A Game of Identity

From the Archive - January, 2019

The coffee isn’t bitter because now I live upgraded. I don’t skimp. It’s top quality beans or nothing, for me, and these days I get what I want.

My travel plans are set — leaving for Europe at the end of the month. I told my agent to find me meets and she pulled out two small-time competitions right at the start of February, the first in Prague and the second in Rochlitz, Germany: Feb. 1st and 3rd. The day in between will be spent shuttling from one city to the other and also happens to be my birthday. I'll be spending Groundhog Day traversing the Sudetenland in a rental car... life can be strange.

This will begin my indoor season, one which I’ve had to piece together myself. I’m not on the World Indoor Tour, let alone the Diamond League circuit come outdoors. Those athletes get ferried from meet to meet on magic carpets, or so I’ve heard. My brand of professional athletics is decidedly less glamorous, to the point where it’s hard to see how Christian Coleman and I are even playing the same sport. I’ve competed at the very highest level, the peak of track and field, and somehow I feel like I’m at the foot of the mountain.

I used to feel that more, especially right after I graduated college. I left the support system of a massive Division I institution, and found myself living in LA on my own, checking my account balance in a Starbuck’s drive-through to make sure I had enough for a crappy black coffee, tall. I’d use up free trial days at 24 Hour Fitnesses near my ex-girlfriend’s apartment to keep training regular. And I’d sit in 405 traffic and scroll through my Instagram feed, burning with jealousy and bitterness at seeing some other thrower announce how excited they were to be partnering with such and such top brand. Or how thankful they were to be continuing their journey with this and that company at their side.

I’m not on the Diamond League circuit, not yet. It’s a goal. I want the magic carpet ride. But simple measures are being taken, starting with expecting more for myself. It’s a game of identity, really, which is strange because it seems on the outside to be a game of centimeters. Am I faking it until I make it? Maybe everyone is. Self-affirmation on quiet winter mornings, one cup of better-than-average coffee at a time.