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I Can’t Walk Anymore, but I Can Still Coach Track
Sprinters get set in their blocks at the starting line.
A pole vaulter raises her pole and rocks back on her heels, ready for her approach.
A young man with long, muscled arms winds up in the back of the discus ring.
“On your marks.”
“Set.”
BANG!
The meet begins with the smell of gunpowder, the sounds of the cheering crowd, and the spectacle of athletic achievement.
And I experience it all from my wheelchair.
A lifetime ago, track and field coursed through my veins like heroin. I was league champion in the shot put and a record-holder at my high school. I lived in the weight room. I spent six days a week at the track, rain or shine.
I wanted to throw in college, but like so many college freshmen, I struggled to find my academic footing. I switched majors three times, each with worse results than the last. My grades weren’t great, and the longer I tried to balance a full-time job and school, the worse my grades became.
Eventually, I failed out of school. You’d think this would be the low point in my life.
You’d be wrong.
