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“The Ninety-Nines... That’s what I call ‘em. Ninety-nine out of a
hundred people can’t fathom what I do. They scratch their heads, can’t
believe my dedication to this great sport. Many don’t even think this a
sport or that I have a life. Never let others define your ‘life’ for
you. This is what I have chosen. This is the road I’ve taken, with all
the potholes, bumps, and turns. The Ninety-Nines, they can’t commit
100% to being their best, to step up one day and stand tall among the
giants.”
“I don’t play the lottery. I don’t have the winning ticket. Everything
I have, I busted my ass for. The only thing I ever got handed to me are
the genetics my old man passed down. From him, I learned the value of a
work ethic and getting your hands dirty. To those who’ve always wanted
more, stand with me. We are few and we must stand on the mountaintops
to be heard. When the day is done, our voices will carry. It shall be a
call to all those who have always dreamed of something greater.”
“To the naysayers, I say your words will fall on deaf ears. To the
doubters, take your misgivings elsewhere. To the envious, do not desire
what we will achieve. I will beat back mediocrity with a fierce hand,
will demolish conformity, so that when it’s time to cash in my chips, I
won’t leave a legacy of regret, that I didn’t go for mine. In each one
of us lies the power to start something... So to those of you out there
who can hear, let me say again, who are you and will you stand with me?”
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"Shit. Shit. Shit. That's how I've been feeling the last couple days.
Don't know why. My workouts are flat. No energy. Appetite is shot.
Don't even want to spend quality time with my girl. Her birthday is
right around the corner and I can't get into it. I guess I can't
complain. Most days are shit. Still, I get a couple of real gems in
between. On a good day, I feel inspired. It's like you're on a one way
mission but you feel like a hundred bucks. When you roll out of bed and
look outside, where there were dark storm clouds of doubt and
weariness, you see nothing but blue skies and a sun smiling down on
you. Everything falls your way. Finding a twenty on the sidewalk.
Driving down the street and all the lights are green. Hitting new
records on every lift. Fuck yeah, this is the good life. A big part of
me wishes every day were like this...
The rest of me knows it can't be. See, I don't want the good life...
Not now. I've got too much work to do. The good life can fuck you up.
The good life makes you soft. The good life fills your ears with a
sweet music that makes you forget... Forget that mission, who you are,
what matters. Shit, after a while, all you want is to hear that damn
music. And that music drowns everything out, including that voice in
your head. Most people go through their lives, numb, preferring to
listen to the music, to themselves talk, to everything but that
voice... They lose their way. I'm lucky--most days, that voice inside
my head is wailing like a fucking siren. It's so loud it keeps me up
nights, keeps me honest. It won't let me forget. But when I get too
many good days piling up one on top of the other, too much of that good
life, well, I plug my ears and roll up my sleeves. I pick up the hammer
and get to hammering. After all, without that voice, I wouldn't be who
I am... Who I can be.
This is important... Do not forget. Do not drown in the music. Listen to your voice... It's saying something.
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Forgetting the good life. It's not as hard as it sounds, especially
when you only get a taste every now and then. Now if it was a fucking
filet mignon every week, then shit, it'd be tough to give up. Days of
wine and roses? Fuck that, for me, it's more like shit and piss. So
fucking what? I'm used to it. Remembering, now that's a whole different
story. For the bodybuilder, no fuck that, anyone who lives on this
planet, remembering makes us who we are. As a bodybuilder, I gotta
remember… Remember where I came from, who I am, what really matters. I
can never forget what's behind me either… All those who came before me
and made a name for themselves… All the days of blood and guts I
fucking spilled for this sport. All the things that have defined me… See, I
believe without memory, there is no desire. Knowing what I had, knowing
it's not enough, that I want more--that's at the heart of my endeavor.
Without memory, there can also be no history. I know my roots, where I
come from. I know where I'm headed on this journey. History... Yeah, I plan on making some of that too. |
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My old man, he was a miner in his younger days. He worked with his hands. As a kid, I remember him coming home,
standing in the doorway, dust from the mines
covering every inch of him, head to toe. Whenever I did something
right, something he approved of, he'd put his hand on
my shoulder. I remember how heavy it felt, and rough--those hands full
of calluses and blisters that came from having to work with them, day
in and day
out, just to put food on the table. He was a big, powerful man--larger
than life. He was
also a family man and a pillar of the community. When he wasn't
spending time with us, he'd be helping build ballparks for kids or
volunteering for something else.
So why am
I thinking about all this? Yesterday, I had to train in some dungeon gym, a
basement full of old, rusting equipment. Didn't have everything I needed, but I got the job done. Man, the smell of the earth
and concrete, the dust and mustiness, took me back more than a decade when I got
my first taste of iron... A taste I haven't been able to get out of my
mouth since. That was when I found his weights buried back in a corner of the
basement, under a load of boxes. It was like the weights called out to me, somehow knew I was destined for them.
As I got deeper into lifting, I remember walking down the
steps, night after countless night, into the dark to get to the work at
hand. As I did, I thought of
him, taking an elevator down a long shaft, working deep under tons and
tons of earth.
By day, he worked with iron. By night, he worked with another
kind of iron, the same kind I held in my hands as a young kid of
fourteen. My
old man, he'd work like a bull to put food on the table and meat on his
bones. Both, he did with pride. See, my old man knew who he was,
knew his place in the world he lived in. He was grounded, had his feet
firmly planted on the earth. It gave him strength.
Me? Every now and then, I don't know who I am. I look in the mirror and
I see a
stranger staring back at me with hollow eyes. I am no one... I am
nothing... I am adrift... Looking for a way home. Living in
a society that can't comprehend what I do, what I go through, can make me doubt myself. Am I the hero or the monster? But
today, as I'm blasting through this workout, I can feel his hand on my
shoulder and, yeah, the clarity returns. I remember how I got started in this
game. After I finish up, when I walk outside, there is no
mine, no ballpark, no basement from my past--only the decaying city
around me I call home and the memory of iron. I will not forget...
Hey old man, as I hold the iron in my hands, as I step out from behind
your long shadow, I want to tell you that I wouldn't be here if it
weren't for you. I also want to tell you who I am. I am a man... I am a
bodybuilder... I am your son.
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