guys did sucked, and Drager is no friend of mine," he said, and then he returned to his station.
That week I hit the wall. Bench press, squats, curlsâyou name it and I was stuck. I looked at the clipboard where I kept track of my personal bests and I saw that if anything, I was slipping back. In the hall the next day I asked Carlson what I should do. He shrugged. "Everybody hits a dead spot. Keep working and you'll get past it."
For the next weeks I worked and worked, but nothing changed. Around me the guys were laughing, having a good time. I pretended I was, too. I pretended that the whole thing with Drager was over. Over and forgotten. But I kept picturing Drager grinning at me, mocking me.
One Friday night, after my third straight miserable week in the weight room, I was up in my bedroom listening to music, my mind working like crazy. I had an alarm set to remind me to drink my final protein shake. It started beeping and I automatically got up, stepped into my bathroom, and reached for the protein powder.
Then I stopped. I looked at that stuff, and I hated it. I thought of the work I was doing to pay for it: the painting, the pruning, and the cleaning. I might as well go back to eating Snickers bars and drinking Coke, because if I wasn't getting stronger, then all the sacrifices made no sense. My dream of being a big-time football playerâit was just that ... a dream.
"Mick," my dad called up from the stairwell. "Do you know where the bucket is?"
"I think it's in the yard," I called down.
"See if you can find it. Your mom's looking for it."
I went downstairs, out the back door, and started across the yard toward the shed. A full moon was shining down. I didn't see the bucket, but in the middle of the lawn I spotted an old football. Without thinking, I picked it up and tucked it tight against my chest.
I took a couple of steps, as if I were playing, and somehow I wasn't in my backyard in the moonlight anymore. Instead, I was in a big-time game under the lights, and tacklers were fighting through blocks, trying to get at me. Everything was confused, cluttered, closed. I had no chance, none; I was going down. But then I made a quick move, and found some space, and then made a second move. A tackler dived for my ankles but missed. I cut back and saw itâan opening. I darted through the hole; a final tackler tried to grab me high, but I shrugged him off, and a split second later all was open in front of me, open and green and empty, and I was running down the field, running and running until I'd run out of space, run through the end zone. I raised the football above my head, then spiked it onto the lawn. It landed just short of the hedge, took a crazy football bounce, and disappeared under the
shrubbery. I stood there, trying to remember why I was out in the yard in the first place. It took a while, but I finally remembered the bucket.
12
I wasn't giving up, but I couldn't keep doing the same things. I'd worked as hard as anybody in the weight room. Still I wasn't big enough or strong enough to go one-on-one with a linebacker in the red zone. To get bigger and stronger, I had to go back to Popeye's. Sunday, while my mom was at her new church, I asked my dad if he could still get me a membership. "I thought you hated Popeye's," he said.
"You were right about the weight room at school. I'm not making much progress. And I don't think our coach knows much about weight training. It's all three sets of ten and that sort of thing."
"Yeah, that's how the old guys did it. In fact, that's how I did it. I'll call Popeye's and get you an hour a week with that trainer. What's his name? Or do you want a different guy?"
"His name is Peter Volz, and he was fine. He knew what he was talking about. I got it in my head that he was gay."
My dad snorted. "Mick, gay guys are in every gym. Fact of life. You've got to take what people have to offer, whoever they are."
While I washed the Jeep, he called Popeye's. I was
That week I hit the wall. Bench press, squats, curlsâyou name it and I was stuck. I looked at the clipboard where I kept track of my personal bests and I saw that if anything, I was slipping back. In the hall the next day I asked Carlson what I should do. He shrugged. "Everybody hits a dead spot. Keep working and you'll get past it."
For the next weeks I worked and worked, but nothing changed. Around me the guys were laughing, having a good time. I pretended I was, too. I pretended that the whole thing with Drager was over. Over and forgotten. But I kept picturing Drager grinning at me, mocking me.
One Friday night, after my third straight miserable week in the weight room, I was up in my bedroom listening to music, my mind working like crazy. I had an alarm set to remind me to drink my final protein shake. It started beeping and I automatically got up, stepped into my bathroom, and reached for the protein powder.
Then I stopped. I looked at that stuff, and I hated it. I thought of the work I was doing to pay for it: the painting, the pruning, and the cleaning. I might as well go back to eating Snickers bars and drinking Coke, because if I wasn't getting stronger, then all the sacrifices made no sense. My dream of being a big-time football playerâit was just that ... a dream.
"Mick," my dad called up from the stairwell. "Do you know where the bucket is?"
"I think it's in the yard," I called down.
"See if you can find it. Your mom's looking for it."
I went downstairs, out the back door, and started across the yard toward the shed. A full moon was shining down. I didn't see the bucket, but in the middle of the lawn I spotted an old football. Without thinking, I picked it up and tucked it tight against my chest.
I took a couple of steps, as if I were playing, and somehow I wasn't in my backyard in the moonlight anymore. Instead, I was in a big-time game under the lights, and tacklers were fighting through blocks, trying to get at me. Everything was confused, cluttered, closed. I had no chance, none; I was going down. But then I made a quick move, and found some space, and then made a second move. A tackler dived for my ankles but missed. I cut back and saw itâan opening. I darted through the hole; a final tackler tried to grab me high, but I shrugged him off, and a split second later all was open in front of me, open and green and empty, and I was running down the field, running and running until I'd run out of space, run through the end zone. I raised the football above my head, then spiked it onto the lawn. It landed just short of the hedge, took a crazy football bounce, and disappeared under the
shrubbery. I stood there, trying to remember why I was out in the yard in the first place. It took a while, but I finally remembered the bucket.
12
I wasn't giving up, but I couldn't keep doing the same things. I'd worked as hard as anybody in the weight room. Still I wasn't big enough or strong enough to go one-on-one with a linebacker in the red zone. To get bigger and stronger, I had to go back to Popeye's. Sunday, while my mom was at her new church, I asked my dad if he could still get me a membership. "I thought you hated Popeye's," he said.
"You were right about the weight room at school. I'm not making much progress. And I don't think our coach knows much about weight training. It's all three sets of ten and that sort of thing."
"Yeah, that's how the old guys did it. In fact, that's how I did it. I'll call Popeye's and get you an hour a week with that trainer. What's his name? Or do you want a different guy?"
"His name is Peter Volz, and he was fine. He knew what he was talking about. I got it in my head that he was gay."
My dad snorted. "Mick, gay guys are in every gym. Fact of life. You've got to take what people have to offer, whoever they are."
While I washed the Jeep, he called Popeye's. I was
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