FUCK THE POLICE

While driving home today from the gym, I noticed a few city workers doing some road improvements. Two of them happened to be officers at my fire department. I gave them a wave as I drove by and proceeded around the corner. While going around the last bend out of town, I saw one of our paramedics working on his lawn. Again, a wave and a "good morning" was given and I continued my commute.

When I was little I read a few lines in a book that have always resonated with me: “A common man with an uncommon desire to succeed. Always ready to defend those who are unable to defend themselves… who doesn’t advertise the nature of his work, nor seek recognition for his actions.”

Although my goal is to become a full-time career firefighter, I truly do feel extremely lucky to be with the volunteer department I currently am at. We have excellent leadership and men and women who perform their duties without fail whenever need be. Often times, people ask me why I do it... not aware that my goal is to someday get hired on at another department full-time. My response is simple, "I want to help people."

With the recent atrocities in Ferguson, Missouri, many have gone public and viral airing their disdain with our law enforcement officers. "Fucking pigs" who are "cowards" that have nothing better to do than "profile" and "destroy inner city communities". Cops wearing riot gear, tear gas and rubber bullets flying... pictures and video make the scene look like something out of Grand Theft Auto the video game.

I'm about to say something many might find shocking, but something I always thought should be common sense... there's always gonna be a few bad apples on the tree.

I am fortunate enough to work out every single day at my Crossfit gym with multiple police officers, firefighters and EMTs... and they are some of the best, most down to Earth people I know. They love their jobs and, more importantly, they love their communities. Some of them work in the suburbs and some work in the most crime-ridden neighborhoods of Chicago. Being a firefighter always seemed cool to me, but it wasn't until the day I officially joined the department and filled out my death benefits paperwork, deciding what percentage of my LODD (line of duty death) payment my select relatives would receive that it really sank in that this job can be fucking dangerous at times.

Every day my friends who are police officers wake up, they kiss their family members goodbye, go to the station, put on their uniforms and then climb in their squad cars... and every time they buckle in, they realize that it could be their last day on Earth. At any point, a routine traffic stop could turn ugly... but that's a chance they are willing to take. It's not because they're adrenaline junkies, it's not because of the millions of dollars they make every year, and it's not because they think guns are cool. Although we all have our difference reasons for becoming first responders, I'd venture to say they wake up and go to work every morning because they want to make a positive difference in their communities.

There will be more questionable deaths like the Michael Brown case... there will continue to be possible "racial profiling"... there will be more videos of cops beating people up on the Internet... THERE WILL ALWAYS BE BAD APPLES. But, although I'm no mathematician, I'd venture to say 99.9% of law enforcement officers are excellent at their job... respectful, upright citizens who just want to make a positive impact and help people, while protecting those who can't protect themselves.

Call me crazy, but when my pager goes off and I race to the station, gear up and climb in our rigs... I don't wonder what color of skin the person I'm going to help is. I don't care how nice their home is, if they're gay, straight, Catholic or Islamic. All I care about is helping them, even if it means giving up my own life in the process. And you know what? Police officers are the same way. First responders aren't heroes... they're simply citizens who have chosen a job in public service. The heroes are those responders who were killed doing what they loved... protecting any and everyone, because that's what they raised their right hands to do.

A few weeks ago I went downtown for a few drinks and, while heading to my car, heard dozens of 20-somethings start chanting "FUCK THE POLICE!" An individual was pulled over and being hand-cuffed, what I can only presume was for drunk driving. "FUCKING PIGS"... "AIN'T YOU GOT NOTHING BETTER TO DO?" As I looked at the officers not making the arrest, a look of utter confusion covered their faces... one in which I completely understood. "FUCK THE POLICE?"... you mean those men and women who would immediately run to your aid if something were to happen to you? Who would give you life saving aid and, if need be, run in front of you and take a bullet just to keep your ungrateful ass alive another day? What did they do to deserve such harassment? Join a brotherhood that has, at times, contained individuals who acted against the established moral code? HOW DARE THEY!

