1. “WHATEVER DOES NOT KILL
YOU”
AN AGING ATHLETE’S GUIDE TO LIFE,
HAPPINESS, ADVERSITY AND COMPETITION
BY
MARK KAPPES
1

2. This book is dedicated to my very supportive and loving wife Lisa (who has taught me
so much about who I am and who I was), and my sons Jake and Luke (for whom it was
first written). It is also dedicated to my parents, Gus and Roseann Kappes, without
whose love, guidance and support I would have ever gotten to where I am today.
Thank you for all being so important to me.
2

3. Author’s note:
Many of the names of individuals in this book were changed for legal liability
reasons. Only my closest friends, family, and associate’s names (including my Doctors
and some coaches) have remained their actual names. MDK
3

4. INTRODUCTION
“TO BE A STAR YOU MUST FOLLOW YOUR OWN PATH, SHINE
YOUR OWN LIGHT, AND NOT WORRY ABOUT THE DARKNESS,
FOR THAT IS WHEN STARS SHINE BRIGHTEST”
Anonymous author
(Quote given to me by my Dad two days after my personal “D-DAY” when I thought it was all over)
4

5. PROLOGUE
The Great Theodore Roosevelt once said:
“It is not the critic who counts; not the one who points out how the strong stumbled, or
where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to those in the
arena; those who strive valiantly; who fail and come up short again and again; who
know great enthusiasm and great devotion; who at the best, know in the end, the
triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if they fail, at least fail while daring
greatly, so that their place shall never be with those timid souls who know neither
victory nor defeat.”
I have always considered myself nobody special. I’m not an Olympic Champion or
Professional athlete. I’m not rich or famous. You probably have never heard of me. I have
always had to come from behind. I was not born a gifted, exceptional athlete. But, as the
chapters and years of my life unfolded, I’ve learned many lessons as a result of being the
perennial underdog. My whole life in sport keyed on winning medals and trophies and
filling that trophy case. I always had it in my mind that this was the essence of sport. I am
a former multiple National Champion and USA National Team member, 2010 National
Masters Weightlifting Champion and recently placed 4th
in the world at the World
Masters Games in Sydney, Australia.
After 36 years I’ve finally realized that none of that means anything; and how
you view yourself, how you view the world, and how the world views you- in the
absence of winning- means everything. As a result of what I’ve learned, what I’ve
become, and what I can pass on, I’ve become SOMEBODY. This is my story.
5

6. CHAPTER ONE:
“FOREVER TRUST IN WHO YOU ARE”
JAMES HETFIELD – METALLICA
6

7. A funny thing happened to me on the way to becoming middle aged. I never thought I
would, but I had a mid-life crisis. I never was one to go out and buy expensive things-not for
myself at least, and usually not at all. I didn’t EVER have the inclination to be unfaithful. I didn’t
hang out at bars with old buddies and do the whole “glory days” thing. I was turning 46, had a
wonderful wife, two great kids, a couple of cats, great job and a great house. What else did I
need? I didn’t think anything, but I was about to find out.
Rewind to my past. December 7, 1987. It was the anniversary of D-Day (actually it was the
47th
anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, but I like to call it D-Day for theatrical value). It
was about to become D-Day for me as well. It was THE defining moment of my life-the first of
two. Before I get into that fateful day I need to rewind further, all the way back to grade school.
I was the only child of Gus and Roseanne Kappes, born December 13, 1962 (remember 13-
you will see that again-and again). Being born in 1962 means that I was born in the Chinese Year
of the Tiger. Some attributes of a Tiger are strength, independence, courage, and
rebelliousness. We are also noble, playful, romantic and short-tempered. We live dangerously
and seek attention and acceptance. We are natural leaders, oppose authority, generous, and
are the ultimate protector and what I like to call defenders of righteousness. We have no
problems speaking our minds and fighting the good fight against all wrongdoings in society.
Being born in December also means that I was born a Sagittarius- The warrior-hunter,
another auspicious attribute. Sagittarians are positive, enterprising and optimistic in the face of
unbelievable odds. We are honorable, with a fiery passion for justice and righteousness. We
generally land on the side of the underdog, and fight for just causes, yet we thrive in doing so.
We are rebellious and are always prepared to fight with a strong sense of protectiveness and
morality while following ethical codes. We think intuitively versus logically sometimes, and reach
our goals using creativity rather than established methods to reach those goals. We can be
impulsive and easily get angered, and are impatient, yet do not fail, though we stumble
7

