BORING, Ore. — Ryan Crouser is the greatest shot-putter who ever lived, a man who conquered his sport and has carried it upward, higher, and farther for nearly a decade. Consider him a shot-put scientist, relying more on brain than brawn, but with plenty of both as he attempts this week to become the first shot-putter to win three straight gold medals.
But today’s Ryan Crouser is not quite the invincible Ryan Crouser of Rio and Tokyo, not for the last five months or so and not likely when he competes on Friday at Stade de France.
Crouser tore a pectoral muscle on April 11 during a routine bench press workout. “It was bad,” says Mitch, Ryan’s father and lifelong coach. “Could be the end for a shot-putter. Your pec is directly connected to the movement. Just devastating.”
The muscle tear was on top of an injury to the ulnar nerve in his throwing elbow he suffered at the world indoor championships in Glasgow on March 1. But Ryan’s elbow began hurting long before then. In fact, his nerve had swelled to five times its normal size, causing severe pain. It was cubital tunnel syndrome, which feels like hitting your funny bone over and over. Ryan called the combination of the muscle tear and the elbow injury “uncomfortable.” A mere mortal might call it “debilitating.”
Ryan had been addressing the sore elbow with treatment and physical therapy. But after tearing the pec, he abandoned the tweak-and-adapt approach. He had an ultrasound procedure, a nerve hydrodissection, to propel the nerve out of its groove with a saline solution. The nerve could then be freed from everything else (muscles, tissue, etc.).
Even after tearing the pec, Ryan still trained as much as he could. He just couldn’t throw—for months. As trials drew near, in late June, neither Ryan nor Mitch had any real idea if Ryan could even qualify for Paris. At least the trials would be at Hayward Field, where two of Ryan’s uncles had starred. It was Ryan’s home field, site of his first Junior Olympics, first national championship and other indelible moments. But had the injury healed enough to even compete? Had it healed enough to make the national team? Enough to train an additional six weeks afterward to prepare for Paris?
The afternoon after he injured his pec, Ryan called his father. He explained the injury, the pain, the doubts. As Ryan hung up, Mitch heard him say he wanted to be alone. He needed to process this. One morning, he was preparing to seize another gold. That night, he was wondering if his career was finished.
But process it he did. The next day, unable to find Ryan, one of his training partners went to the place he knew he’d be—the “shop” where they lift weights. There he was: pumping iron. He had figured out a way to do that without risking further damage to the elbow or the pec muscle.
Ryan Crouser figures stuff out. At the University of Texas, he loved economics and engineering classes, and he obtained a Master’s in finance. He generally approaches life like a personal science experiment.
After winning his first gold medal, in Rio, Ryan wanted to throw farther, as far as humanly possible. So, he sought microscopic advances: in nutrition, sleep and training techniques. Such analytical drive runs in the family.
To call the Crousers a family of throwers doesn’t quite capture the depth of their collective involvement in the throwing disciplines. Long before Ryan was around, Sports Illustrated dispatched its legendary track writer, Kenny Moore, to Boring, Ore., to profile Mitch, his brother Dean and their younger brother, Brian, in 1983. The story was teased on the cover: “Brother, Are They Armed!”
Ryan’s grandfather, Larry, was the family patriarch. He never pushed any of his children into throwing, but one day he brought home a barbell and issued a challenge: “If you can clean-and-jerk 40 pounds, I’ll buy you a shot.”
The boys met the challenge and Larry made good on his promise. They took turns throwing the shot all over a vacant lot next door. If they made 50 proper throws, Larry would get them a discus. If they did the same with the discus, he would get them what Dean calls the Holy Grail of throwing objects—a javelin.
Mitch, now 67, would become an alternate on the 1984 Olympic discus team. Dean, 64, still holds the University of Oregon records in the discus and shot. Brian, 61, competed in two Olympics in the javelin.
Eventually, the brothers started a business training athletes; initially, as wholesale distributors, selling nutrition plans, athletic equipment and training regimens. They had a barn and they put up a large, industrial-strength, commercial-grade net, purchased at a nearby Army surplus store, the kind used to lower soldiers from helicopters (i.e., Crouser strong), for their pupils to throw into. They drew a circle on the concrete floor and started running drills.
And they trained their sons too.
Even in the First Family of Throwers, Ryan stood out early on. He insisted on making 30 throws every day, and despite the net’s strength, he and the rest of this family of throwers would wear through one in a year or two. As a high school freshman, he scribbled goals on the walls of the barn. One day, he asked his father, “What would it take to win state?”
In Oregon, the answer is: more than in most other places. Around 60 feet in the shot put, Mitch told him. “O.K.,” Ryan responded. “What would it take for me to do that?”
Training, Mitch said. He laid out drills and routines for Ryan. Every day, he made 30 throws, lifted weights, did precisely as Mitch instructed. The secret? Popsicle sticks, of course. At the end of a practice, Mitch would mark out a spot farther than Ryan had thrown, and stick a popsicle stick in the ground. Ryan’s attempts almost always flew past the stick.
