By Jude Aly
The air in Desert Barbell was heavy with anticipation, thick with the smell of sweat
and chalk dust coating from the steel calibrated plates and bars. It was one of those
moments when time seemed to stand still-stretched thin, like a rubber band ready to
snap at any moment.
The clanking of weights echoed around the room and dimmed as all eyes lay fixed
on the boy standing in the middle of the deadlift platform.
His feet were placed on the black rubber surface, worn out by high-intensity lifts. The
steel plates lay stacked at his feet, brutal, cold, and unforgiving on the barbell, their
once-bright surfaces now dulled through use. They rattled slightly with the slight
shifting of his grip as his hands were tightly wrapped around the knurled steel, the
rough texture biting into his palms.
The plates groaned as he started to pull; they went up steadily off the platform, like
the sun breaking over the horizon, inch by inch, showing the strain carved across his
body.
The room was alive with encouragement, voices louder in a unified wave, energy
shooting towards him like a force to push him along.
“UP! UP! UP!”
It felt as if every shout was wind behind his body, lifting the weight with him. It felt
like, for a moment, we were all hooked-our wills joined into one with his strength, the
weight shared.
But then, just as the barbell reached his knees, the inevitable happened. The dream
unraveled.
A blister on his left hand burst raw from previous attempts at gripping the cold,
unforgiving bar.
It gave way with a sharp tear. Bright angry blood spilled onto the bar. The barbell
was slick and now unsteady; it slipped out of his fingers as though it had a will of its
own.
Coming back down, it let loose a thunderous bang onto the platform. The sound
reverberated off the concrete walls, echoing through the gym like a final exhale of
defeat.
The disappointment in the room hung heavy in the air, as thick as the very plates that
had dropped. It wasn’t his failure-it was ours.
At Desert Barbell, failure wasn’t an individual weight.
We succeed together, or we lose together. And today, we lost.
He stood there, blood dripping from his hand, staring down at the barbell as if it had
betrayed him. The knuckles that had once been white with tension gradually relaxed
and his hands fell limp at his sides.
The energy in the room deflated around him, like air leaking from a punctured
balloon, leaving heavy silence in the wake of our collective disappointment.
Yet beneath the frustration, there was a silent promise. An exchange of looks passed
between us, as if to say,
“Next time, we rise again.”
It is in that vantage that every bead of sweat, every ruptured blister, and every failed
lift thrust us closer to something greater. The weight had not truly won; it just waits,
patient, indifferent, for another day.
And we knew, as a community, we would be there to face it again—together.