8. frequently. Lastly, being born on the Thirteenth is the final ominous trait in what I call “The Triple
Whammy”. I have all of the traits of the above. Though the Year of the Tiger and being a
Sagittarian are fictitious, I am all of these things wrapped into one. Did these things contribute to
who I became in life? - Who knows, but it certainly is uncanny. I am glad that I was born when I
was and am who I am, although when I was younger I did not realize these things.
I had a great childhood; loving, supportive parents, and lots of neighborhood friends. In
the words of Dr. Evil from Austin Powers,”my childhood was typical.” What I lacked in siblings, I
usurped in street football games, sandlot tackle football, and other backyard adventures like
playing “Army” early-on. I loved sports but the only problem was that I was a runt. I was always
one of or THE smallest kid in my class or grade. I was a good student, and pretty much a good
kid and citizen. I became a school safety patrol. I was also a cub scout. For some odd reason I
thought wearing the uniform gave me the ability to be a peacemaker. Boy was I ever wrong.
Once in second grade I was in the recess yard and this big dufess I’ll call Jeff Shilikker was pulling
his usual playground antics-beating up on the smaller kids, spinning them around in what he
called the “windmill” then unceremoniously letting them fly about six feet across the macadam
tarmac to their demise. He only picked on the small kids because that’s all his fat ass would
allow him to do. Consequently, big ol’ fatass Jeff was on the principal’s hit list for paddling
(which was legal back in the day). There were many other bullies as well back then, and for
some reason- cowardice being one- they only picked on us runts.
Well, one day on the playground big ol’ fatass Jeff and his buddy who I’ll refer to as Dave
Blotter, were wreaking havoc with the “windmill” and hurting lots of kids. First, a little background
on Dave Blotter and his family gene pool. Blotter was a tall lanky kid with a chest/sternum that
looked like a big chicken breast. He was full of acne, so much so that at 13 he had so many zits
that it looked as if his face was on fire and someone stomped it out with a golf shoe. In short, he
was like Mr. Potato head with all the pieces in the wrong place. His brother, “Bomb Scare
“Blotter was about 10 years older than us. Rumor had it that he was the only kid in 8th
grade that
8

9. was old enough to drive a car. He got the name” Bomb Scare” because one day while he was
in high school (at 22 years old) he didn’t feel like going to school so he called-in a bomb scare.
The secretary told him to hold the line while they got the principal. So “Bomb Scare”
waited....and waited….and waited….and waited some more. Then….he waited some more.
Finally there was a knock at his front door-the police. Of course, “Bomb Scare” got arrested, and
the rest is history. What a friggin bunch of morons. But the problem was that they were morons
that we were all afraid of. Well, getting back to the playground, I was in my capacity as safety
patrol, but I also had my Cub Scout uniform on since there was a Pack Meeting that night. I saw
what was going on with these two numbskulls and proudly walked over to them and said, “Stop!
I am a cub scout!” No shit, I really said that. And yes, I became a windmill recipient, got all
scratched up, went to the nurse for iodine and band aids, and walked back to Mrs.
Shankweiler’s class with my tail between my legs. But the worst of it was to follow after school. As
I was leaving the schoolyard I was jumped by those two dickheads and beaten to a pulp.
This type of thing continued for a long time now and again-for years as a grade school kid.
These douche bags got away with murder. Where were the teachers when you needed them?
Who knows, but these guys seemed to materialize from hyperspace sometimes. If my friends
were around, they never did anything, but God help you if you were alone when walking past
the woods.
By the time I got to third grade, wrestling was introduced to our town at the midget level.
My dad encouraged me to give it a try to gain strength and learn some moves that might teach
me a little about self-defense. I tried it, all 45 pounds soaking wet of me. I actually liked it, stuck it
out and wrestled “exhibition” all year, as my bodyweight was WAAAAY below the 55 pound
class limit. Meanwhile, I got a little bit tougher, and got some confidence, but the occasional
beatings by school bullies still continued. Now they materialized not only because I was small,
but also because they would say,” Oh, big wrestler think you’re tough, let’s see how tough you
are.” They were still tougher by virtue of outweighing me by 75 pounds.
9

10. But, (and a very big but here) the ember was beginning to glow inside my soul. I was really
sick of getting picked on, and ever so slightly I began to fight back. I’ve never had trouble
opening my mouth and telling people how I feel, so some of the fights were provoked by my
resistance. I learned WAAAAY back then that I didn’t like to take shit. And back then I took a
whole lot of it. But now, some kind of primordial switch was awakened inside of me. This is the
switch that would guide me through many tough times in my athletic career, and my life as well.
I would fuel this instinct through various methods, mostly trial by fire. This is the essence of who I
am.
“Forever trust in who you are….”
10

11. CHAPTER TWO
“TAKE ME BACK….DO- DOOT- DO- DO….TAKE ME BACK”
FRANK STALLONE FROM “ROCKY “
11

12. My weightlifting career began as an accident-literally. Once I started wrestling, I was so
light that I couldn’t even make the weight limit for the lowest weight class, so my dad said he
was going to “bulk me up”. By the fourth grade he bought me a set of Sears/Roebuck cement
filled plastic weights. He had a weightlifting background, and he saw the need for me to start
weight training for sports. So one day he brings the weights home, takes them down to the
basement, sets them up , and proceeds to teach me how to do a power clean. The power
clean is one of the foremost exercises used in sports today to build speed, power, and
explosiveness-more on that later. Basically, you set your feet shoulder width apart, squat down
and grab the bar with a grip slightly wider than shoulder-width, flatten your back, and pull the
bar off the ground while pushing into the ground with the balls of your feet. The bar accelerates
while coming up and brushing the thigh. Then as the barbell has reached its apex, you flip your
elbows up, as you squat under the bar while simultaneously shifting/jumping your feet slightly
wider. The finished lift has you holding the barbell with elbows up and out, the bar resting on your
clavicle, palms up and standing fully erect. Try and explain this to your ten year old kid. Well, my
dad did, and I tried it, and I ended up whacking myself in the mouth, falling backward and
vowing never to do it again. So much for my dad’s bulking plan and my fledgling lifting career.
The Mickey Mouse cement weights gathered dust and cobwebs in the corner of my
parents’ basement for another year and a half when I started playing midget football. I was
given the number 13, an omen to most but good juju to me. I was now in fifth grade and
weighed a whopping 55 pounds playing 80 pound football. I really tried hard, and put out at
practice but if you have ever seen the movie “Rudy”, well I was Rudy. I would show up every
day and give 110 percent – just like the coaches used to say. I was by far the smallest kid on the
team, certainly not the fastest, but I did have heart. I did have character. That goes along way
with coaches, and also in life. Heart, character, and a fire growing inside me about not liking to
get my ass kicked became my calling card. I could take beatings with the best of them-and-
keep coming back for more, just like Rudy. I never, ever gave up. To this day I’m still that way. I
12

