Chapter Forty-Seven
Kirk
The Highland Games have begun in earnest. Dùndubhan is one of the best venues for the games anywhere in Scotland, though I admit I'm somewhat biased.
No other castle could evoke the Middle Ages better than Dùndubhan.
The first event will be the hammer throw, which I've often won at various times.
Gretchen seems anxious as I approach the throwing area.
The lass grips her canvas bag so tightly her knuckles have gone white.
"Are you sure you won't injure your back?" she asks, chewing on her lower lip.
I kiss her forehead. "Dinnae worry, lass. I've been throwing hammers since I was a wee laddie. My technique is flawless."
"That's what worries me. Your extreme confidence is terrifying."
"Ye love me, that's why you're afraid. But trust me, lass, you'll be cheering me on before the games are over."
All around us, the Games are in full swing.
Bagpipes wail across the field, and the scent of meat pies and haggis fills the air as vendors peddle their wares.
Spectators line the perimeter of each event area, cheering and jeering in equal measure.
Most of the men competing wear kilts, myself included.
I catch Gretchen eyeing my bare legs more than once.
"See something ye like?" I ask with a smirk.
She raises an eyebrow but cannae hide her smile. "Just making sure you don't injure anything important."
"All my parts are important, lass. Especially the ones ye seem most interested in." I wink, and her cheeks turn a bonnie pink.
Tam saunters over, his kilt swinging as he walks. The smug bastard's already has a ribbon pinned to his shirt from the shot put.
"Ready to embarrass yourself, stunt man?" He claps me on the shoulder hard enough to make me scuffle forward awkwardly.
I stretch my arms above my head. "The only embarrassment will be the look on yer face when I break yer record."
Gretchen swivels her gaze between me and Tam. "Is this a brotherly rivalry or a blood feud? I can't quite tell."
Tam chuckles. "It's both, lass. We've behaved this way ever since he stole my favorite toy when I was six."
"I did not steal it," I argue. "Mam gave me that truck because ye broke the wheel off my own."
Tam waves a dismissive hand. "The point is, I've been putting this one in his place for thirty years, lass. Today will be no different."
Gretchen regards me with newfound appreciation. "I had no idea you guys were so competitive with each other."
I roll my shoulders to loosen up, in anticipation of trouncing my brother. "Balfour men don't know how to do anything halfway. It's in our blood."
The announcer calls for the hammer throw competitors to gather.
I give Gretchen a quick kiss. "For luck. And after I've destroyed Tam and Neil, I'll need a thorough massage from you---the naked sort."
"Mm-hm." She whispers in my ear, "Don't do anything crazy, and I'll give you something you'll never forget."
"Ye have my word, though I might just rush through the events to claim that prize sooner."
Gretchen gives me a playful shove as I jog toward the throwing area. "Go on Balfour, show me what a Highland warrior can do."
I swagger up to the line where the other competitors are gathering.
Most are built like me---broad-shouldered and sturdy---though none have my experience with precision body control.
That's what makes the difference in these events.
Raw strength only gets you so far. Technique is what separates champions from losers.
The hammer itself is a sixteen-pound metal ball attached to a wooden shaft. I heft it in my hands, feeling its familiar weight. The announcer calls my name, and I step into the circle.
"Kirk Balfour, last year's runner-up, is looking to reclaim his title from his brother Tam!"
The crowd roars as I saunter into the throwing circle amid a mix of cheers and good-natured heckling from the locals who've watched the Balfour brothers compete for years.
I grip the wooden shaft, feeling the weight of the metal ball, and inhale a slow, deep breath.
The trick to hammer throwing isn't only brute strength. It's rhythm and momentum too.
I begin my rotation, swinging the hammer in a controlled circle, gaining speed with every turn.
My kilt flares as I spin, and I hear a wolf whistle that I'm certain comes from Gretchen.
The weight of the hammer pulls against my arms, threatening to drag me off balance, but I've done this a thousand times before.
Three rotations, four---the perfect moment is approaching.
With a roar that explodes out of me, I release the hammer, watching it soar through the air in a perfect arc. As it lands with a satisfying thud, the crowd erupts. The distance marker shows I've thrown it farther than I have in years and definitely farther than Tam's best throw from last year.