There are men and women who stand guard both on the home-front and abroad ready and willing to lay down their lives for you at a moment's notice so that you can continue enjoying your freedoms as an American citizen. Read that last line again and then really let it sink in your fucking head. Are they special because of that? Some would say no... it's a job they've voluntarily chosen, and I completely agree. But just remember when you're in trouble and just want to be helped that someone is coming... they might not know you and they may never see you again, but they'll gladly switch places with you and expect nothing in return.

Think about that the next time you stereotype an entire group of people. Think about that the next time you are that first responders or overpaid or lazy. Think about that the next time you read about a firefighter or police officer being killed in the line of duty. Think about that the next time you see a military member coming home in a flag draped coffin.

There will always be outliers... there will always be bad men out there. And unfortunately, there may be times where they perpetrate from within our own ranks. It is sad and inexcusable, and the powers that be will do whatever they can to do away with them justly. But in the end, we are all only human. When the dust settles in Missouri, I hope justice will be had. And if an officer's actions were unjust, may he be dealt with correctly. And in the mean time, I'll be thankful for the officers I know and the rest around the country... because I know the vast majority of them are good men and women, men and women I have the utmost respect for.

Failing Forward

I used to have what I thought were great days at the gym... days I would hit heavy lifts with ease and destroy my workouts. I took pride at being at the top of the leader board and if I wasn't, I was disappointed in my performance. Failing to "win" led to a shitty day accompanied by a shitty attitude until I could get after it again.


Luckily, I stopped being a douche. Eventually I realized I'm not the best, nor will I ever be. But that doesn't mean I can't be MY best, and as long as I was giving it the best I could, I could live with whatever place I received. In the words of a wise man, "Some days you're a workhorse, some days you're a racehorse, and some days you get sent to the glue factory... it's all part of the process."


Today I caught a glimpse of my old self.


A younger kid at my gym named Adam struggled through every workout we had today. He ran slow, he kept taking breathers, he even tried to quit. If not for his coaches and fellow members, I'm pretty convinced he would have walked straight out of the gym to his car and drove home. It hurt to watch because I remember being in his shoes as a kid. When I was younger I was overweight. Not obese by any standards and nobody thought I was a fat kid, but I definitely wasn't in shape. I had asthma growing up and remember getting down on myself at times because I simply couldn't keep up with the other kids.


I convinced myself that I was stuck with what I had, that I was an out of shape kid who had a medical problem. That led to me dogging it on runs, which eventually led to me skipping out on runs all together. What I failed to realize was that wasn't who I was, that was simply my present state. I used my medical condition as a crutch, in turn allowing me to think my weight problem was a perfectly acceptable bi-product.


We tend to shy away from personal responsibility not only because we must face the demons that lie ahead of us but because we also catch a glimpse of our potential... which tends to scare the living shit out of us. Adam could be faster, more lean, more muscular... but the real question is, is he willing to put in the work to achieve those results? That question can be applied to all of us, even those we tend to idolize. The road to glory scares us because we know it's lined with bumps, twists and turns and often has no clear line of sight to the finish. That's right, even those we hold on pedestals are still discovering their potential.


Work ethic outweighs far more than we realize. Genetics will always play a large factor, no doubt... but burying your head and driving forward is what separates the men from the boys.


The mountain of success is steep, stormy and intimidating... but it can be summited. There will be doubters along the way who will attack you from all angles. They will say you're working yourself to death, they'll say you need a social life. They'll offer you cookies and complain that it's "just one" when you refuse to budge.


Your goals may seem confusing to others, sometimes they will think they're silly, but more often than not they will become jealous of your drive. We've become a generation of individuals who lack dedication and the sight of someone honed in on a goal is intimidating to most. Your only safety net is to surround yourself with like-minded climbers... people who understand your desires, people who are dedicated to helping you succeed.


There were days I'd wake up at 5am before school to run sprints and mile repeats. There were nights I'd have my legs lined with ice packs taped to my legs. There were times I'd skip friends' birthday celebrations because I couldn't afford to break away from my diet. But there were also days I hit numbers I'd been chasing for years, nights I watched people keep working past the cut-off time because they wanted to finish, times I watched people shut off their mental-midgetness and be fucking awesome.