13. don’t like to lose, but I know I am a good loser. I’ve tried to teach my kids that as well. “Be a
good winner, but a better loser” is also part of my mantra. We’ll talk more about that later.
I’ve always liked to compete in things, football just being one of my favorite things in life as
a kid. Competition went way beyond the gridiron, though, or the baseball diamond, or the
wrestling mat. It didn’t matter what I did, whether it was playing sports or playing Monopoly, I
didn’t like to lose, but I lost a lot. I think I’ve always liked being the underdog since it always
made the goal so much sweeter. Like they say, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. Well,
through the years, and much introspection, I’ve really found this to be true. I’ve always set the
bar pretty high for myself and still do. During the summer of third to fourth grade I became
obsessed with the Olympics. I can remember standing in my friend’s living room watching diving
from the 1972 Munich Olympics and telling him that I’d be on the Olympic team someday. He
said, “for what?”, and I said,” For that (diving)”. He said,” But you don’t even dive!” And my
comeback was “So what, neither do you.” Whatever sense that made at the time, I don’t know,
but from that day on all I wanted to have was a USA Olympic warm up suit to wear. By sixth and
seventh grades, my visits to the basement with the Sears Mickey Mouse weights became more
frequent, but still not enough that it did anything substantial.
I was beginning to “get it” though; I just didn’t know how to actually get there. But, I was
learning. It would take me until I was 46 to actually “get it” entirely, but I did in fact end up finally
figuring it all out. That is why I’m writing this book, and that’s why I have to go back-way back- to
explain why. What I did learn from this phase of my life is THINK BIG, not small, and never, EVER
be afraid to try.
Take me back….DO DO DO DO…. Take me back
13

14. CHAPTER THREE
“THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREENER”- GREEN WITH ENVY, BUT GREENER BECAUSE OF BEING
SICK OF GETTING MY ASS KICKED!
14

15. In seventh grade the weights began to pay off along with homemade raw egg milkshakes
that my grandmother used to make for me to bulk me up-under the direction of my dad. I still
wrestled and played football, but I guess I finally realized that I wasn’t going to go anywhere in
either sport. I grew up being friends with a lot of great athletes.
One family that my parents were friends with throughout their life was a family that I’ll call
the Gearhart’s. In our town, the Gearharts were the quintessential sports family, with sports being
the priority with their 3 son’s – Chris, Matt, and Jeff. Their living room credenza was decorated
with various medals, trophies, and plaques. I was closest with Chris, who was 1 year younger
than me, but was also close to Matty, who was 2 years younger than me. We were friends
growing up from the age of 2 or 3 years old, when our parents used to visit each other’s homes.
Anyway, we played football together, wrestled together and sometimes all hung out together
too. When I’d go into their house in sixth or seventh grade, they already had an impressive
armada of awards bedazzling their living room. It was a constant reminder as you entered their
house of how inadequate you were. Now don’t get me wrong, these dudes weren’t like that at
all. As good as they were, they were humble, and never made you feel like you were any less of
a mortal than they were. I always respected how they carried themselves as basically the “first
family of sports” in my town of Catasauqua. I, however brought it upon myself to feel that way,
and the ember burning inside me began smoldering some more. I always thought from little on
that I was destined for something great - I don’t know why – but I always had that feeling deep
down. Well, maybe not great, but at least way above the average person could do. I never got
that from anyone- not my parents, not anyone, just inside me. Unfortunately for me I had no idea
what that one thing was – yet. I would soon find out in another few months by the end of
seventh grade. I just always imagined that Gearhart living room transposed into my house. I
would sit in my room sometimes, transfixed on the image of trophies, medals, and most of all, the
coveted USA warm up suit- something that no one in my area had, not even the Gearharts. In
15