I spin round, searching for Gretchen's face in the crowd. When I find her, she's jumping up and down while screaming my name. Her approval means more than any prize they could hand out today.
"Not bad for an old man," Tam says, coming up beside me. "But I've been practicing."
"Am I meant to be impressed?" I fold my arms across my chest, still breathing hard from the effort. "Ye'll need more than practice to beat that throw."
Neil approaches me too, giving me a look I've seen many times before as a laddie.
It's the one that tells me he's about to prove me wrong---or so he thinks.
Neil takes his position in the circle, swinging the hammer with his customary grace.
I'll admit Neil has always possessed a natural talent for throwing events.
Something about his years of hauling fishing nets, I reckon, has given him wrists like steel cables.
"Watch and learn, lads," Neil says, gracing us with an infectious grin. He begins the spin, his movements fluid and controlled. When he releases the hammer, it soars even farther than mine, landing with a decisive thud that makes the crowd gasp.
"Bloody hell," I mutter as the distance is called out.
Neil winks at me. "The sea gives ye strength, brother. Maybe ye should spend less time dangling from buildings and more time on my boat."
Tam laughs and claps Neil on the back. "Well done! Now let's see if I can outdo our stuntman and push him back to third place instead of second."
I observe as Tam steps up to the circle. He might be my older brother, but I've always had the edge in hammer throw. At least until Neil showed up with his fisherman's arms. Still, Tam's been practicing, and I know better than to underestimate him.
Gretchen jogs up me, curling her arm around me as she slips her hand into mine. "That was incredible. Is it always this intense between you three?"
"Oh aye, always," I reply, not taking my eyes off Tam as he begins his rotation. "Been this way since we were wee lads throwing rocks into Loch Fairbairn to see who could reach the farthest."
Having Beann Dealgach as the backdrop of the games surely make every man feel a thousand feet tall.
Neil's technique is different from mine.
Where I rely on explosive power at the release, he builds momentum gradually with his body coiled like spring.
Four rotations, five in the circle, swinging the hammer with a casual grace I envy. Only a wee bit, though.
On his final spin, he unleashes the hammer with a mighty grunt that resonates across the field. The crowd holds its collective breath as the hammer soars through the air, and I can't help wringing my hands.
The hammer lands with a heavy thud, kicking up dirt. The official rushes to measure, and I can tell by Tam's smug grin before the announcement even comes that he's beaten me.
"Neil Balfour is..." The announcer pauses for exactly three seconds. "The new leader with a throw of seventy-eight feet, four inches! Congratulations, Neil!"
Gretchen and I watch several events from the bleachers, but soon, it's time for me to prove my strength in another event---the keg toss.
I roll my shoulders and crack my neck as I prepare for my toss.
This is where brute strength comes into play more than finesse.
The keg weighs about fifty pounds, a decent challenge, but nothing I can't handle after years of stunt work.
"What's this one about again?" Gretchen asks, tracking my movements with her gaze as I approach the starting line. "You just...throw the keg as far as you can?"
"Aye, it's that simple," I reply, flexing my fingers. "I need to toss the ken over that bar there. Height is what matters, not distance."
She squints at the horizontal bar set about fifteen feet in the air. "That seems impossible."
"Watch and learn, mo leannan." I smile at her, enjoying the way her eyes linger on my arms as I strip off my outer shirt, leaving nothing but my fitted T-shirt that shows every muscle I've earned through years of hard training and risky stunts.
Gretchen aims a look at me that's half appreciation, half exasperation. "Show-off."
"Only for you, lass."
I approach the keg, feeling the weight of it as I lift it in my hands. The trick is to get a good grip, squat deep, and use the power in my legs to launch it upward. I've spent enough time doing weighted squat jumps that this should be child's play.
Other competitors are stretching, a few taking practice swings with empty kegs, waiting for their turn. Tam observes me with his eyes narrowed, and Neil is chatting up some lass in the front row. That's typical of him, socializing when he should be paying attention to the event at hand.
"Kirk Balfour, you're up!" the official calls.
Time to show Gretchen just how powerful I am.