I stood there almost as still as a tall tree, barely moving in the wind. One hand is gripping the top of the pole leaning on my shoulder. The other hand is on top of the pole, down from the other a foot or two. My weight is leaning into the pole. The pole is pushing itself into the short dry grass, making it crunch like little shells. Every nervous breath, in and out, slowly making an “O” with my mouth to help control it. Time passes with every breath, and I feel my muscles tighten and loosen ever so slightly with each inhale and exhale. My name is called “Patrick Fattu. First attempt at six feet." 

I take my steps up to my starting line at 60 feet, my five lefts. Each step, the now slightly dulled spikes push into the runway. I twist and scrape the platform of my feet into the red track. I stand with both feet together and line up as if I was standing sideways on a tightrope. I lift my bottom hand, bringing the whole pole up. I feel the grip tape on the pole just sticky enough to hold my hands there for a few long seconds. I feel the rough sticky tape around the base of my thumb protecting me from sores and cuts like chain mail on a knight riding a galloping stallion into battle. The right hand is now on the bottom with just my thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger supporting all the weight of the pole. My left hand reached across my chest, hand gripping all the way around the rigid fiberglass tube. My breath now going harder and faster. In and out, in and out, breathing in the warm dusty air. 

I look up — I see the pit in that moment. I see each time I stood on the runway in practice. In practice during the hot days when I would feel sweat running down the temple of my head and into my eyes; the days when it rained, and I felt as if I was freezing into an ice cube; the day I developed the flu, and I didn’t see this runway for three long weeks. I wasn’t going to let all of the trials and practices go down a drain of quit opportunities and wasted time. I stare down the runway, the crevice that I will use to vault over the bar, and I imagine evil right before it. I see the face of my worst enemy and my worst tormentors. I see a face at the end of the runway, it looks at me and I look back at it; it begins to laugh and I begin to glare. I fill my heart with a rage and determination that I haven’t felt in such a long time. 

Unconsciously, my right leg falls back. I bend it quickly, and just as fast, I roll it up and take my first step forward. My right foot hits the ground on the platform at my feet. A high step, and my left foot hits the runway on the platform. I count “five," right … left … “four," right … left … “three," the pole starts to come down, right … left … “two.” I turn the pole to tip down, now bringing my right hand in the air and lowering my left hand. Right … left … “one." 

I feel the jolt as the pole takes hold in the crevice. My right leg extends, pushing off the ground like a rocket during lift-off. I use my arms to push myself up the pole as it falls forward, like a tree in the forest as I swing my legs up. Extending my legs like I’m jumping in zero gravity. I shoot myself up and over the pole, upside down. As I twist myself over the bar, I feel a serene sense as my eyes move to look at my hand throwing the pole in the opposite direction. I start to fall back. Time slows even more, and I see a cloud become smaller and smaller. I start to feel a thrill I’ve never felt before. My back makes contact with the pit. I start sinking into the pad as I close my eyes. The rest of my body lands; I freeze for one second and exhale. I open my eyes and sit up. I see the bar in its resting place. 

I am filled with a euphoria, an excitement, and an adrenaline that I’ve never felt before. I smile from ear-to-ear, like a mission control tech for Apollo 11 as we received our landing confirmation from Neil Armstrong. I stand up, trying not to fall over in the pit as I step over to the edge to jump off. I head to my bag to get a swig of water and get ready to get back in line, starting all over again.