Make This Shot Count

• Patrick Verdura, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2017

Everyday I would practise shot put in my backyard, behind the awareness of my father. All my classmates at school said the same thing; no-one is interested in nor plays shotput nowadays, and they would conclude this sentence with another suggested sport, like basketball or footy. But I was never good enough to compete in such physical activities. My mother would always support me and say that one day I will be able to compete in the Olympics as a professional shot put player, just like father in his younger days. But I always criticized my mistakes, convinced I will turn out to be a disappointment that stained the legacy of my father’s achievements.
It was 5 days before the Interstate Shotput Championships began. I barely managed to scrape past Shotput Tryouts, being bested by two other boys of similar ages in my year level. Today, however, I aimed to push myself. I yearned to win that competition so bad, just so I could see the reaction my father would give, maybe even see a little bit of himself in his son’s eyes.
Anyway, I started off nice and simple with a few arm-stretching exercises. Then I moved up a little with some vigorous jogging warm ups. After all the mundane exercise was complete, I started the practise that would decide whether I would come home a champion or as a loser that ate the dirt off the field. I picked up an old shot put, the same one Dad used to train with when he was still a kid like me. The iron felt cold under my warm palm, the slightly rusted exterior looking like it had seen better days. Gripping the metal ball with my right hand, I mentally prepare myself for the shot, planting my sights on a nearby wooden fence. Turning my hip, I push forward with the shot and throw the ball outwards. It landed a couple meters in front of me. Frustrated with my poor attempt, I was about to leave just before I heard my dad’s voice. “Son, you can do this. You have far more strength within yourself than you realize, my boy. I myself have failed many times more than you can even count. All it take, is perseverance. Good luck, son, and remember to “put” your shot, not throw it. Trust me, hahahah, I know…” Dad’s speech was enough to motivate me to continue my practice. Did I fail a couple more times? Yes, and the minutes turned into hours, and before I knew it my technique was improving. 5 days later, I won 3rd place in the Championship. I think I did alright. My dad did too, as I noticed him giving me a smiling thumbs up from the crowd. Wiping a tear from my eye, I realize my efforts paid off in the end. Dad must have known that as well. He past away when I turned 6, the age when I first started practising his favourite sport.