Many of my goals still seem far away, but I know I'm on the right path. And even when I think I'm close, I'll remember the road has only just begun. I have faith in Adam, there's no way I'd be doing what he is when I was in his place. And honestly, I look forward to seeing him struggle more, because I know how strong he's become... and I know he'll come back for more.

Today's Arena

We are taught to hide our emotions, dismiss our feelings of weakness... to only display strength and to accept nothing but perfection. But some of the most awe inspiring moments in life are the beautiful disasters. Sometimes, it's alluring to watch a person suffer and fail.

In a few days athletes from across the world will push their bodies to the breaking point. They will sweat, they will cry, they will bleed, and they will break... but they will keep going. They will continue forward because for them, suffering is the only way to truly live. In a modern day world that prides itself on finding shortcuts, some individuals have decided to take the scenic route, no matter the hazards that may present themselves along the way.

An obsession can be found in our fascination with the warriors of yesteryear, with our tribal ancestors who survived (and thrived) in the harshest of climates. Perhaps that is why so many become addicted to the CrossFit culture and it's bare essentials design in training. Something strikes a chord inside an individual as they gasp for air in the middle of their workout, sweat dripping from their brow as they look at their calloused covered hands. They realize that the barbell has become their weapon, an instrument that is both their source of pleasure and their source of pain.

And that is what makes these competitions so special, because one man's barbell has seen the same battles as the next. Because as I sit in the crowd cheering on some of the world's most elite athletes, I know their suffering... I've gone to those same dark places in my mind. Because the 60 year old grandma at your gym can relate to the same pain of still having one more round to go as Lindsey Valenzuela will. Because not finishing in the time cap or perform a movement efficiently leaves the same rotten taste in my mouth that it does to Rich Froning. And although you will never meet everyone in our community, you have forged an unspoken bond through our shared suffering.

We are not ticket purchasers paying for a cockfight... laughing, jeering and screaming for blood. We are fellow gladiators cheering on our brethren, we are there to witness beauty unfold. And although acts of victory will be highlighted, those that fail but resist to fold their cards are just as awe-inspiring. The sounds of weights crashing consume us... they pull us in like the songs of the Sirens. At a moment's notice, we would switch places with those competing, albeit the pain we are fully aware that lies ahead for them. But the rosters are set and the majority of us must remain in the stands for now. So until our next shot at glory let us revel at today's gladiators as they win, as they lose, but most importantly, as they never give up.

Two Wolves

There's nothing harder than getting back into the groove of things... mustering the courage to start dating again after a bad break up with someone you thought was "the one", learning how to do everyday tasks after having your arm in a cast for 8 weeks, waking up at 6 AM for work when you just got off a two week vacation in paradise.

I felt just how hard getting back in the groove could be this morning. After having taken a few days off from the gym to start healing up my shoulder, I decided to put in some work this morning anyways. I'd say it was against my doctors orders, but I still haven't gone to the doctor... whoops. What should have been a somewhat easy yoga session to start the day felt like my first class all over again. The workout which followed should have been a decent smoker but instead left me feeling like a geriatric gasping for his last breath. The 2 mile run cool down afterwards took me the same amount of time it usually takes me to run a 5k... when I'm not trying that hard.

So once I got home, I did the obvious... laid on the couch, cramped up as if I had just ran a marathon and turned on the television. Much to my satisfaction, the movie "Miracle" was on.

For those of you who have never seen it, "Miracle" is the story of the 1980 US Olympic Hockey Team that did the "impossible" and beat the Soviet Union, who had dominated the sport for years, later defeating Finland for the gold medal.

Brooks realized the potential in his boys, albeit they are just that... boys. With an average player age of 21, they would be the youngest team at the tournament and end up becoming the youngest team in US history to play in the Olympics. A stark contrast of the Russians, who were seasoned vets with a long, victory-laden history of international play.

In order to win, Brooks realized two things: one, he'd have to get a group of individuals and cliques to play as a team... and two, that team would have to straight up out hustle anyone they faced because of their lack of experience and talent. The first realization took time, to convince a group of 20 somethings that the name on the front of their new jerseys were more important than who they previous played for... and more important than the name on their back.