As a freshman, Ryan put the shot around 40 feet. Soon, he got above 60. One freezing night, Mitch went outside looking for Ryan. He saw a window open, and spied his son. Doing power cleans. Steam rising off his shoulders. “How long do you think that will last?” Lisa asked Mitch. He answered, “We’ll see.”
Ryan’s final throw at state that year sailed 60’3”. He won, becoming the first freshman state champion in a state with a proud track history. He was only 14. He loved chocolate, and his grandfather promised him a four-pound Hershey’s bar if he won state. When he did, Ryan didn’t wax on about his place in history. He went right up to Larry and asked about the chocolate.
When it came time for college, Ryan chose Texas, not ballyhooed and nearby Oregon. Ryan found success in Austin, winning four national titles, two indoor and two outdoor, and becoming a nine-time All-America. Ryan was successful in the classroom too. The former Sam Barlow High valedictorian won All-Academic honors at UT.
In 2013, Ryan tore a ligament in his throwing hand and came down with a savage throat infection. The combination forced him to redshirt. He also teetered academically for the first time and decided to switch majors, from engineering to economics.
He rebounded and graduated on time with another year of athletic eligibility remaining. Master’s in finance? Why not! One problem. His scholarship ended after one more year, but the Master’s was a two-year program. The cost of the second year would land around $60,000. Ryan’s solution: Complete the degree in a single year, while exhausting his eligibility in track and field.
Ryan slept four hours a night. He practiced after studying, in the light cast by his truck’s headlights. He surpassed 70 feet in 2016, at Big 12 indoors, while tying the NCAA indoor mark of 21.73 meters (nearly 71.3 feet). Rio was now a real possibility, but the mental and physical toll was becoming too much. He summoned the courage to call Mitch.
“I’m done.”
He explained. NFL scouts were calling. They wanted to develop him as a pass rusher, send him to the combine, then team tryouts, where he could vie for a practice squad spot. The minimum salary was $400,000.
Mitch flipped in an instant, from coach-dad to just dad. He noted, gently, that Ryan had much more shot put in him. If, that is, he wanted to come back. “If you don’t have that drive anymore, I’ll support you in anything,” Mitch said. “We’ll start training for the combine.”
That was that … for a whole week! When one of his Longhorn teammates asked Ryan for training help, he accepted. Training another human sparked the drive that still simmered in Ryan. He called Mitch at the end of the week. Hey, I’m gonna make my comeback!
Ryan won the 2016 trials, and the Crousers flew to Rio. At first, Dean wondered if Ryan could even make the final. Then MItch and Dean watched him practice. After about a week, Dean said, “I don’t want to jinx him, but I’m not so sure that Ryan can’t medal.” Three days later, he said, “Actually, silver wouldn’t be too crazy.”
Ryan made the final with ease. He then sailed one 22.52 meters. He hadn’t just medaled. He won gold, in his first Olympics.
Ryan broke the Olympic record, which had stood since Ulf Timmermann of East Germany set the mark in 1988. When reporters asked Ryan if he had ever imagined doing what he had just done, his answer: of course. He knew he had already broken that Olympic record maybe 10,000 times, aiming just past another popsicle stick.
There have been 352 throws past 22 meters. Eight men have bested 22 at least once. Four of the all-time leaders are still competing: Leonardo Fabbri of Italy has thrown 22 meters 13 times; Tom Walsh of New Zealand, 40; Joe Kovacs of the U.S., 41; and Ryan Crouser, 86!
Of the 100 longest throws in world competitions, 47 started with the shot in Crouser’s right hand. Nineteen others came from Kovacs—the second-best thrower in history. Of the 51 best shot puts in history, the two men account for 44 of them. And, together, they own the 11 best marks in the sport.
Several years back, the analytical Ryan began to calibrate his throws, based on conditions and his health, with more and more accuracy. Dean would ask Mitch what they wanted to throw at a meet, and Ryan would throw, almost always, exactly that. “He’s like a human tape measure,” Mitch says.
After Rio, Larry Crouser gave his grandson a message: Break the world record. Larry was sick then, with Parkinson’s. Ryan chased the mark like he chased everything: full-bore. He topped it first in practice, heaving a shot past—what else?—a popsicle stick.
“God, when is he gonna break that record?” Larry kept asking.
“It’s not that easy, dad,” Mitch would respond.
In May 2021, at the USATF Throws Fest in Arizona, Ryan put a shot 23.01 meters, .05 meters short of the record. The next month, U.S. Olympic trials were in Eugene. Larry’s health was declining. On June 18, Ryan catapulted a shot 23.37 meters (nearly 76.7 feet)—a world record.
