I was throwing like there was no tomorrow. I was throwing the shot like I was trying to save the world.
I was going ballistic at the 1975 International Track Association meet in El Paso. It was a world record day. After my second throw, I knew I couldn’t be stopped and would beat the other throwers — Fred DeBernardi, Randy Matson and Karl Salb.
It was the day of “The Shot Heard ’Round the World,” as one commentator coined it. But I was not only battling the throwers, I was battling for supremacy of the day. I wanted to eclipse all the other athletes; to be king of the hill, admired, feared, respected. Besides, I always ran my mouth to the newspapers and radio stations before the meet, predicting records and fabulous performances, so I had to live up to that. And I had predicted the world record to my mother and sister. It was Mother’s Day and I wanted to do something special for her. That was extra motivation.
As I stepped into the circle for my fourth throw, I remembered the phone call I made that morning to mom and sis. I had to come through. As I began my windup, I said out loud, “This one’s for you, mom.” I started the rotation, powered into the spin. I felt like a whirlwind, light and powerful, moving through the circle. I watched the shot arc and saw the puff of dust when it landed. It was 71 feet, 11 inches, an outdoor world record.
I stepped out of the ring and away from the pack. I was the dog running with the stick now. Nobody could catch me. And I didn’t mean just the throwers. I meant nobody could catch my shock wave and eclipse me, not the sprinters, the vaulters or the jumpers or any of the gold medalists or world record holders who were there that day.
On my fifth throw, I yelled, “Mike, this one’s for you!” meaning Mike O‘Hara, president of the ITA. He was, after all, the reason that I was in El Paso throwing that day. I was in the groove then, more torque, my rotation tighter, my release almost perfect. I launched. The throw measured 73 feet and ½ inch. I broke the record I had just set.
I don’t know what the other throwers or athletes or fans were doing. I was in a zone. I wanted to go back to the circle immediately and throw again. I was on fire.
That 35 second time limit on the throwers now seemed like a week as I waited for Salb, Matson and DeBernardi. And then it was my turn again, my last throw. I had already set a record, already beaten the other throwers, already made them eat my dust. So I let it all hang out. I let all the fear, anxiety and trepidation of fouling, of stepping out of the circle, fall away. It was a feeling of pure potential, of fearlessness and of being immune to petty emotion. I said, “This one’s for me” and cranked up the particle accelerator and smashed through. I came out of my rotation faster than I thought possible. I became a blur. It was one of those moments when your dreams, your ideas, your desires all fuse together for the supernova. Every ounce of strength and energy came forth in a lightning strike. It was a throw-gasm.
I felt myself push off the ball of my foot at the release and it was as if the Earth pushed back. I knew. I knew that I had made the best throw of my life, of anyone‘s life up to that point. I looked down and saw I hadn’t fouled. I ran over to Fred and leaped into the air, pushing off his shoulders, touching the sky. Fred was happy for me and held out his hands in congratulation. Even my arch rivals became fans after that throw.
Other athletes came running at me. I ran around like I was crazy. And I was crazy, possessed by adrenalin, high on the performance. People were saying things to me, but the crowd was so loud I couldn’t hear anything.
The judges brought out the measuring tape they had been using that day and it struck me that they were using a synthetic tape. That stretches. They measured the throw at under 75 feet.
“I want a steel tape!” I shouted.
The officials began searching but couldn’t find one. After what seemed like a half hour, my greatest arch-rival, Matson, said he had a steel tape. His tape showed a throw of 75 feet, ¼ inch. That synthetic tape had been stretched quite a bit and under-measured the throw by ½ inch. It made me think of all the 69 foot, 11 inch throws I had made.
There were still events after that and there were astounding performances in those, too. Warren Edmundson ran the 100 yard dash in 9.1, tying Bob Hayes record. My friend Steve Smith was trying for a 19 foot, 1 inch pole vault, along with Bob Seagren and Buddy Williamson. They didn’t make it. John Smith ran a 45-second 440 which was a world record.
The ITA athletes were trying to build a buzz for the upcoming European tour and were pushing the limits of their speed and strength, pushing against the fear of failure and injury. Europeans love track and field and we knew we were going to be revered, adored, fawned over, treated like demi-gods there. Maybe we’d even get free shoes. At least that’s what we hoped.
But while all this record-breaking was still going on, the weather turned suddenly ugly, biblically ugly. Dark clouds swept in. The temperature dropped. Hail started pelting the earth. The wind created dust devils and started knocking things down. The hurdle and jump standards blew over. People started scattering, running to the parking lot with this dumbfounded look on their faces, as if the end was coming.
It seemed to be a signal from Mount Olympus, a message that lesser demi-gods should not strive to be more than they are. I’ve always believed my throws that day evoked a hail storm from the gods, a warning that I had come too close to Valhalla. Then again, it could have just been one of those spring storms that scare the crap out of mere mortals.
My world record of 75 feet lasted for 12 years, three months, two days, and a couple of hours.
i really enjoy to read this !
reading this everynight, im a shotputter from sweden and really likes this.
My coach hans almström even called “plutten” have trained in usa back in your time, do you know who he is?
now i understand what you were demanding in the clip, i kept on wondering what you were pointing at. how was alaska?