We Squat, Because We Must

We are calm, as we step underneath the bar.  We make little noise other than a pressured hiss as we force our traps against the cold steel, squeezing tight our shoulders and forcing abdominals in rigid line.  We consider it monotonous, yet crucially necessary.  To be driven into the ground repeatedly, deep into vast realms of hip and hamstring flexibility, maintaining upright posture far below what those around us would consider sane.  We are comfortable in the hole, and powerful coming out of it.  We are precise, empowered, and determined, as the weight oscillates on our back, plates slammed tight against each other.  We do it for the strength it builds, the rigidity it provides, and the confidence it provokes in our being.   Yes, we squat because we must.  It is a brutal contrast to the lifts that comprise our sport. The snatch is an instant of power, a frozen moment of artistic significance as weight is transferred perfectly from floor to lockout.  The clean is comprised of pure power, a testament to the raw force a human being is truly capable of producing.  The jerk is like lightning, instant and stunning, a plyometric clap of godly thunder.  But the squat, the squat remains silently in the background, a nagging piece of lifting monotony.  It brings us back to earth as our celebrations end, and our personal bests fade into memory.  It forces us back down, underneath the unforgiving push of steel and rubber.  And we are forever condemned to rise again and again from the depths of torture and uncompromising weight.  We are pushed down, and we must push back, one with the hand of gravity.  Yes, we rise with the sun, the bar on our back, and throw it off only as we fall into caressing sheets.  As long as we dream of gold draped around our necks, we are condemned to squat.