They say that practice makes perfect, but what if they were wrong?

“It’s ok Ryan, you’ll better next time, I guarantee it”

“Thanks coach, I’ll do better next time.”

But I knew that same thing will be said next time. I knew that little, rubber, black discus was only going to flop 40 feet away like always. Being small sucked during Junior High track and field. However, I was clumsy, and terrible at any other sport.

I shuffled my feet to my friend Mike, looking down at his massive feet, with was weird because he was my height.
“How’d you do?” He asked in that I-already-know-tone. “Did you beat your personal record?”

“No” I muttered with despair. “Same as always. I’m just too scrawny.

This continued throughout my track meets. Sure, I was improving at running events, but that discus was too consistent. I felt like my strength was as useful as a life guard at the Olympics So, I thought that just being too feeble was the answer. And would practice for hours upon hours on end, trying to get just a little bit stronger. I don’t know why I didn’t give up, and was wasting my time.

During one of my practices, I give in and ask Mike to help. He was mightier than me so I thought he could give me some tips.

“Lemmie see how ya throw it.” He said in his stupid-but-giggly-fake accent after I asked.

I was about to throw it when before I could react, he takes my hand and flips it 180 degrees. I was going to protest, but I thought he was just messing with me as usual, but after chucking the hunk of garbage, it flies even farther than Mike can throw!

“How did I do that?” I shrieked in confusion. Mike told me that my problem wasn’t that I was lacking muscle, but that I was using the wrong technique the whole time.

“You mean, all of those times I was practicing, I was doing it wrong?

“Yup.” He said defiantly. “You just got pranked.”

I ignored his ridicules and thought about it. I always hate the saying “Practice makes perfect”, but I had thought it was true until that moment. If thing someone were to do any incorrectly every time, then all you’re doing is getting more used to that incorrect thing, decreasing progress and only wasting time.

Later that week the final meet of the season comes and I feel as pumped as a helium balloon, ready to show my strength. I walk to the podium when it’s my turn, everyone is watching, the pressure is on me like the weight of an expensive boat. I do my routine and remember to throw it correctly. The people who have seen me before gasped in awe, the disk flies across the field. It plops down with the grace of a sumo wrestler. The ref walks to the disk and yells,

“83 feet!”

I look at my family and they have never looked so proud in my entire life.