“Nicolas Cage is the one true god.”
“I am sooooo sore.”
“Oh this, it’s just a stress fracture. I’ll be back at practice next week.”
“What did you think of the workout today?”
If you couldn’t tell by now, I’m a member of the track team. But I’m not just any member of the track team. Yes, I participate in running aimlessly in an oval. However, I have a talent that you might not ever guess just by looking at me. (For those of you that don’t know me, despite my complex in which I think of myself as a hulking giant I reluctantly compare myself to others as an angry, yappy Scottish terrier).
I’m a javelin thrower.
Yes, you read that right. I throw a spear. Basically, I’m a killing machine, or so other people would think I am. I’m here to tell you that this epithet is far from the truth, unless by killing machine you mean that my chances of dying are far higher than the average person.
The first thing you learn at javelin practice is how to properly retrieve your javelin. You should always approach the javelin from the side. If you approach your javelin head-on you might slip and impale yourself. I’m not kidding. And what’s most ironic is that the part of a javelin sticking out of the ground, the opposite end from the spear tip, is actually pointier. All it takes is a lackadaisical skip, subsequent slip, and bam—impaled. Fatality. Or serious organ damage. You might need a splenectomy.
The assumption is often made that I could pick off people in the distance with my spear-throwing ability. That is also hardly truthful. I’m really not sure how the Greeks did it. I would say the time I feel least in control of my body is when I’m throwing javelin. I’m not sure what I’m channeling when I throw but after seeing pictures of myself, carnal rage might be an accurate description. So, I’m certainly not capable of hitting a target. Perhaps the Greeks, like me, just threw blindly into space. I could probably clear up all of my questions with a short Google search, but I kind of like the scene of chaos and destruction playing in my head right now.
If you were really concerned, you could throw a pity party for the countless worms that have no doubt fallen at the hand of my spear, but I don’t really much care about worms, or animals, or people for that matter.