16. the word’s of Wayne Campbell of Wayne’s World (and the white Fender Stratocaster guitar),
“oh yes, it will be mine!”
The smolder inside was now a little candle, I was 13 and I began to train with earnest. I got
faster, stronger, could jump higher, throw farther. How did this happen? Well, I’ll tell you. My
father taught me the power clean a couple of years before, and now I’d progressed to doing
snatches, clean and jerks, various pulls, and squats. Oh- and bench Presses. To this day, 36 years
later, some wannabe with beer muscles will challenge me with “Oh yeah- how much can you
bench!?”- (the buzz phrase of many a meat head or gym rat). I just roll my eyes and shake my
head ever so slightly as if to say – “you douche bag”!
Meanwhile, as the training progressed and my strength and confidence began to blossom,
the occasional dickhead would want to test me. Now, mind you, I was still not big, was still a
runt, but there were those who wanted to test me. There was one kid who I’ll call Morty
Immatura that would constantly come up behind me at wrestling practice while in the down
position and pop me in the back of the head with his knuckle – hard. He was also friends with
Chris Gearhart, and he did this shit to be a funny guy (to only himself) and impress our buddy
Chris. He did this repeatedly throughout the first month of the season, until one day I told my dad
about it and he told me that the only way to stop a bully was to cold-cock him as hard as I
could and he would never do it again. I was hesitant (remember I was only about 4 ft 6 inches
and 75 pounds) but I told myself I would and could do it. The next time we had practice, Morty
was next to me and snuck over while I was in the middle of a hold, and nailed me in the head-
harder than ever. Everyone saw it, including my football coach (and Chris’ dad) Ernie. I jumped
up, water in my eyes, gritted my teeth, and popped Morty so hard in the nose I thought I killed
him. He went down like a ton of bricks- and stayed there while I yelled at him to get up. He
didn’t, he just cowered away, and I caught Ernie out of the corner of my eye slowly shaking his
head up and down, looking at me as if to say,” it’s about friggin’time”. The funny thing was Ernie
liked both Morty and me as we were both his players and Chris’ friends, but he saw what went
16

17. on at practice, and was sick of seeing me take that shit too. This was the last of these incidents –
for now – and I was pretty proud of myself for facing my fears by overcoming them (much more
about that later). The candle was now a little campfire.
“The grass is NOT always greener”. I always thought that the Gearharts lived this charmed
life because they had all the medals and accolades, but I began to realize that this was not
what life was all about. Life is tough and unforgiving and until you have faced your fears and
developed self respect, none of that mattered. I was beginning to learn that the grass I lived on
was plenty green enough.
17

18. CHAPTER FOUR
“SOME PEOPLE MAY BEAT ME BUT THEY’RE GOING TO HAVE TO BLEED TO DO IT.”
STEVE PREFONTAINE
18

19. In 1972 during the Olympic trials, and at the 72 Olympics, Steve Prefontaine or “Pre” as he
was called really sparked the interest of the sporting world. I really liked Pre’s whole work ethic
and attitude because, like me, he was not a naturally gifted athlete. He had to work for
everything he achieved, and for him it was never easy. I always felt we were kindred spirits, and
consequently to this day I still pattern myself after him. Pre’s biggest attribute was that he was
tough – he had heart. That was my biggest attribute as well, and still is. I can honestly say with
conviction that I am one of the toughest people I know; and by that I don’t mean tough as far
as getting into fights, I mean mentally tough. Although, as you will see in the future I became
adept at fighting as well, a fact that I am not so proud of, but glad that phase of my life
ultimately shaped me into the individual I am today. My toughness I believe stems from the
refusal to give in, give up or let pain either mental or physical get the best of me. And also it
stems from wanting to prove something to myself and to others. Later in the book I’ll go into
depth about this phenomenon that has guided me through life. I didn’t get it from my parents; I
just got it-from somewhere. Not that my Mom and Dad weren’t supportive-they were as
supportive as two parents could be. They just didn’t push me into anything; they always let me
just go with IT on my own and decide. Call it DESTINY. I’m very big on destiny and fate, in almost
a spiritual sense. I don’t think that you can change it, but more so you must “improvise, adapt,
and overcome” (in the words of the US Marine Corps) when the situation presents itself. There is a
famous sports quote by Bud Greenspan that goes,”Destiny is not a matter of chance; it’s a
matter of choice. It’s not something to be wished for, but something to be attained”.
When I was a kid of about second or third grade I remembered a story (or urban legend) of
how Pre ran a race with his foot half cut off and it intrigued me as to how. The truth of it is he was
showing off at a hotel pool prior to the NCAA championships in 1970. He caught his foot on
some rusty bolts on a diving board and tore it up bad enough to retain 12 stitches just three days
before his 5000 meter race. Bill Bowerman, legendary University of Oregon coach and Olympic
coach in 72, wanted to pull him, but Pre insisted that he run or the team wouldn’t have enough
19