The second realization took even more time to develop but turned out to be the exact reason why they were successful. There are many scenes in the movie when Brooks repeats an important phrase, "the legs feed the wolf." After hard conditioning throughout the entire practice (and after some games), Brooks would often have the team line-up and conduct suicide sprints. Although I haven't played basketball since I was in high school, the thought of suicide sprints still haunts me.

Red line, back. Blue line, back. Far blue line, back. Far red line, back. 45 seconds to complete. These were never easy to finish when you were fresh, so you can imagine how bad they hurt during and after the end of practice. Puking in the corner of the gym and passing out from sheer exhaustion were common occurrences, none of which gave anyone too much concern.

Brooks dogged his boys because he knew they wouldn't be the best team at Lake Placid.. they didn't have the talent nor the experience. But what they could do was outwork their opponents... winning every loose puck and taking advantage of every lapse in judgment their opponents had. He told his boys, "We WILL be the best conditioned team, that I can promise you."

The legs feed the wolf.

For some reason, I can't let that phrase go. For some reason, I feel as though Herb Brooks meant more than what it just appears to be. Google search that quote and it will lead you to hundreds of thousands of results linked to fitness websites and blogs talking about the importance of training legs... but I think Herb was also aiming for the conditioning of the mind.

There's a story I always remember hearing when I was little and it goes something like this...

An old Cherokee chief was teaching his grandson about life...

"A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy.
"It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves.

"One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, self-doubt, and ego.

"The other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith.

"This same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather,
"Which wolf will win?"

The old chief simply replied,
"The one you feed."

There are two wolves within all of us, and perhaps they roam about in our past and in our future. Perhaps they eat when we decide where we are moving. Do we let the evil wolf eat when we decide to stay stagnant and pity ourselves? When we allow doubt to overtake our desire to roll the dice and take a chance? When we back pedal into the past, letting the nay-sayers belittle our hopes and dreams? Does a group of college kids get scared and lie down in the fetal position as the Russians stomp all over them? Do we get intimidated when the big, scary wolf shows it teeth?

 

 

Or do we move forward... do we outrun the hatred, the lies and inferiority. Do we never give the wolf a chance at a meal because we never let it catch us? Do we prove the entire world wrong... do we believe in miracles?

There's a scene towards the end of the game when an American player steals the puck from one of the Russian stars with relative ease, leaving the comrade completely dumbfounded. How did the little guy just show up his invincible foe?

Ingenuity and hustle.

Working hard isn't a foreign concept, it's simply something most choose not to accept. The legs feed the evil wolf, but only when the prey accepts the fate that others think it deserves. When you stay hungry and stay foolish, you're crazy enough to think the good wolf won't go hungry... and it might just not.

The choice is yours, to listen to all your doubts and let the evil wolf eat... most people would understand if you folded your cards, in fact, many would encourage you to. But the choice is also yours to say "fuck that".

The legs feed the wolf... just make sure the good one's not malnourished.

Beauty in The Beast

I love to see people in pain... one might even go as far as saying that it makes me happy.

The beauty of Crossfit is that both an athlete's body AND mind are pushed to the brink every single workout... more often than not pushing individuals past the limits they were once held back by. Today begins the start of The Open, a 5 week long competition to narrow down those individuals and teams that will qualify for Regionals. The workouts will be exceptionally brutal and in no way will any of them even be slightly enjoyable. Some people may cry, everyone will hurt and all participants will come out of it better athletes.

On all fours, on your back, curled in a ball... nothing will be comfortable

Many people will argue that such a sport is dangerous but instead of letting my disdain towards such keyboard warriors known, I will keep my opinion on their beliefs to myself. Because in the end, for every expert opinion endorsing something you will find another expert opinion denouncing it. And just as there are plenty of shitty globo gyms and personal trainers there are plenty of crappy Crossfit gyms and Crossfit coaches. No matter what your athletic background, college degree, what you read in an article online or what you overheard that one really jacked guy at the gym say, in the end we are all entitled to our own opinions... and as much as you may want to lead a horse to water, perhaps that horse prefers orange juice. So I will refrain from throwing any slander towards "Crossfit haters" in this blog and instead just jot down my thoughts per usual.

