Practice

by Deirdre Abrahamsson

I almost killed my father with a shotput. The scene of the almost-crime was Victory Field, a track complete with a throwing circle in Forest Park, Queens. My father got it in his head that because he did some athletics when he was in seminary in Ireland, he was qualified to help me improve my technique.

Needless to say, a man who couldn't communicate very well in general couldn't quite transport information he didn't have. Not to his closet-rebel-teenage daughter who was itching to be done with practice, so she could meet up with friends, smoke cigarettes, drink forties, and make out with random guys so they might like her and ask her out..

I don't remember how often we went to the park, how many months. Perhaps a year or two? I just remember the feeling of frustration once I stepped into the throwing circle. I had the right shoes, but I didn't have the right technique. My father could see that. But he couldn't tell me exactly what I needed to do to get it right. "Do more like this," he would say, gliding across the circle and hopping into the throw. "Just a little more of this. More power here."

In retrospect, I had no follow-through. I lost my momentum half-way through the circle. My arm tried to muscle the shot forward. The power should have come from my strong legs, but instead, they trailed behind.

Powerless, that is how I felt with my father during our throwing sessions. I tried hard to make my mark, to just do it right, and make my father proud. But I didn't have anything concrete to work on, and part of me didn't want it as much as my father did. I just had a vague yet familiar feeling of doing something wrong, of not getting it right. I was tall and strong, I should be able to make it sail. But instead, my throws flailed, just beyond the 30 feet mark.

We didn't have a measuring tape that day, so my dad would measure my throws by counting his steps, each one equaling a meter.

I remembered being pissed with him, and with myself, after a throw and blindly getting into the circle again. I stood tall at the top of the circle, then bent forward over my right leg, brought my left leg high into the air than hitched it forward so it was parallel with my right. Then I glided across the circle and turned into my throw.

As the shot left my hand, my eyes met my father's. He was walking towards me, leaning forward and counting his steps to measure my last throw. The shot sailed over his head in a perfect arc, landing at about the thirty foot mark. My frustration melted into fear.

I sometimes think about that moment. Any sooner or any later would have been disastrous. A line drive, as I was often wont to throw, could have meant fractured ribs, a crushed skull, or worse.

I don't remember if we stopped for the day then. Probably not. I am sure we kept going then and for many months to come. Kept trekking up to Victory Field. My dad trying to help me throw further, me trying desperately to throw further, both of us not getting anywhere. Not closer together, not further apart. Keeping the same distance away from each other so as not to get hurt.

The Author

Deirdre Abrahamsson is a New Yorker living in Gothenburg, Sweden. She received a BA in English and an MS in Education from the University of Pennsylvania. By day she writes operational plans and reports for the 2006 European Athletics Championships and by night, poems and short stories. She is currently working on a novel about love, sobriety, and New York City.