20. points to win the overall title. Pre ran the 5000 meters, set a new NCAA record, and had blood
squirting out of his Adidas halfway through the race. After the race, he fell over on the infield
and proceeded to puke while Bowerman and Bill Dellinger (the Oregon assistant coach) cut off
his spikes. That was tough (later in my career I would get my chance to prove I was equally as
tough). I wanted to be just like him. He was an authentic, outspoken blue-collar American
original – tough as nails- not afraid to call a spade a spade. Pre would tell everyone that he was
going to do this or win that, and sometimes he did just that. But sometimes he failed. The beauty
of it was that he wasn’t afraid to hang it out on the line and make predictions because that’s
how he set the bar for himself – high. I was the same way, and I don’t know if that was because
of Pre or because we were made the exact same way. We were.
In seventh grade, our industrial arts project was supposed to be something constructed out
of wood, like a stool, bookshelf, etc…. Everyone first had to do a mechanical drawing of the
project and name it “stool” or “bookshelf”. I did my drawing and named it “trophy case”. The
teacher, who I’ll call Mr. Newman, wanted me to change the name. I refused. I took a lot of shit
for it from my classmates, mostly from a kid of basically my size that I had known since
kindergarten, but never was really friends with. This kid had a bad kidney in second grade and
eventually had it removed. To this day he and I have the argument that I picked on him when
he was sick. I laugh because I was so tiny that I couldn’t have picked on anyone, even the girls.
Well, while we were growing up and I started playing football, he used to come over and steal
my helmet while I was getting a drink at practice. He would proceed to throw it up onto the
pavilion roof at the playground where the practices were held. He was pissed that he couldn’t
play because of his kidney, and I could. We went at it for years, tackles and wrestling matches in
the school hallways and the like. Well, when I came out with “trophy case” he went off and
made a total ass out of me, telling me that I didn’t even HAVE any trophies to put in there and
never would. This was the first time I hung it out on the line – like Pre did. No, I didn’t have any
trophies or medals or plaques, but by God I was building the trophy case first and would get the
20

21. trophies to put in there later. The kid that I’m talking about is named Mike Mac Laughlin or
“Mac” for short. Mac and I would later become as close of friends as any two could become. To
this day he is my best friend in the world, my brother from another mother. Later in my career he
would become one of my biggest supporters, and we would do anything in the world for each
other – still would.
Well, I built my trophy case and desperately needed to get the first trophy to put into it. I
was really not “setting the world on fire” in any athletic endeavor that I tried, but the training was
beginning to pay off. I could now do some dead-hang pullups, which I couldn’t do before, and
also my speed and jumping ability was getting better. The guy who said “athletes are made-not
born” was correct. My gym teacher who I’ll call Mr. Harlow asked me what I’d been doing to
build my strength and speed after I’d scored much higher on the “Presidential Physical Fitness
Test” than I ever had before. I told him Olympic weightlifting, and he was very interested- so
interested that when we had a circuit training unit in gym class, he asked me to demonstrate the
clean (one of the circuits). I began to gain some credibility with my classmates after that, but
Mac still continued to give me shit. By this time in my life I was beginning to realize that I didn’t
like to take shit, so consequently Mac and I continued to go at it. I was, however, gaining
ground.
Late in seventh grade, in 1976, my dad put me in my first Junior Olympic regional meet in
Norristown, PA. I told a few guys that I was entering it and I’d planned on bringing home a
trophy. The meet was held at the Holy Savior Club, which was a dingy little club in the bottom of
a Catholic church. If you’ve ever seen the original “Rocky” movie, the first scene has him fighting
Spider Rico in a place called the “Resurrection AC.” The Resurrection Athletic Club was a
Catholic church with the pews taken out and a boxing ring put in their place. That was the Holy
Savior Club – a true relic from the past. I ended up getting the silver medal in my first meet and I
was really proud of it. But----it wasn’t a trophy, and my friggin “trophy case” continued its
emptiness in my closet. I had a long way to go until I caught up with the Gearharts. It’s funny
21

22. that when you are young, all you want is the awards to display but as you get older you realize
that all of the trophies and medals in the world really are meaningless. I’ll get into that
extensively later, but for now, hold that thought.
Anyway, my name got a few sentences in the “Morning Call”, our local newspaper under
the “IN BRIEF“section. I was pretty proud of that little article, and when I went back to school on
Monday, the best athlete in our class at the time, and a friend of mine that I’ll call Carl Ermie
found me in the hall at shook my hand with congratulations. I felt really good about it when Mac
walked up to me and gave me a halfhearted “good job” but then tackled me and said he
would’ve gotten first, and that I’d still never make anything out of myself. Some things never
change, but after that he respected me a little more- I think. The biggest thing for me was that I
made the statement that I would bring back a trophy. I had no idea if I would win or lose, suck
or prevail. All I did know was that if I ever wanted to gain peer credibility, and therefore self-
confidence, I would bring back some award or die trying. And in “hanging it out there” like Pre I
taught myself early on that vulnerability breeds success. Pre had thrived on this phenomenon,
and I was about to embark on a similar path.
In the final analysis of my career, some people beat me but they always had to bleed to do
it. I was tough and I didn’t quit. (Except the Soviets- or the Bulgarians- or the East Germans- they
beat everyone to a pulp)
22

23. CHAPTER FIVE
“TURN THE PAGE”
METTALLICA
“YEAH, HERE I AM
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
THERE I AM, UP ON THE STAGE.
AND THERE I GO, TURN THE PAGE….”
23