I'm not sure why I love feeling pain so much... perhaps because I believe it is extremely beneficial to us... perhaps because I think it's going out of style. People want to be happy in life, that's a natural desire. We want our wishes to come true, we want our desires to become fulfilled with minimal sacrifice. We enjoy laughter, smiles and happy tears. And when we fall and scrape our leg, we cry until mommy comes and makes it all better. We're told that men do not shed tears. We train ourselves to bottle up our emotions, we go to the doctor at the slightest inclination of pain and accept that we should have sore backs by the time we're 50. We give out participation medals so nobody is sad from going home empty handed, we make professional football players apologize for "bullying" each other.

However, in the words of Henry Adams, "Chaos is the law of nature, order is the dream of man."

What's wrong with having scars? What's wrong with being moved to the point of tears? What's wrong with feeling pain? Cavemen didn't go to the doctor when they tweeked their knee or got cut by a Saber tooth tiger... they nutted up, played doctor on themselves and then found that tiger and punched it in the face. An ancient Roman gladiator would never ask his Doctore for a day off because his legs felt like jelly from the previous day's battles or because the emperor called him a useless shit and that hurt his feelings... he just strapped on his gear and stepped into the arena when his time came.

Every day is "leg day" when you do real work in the gym

We often times associate pain and sadness with weakness although I personally feel it is more so an opportunity to showcase your strength and personal resolve. When your lungs are burning and you still have 10 minutes to go, do you ease off the throttle or do you turn it up a notch? When you lose your job, do you think "poor me" or do you fight and scrap to keep your family above water? Society loves the underdog and we also love watching people push past their limits. Selling cookies might be a successful fundraiser when you're a cute little toddler but when you become an adult, putting yourself through hell is what sells.

Perhaps that is why Crossfit has gained such popularity... in a world where we try and soften the blows life will deal us, Crossfit keeps us honest. It's barbaric in nature... simple, challenging, threatening to our modern idea of life. No corners are allowed to be cut, no mommy and daddy to ease the pain, nobody to come and whisper in your ear "Every thing's okay now, the bad man is gone". Because the bad man is inside your head... it's you.

Crossfit brings forth the battle between your heart, mind and body which happens every workout and sets it forth center stage. There's no guarantee of happiness or success and the odds are often stacked against you. Society would understand if you fold under the pressure, if you throw in the white towel because it's too tough, too scary. But are you okay with that? Is the inner animal inside of you okay with that?

Will you let others tell you you're done or will you show them what strength really is?

We've been wired to operate differently, to stop before our bodies are ready to give out... to not let ourselves even come close to total failure. But safe is kind of boring, especially when science has proven that we quit when we realistically have more in the tank.

Perhaps it's time we stop referring to people as "beasts" when so many of us have all but lost our understanding of our animalistic nature. Perhaps it's time we take it upon ourselves to study said nature and learn how to draw it out of ourselves. Perhaps it's time we start letting ourselves feel scared, feel pain, and in turn, start feeling alive... because it's when we play with pain and stand in the face of death that we feel most alive, it's then that we see who we truly are.

Now don't get your panties in a bunch... in no way am I saying Crossfitters need to be stupid. There are times you should listen to your doctor and take time off, just as there are times you should seek a second opinion, just as there are times you should take a professional opinion and tell to shove it where the sun don't shine. I was once told I'd never pull 100 lbs. off the ground again, that my back would LIKELY wouldn't be able to handle the slightest jog. I currently deadlift almost 600 lbs. and have ran multiple marathons since that diagnosis... I don't say that to brag, I say that to elaborate on the fact that sometimes even experts don't know what they are dealing with. Sometimes, individuals choose to lead uncommon lives.

We can make excuses or we can defy the odds

Nobody will remember the athlete that takes it easy during The Open, the one who comes up with excuses for why he didn't do well or didn't perform a certain exercise like he should've. We'll remember the disabled athletes who were once told they'd never walk again squatting with prosthetic limbs, the athletes who grit their teeth and hit a PR at the end of a workout when they're already spent, the ones who collapse on the ground after they finally hear "TIME!" having completely red-lined their body going for one more rep, one more pound, one more opportunity for pain.

