Powerlifting is easy to confuse with merely getting stronger. Of course being stronger helps, but powerlifting is a sport, and learning to perform well on meet day entails more than simply lifting more weight in training. Not everyone can replicate gym performances — let alone gym-based projections — on the platform, which opens podium spots for theoretically weaker athletes who execute better on game day.

Happily, I'm becoming a better competitor as well as getting stronger. The vast difference between my last two meets put that in high relief.

My issues have been with focus and confidence. Two other easy and common ways that athletes tend to self-sabotage — destructive weight cuts and poor attempt selection — haven't caused me any significant trouble.

In 2017, my third meet ever was Nationals. I had planned to be there simply because Joah was competing, but she got hurt and had to drop out. I came in 11th of 12 lifters. No one else cared, but I was embarrassed, both by that abysmal placing and by being ignorant enough to assume that meeting the qualifying total was by itself sufficient to prove I belonged on the platform. I concluded that I should have stayed home.

Determined to do better at 2018 Nationals, I hired a coach. We didn’t immediately click, and my training wasn’t great for the next few months. The day of the meet, with the shame of 2017 hanging over me and little reason to believe I’d perform any better, I overdid the caffeine, isolated myself, tried to psych myself up with loud music, and fixated on my numbers.

One of the first indicators that things weren't going well was filing my nails down to the quick. They'd been bothering me and I'd meant to clip them, but when I got to the warm-up area all I had with me was a callous remover. It's very effective for its stated purpose, but its broad, coarse surface is overkill for nails – akin to using a belt sander to polish silverware. Anxious, excessively caffeinated, and undeterred by logic, I ground bloody, jagged wounds into my fingertips.

Did they hurt? They did! Did they put me in a worse mood? Why, yes! Did they set the tone for a day of self-loathing? They did that too!

Other sports offer time to make adjustments. If I came into a soccer game and my aim was off, I'd likely get another opportunity to sort it out. If I was flat in a wrestling match, I could use my opponent's energy to get me going.

Powerlifting is a sport of seconds. Lifts go wrong in a blink, and there are no second chances. It’s more like a track meet, where sprint disciplines are unforgiving of initial mistakes, and I’d have to wait for a second or third event to screw my head on straight.

During squat warm-ups at Nationals I had trouble keeping my weight balanced evenly across my feet. The platform lights blinded me to nearly everything, the room was too loud, and the photographer’s camera felt omnipresent. Despite my efforts that environment distracted me. I hit my opener, but it was more of a struggle than it should have been. On my second attempt, which should have been a routine weight, I descended much too rapidly, perhaps hoping for a powerful bounce out of the hole. The spotters could have let me grind away uselessly, but they grabbed the bar, and that was it. Slightly refocused, I succeeded with the same weight on my third attempt. I felt like a massive failure.

Negativity chased me through warm-ups for bench. Honestly I don't remember a lot about those minutes -- they blinked by like seconds -- other than fixating on the need to PR.  If I failed on squat, I had to succeed on the other lifts, right? Long before I felt ready, I had to be back on the platform.

Training equipment often differs from competition equipment, though usually in only subtle ways. One consistent difference is the length of the bench, and therefore my foot placement relative to its end. That day, though, I was messed up enough not to be able to adjust. Pulling my feet closer theoretically means a bigger arch, a smaller range of motion, and a better result. But when they're so close that I'm not flexible enough for my heels to reach the ground, the “start” command will never come.

And that's how I failed my bench opener: I timed out while waiting for a start command, because my heels weren't on the ground, because I was being a spazz. Most likely no one else cared. I was humiliated.

Overwhelmed with shame and self-directed anger, I threatened to drop out. My coach pushed back, but in my head the day was already a failure. I just wanted to hide and forget.

Somehow rationality prevailed and I managed to stay under control. I hit my next two bench attempts and stalked off in search of solitude. Lying on my back, feet on the wall, headphones in ears, and eyes squeezed shut, I thought of how poorly I'd performed. My numbers were virtually the same as they'd been at my first meet, 18 months earlier. I hadn’t improved at all, despite all that time, coaching, and programming.

To redeem myself even a little bit, I needed to perform well on deadlift. At some point while lying there I started to visualize pulling the bar, especially the tightness needed in my upper back. When my coach summoned me for warm-ups, I asked for an extra set so that I could practice that sensation a little more.

Again, I don't remember much from that time. I think my coach asked if I wanted to attempt a PR – and of course I did. It may have been my single hardest lift ever, but it moved -- three white lights, good lift. I was dizzy coming off the platform and needed to sit down immediately. If my coach hadn't repeated it I would never have noticed the announcer saying that my lift had put me in third place.