24. Back in the seventies, anyone who was anyone in strength and speed athletics read
“Strength and Health” or “S&H” magazine. My dad started buying it for me when I was about 11.
I wasn’t really interested in it, though until about 13 when I was in 7th
grade, and started
competing. If I had known that the meet results in S&H were listed in kilos, I would have been
more apprehensive about entering my first meet. One kilo is 2.2 pounds, so if it said that
someone snatched 30, then that would equate to 66 pounds. I always looked at the results and
told my dad,” I can do better than that” when in reality these kids were doing about twice as
much as what was listed.
So, getting back to S&H magazine, I was like a sponge. I read them for hours, page after
page, over and over again until the mag’s disintegrated. My dad found a flea market near Philly
one day that sold old magazines. He took me down there and I bought (well, he bought) so
many old S&H mags that we had to pull the car up to the closest exit and bring boxes and boxes
of them out to his old emerald green ‘67 Mustang. I had to make up for lost time. It was summer
1976, the Montreal Olympics were going on, and my obsession with the Olympics (and the
coveted USA warm up that came with being a USA Olympian) really began to blossom. The old
basement Mickey Mouse weights were now back in the storage room, but the one-car garage
at my parent’s home became Kappes’s gym. My dad procured my first Olympic set
(competition Olympic weights) at an auction earlier that summer. Kappes’s gym became a
haven for my neighborhood buds.
Gone were the days of endlessly playing street football, and now my dad trained about 6
friends of mine with various types of weight training exercises. Olympic lifting though was
reserved for me. None of the other kids were interested, and the o’lifting as I called it was our
“secret weapon”, and it would remain in the family.
24

25. The Olympics ended, with the USSR winning big-as usual, especially in weightlifting. That
really pissed me off, and I vowed that I would stick it to ‘em someday for the good ‘ol US of A.
Little did I know at the time how impossible that would be. I would eventually find out.
Eighth grade rolled around quickly with another football season passing as well. I went in a
few more meets and garnered a few first place wins, but still no trophy for the friggin’ trophy
case, just a few more medals to hang on the wall. I began to think that the trophy case was only
a means to an end, and that is what it became- a symbol.
During eighth grade, as I trained in my garage, a couple of local nobodies started hanging
around on my street. They liked a girl a couple of houses down, and consequently would walk
by my garage and taunt me and give me shit. It never ceased to amaze me how many kids
would pick on the little guy-me. They had no social graces. They tested me. I’ll call them Bill
Shnader and Chris Dorksey. Finally one day I told them to come into my garage and take me on
in a power clean contest. They fell on their asses-literally. I “cleaned” their clocks. They were
speechless. How could this little guy be stronger than them? They wanted to know, but I didn’t
tell them. It was like having keys to the kingdom. I smiled inside, but on the outside retained an
icy stare. They walked away with their ratlike tails between their legs, never to return. One funny
anecdote that sort of bonded Mac and I was that he HAAAATED Chris Dorksey. He used to kick
his ass on a daily basis, not like our “friendly” wrestling matches, but real fist fights. Dorksey was
the kind of kid that you’d just want to hit every time you looked at him. When Mac found out
what I did to Chris, he laughed his ass off. You had to feel sorry for poor Chris Dorksey. He was tall
and lanky, and had a head shaped like a light bulb. Unfortunately, the bulb was never lit.
By the end of eighth grade, I was getting into some phenomenal shape – for a 14 year old
kid. I was lean, but ripped. I didn’t have a six-pack; I had an eight-pack. Wins rolled around
every few weeks as I entered meet after meet, striving to best the Gearhart’s trophy count. I was
almost ready for the national scene, and many officials in my sport (old draconian pillars of the
25

26. weightlifting and AAU community) began to talk about the bright future for this upcoming little
kid from Allentown, PA. That kid was me. I was getting lots of kudos from these old fossils in the
AAU that would eventually pick me for international teams. One of these guys was Rudolph
‘Rudy” Sabio, or as we used to call him on the National Team- “Rude ‘n Awful”. Rudy was
actually a good guy but he was also “Mr. Rulebook”. Years later he ended up being the
manager of the USA National Team that went to Brazil for the Pan Ams and World
Championships – (a funny story on that later), while in eighth grade approaching ninth, I was
being “groomed” to eventually make a Jr. National team, world team, etc.. I went to a regional
meet and I forgot/misplaced my AAU card, which at the time allowed you entry into sanctioned
AAU meets. I was 14 at the time and Rudy, who was presiding over the weigh-ins, proceeded to
give me a 20 minute dissertation on how irresponsible it was….yada yada yada…. And basically
told me if I ever wanted to make an Olympic team, this type of activity would not cut it….blah
blah blah. Secretly behind my back I was throwing Rudy the bird, but at the same time he had
said the magic words “make an Olympic team”. It was like I heard Handel’s Messiah going off in
my head – “Hallelujah, Hallelujah!! “
I will not bore you with the details of every meet in every grade level, but suffice it to say
that I was pumped up and primed to train as hard as I could to reach my goal – make an
Olympic team in 1984 or 1988. There, I said it – I said it to many people, and now I really hung it
all out there. I had to do it or die trying. I was almost 15 and in 9th
grade. It was decided that I
would enter my first national meet – the AAU National Jr. Olympic Games- next summer in
Houston Texas. All year I entered meet after meet and was undefeated. The gym teacher, now
a guy I’ll call Mr. Fickets was pretty shocked when I broad jumped (standing) 8 and one half feet
and was able to turn back flips and hold sloppy iron crosses on the rings. I was a 90 pound 4 foot
8 inch kid with an attitude that was “can do”. Olympic lifting was transforming my body – and
26