The Pain Train has arrived, climb aboard at your own risk.

Super Bowl Sherman

I'm still confused as to why so many are still throwing a hissy fit over Richard Sherman's post 49er's game interview... but the fact that the Super Bowl is right around the corner probably doesn't help to silence the critics and keyboard warriors. In my personal opinion, I think fans need to look at this incident from outside the box.

Richard Sherman is not a dumb man, in fact, he's quite smart.... Credible sources say his mother would feed and clothe gang members where Sherman grew up in order to get them off the streets and to deter Little Richey from that lifestyle. A former coach said gang members would tell Sherman to go home and study if he even approached them about joining out of respect for his mother.

He was an honor roll student in the top of his class and majored in Communications at Stanford. Now, I know plenty of jocks get through classes because their team needs them (you can fill in the blanks) but that's probably not so much the case at a school as prestigious as Stanford.

Immediately after seeing the interview, I was reminded of a famous scene in which a warrior aired his emotions in a very similar way...

The arena... blood spewed everywhere, mangled bodies rotting in the sun. The crowd wanted death and destruction, but what happens when a man takes it one step further? When he gives them EVERYTHING they ask for?

"ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!" cries Russell Crowe in the movie Gladiator.



Perhaps the things we want most in life are the things we are often not ready to accept
 

THAT is what we got during that post game interview... that entertainment we so constantly beg for, even though we never truly get it. Because we don't think the story of David vs. Goliath is cool because the little guy beats the big guy... we think it's bad ass because David chops Goliath's fucking head off.

With the advances in technology, fans can literally feel as though they are on the field. Mic'd players, half a bajillion cameras with zoom capabilities and HD quality... to be any closer you would literally have to be that guy with a forehead the size of Nebraska who had to choose the most worthless fucking city in that state to constantly shout (fuck the Huskers).

But we ourselves don't want to be that guy... we want his life but we don't want the concussions, the millions of fans cheering us on so they win their bets, the millions more screaming at us to fail. We just want a glimpse of what he goes through, to receive a full taste is something we could never stomach... though we couch potato coach as they we could.

So a better question is, why are we so shocked when we get a full blown sample of what we so desire? When we witness Sherman put Crabtree on blast... when we hear a coach like Paul Rhodes drop a plethora of f-bombs live on ESPN...

Why are we so shocked when a "reality" television star becomes an idol, let's fame and money get to their head, becomes an alcoholic, gets into drugs, goes bankrupt and eventually kills them self by suck-starting a pistol?

Are we no longer entertained when we witness just what we've created? Why are we so shocked when we nurture vicious animals and then are for some reason offended when they decide to turn and snap their ugly fangs at us?

For some reason, we have this crazy notion that violent sports are played by The Brady Bunch... fun loving athletes who joke around and at the end of their day, go home jolly and calm.

The interview staff knew exactly what could have happened, which is why it was exceptionally funny they were shocked it did. In the majority of violent sports, athletes will be rushed from their environment and given some time to wind down before being confronted. I'm sure had Tim "I swear I'm a virgin even though I went to THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA" Tebow hurdled the axe murderer Ray Lewis for a game winning touchdown, he probably would've threatened to skullfuck his unborn children mid post game interview... and then immediately went to confession/into the Witness Protection Program.

He didn't tap that... even once? Whatever you say, Timmy.
 

We are so mentally distraught and emotionally high after testosterone laden events and sporting matches that we have to have time to come back down to Earth, just as an astronaut's body needs time to re-acclimate to its new surroundings.

I remember back when I still trained mixed martial arts... my second fight was against a guy who talked more shit than Muhammed Ali and Chael Sonnen combined. I knocked him out with a haymaker a minute into the fight. I literally don't know what I said to the MC afterwards, because all I could see was red like a bull an all I wanted to do was shove the microphone up my opponent's ass... the wide way.

But after letting myself rest for 10 minutes, I finally calmed down. I finally felt all the aches, pains and bruises... I could finally think straight.

