It was a beautiful spring day and I was warming up for the meet that would put me on the cover of Sports Illustrated. I was throwing well in the warm-ups – 67’ 6” from a standing position — even though I was dialing back my rehearsal routine.
Usually I went all out in the warm-ups. Sometimes I would warm up for an hour, take a break and then throw some more. Indoors, I would throw over 80 feet in warm-ups. It was all part of the show. We were performers, after all, and we wanted to give the fans in the stands their money’s worth.
But at the International Track Association meet in El Paso in 1975, I was conserving my energy. I even cut out the usual back flips and other “Look ma, no hands” stunts that fans loved thought the meet was going to be televised on ABC‘s Wide World of Sports. I just had the feeling that I would need every milligram of energy I could muster that day.
The 35 second rule was in effect, too. The producers wanted the action to move fast because a track and field meet can be like fishing without bait on the hook — really boring. So after you threw and they took the measurement, the next thrower would be called and he had 35 seconds to get in the circle and throw. That way, things kept moving along.
This was much different than amateur meets, where athletes would take their time. They would go through their prima donna rituals. The jumpers and vaulters would measure their steps, put on another pair of shoes, or re-lace the ones they had on. The runners would be checking the starting blocks and feeling the surface, checking the wind. The throwers would be smoking pot.
No, just kidding. The throwers would hunker down, put on their best, meanest looking game faces and ignore each other. There was always a tremendous level of psych-out in the shot-put. There was absolutely no eye contact because nobody wanted to display any sort of weakness, which can show in the eyes. We were implosively into ourselves and each of us would stake out our little piece of turf and would defend it like junkyard dogs. “Don’t screw with me. Don’t look at me. Don’t see me. Don’t even think about looking. Just think about how I will crush you.” That was our pre-event mantra.
On top of all that, we were in Bowie High School stadium, not much to look at, no cheerleaders, no pom-pom girls. However, for this occasion I was in fashionable black shorts and a tank-top with a Post cereal logo on the back. Post was one of the ITA sponsors. So, I was sitting there thinking about how to crush my opponents while wearing an ad for Post Toasties. I don’t know how much cash the company chipped in, but in the ITA we were glad to get anything. I would have started eating Post Toasties or Sugar Crisps, but they didn’t give us any free samples. We called the Post rep “Sugar Bear” after the Sugar Crisps mascot.
Speaking of bears, I was throwing against Karl Salb, Randy Matson, and Fred DeBernardi that day. They were a tough crowd. Matson had silver and gold Olympic medals, DeBernardi was an NCAA champion in the discus and the shot, and Salb was one of those guys who could throw 72 feet warming up. I would need to reach deep down and gather all my mental and physical strength to beat them. I would need luck, too.
Somehow I had come into possession of a shot owned by Hans Hoaglund, a student at the University of Texas-El Paso. Either he had donated it to my cause or I had borrowed it from him. In any case, Hoaglund later used the same shot to win an NCAA championship. It would be a lucky shot for me, too.
As usual, I was trying to keep breakfast down. Competitions always made me so nervous I had to hit the bathroom and puke. Better there than on the field. It became a ritual with me. Throw up and then throw. Worked for me.
At this meet I was at the top of the order and would throw first. We each had six throws. We were in the spotlight and the stadium was noisy, but I was oblivious to what was going on in the stands. The crowd quieted as I stepped into the ring. My first throw was 68 feet 3 inches. Disappointing. I threw nearly that far from a standing position in the warm-ups.
I knew that the old fear of fouling was limiting me and that I wasn’t demanding enough of myself. I was not in the groove yet, not at that point of total abandonment into the throw, not at the point where all of your physical and psychic power come together like nuclear fission and the chain reaction occurs — coil, spin, throw. Blam! Shock wave.
I stepped out of the circle and reviewed. It would be less than two minutes before I was up again so I had to make a quick fix. I felt that I had to get lower and attack the toe board. That means you need to drive your impulse foot into the area just behind the front of the board and lift at the end of the rotation. Your body becomes a catapult. In the rotational throw, you don’t heave the shot like you do in the traditional glide. You whip it, like a particle accelerator, except the particle weighs 16 pounds. The shot is already traveling through space and time when you extend your arm, which adds more acceleration to the particle.
I dug down into the nucleus of my being and drove a little harder and a little deeper. My next throw was 68-11. The particle accelerator was beginning to tune into the moment. The day wasn’t over yet and I was going radioactive.