27. my mind. I got the silver in the J.O. Games that year, narrowly missing the gold , and letting those
who hadn’t seen me say “who the'F' is that kid?”
As I said, I’ve always been a comeback kid and a kid that definitely didn’t mind being the
underdog, but it was getting a little old. I figured the silver was good, and I was proud, but the
gold is what I wanted. I had done something that no one from my area had done at the time –
win a medal in National competition. I digress, there were others that were National Champs or
nationally ranked in gymnastics at a place called the “Parkettes”. And as I recall there was a kid
from Bethlehem that was nationally ranked in freestyle wrestling, but no one else at the time in
the junior ranks – not even the Gearharts- had won a Junior Olympic National medal.
Another thing happened that year that fired me up. My Uncle Dick came to a family meal
on a Sunday to my grandmother’s house and proceeded to tell me how he got a haircut that
week. I’m like,” yeah, and….”. He said that the barber was telling him that I’d never go very far
in sports, and that the only reason I was winning was that I was a kid and didn’t have such good
competition. He went on to say that I would never go anywhere as an adult, and so on. Here we
go again- another blowhard-it never ends.
A little background on the barber. I’ll call him Ross Muleshits. We all called him “Ross the
butcher”, as his barbering skills bordered on scary. He was either very nearsighted or had
glaucoma. He also liked to flex in the mirror while he was “cutting” your hair. Muleshits was a
gossiper-a churchlady- a fake. He was a jealous, small-time bookie (for real) and wannabe
boxer, although the only boxing he ever did in life was with his clown. What a pity that he had to
bad mouth an eighth grade kid. He made my shit list and I vowed to prove him wrong, which I
did in short order.
From my sophomore year on through freshman college year, I won almost every meet that
I entered, including Nationals. Every week blurred to the next. The days of training got me closer
to that coveted USA Olympic warm up.
27

28. Sophomore year I moved up to the 104 pound class, won the National Junior
Championships, set 3 national records, and then moved up another weight class in the summer
and placed 3rd
in the AAU junior Olympic games. I vowed never to get third again.
During this phase of my life, I garnered more awards, gained more respect and gained a lot
of praise from people. I wasn’t looking for it but it was nice to have people say these positive
things to me. It pushed me to do greater things, and it showed me who my real friends were. It
also showed me that there were a lot of jealous a-holes out there too, both kids and adults alike.
I vowed never to let these people get me down, and fuel the burning competitive fire inside me.
Adversity once again reared its ugly head, and helped me to focus and overcome anything.
Once again I learned that no matter what happens, stay the course and complete the mission
no matter the odds. Once again, I learned to persevere.
“On the road again, playin’ star again. Here I go. Turn the page….
28

29. CHAPTER SIX
THE ENIGMA
“DAD YOU HAVEN’T LOST A SON YOU’VE GAINED A GARAGE”
29

30. Due to my parents’ diligence, fantastic support and their checkbook, I was able to go to
many meets over many years, and without them I couldn’t have done it. By freshman year,
however, I began to outgrow Kappes’s gym, and my life was about to change – forever. My
dad took me to train under the auspices of his old college buddy Gerald “Jeff” Moyer, a French
teacher at Allen high school, the strength coach there, and also a former National Team
member (from the 60’s). Jeff Moyer was an enigma from day one when I met him until the day
he died last year. I walked into the Allen “cage” as we called it (the weight room literally was in
a 10 ft high cage located in the bowels of the Allen Phys Ed center beneath the pool) and was
immediately intimidated by some big guys throwing around serious weights. Moyer noticed my
uneasiness and immediately introduced me around to the guys and even gave me my own
lifting platform to train on. Now, mind you, Jeff Moyer was never a touchy feely, I’m ok your ok,
type of guy. He was however a genuine coach (he just did it his way) that could read people
and bring them together through trial by fire. So if Moyer liked this little punk from Catasauqua,
then by God they would too – or else. The man commanded a lot of respect, and these guys
gave him every bit of it.
Enigma is not enough of a word to describe “The coach”. WORDS cannot really describe
him, but I will venture to try. The first time I went to The Cage I had never seen Moyer. So my Dad
walked me in and I see a bunch of huge guys training, and then I see this guy…. My Dad says,
“That’s him”. I immediately thought,” This guy is going to coach me?” He was wearing a Fedora
hat, complete with a feather in the side, sweater vest, tweed coat with well-worn leather
elbows, and had a pipe and a cup of tea. He looked like a “poster boy” for Burberry-every inch
the gentleman. So suave, so genteel-boy was I wrong!
For the next twelve years I was lucky enough to be forged on his unique anvil into the art of
being competitive-IN EVERYTHING. Everything was a contest, from stair jumps to sprinting to
jumping rope. I always wondered at that age why he just loved to compete with us and I never
quite understood it until now. He was goading his body into knowing that “I still can.” I now know
30