I don't necessarily approve or disapprove of what Sherman said, although I completely realize why he reacted that way. A wise man once told me, "Conversation should be like a mini skirt... long enough to cover the essentials but short enough to keep some one's attention." Had it been me, a simple "Better luck next year, Crabbypatty" followed by a wink to the camera would have burned a little more. Sherman got his point across, whether America was ready to hear the unfiltered version of it or not.



STAAAAHHHHHPPPPPP!
 



Maybe someday we won't be surprised when Pavlov's dog gets tired of salivating, breaks free and decides to go latch onto some one's neck...

My Second Home

I do this for the free fireworks... for the explosion of thoughts and emotions that comes with every visit.

To feel my lungs burning as if a match was tossed down a kerosene filled well, my legs and arms on fire as if a blanket of lactic acid had enveloped me whole. Because I live for that moment that comes every single time when you find yourself blankly staring off into the middle of nowhere, questioning why you're even there.

Your grip is shot, your stomach churning, prepared to release bile if you just give the thumbs up. Time and the weights may be the only thing working harder against you than your own body. Perhaps you want to cry or just lay down and give up. Nobody could stop you if you did, they're not your mother... you do this voluntarily. You've already sweat a bit and are sore, end early, short your reps and go home to relax. Grab a beer, maybe some pizza and reward yourself for the hard work you just put in. Or don't...

Maybe you pick up the bar again, maybe you grit your teeth and shut off the demons in your head telling you that you aren't good enough and never will be. Maybe you start to realize that through pain of various kinds, we learn various ways to better ourselves. Maybe you start to realize that your limits are far beyond what you think you are capable of... maybe you can do considerably more.

You look up and see a 60 year old man who comes here everyday because he wants to do everything he can to extend his life so he can watch his grandchildren grow. You see a single mom who has such a busy schedule that she has to cut her sleep a couple of hours short each night so that she can workout at 5:30 in the morning, lest she not be able to workout at all.

You see the girl who was told she'd never be able to physically accomplish something because of an injury proving her doubters wrong every single day. You see your coaches busting their ass right along side you, going through the same pain and pushing you the entire way.

The community drives you to keep going and you realize when so many are for you, nobody can be against you. There may be people who try to stand in your way, who doubt your goals or belittle your accomplishments, but then you remember all those people who do believe.

You do it because seeing those who support you accomplish their goals make YOU a better person. Seeing a soccer mom do a happy dance because she dead lifted hundreds of pounds which she never in a million years would have thought she could do. Seeing how much pride someone takes in a photo comparison to 3 months ago when they decided to change their diet and exercise routine in order to become a healthier, happier individual.

All of a sudden, your accomplishments don't mean so much... but knowing you could be apart of someone else's journey begins to mean the world to you. Then you see how proud people are of you, and how much pride they take in YOUR accomplishments, and you realize you owe it to them to do your best every single moment in life. Your parents, your kids, your husbands, wives and significant others. Hell, even people half a world a way that have never even met you. All those who sacrificed for you along the way, who saw you as a source of inspiration at some point in their lives... those are the ones you owe it all to.

They are why you treat your body right, nourishing it with quality food, sleep and hydration. They are why you show up every day and bust your ass. Because they have given up so much in order to help you become to the best individual you could be. Because no matter how hard you work in the gym, THEY are the ones who have put in the hardest work. They're why you compete each and every day. Not always for money, trophies and fame... but for gratitude. To show them that you are thankful for the trust, to show them you appreciate everything they've done for you.

I go because my mother and sister mean the world to me and making them happy is my main focus in life. I go because I know where I started is not where I have to end up in life. I go because I want people to hear my name and not just think, but truly feel I am a good man. I go because I want to spend myself every day... mentally, emotionally and physically. I go because no matter when my time here on Earth is through and my life flashes before my eyes, I refuse to have any regrets.

Family

Embracing Opportunity

I was never lucky enough to meet any of my grandparents but from the stories I've heard, they were some hard-nosed motherfuckers. They were part of "The Greatest Generation", folks who answered the call to serve Uncle Sam when he was in a time of need... folks who made sacrifices on the home front until everyone made it back. They spent time on the front lines, bought war bonds back home and participated in civilian peace time rationing of goods. They didn't ask, "Why us?" and they didn't complain... they just got the job done. They weren't born with the excessive whining/I deserve everything I want in life gene that my generation has seemed to develop.

