Ten seconds and a bad shoulder

Ten seconds is longer than it sounds. I know because I lived it today on the third rappel at You Yangs — anchor pin sheared through soft rock, my left shoulder caught the full arrest, rope bit a line across the deltoid. Eight clients above me didn't see it. Backup knot held ten seconds later. I hung free for ten seconds thinking about nothing useful.

Lev tagged me on the Northside podcast feed at a servo on the M1. The swimmer playing boxer can't even hold a rope. I read it, I deleted the notification before I could screenshot it, before I could draft a reply, before I could do anything except stare at the word swimmer and feel it land. Swimmer. Like that's the headline that followed me into the ring and now onto a cliff. I ordered two replacement pins at the servo and emailed Apex's supplier before I drove on. That's what a man does when his name gets dragged through a podcast — he replaces the pin.

Told Rob no more Saturdays. Save the shoulder for the Voss fight in September. I said it like a tactical call. It isn't. It's me admitting the shoulder is the thing now — not the lungs, not the gas, not the footwork. The shoulder that arrested eight people today is the same one I'll need to take Voss's chin. I posted the bruise. Three posts. I don't know if I'm documenting the catch or asking someone to notice it.

Shoulder is clicking louder than yesterday. Ice on it now. I'm counting again — the singlet list, the people who've worn it into my room without asking. Rob will be the only one who knows what ten seconds feels like. That's fine. I don't want witnesses. I want September.