That wasn't enough to keep me from scurrying back to my hotel room and taking a long shower, followed by an even longer walk. Sunglasses shielded me from eye contact and headphones blocked efforts at conversation while futilely delivering soothing music.

Two masters-1 93kg competitors passed me during the prime-time lifting session, but I ultimately came in fifth, good enough for a spot on the podium. I wasn’t expecting that. The only reason I’d attended the medal ceremony was to support my wife, the national champion, and I briefly considered not standing when my name was called. I did, though, and I shook hands with the four other medalists and had my picture taken.

My total wasn't impressive. I actually tied for sixth, but took fifth based on lower body weight, and there were only 10 lifters in my class. My failures in squat and bench, not to mention my fingernails, still stung. That medal was a reward for not giving up when I wanted to eject myself into the heart of the Sun, and yet “Fart Noises” was the label I chose for the log of my Nationals performance.

That day haunted me for months. USAPL had sensibly increased the qualifying totals for 2019 Nationals. Joah and Rampage had high enough numbers from 2018 that they theoretically didn’t need to compete all year, but I was not so lucky. The revised masters-1 93kg total was 110lbs more than the previous total, 60lbs above my total from the previous Nationals, 44lbs above my best-ever total and more than 38lbs above the sum of my best lifts. If I wanted to join Joah in Chicago, I had to get back on the platform, but I dreaded the thought.

My coach suggested doing a “tune-up” meet over the winter just to get more competition experience, but I told him I didn't need that, mostly because I wanted to believe that spazzing out at Nationals was a unique experience. Privately, I questioned whether I could execute well enough. Although my training was going better than ever, I told myself I wanted a test day at the gym, not another public performance.

I was especially nervous about squats. Because my coach was getting to know me better as an athlete and I was beginning to believe in his methods, I'd been making rapid progress, and my estimated maximum was getting higher than felt realistic. The thought of having that much weight on my back as I walked it out and let it settle gave me butterflies. And when I thought about bench, it was always with my heels coming off the floor.

But I found a small meet in Philadelphia, and Rampage signed on to lift there as well. The day of the competition, I made three decisions that I think were pivotal. First, I limited my caffeine intake. Second, I ditched my headphones once warm-ups began. Third, I smiled. It helped that Rampage was competing too, so I had a friendly face backstage.

Remembering the way squats had rolled me forward during warm-ups at Nationals, I focused on keeping my weight evenly distributed. My opening attempt was a little less than the weight I'd been lifting every Monday for six weeks, and it moved well. My second attempt was a personal record but a small one, close enough to familiar weights that I wasn't intimidated. And when the third attempt was loaded up, I smiled, told myself I could do it, and did.

That's probably the lift I'm most proud of in my young powerlifting career. It wasn't easy. It wasn't pretty. Although my balance felt about perfect, even an ounce more on the bar could have pinned me at the bottom. But I chose to believe I was strong enough, and when I reached my sticking point, I remembered to extend my back. The bar kept moving, my legs straightened, and I accelerated up. Three white lights from the judges; good lift.

“EPIC squat man!” my coach later wrote. “Now I'm jazzed to train and that doesn't happen for another 5 hours. Great! haha.”

With squats completed — and that intimidating weight dispatched with — I felt like I was on vacation. “It's going to be a good day,” my handler told me. “It's already a good day,” I answered. “It's going to get better.”

Bench warm-ups went well, I got my foot placement right, and my opener moved the way it was supposed to. My second attempt, a small personal record, was a little harder than hoped, but when my handler asked if I wanted to “go for it,” I said sure, why not?

I missed my third bench attempt. It would have been better to go lighter, for the sake of my total and my chances of qualifying for Nationals, but it was really, really close. Actually, I thought I had it. The bar came off my chest well and then got stuck higher than expected. Three red lights; no lift.

The cruel logic of the qualifying total meant that I had to get all three of my deadlifts in order to join Joah in Chicago, but I sincerely believed it wouldn't be a problem, for two reasons: First, apart from once dropping the bar like a dumb-dumb, I'd never failed a deadlift in competition. Second, I misremembered what I'd lifted at Nationals.

My opener and second deadlift moved as they should have. My third attempt, which I was convinced would merely equal my best lift, also received three whites, and I didn't need to sit down afterward. Only days later did I realize it was actually a personal record.

The results: Eight for nine, personal bests for all three lifts, and a Nationals qualifying total, thanks to optimism, a fortuitous trick of the memory, moderating my caffeine intake, and remembering to clip my fingernails.

Weirdest of all, I'm looking forward to my next competition: the 17th annual IPF/NAPF North Americal Regional Powerlifting Championships. Not dropping out at Nationals — plus a hefty dose of luck — allowed me to join the U.S. national team competing in Costa Rica.