Trap King

Yes, the traps activate.  Yes, they try so hard, and yes they are as worthless as tits on a bore. It's a sad story of how this came to be. A story that drew a tear to my eye, a story that will make any man grab his heart with pain.  But don't feel too bad, for once he was happy, once he stood proud, once he was King.

Chapter One

Once upon a time, in a far away land where the bar wasn't allowed to touch your body, the trap was king.  The trap ruled the weightlifting world with his big stick and his large high crown.  He never got tired of the attention, as a matter of fact, he took in every bit of it like it was Christmas morning.  They talked about him as a legend from coast to coast, as myths and stories began to pile up about his power and strength.  He was conquering world records.  He was winning Gold medals in the Olympics.  He was kicking ass on a daily basis.  Scholars wrote hundreds of books about his efficiency and power.  It was once recorded that he stood 15 feet tall, and could chop down the tallest tree with one swish of his sword. Athletes and coaches spent years trying to mimic his greatness.  Some felt and understood his beauty, and some fell short only to stare hopelessly at the podium.  Others tried to defeat him with different tactics and methods.  He was constantly challenged from others who envied his power.  But they fell short, and nothing seemed to please the King more than victory on the Platform and off. His way was the best way, the only way.  He knew it, and everyone else knew of his glory.  The traps could shrug any bar higher than the eyes could see.  He made weight disappear into the blue sky, only for the birds to enjoy.  The scarecrow some called the king, which fit him well, and explained the position he was always in.  Upright, straight, and elbows high as if the scarecrow was showing a young kid where the sun was.  The crowd went crazy, and the King grew an inch with every lift that was made.  The King was happy, and I am happy for him.

Years went by, decades passed almost with a blink of an eye.  He sat on his silk green thrown growing older and older while the sport grew old with him. They were two peas in a pod, they shared war stories together until the orange afternoon fell dark.  The King had no idea what was about to happen next.  The King was about to be turned upside down. 

"Siar we have a problem, come quick!"  "The Weightlifters are starting to make bar body contact!" "They are breaking the rules, they are going against you Siar!"  The king woke from his gold thrown in a panic, as his crown stumbled into his lap with frantic hands.  He tried everything in his power to stop this craziness, this reluctant rebellion.  But the lifters kept at it. The coaches scratched their heads and talked amongst each other with smiles and approval.  Once the lifters found this new way of throwing the barbell over their head, there was no stopping the ease and joy they got out if this new found relationship with the bar.  The sport was chattering with new ideas. The trees were swaying from the swift change in the air. A monster was being created, and the King was feeling its bite. The chatter from the towns people kept the king up at night, only to fall asleep with his pillow over his head.  Only to find his presence slowly dwindling.  The committee spoke, and the rule of no bar body contact was changed to bar body contact.  A shift in the sport that changed everything, including the King's masterful power over this great sport.  A rule that drew a single tear from the king's face that with ease and patience fell from his right eye and splattered onto his high golden crown. 

Chapter Two

The scarecrow was taken down from its high perch in the middle of the town, and replaced with an arched angel that struck such beauty and rhythm. An image that turned people's head to the side as the sun glazed over her bent body.  A sling shot type movement, a catapult machine the weightlifters turned into.  That same year a record of world records were shattered.  The weight went up, and fast.  The bar had much more color on each side.  The competition grew fierce, as weak lifters were now able to battle with strong lifters.  Mad scientists is what they were, the coaches that is.  Blue prints of how their athlete can move their body to lift more and more weight, even if they had weak legs.  Yes, strength building is always a must, but a new found creature was going to help build the athlete to new heights.  Their arms grew skinny as they hung like cables.  The traps grew smaller as they held less of a purpose.  The back grew bigger and stronger from staying over longer and longer.  The weightlifters moved faster, as their hips drew blood against the bar with a large amount of force and determination.  The weightlifter is now a machine of some sort, and there is no stopping what its capable of performing next.  Who knows, the Arched Angel may someday be replaced with another statue for the towns people to talk over. 

The King is still with us today, he is still a part of this great sport.  The King will never leave.  Every part of the body plays a part in this great fight.  All parts of the body belong and serve a purpose.  The athlete must not think, just do.  Letting the body perform such elegance and strength. "What foot do you step forward with in the jerk?"  A question that cannot be answered, a question that only the athlete must do without thinking, for then he or she will find out themselves.  In my opinion, this is how the bar body contact was born.  An athlete just moved, just lifted, and then found a comfort that worked in unusual ways compared to the norm back then.  The sport is always growing, and the King will live on forever.  He might now smile as big and bright as before.  The King may not stand 15 feet tall anymore, but he is still proud of what he created, and proud to see lifters achieve greatness to this day.  Long live the King, and welcome to the new and possible ideas of a weightlifter.

The King 2016