The plot: I had traveled from my pastoral home in the green foothills of southern Oregon to help officiate the meet. I had known this Jason Burnell character for sometime but only upon stumbling into this forum did I understand that he had the temerity to call himself Deepsquatter". As I pointed my car southwards my right thumb twitched with the anticipating of feeling that switch move to the "red" position because "Deepsquatter" was going to compete. I made low guttural sounds and laughed with delight at the prospect of taking this kid down a few notches. I imagined what would happen when I pulled red after red, shaking my head and saying lowly, almost mouthing the words, "...too high, Mr. Deepsquatter". Would he squeal, cry real tears, perhaps shake with emotion or even have a full stroke mental breakdown? I couldn't wait until his flight hit the platform. "Tomorrow", I kept telling myself, "will be "Deepsquatter's" worst nightmare". 

Sunday: "Deepsquatter" is the last to lift in his flight. "False bravado" I told myself. "He'll probably do a half dunk and then scream when he gets all red". Another low, guttural laugh rose from my throat. "Deepsquatter" set up, he looked a little unsure of himself as he backed out. "I'd better watch out" I said to myself. "Old  "Deepsquatter"  is liable to fall over backwards and he'll rob my of my chance to red light him". But noooo, he takes it down about 3 inches in the hole. Has to work a bit but even an IPF judge would yank the white. "Curses" I say almost out loud. "I'll have to get him on his second" 

No chance! Numero two is even lower, more solid and even prettier than the first. I hesitated, isn't there something I can red light this guy on? Maybe the bar's too low or he shifted his feet inside his shoes - a mystical red light that only the most evil judges have the courage to pull. Okay I admit it, I'm evil, so are all powerlifting judges? It's in the genes. 

Number 3 same way, rock solid, low (I'm sorry but at I can't say deep anymore the word itself catches in my throat). Drats! "Deepsquatter" goes 3:3 each squat lower than the first, and that one was low. I've been foiled by this kid. Tears welled in my eyes, I wiped them with the sleeve of my chalk soaked regulation blue blazer. "Next time" I say to myself as I look skywards. 'Next time I'll get you Mr. "Deepsquatter" and then, yes then it will be me that's laughing and not you. I don't care if you went 9:9 or 8:9 or even 12:9. I don't care if you set 4 or 5 PR's and I don't care if you think Louie Simmons' chain idea with the bench should be enshrined in the Vatican. I'll get you". 

They'll be another day Mr. Jason Burnell but in the meantime I salute you "Deepsquatter". Your name is deserved, it is earned and you are a great lifter and, drats again, a very nice guy. It just breaks a judges heart to have to travel all that way to throw whites.  I just can't wait to take it out on the next lifter that crosses my platform. "Sorry kid, your foot moved inside your shoe". I begin to laugh that same demonic laugh.  Somehow, and suddenly I feel better. 

Regards, 
Mooney