answered back as she strode over to take her place at her marker. She raised the javelin above her head and focused on the end of the runway and beyond to the bright orange cones that stood at intervals in the grass down the field. She heard nothing but the sound of her spikes skimming the rubbery surface as she raced down the runway and drew the javelin back against her forearm. The tip was at her ear. She crossed over and exploded forward in a final desparate movement. The javelin left her grip and sliced through the air.