I could smell it in the crisp morning air. The scent wafting freely, tickling my nostrils and sending the butterflies into a frenzy, the last remaining evidence that someone had fired a gun.
I stood motionless, looking at the man with the bright orange protective sleeve wrapped halfway up his forearm. He lowered the gun in a calm collected manner, as if by practice. Precise movements that detailed years of practice, he oozed confidence in his ability to pull the trigger on command at whatever interval he chose, and without hesitation. I tried to peer through mirrored glasses to gauge his mood but was too distracted by the bright orange protective sleeve. I wondered how many times he’d been burned by the gun powder.
My heart was beating in my chest, it would soon be my turn in the gallows. My legs were sweaty and shaking. The butterflies were hungry for a feast. I wiped sweat off my forehead, but not before the salty dribble stung my eyes.
It was a crisp March morning in South Texas, like it was every year. By evening, it would be even cooler, but I needn’t worry about it. I was trying not to faint with nervousness.
It was finally my turn. I knew the drill and could run it through my head unconscious.
Get on your knees. Crawl back. Strap your feet into the metal shackles. Breathe one last breath and look straight ahead, hold your gaze. Close your eyes. Lower your head and wait for the gun.
The routine was practiced to perfection.
He raised the pistol, checked for nervous movement. There was always a dead silence before the gun went off, like an attempted freezing of time that never finished it’s process.
The bang is unmistakable–it ramshackles your entire being, rumbling through your teeth down to the pit of your gut. It explodes in your brain like a super nova, disorienting your entire universe of nerve receptors. Your skin crawls with goose bumps as sweat explodes out of your epidermis. The butterflies scatter, as they transform into a piercingly, focused darkness. Your whole body explodes into one massive convulsion of energy as you stagger forward.
One step at a time, one short breath at a time, it all starts coming back to me. This, this is what I was waiting for. The first starting gun of the season.
I miss track season.
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
I could have not explained the feeling of being on the track any better if I had written it myself…although I was a thrower and not a runner. I had nostalgic memories of track yesterday as I thought about my college years. The feeling of the last spin before the release of the hammer…there is nothing like it. I actually thought of joining a intramural team or coaching some kids in my spare time.
Anyhow…I am loving your photography!
Be blessed!
Thanks T,
I always loved watching that almost hypnotic spin of the hammer throwers. The closest I got was during the decathlon. While not as intricate, the discuss retained it’s classic romantic place in the annals of field sports. Even now, when I find myself bored on a slick floor, you can find me spinning in place, lost in a time gone by….
Typically not a blog follower, I arrived here because the nondescript link in your MDN posts begged a click.
I am impressed with you, your writing, photography and well constructed blog site. Keep up the good work!
Kriggley,
Thanks for visiting and your kind words. I check in at MDN every once in a while, it’s fun to read the sometimes idiotic banter. It makes me smile.
Do visit often… see you soon