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BY EMILY CONLON

In print | Published April 21, 2005

I need to vent. I need to share something. I’m not angry. I’m just frustrated. Yes, it’s a matter of frustration, of competition and defeat and, most importantly, my ego.

Over the past month, I have undergone a metamorphosis. This little caterpillar named ECon has transformed into a spear-chucking, mammoth-hunting butterfly. I have taken to throwing the javelin for the track and field team. Emphasis on field for me because, come on. It began with the suggestion of head coach Pete Carroll that I dabble in a little javelin practice. Someone once said, “The road to success is uphill.” I think to myself, well the javelin runway isn’t, why not give it a shot. How hard could this really be?

Welcome to the feeling of being completely wrong. Stay awhile.

A month later, I’ve learned my lesson, at the expense of my self-confidence (which I have tied tightly to the tip of my javelin. My pride flies as the jav does). For anyone who has endured the challenge of learning something completely new from scratch, let’s empathize together.

Rule number one: It’s harder than you think to throw a javelin. Rule number two: It’s easier than you think to step on your own fingers with your own metal-spiked shoes.

Weeks before an actual meet, Pete took me out to the field to go over technique. Lining up your arms and knees and back correctly and bending backward was the first feat I assumed. It felt a lot like one of those medieval racks they used to string people on. Comfortable? Sure, until you spend the remainder of the three weeks in that position. After not mastering the technique, I grabbed a javelin anyway. Failure after failure of a flat-flying javelin. A man of true patience, Pete kept on correcting the errors. “Twist your back leg in and turn your foot, like you are crushing an ant hill.” Ant hill? No. More like self-worth.

Still feeling completely unqualified to step near a collegiate track event, I went to a meet at Widener on April 2nd. In dramatic form, the sky darkened and it poured for hours. I paced, jumped about and shook, the nervous little caterpillar that I was, waiting for my event to begin. For those unfamiliar with track meets, as I was at the time, they are seven-hour-long hauls where furiously fast athletes meet expertly inefficient organizers. The glory of competition for many is wedged between hours of sitting around, cheering on teammates, and trying to avoid sunburn. A neophyte to the schedule, I didn’t know that the javelin event, scheduled toward the top of the list, would take place four hours after the official starting time. So I stood … for four hours, waiting for my event to be called, to work up my energy and step onto a field and shine like a star. I’d like to say that I got out there and I threw farther than most, so far that I made it into Mark D’s daily sports briefings. Alas, I would not shine; no javeliner would. My one moment was cancelled on account of rain. It was the only event to be cancelled that day.

With another week of practice, I was a little more confident going into the University of Delaware Invite the following week. I really took Pete’s coaching to heart. “Throwing javelin is like … it’s like you are playing darts in an English pub and it’s your turn and if you don’t throw at the bull’s-eye you have to buy the entire room beer.” Maybe that’s not verbatim, but the man has a way with words.

40 girls threw javelin at the UDel Invite. You could have built a brick house out of the DI throwers and strong DIII girls. I huddled to the side with my compatriots, Heather Reese ’07 and Rebecca Burrow ’08, and waited. My name was called. I got up to throw, hoping not to throw up. The good: All three of my attempts stuck in the ground. The bad: I finished 15th out of 19 competitors in the DII/DIII category.

15 out of 19! I had not even cracked the first half. As a Swattie, it’s difficult to contemplate failure, let alone experience it. Very few of us will admit that even after we’ve tried our hardest, worked at something for weeks at a time, that we do not get the results we want. It’s not in our blood. Really, Admissions tests for it.

So I exhale, take a step back to gain that elusive perspective people are always talking about. Okay, I didn’t fail, but I did flail. My quest for greatness, my dreams of picking up and throwing a javelin with perfect form, were flung.

Now, I won’t claim that I am the hardest-working athlete at Swarthmore, nor will I claim that track and field or volleyball is the hardest working group on campus. But I won’t throw any small children out with any bathwater, because — as I will shyly disclose — I have learned something. I am starting to find some things out. I have learned how to flail with grace. While sports have been a source of praise and respect for me, I’ve found a challenge that I cannot master in a few weeks. My Swattie-ish approach to problem solving has been beaten. Running headlong into obstacles and bearing down on them doesn’t work this time. It’s now a matter of practice and patience. And finding some humor in it helps, too. If you can’t laugh at yourself once in a while … well, I guess others will just do it for you.

And if you don’t believe me, or you’d prefer to poke fun at a sometimes-flat-flying javelin, go ahead. Come join me at practice. I’ll let you catch.

Emily Conlon is a junior. You can reach her at econlon1@swarthmore.edu

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