Recruited because she just kind of looked like a hammer thrower, you know, in the classic European thrower sense — a kind of strength–meets–explosive–grace thing. Not everybody caught it, but Assistant Aggie Track and Field Coach Matt Ingebritsen did. He could see through the scared, timid cues of high–school body language, past her comfort zone with the discus and shot–put, maybe even beyond, to a ring and a sector at the Division 1 level. But c'mon, the Outdoor Track and Field Championships?

“I didn't even know I'd been recruited to throw hammer,” she says. And, oh wow, it's a lot of work; four hours a day, throwing, conditioning, drilling, sprinting. Weights and more weights. A lot of short sprints and stuff to get her explosive and moving. She tries to balance school and athletics and a social life. Friends are going out, but she's wondering if she's getting enough sleep, worried about getting the right stuff to eat, making sure homework gets done so she can go and train some more. But it starts working, you know, it seems to be working. She just might make a go of this crazy thing.

And then … world crashes, broken into pieces. Soul–shattering, never–be–the–same, tragic loss. Mom dies. And there's no way, just no way…nothing left. It can't be real. She won't continue. She can't draw anything but shallow, purposeless breaths. “There were moments when I wasn't sure I was going to keep going to school, let alone keep throwing.” But friends rise up, alongside that amazing coach. They rise up with teammates and family members to help her dig deep, deeper than she's ever had to dig, all of them pleading with her to keep at it, to keep doing the things that make her happy.

Academically things blossom, recognition comes, and honors. But she's a senior now. This is it. Athletically her time clock is punched. She goes into regionals ranked fifth, but — ooh — finishes 11th. Didn't have a really good day. Still, it's enough to qualify for nationals, enough to realize the goal of every track and field athlete who has ever been blessed to compete. So here's the thing, says coach, mission accomplished, now let's allow ourselves to dream. Let's tweak a little here, a little there, let's get you “higher in the legs.” A new way to throw; let's roll the dice. No way could she have handled these adjustments any earlier. But now…now she's so coachable. She has this thing; she takes so easily to technical challenges.

She goes into nationals ranked 16th, but sets a goal to crack the Top 12, to simply survive qualifying day, and guess what!!!? “It seems … oh … it's kind of like a dream to me,” she says. Unbelievable! She'll get three more throws in tomorrow's finals; three more throws in an already improbable college career to produce the one throw of 10,000 throws upon which she can anchor the rest of her life.

Next day — after a three–hour severe weather delay — she's back in the ring, her back to the sector. Coiled like a spring ready to burst, winding up. Ball in front now, most of her weight on the toes of her right foot, left heel ready to pop up so she can turn the corner, catch it, counter. And the storm is building; seriously, a literal Arkansas tornado! And the only way to beat a tornado is maybe to be a tornado. So she turns and turns, collecting power as she goes and eventually … just explodes. Boom, 194–03, her second–best ever! And there it lies: her four–year sacrifice upon the altar.

Hours later, when they finally get around to announcing she's finished among the Top Eight U.S. competitors, she admits that it's almost too perfect, a dream come true, a wow–is–this–really–happening sort of thing, a giddy–excited, hugs–for–everyone, this–is–really–cool kind of a deal. “It's funny,” she says, “but even now I can find myself just doing some every–day thing, and then all of a sudden I go, ‘I am an All–American. I'm an All–American!’ How many people can say that?”

And the coach and the other Aggie throwers can see that she just trusts herself now, that she's a different person than the freshman who showed up four years ago. Different … but better. And maybe that's what All–American means.

—Jared Thayne '99