After Thirty Years

In college, at New York University, I threw javelin. I didn’t start out on the track team. Instead, I sort of stumbled upon it. During my first two years, I played basketball, the sport I loved throughout my youth. However, upon entering college, I learned that success on the team hinged not necessarily on talent and skill but on one’s ability to jive with one’s teammates, both on and off the court. In this, the ability to connect with others, I have often been deficient. In college, on the basketball team, that deficiency hit an entirely new level. And it wasn’t just with the other players, it extended to my coaches. Unable to fit in, knowing I would never again see enough minutes in a game to feel the adrenaline rush I once relished, I quit. After years of living and breathing basketball, I was depressed and feeling  completely unmoored. If I didn’t have basketball to center me, to guide me, what did I have? 

In that strange and unsettling state of being displaced, scrambling to find purchase so that I didn’t fall apart, I happened, one afternoon while in the stairwell at Coles, the university gym, to look up at the track and field records. While studying the numbers in front of me, my eye snagged on the javelin. I knew nothing about it, except that it looked like a spear and that one threw it. I also knew that I had a strong arm. That I could throw a softball hard and fast. I don’t remember what the javelin record was, but I remember thinking it didn’t seem far. When I matriculated at NYU, my goal had been to break at least one basketball record. I wanted my name somewhere, demonstrating that I had done something. That I, once upon a time, was someone. Having quit, that dream died, but there on the record board was a second chance. A new opportunity. A way to redefine myself and somewhat salvage what remained of my time as a college athlete.

Gathering my courage—I’m not sure where the bravado came from since I am always eager to avoid speaking to strangers—I knocked on the track coach’s door. He invited me in, offered me a seat, and I took a deep breath, excitement and the new possibility before me pushing me forward. “I’d like to join the track team,” I said, unable to sit still or contain my nervousness.

“What event or events are you interested in?”

“Javilin. I want to break the record.” I’ve always been direct. Most times it works against me. That day it didn’t.

“And what’s your experience?”

“I don’t have any.”

“And you’re going to break the record?” He cocked his eyebrow, looking dubious. Who could blame him? My declaration sounded absurd.

I nodded.

“Are you willing to run?”

“Sure.” Why not? I was slow. I knew that. But what did I have to lose?

“Practice is at three o’clock.”

And just that, I traded in my high tops for a pair of javelin spikes. 

To fill the void left by basketball, I threw myself into this new sport with so much enthusiasm that I overcompensated for my lack of experience with a zealousness that bordered on insane. And in the process, something miraculous occurred. For the first time in my life my teammates welcomed me. They included me in conversations and invited me to join them for dinner in the dining hall. At meets they swept me up into their circle and cheered for me each time I threw. I was a rookie, new to the sport, but my work ethic compensated for the fact that I was completely green. I did everything the coaches told me to do, and I was happy to fill in at any event the coaches suggested I try. I sucked at them all—all except javelin—but it didn’t matter because I was having fun. And then, in our last meet of the season, I did it. I broke the school record. 

The following year, new people—mostly freshmen, specifically three freshmen from California—joined the team and all my previous failures of navigating the social dynamics of being on a team fell away. I felt a sense of belonging that had eluded me up until that moment. Ironic, that it took a non-team sport for me to feel the camaraderie of being on a team and I’m not really sure what I loved more, my teammates or throwing the javelin. I think perhaps the two were wrapped up so tightly with each other that by the end they were almost synonymous. If I didn’t enjoy throwing javelin as much as I did, I wouldn’t have been as invested in the team, but if I didn’t genuinely appreciate the friendships cultivated at practice and on the track, throwing javelin might not have given me so much pleasure.

In my senior year, I not only broke my own record, I also qualified for nationals. I was the only one on the team to do so, and so I flew out to Chicago alone with my coaches to compete. I didn’t do well. It was just one of many times throughout my life that I fell short of the expectations I put on myself. That night my coaches, seeing my disappointment and desperate to cheer me up, asked if there was anything I wanted to do. Anything. There wasn’t. I sort of just wanted to sit in my hotel room and cry. But one coach was persistent. “There must be something that would make you feel better,” she pushed, and on second thought, there was. Lake Michigan. I loved to swim and I had never before gone swimming in any of the Great Lakes. It was dark by the time we set out, but that didn’t matter. Swimming in the dark would only make it more thrilling. I didn’t have a bathing suit, none of us did, but that was just a minor inconvenience, not a roadblock. One of the coaches drove to a beach, I’m not even sure where it was. Honestly, I thought I was the only one crazy enough to dive in wearing my clothes, but the coaches joined me and we all emerged smiling and happy. It was something to take back home with me, an experience, a moment of pure blissfulness to counterbalance my perceived failure at the meet. On that final night on the track team, dripping wet on the sand besides Lake Michigan, I was happy. That swim salvaged the trip, the meet, my final memory of being on the team—my best experience in college. 

When I graduated, it was my teammates and the javelin that I missed. For years, I wanted to get my hands on a javelin, just to feel the grip in my palm. I wanted to pull my arm back and throw, releasing the implement and watching it fly. It didn’t even need to go far. For thirty years, those moments crept up on me. Memories from track flooding me with warmth and longing. In the spring of ‘96, I threw a women’s javelin for the final time, and I never thought I’d throw it again…until today.

Three months ago, my son overheard a conversation among his track coaches. His throws coach was no longer able to dedicate as much time to the team as needed, so they were looking for a new coach. My son, knowing how much I loved throwing javelin, sent an email to the throws coach as well as one of the head coaches letting them know that his mother would take the job. Of course, he sent this email before discussing it with me. Two days later, the women’s head coach sent me an email inquiring if I would be interested in the position. I’ve been teaching for years, and I never had an inclination to coach, mostly because I didn’t want to not have time to write after work, but also, if I was coaching, I would be committed to my team, and as a result, I might miss whatever activity (or activities) my son was participating in. But, if I was coaching his team, I would be at the same practices, the same meets. It would mean more time with him. As for writing, I knew if it meant enough to me, I’d still find time. Instead of responding to the coach via email, later that afternoon, when I picked my son up at practice, I introduced myself to the coach and we had a long conversation. By the time it ended, I had a job I never applied for.

Yesterday was the first day of the spring season, but we spent the day in the weightroom. Today was our first day in the field throwing. When I arrived at practice, one of the boy jumpers approached me and asked if he could try throwing javelin. I asked him why the interest, and he said, “I’m strong. I want to break the record.” And I laughed, because it seemed an almost fitting welcome to the team. And why shouldn’t I believe him? Why shouldn’t I believe that someone with limited experience could break a record?

It was a great day. Temperatures reached high into the 70s and being out on the field made me feel a little less old. Holding a javelin in my hand, nearly transported me back in time. There are some throwers on the team who are already throwing well, and others who are just starting out. I took the rookies off to the side and showed them how to hold a javelin, how to position their arms, and the proper trajectory of a throw. Teaching is often thankless and tiresome, but today, being on the field and teaching kids how to throw, I think I fell in love with the sport all over again.

My dad would be thrilled. It’s just one of those moments when I wish I could call him up because I’d love to hear the excitement in his voice. He always told me he thought I’d make a good coach. Of course he thought I’d coach basketball or maybe softball, the sports I grew up with. But track makes the most sense. The track was where I was happiest as an athlete and I think there is a great deal of potential for me to be happy here now.