The next day, Ryan stopped by his grandfather’s place. Larry couldn’t hear at all by then. He communicated primarily via a small whiteboard. Ryan grabbed a sharpie and began to write. Then he turned the board around. It read: “I broke the world record.” As Larry read it, the largest smile spread across his face.
Larry died a few weeks later, the day before Ryan left for Tokyo. Ryan didn’t break the world record there, but he did win the gold medal. Afterward, he held a sign up for the TV cameras that he had written beforehand:
“GRANDPA, WE DID IT!”
Lisa keeps most of Ryan’s trophies and awards in their attic. Ryan doesn’t have much use for them. When his beloved grandfather started struggling to speak and hear, the two began writing letters back and forth. Recently, Mitch noticed a box in Ryan’s house in Arkansas. He had saved every single letter from Larry.
Even with the loaded shot put field at the 2024 U.S. trials—six throwers were in the 22-plus club—a healthy Ryan Crowser would finish in the top three. But he was not healthy, of course.
Ryan had skipped meets. He hadn’t thrown for months. When Dean rode with Mitch to Eugene, he pumped him for information. “How’s it feeling?” Dean asked.
Rather than answer directly, Mitch told his brother the marks Ryan hoped to hit, both in qualifying and the final round. He didn’t expect Ryan to beat Kovacs at trials; he hoped Ryan, with six additional weeks to rest, recover and train, could beat Kovacs in Paris. Mitch kept to himself the worst case: What if Ryan can’t throw?
But, just as in Rio, Ryan hit every mark his father had laid out, nearly to the inch. The first time he actually threw a shot in weeks was at trials(!), in qualifying(!). He didn’t exert top energy in the first round but still registered a 21.44-meter throw (70.3 feet), third-best overall.
A similar mark in the final wouldn’t be good enough to make the Olympic team. (He would have finished seventh.) As usual, Ryan was the last athlete to leave the stadium after the first night of qualifying. He signed autographs, took pictures, did interviews. Then drug testing. Then dinner, with roughly 30 friends and relatives. What struck Dean was how calm his nephew seemed.
In the final, Ryan heaved one attempt 22.84 glorious meters (roughly 74.9 feet). He beat Kovacs. He won the trials. He qualified for Paris. “Probably his best performance,” Dean says, “considering the circumstances.”
Afterward, all Ryan kept saying was, “I got six more weeks.”
It’s June and Mitch is talking about limits and bodies. Limits, these supposedly unmoveable ceilings, have changed over time. Many athletes, Mitch says, focus on qualifying and winning, but Ryan always asks: How far can I take this thing?
Kovacs, Ryan’s primary competition, can squat 700 pounds, clean-and-jerk more than 600. Dude is Zeus-strong. Joe is six-feet tall, seven inches shorter than Ryan. But Ryan is actually a little too tall to throw as far or as hard as he possibly could. Were the shot-put ring a bit larger, Ryan could implement a longer set-up.
For someone to come along and surpass Ryan, Mitch ventures that he will have to be slightly shorter than Ryan … and … as strong as Kovac. But that person may never come along.
Ryan’s world record, set in Los Angeles in May 2023, traveled 23.56 meters (nearly 77.3 feet). Can he top that? Maybe. But maybe he’s also, Mitch wonders, “at the upper limit of what a taller guy can do.”
Ryan would compete in the shot forever if he could, but that’s not possible. The mental intensity just isn’t sustainable. Add in the pressure to maintain an impossibly high standard and the physical disintegration of the body, and Ryan knows that the ride is far closer to the end than the beginning. After it’s over, he might continue to coach throwers for the Razorbacks. He might move to Nashville. He might get married to his girlfriend, Meghan Clark, whose father is an Army general and who competed for Duke in pole vault.
But one thing is certain. After he leaves the throwing circle for the last time, Ryan Crouser is set: He will attempt to become a professional bass fisherman.
A few weeks before leaving for Paris, Ryan sends Mitch a video. It’s his daily missive from his training session. The video is of one attempt. But Mitch sees progress, right then, that he hasn’t seen in months. Then Ryan calls. “Really good throws today,” Ryan says. “Some of the best throws I’ve had in a long time.” The elbow? “Little better every day.”
After arriving in Paris, Ryan answered all the questions about becoming the first shot-putter to win three-straight Olympic golds. He iced his arm and elbow. He reduced his usual daily training regimen of eight hours of work and 5,000 calories. He did his physical therapy sessions, got massages.
Qualifying is Friday; the finals are Saturday. Ryan will be there, almost certainly, on the last day, deploying the glide technique he learned as a youngster in the barn in Oregon. The greatest shot-putter who ever stepped inside a concrete circle just might lob that 16 pounds of sculpted steel as far as humanly possible.
And if he doesn’t, maybe it’s because he already has.
This article was originally published on www.si.com as Shot-Put Scientist Ryan Crouser Chases Historic Three-Peat in Paris.