I was lucky enough, however, to meet my Grand Uncle Charles McGee. He, along with my Grandmother Ruth Downs, grew up poor but aspired to greatness. He stayed focused in high school, went to college for engineering before leaving to enlist in the Army Air Corps his sophomore year and soon became a fighter pilot once the war broke out. He's one of the last surviving Tuskegee Airmen and flew 409 combat missions while fighting in World War II, Korea AND Vietnam... a still standing Air Force record.



My beautiful grandmother, Ruth Downs

The most awesome thing about my "Uncle" Charles, however, is that he's a black man. He answered the call to serve his country even though, according to a study by the Army War College in 1925, blacks, "... are mentally inferior by nature, subservient, cowardly... and therefore unfit for combat." It was thought that blacks would be good for nothing more than kitchen work and cleaning duties. Even after passing the Tuskegee flight program, they were initially given nothing more than routine reconnaissance missions with zero real danger. Yet he stayed focused and didn't let racism deter him. Eventually, in a time where blacks would be hung just for sitting in a white only section, he was destroying the enemy and receiving salutes from the men who wanted him dead simply because his skin was slightly more dark. He used the hate as fuel for his fire and eventually became one of the greatest fighter pilots in the history of the Air Force. Which is why the thing I love most about my 95 year old "Uncle Charles", as weird as it is to say, is that if you were to talk to him on the phone, you'd assume he was white.

Pride

My ancestors were first brought to this country on slave ships... sold at markets like prized cattle. They worked hard labor day in and day out, being disciplined with lashes to the back if they didn't "perform" well enough. They were told they were nothing but wild animals, useless for anything but being farm hands. They were a prime example that you can break a man physically, but you cannot break his mind.

Viktor Frankl spent time as a concentration camp prisoner, but instead of succumbing to the situation, he sought to discover the importance of finding meaning in all forms of existence, even the most horrid ones, thus, finding a reason to live. In his book, "Man's Search For Meaning" he wrote, "Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

This is something my ancestors luckily took heed to, a thought process most eloquently portrayed in Langston Hughes' poem, "I, Too Sing America". They sought freedom, both of physical and mental chains. They learned how to read and write, even if being caught with a book would mean the end of their life. Blacks learned that power is not always physical and does not always require large followings but that one determined individual can change the course of history. We became leaders and visionaries, but more importantly, we accepted that we could become equals. But then my generation came along with what appears to be the sole intent of erasing hundreds of years of progress in the right direction.



Colonel McGee and his plane "Kitten", named after his wife

Ebonics and diamonds, fancy cars and baggy clothes. The amount of hoes you have being of more importance than the quality of children you're raising... if you're even around. Get rich or die trying, be known as a bad tipper, blast rap songs where the word nigga comprises 95% of the lyrics as you ride around on your 24 inch rims. Do bad in school, maybe even fail out... but hopefully get a scholarship somewhere for being good at basketball. Attend a class here and there, but don't dare participate. Leave for the draft early, bank on the fact that you won't get injured or wash out.

Did you hear that? It was generations of ancestors rolling over in their graves disgusted at what we minorities have become. We are not special and we don't need special treatment. What we need is focus... because we have more inspiring and motivating figures than we even realize. We owe it to ourselves, but more importantly those of the past who would have KILLED to have the opportunities that we have now. We grow up in less than ideal situations but fail to realize the majority of limiting factors that exist are self-made. We, as Americans in general, need a fucking reality check. We could be a great generation if we just embraced our potential. There would be nothing worse than leaving this Earth knowing we never tried to become the greatest possible person that we could be.

"Aim high and never settle."

If I were to die today, I'd just want the following to be remembered: Carry yourself in a way that would make those before you proud. Walk tall and with confident steps. Walls will occasionally make you stop on the path you're traveling... you can go around, over, under or through... but never settle on being stopped. Speak with pride and never forget your history. Make your own history today that those in the future can revel about. Know who you are, trust your instincts and leave this world completely spent having given everything you had to it.