|
 
|
Other people get greeting cards full of nice words. I get looks... All
kinds, all day long. It’s like living in a cage. Different looks carry
different sentiments. Some are friendly. Others aren’t. Whenever I
catch a certain look from a kid new to the sport, I remember how I used
to walk past this one gym every morning. Each time, I’d stop and look
through the glass that separated me from the big boys training with
incomprehensible weights. I was intimidated but deep down, I knew I
belonged there. When I finally got the courage to join, I was at the
bottom of the food chain looking up.
Today, if I could look back and see my face as that young kid who
walked into the gym for the first time, I’ll tell you what I’d see. A
little fear mingled with something greater. Hunger... A face burning
with desire... A kid who had something to prove and wanted all the
world to know it. In the years between, I’ve learned a couple things.
First, the only person you have anything to prove to is yourself.
Second, you can watch life with your nose pressed up against the glass.
Or you can swing the doors open and step inside. |
|
|
The
doors rattle open. You step inside and take stock... Everything is as
it should be. You take a deep breath... The air is stale, sour,
familiar. Like vinegar and piss. Fuck yeah, you’re home. Shit, you even
got your own set of keys to the place. In here, there’s no time for
bullshit. No place to put your feet up. It’s quiet--nothing but the
sound of metal on metal. No one looks up as you step forward. There’s
too much work to be done. You visualize how the next seventy minutes
are gonna go down. Brutality, hostility, anger by the bucketful. Your
pulse quickens. The blood starts boiling. It’s time to lay down the
hammer… So the question I have is simple brothers. Do you feel this way
each and every time you enter the gym? Does the stink of fear
and trepidation mingled with excitement race through your blood? It does for me. I’m
a kid in the candy store and everything’s free...
In my gym, I’m the biggest guy there. Big fucking deal. This fact don’t
mean shit to me or any of the regulars. Doesn't matter if any of them are
competing or not, there’s a brotherhood here, one based on mutual
respect. When I enter this place, no one cares. If they see me, they’ll
give me, a fellow mover of iron, a look of recognition, a quick nod,
and get back to the business at hand. No stares. No expectations. Only
way they’d look twice is if I was growing a second head. Between us is
a respect only men who respect the iron can have. When you’re lying
under a thick stack of plates, you aren't any different than the guy
next to you who’s busting his ass. Shit, you could be Elvis Presley for
all the weights care—they don’t give a shit who you are. They’ll try to
bury you just the same. Business is business and pleasure is pleasure.
But in this candy store, business is pleasure and pleasure comes from
taking care of business.
|
|
|
We’re
vain. We’re self-centered. We spend too much time looking at ourselves, staring into mirrors.
Those who believe this don't have a fucking clue. They sure don't
have a problem staring at us as if we were grotesque monstrosities. Shit, it happens everywhere we go… You know what I’m talking
about brothers. It
even happens in gyms. A couple weeks back, I said I was thinking about
changing gyms. In the end, I didn't do it. Though my regular place
doesn’t have everything I need right now, it’s home. There’s history
there. So I decided to use another gym across town a couple times a
week. Fucking pain in the ass to get to if you asked me, but you gotta
take care of
business first and foremost. So I’m stepping through the doors to train
there for the first time and I swear it’s like everyone stops what
they’re doing to look up. I get
a couple of looks I easily recognize—those of acknowledgement, respect
and even awe. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see him… A large
figure rising, pulling himself up to his full stature. I see him push
out his chest, spread his lats. A big dude, no doubt. He slowly turns
to me and
stares... Glares is more fucking like it. That look is one I know all
too well…
“You ain’t shit motherfucker," he tells me with his hard gaze. Damn, I
think to myself. It’s gonna be a long day… |
|
|
Yeah,
this gig's got its share of ups and downs--though the ups are probably
higher and the lows are fucking lower for sure. To get through this
rollercoaster ride called bodybuilding, you need a solid support
structure under you. Family... Friends... A stand up girl... Shit, all
these things contribute to your success. They keep you buckled in and
strapped down. But there's also a support cast that' plays a big role.
For me, special props go out to my Uncle Keg. Let me tell you
about
Uncle
Keg... He's been there for me through thick and thin. Every week, I go
pay him my respects and he returns the favor by helping to sustain me
on this
journey. Now Uncle Keg isn't my uncle. He's my butcher and all the
locals call him that cuz he treats everyone who walks
into shop like they were his favorite nieces and nephews and cuz he's
short and barrel-chested. Proportions aside, Uncle Keg is one stand up
guy. He always sets aside the best cuts of eye round for me.. I still
remember the first time I walked into
his shop. Uncle Keg had a way of dispensing the obvious like a gumball
machine dispenses candy. He looked up at me and without missing a beat,
said plainly, "Son,
you're gonna need a lot of steak." No questions, no stares, no passing
judgment. Simple, easy and uncomplicated. He just treated me like
another
member of his extended family.
Now I wish I could say the
same about this new gym I started going to... Shit, the first week I
was
there, this little hottie came up to me as I was doing stiff-legged
deads, and dropped a piece of paper by my feet with her
phone number on it. Damn. That doesn't happen at my other gym is the
first thing I thought. For the record though, when
it comes to the gym and the bedroom, I don't fuck around. Don't have
the time even if I wanted to.. Even
so, this little incident reminded me why I used to use props to keep
others at a distance in the
gym--a worn cap with the bill pulled down low over my eyes...
Headphones with the music
blaring... Shit, when I was younger, I even tried wearing sunglasses to
the gym to
avoid making eye contact. You do that, and it's like an open invitation
for people to walk up to you in the middle of set to ask you a shitload
of questions.
You learn real quick to look away when you get to this level. Don't get
me wrong... I don't have a problem talking
when I'm done, but never get in my face when I'm in the middle of a
set. That's Rule #1. Seems that one big fella I talked about
the other day didn't want to extend me this simple courtesy. For that, I got Rule #2...
|
|
|
|
