I feel the need to write, but I don’t know that I have anything to say.
I could write about training with weights and tell stories about years gone by and how it used to be before men began painting their nails and wearing some type of “Man Bag” and not even being embarrassed about it and pulling their hair back (if you are carrying a battleaxe and you are a Viking, get the hair out of your eyes. Other than that, get a haircut) and earrings everywhere and in their noses even, and a bunch of little tattoos all over and their whole persona is based off of what is hip on social media, but that would be boring. And they stand in front of you when you are trying to deadlift and have zero gym etiquette and all they see is some bullshit on Tick Tock and they all think they are fucking influencers. WTF is an influencer? Some kid who records him/herself and then people listen to them? Ugh.
I could write about how I discovered that Van Halen, particularly David Lee Roth, was feminine as all get out. You see, I had never seen a live concert from them. I had seen music videos, and they were cool. But the other day, I’m watching a live concert on YouTube and Roth is gyrating around with some skintight see through leather pants on. Dude. Then I watched Zeppelin! Same kind of stuff with Robert Plant. If any of my friends and I knew that this was happening, we would have just stuck with Skynyrd and ACDC. Fucking Jeans and T-shirts, dude. Can you imagine Ronnie Van Zant acting like that?
I guess that I could write that it’s hunting season and I really don’t care about much else at all for a few months. It's my favorite time of the year and the ritual of it all is so special and the dogs are so alive during this time of the year. How we train every day, all year round for this time of the year.
And I could write about my dogs and how crazy they are and how much I love them, but people would probably be bored with that. It’s probably like people talking about their kids. But my dogs are funny and crazy and smart and affectionate, and I am determined to get them as many days in the field, hunting, before their short lives end. They are always with me, I am away from them only a few hours a day. They are a royal pain in my ass, but they make me laugh so all that laughter cancels out the bad stuff. Right now, one of them wants to go outside for the twentieth time today, so he is jamming his head under my arm as I try to type. He will go outside and will want to come in a few minutes later. Of course, I fall for it every time.
I could write about what it was like to be a Graduate Assistant in the late 80’s and early 90’s at a NAIA school, an endless day after day of waking up hungover, taking the dog retrieving, driving to the Pantry and buying four hot dogs for a dollar (slaw dogs), with cole slaw and chili and everything else I could fit on there, then hustling my ass off to get to the field house for a 9 am staff meeting, then watching film, writing the practice plan, lifting weights or going for a run, then to practice, coaching for 2.5 hours, walking down to the field house with the other GA’s, Jimmy and Josh, talking about what we were doing that night. And then inside the field house reviewing practice with the defensive coordinator, then watching practice film, then another staff meeting. All the while, that post practice beer is calling to me. Me and Jimmy and Josh are waiting to go get beers, long neck Buds, oh those long necks, and then, the moment comes when we are released, and Josh says his wife is away and let’s go have some beers. If his wife was home, it fucking sucked because he had to ask pretty please and kiss her ass, but then sometimes he would escape and he’d call me and say, let’s go, or maybe just show up in his convertible truck and then I would hear him whoop and drive right up in the yard and I’d come out, and he’d say, fuck it, let's go, and then we’d crack open some Buds and head on out to the country and drive the roads and spotlight deer. And we'd do that for hours, driving dirt roads, drinking and laughing and looking for deer, and listening to .38 Special. One time we went into a Mexican restaurant and drank every last Red Dog beer. We could hear the guys in the back; "Hey Jose', put some more Red Dogs in the cooler!" But they were all gone. Josh would drop me and Jimmy off and then he’d go home to face the wicked witch of the South. I can picture her saying how Jimmy and I were bad influences, but deep down she knew her husband was the ringleader. And we loved him for it.
I could write about how people think they know everything about weight training and lifting weights and strength coaching, when in reality, all of us are still learning even when we have been doing it since 1979. You don’t know shit and if you don’t have a white belt mentality, you aren't going to learn shit. It does, however, help to have actually lifted weights, and some decently heavy ones in order to coach someone to get stronger. Basically, if you haven’t played the game (Bob Costas), you can’t say shit about the game.
I’m going to think long and hard about what to write. Maybe about that one time in Charleston at the strip club run by the Hell’s Angels when Kirk Karwoski and I….