31. this phenomenon as a middle aged athlete trying to go one more round and seeing the future
through my own kids’ endeavors. It is a good feeling, not so much a feeling that you have to do
something, but merely that you still can.
I was inculcated into the world of “Moyerisms”. There were many “Moyerisms”, some words
or phrases, and some were games or actions. There wasn’t a day that went by in “The Cage”
without someone being called a “fleabag” or “dirtbag”, or if you were really close to his
heart-“douchbag”. That was just his special way of caring. Some other ways he showed
affection were his delightful discus throws at our heads with 5 or 10 pound weights. He chased
many a student up and over the “cage” that didn’t “tow the line”- most noteworthy a kid he
used to call “Mr. Disease”. We also played “10 pound plate roulette” and I have fond memories
of a little ditty he called “The Gauntlet”. Running the “Gauntlet” was mandatory when missing a
crucial lift. It entailed lining up a bunch of guys in parallel lines and getting whacked by their
lifting belts as you ran through the center. All of this was especially fun, but the best came years
later when my training intensity created havoc in the gym or my constant playing of the “Rocky”
soundtrack drove him nuts. He was “Wagner’s Cry of Die Valkyrie” or “Chariots of Fire” to my
“Metallica” and “Rocky II”. He threw me out of the gym many times, only to call me and ask
“When are you coming back?”
Later that night at home, after my first official workout with Moyer, I opened one of the
many vintage S&H mags my dad had bought me, and there was Mr. Moyer gracing its pages.
“Someday I’ll be in there,” I thought to myself. Someday came sooner than later. Later that year
I won the National Junior Championships, broke some records, and was now adorning the very
same pages of S&H magazine as well as our hometown newspaper and television station. I was
stoked. My dad continued every day to drive me over to Allen High School to train with Moyer
since I was not yet old enough to drive. He did this between his job as a school teacher and his
small construction company. He was dedicated to me and my mom as the breadwinner. Both
were dedicated to me to help my athletic career prevail. He knew I’d outgrown the garage
31

32. and it was time to move on. If that meant taking time out of his day to drive me back and forth
then that’s what he’d do. He actually tried to purposely schedule jobs around Allentown so that
he could be close.
I began to really make progress over at Chez Moyee. He was not really a coach but he was
literally a molder of psyche, a mentor, an enigma. Some of the stuff that came out of his mouth
was very profound, like; “You can’t run at Indy on regular gas”. Or; “You know why the Indian
rain dance always worked so well? They didn’t stop dancing til it rained”. Others were not so
profound like; “A dog chases a cat around a tree and soon ends up wearing his asshole for a
collar”. Or; “Hey douche bag you’re like a wet fart in a space suit”. Like I said- an enigma.
Enough said.
Sometimes he actually had something to say from an educational standpoint or a life
lesson. Like one time I came into the gym after winning the National Junior title and he looks at
me and mutters “Humility”. “Humility”. I’m like ,” What are you talking about?” He just says,
“Humility” over and over again. I finally say, “Coach- what the f*#k?” He says “humility” again
and I start laughing and he says, “Get out!” Now I say,” Yeah right what for?” “Go home,” he
says. “If you don’t know why I’m saying this you don’t belong here”. I went home. He called me
back. He said “do you understand what I meant?” I said, “I think so. You don’t want me to get
too big for my small britches.” I didn’t really say that exactly, but that’s the gist of it. He always
watched out for me-well not just me, but all of us. He may not have been touchy-feely, but in his
own way he made sure I did the right thing and never came across like a braggart. Obviously,
my parents did this too, but he saw me from a different perspective. I took what he said to heart-
ALWAYS. Yet he never complimented me-until much, much later in life (more about that when I
discuss D-Day). It was usually just a grunt or a shrug, but somehow you always knew he was in
your corner. His constant badgering paid off, though. I guess he saw something in me worth
saving. I NEVER did brag about anything. I’ve always tried to ask other people about their stuff
before ever bringing mine into play. I’ve tried to do that with my kids as well. My older son Jake
32

33. has always been a “Gazelle”. Sports have come easily for him all of his life. He is FAST, strong and
agile, with room to burn. He is a much better natural athlete than I ever was. He instinctively
knew this early in life when he was literally burying kids his age in sprinting, jumping and lifting. He
was cocky, but I “Moyerized” him early-on so that his head didn’t swell, and people didn’t think
he was a cocky little shit. Consequently he is an outstanding athlete and citizen with tons of
humility. My younger son Luke is a lot more like me, more like Rudy, with less natural talent but a
lot of drive. Like me, he doesn’t like to lose, but HE is still a poor loser-but getting better. Luke is still
young, much younger than me when I started. I see him going far on heart, although he is a
great sprinter, jumper and lifter as well-just not as naturally gifted as Jake. I compare the two
and ask myself which one of them I would more like to be. I answer “Luke”, “It’s the journey not
the destination.” Had I been a “gazelle “like Jake, who knows if I would’ve had the drive that I
possess. Only time-and seasoning- will tell the tale. All I know is that Moyer would be proud-of all
of us. He would be proud of me for my humility, and for teaching my kids their humility, and for
teaching them about the biggest competition of all – LIFE!
Passing the torch is what it’s all about.
33

34. CHAPTER 7
“IT’S GETTING BETTER ALL THE TIME”
THE BEATLES
34

35. As I entered high school things in my life were changing. I acquired more friends-different
friends- and began to focus primarily on competing in Olympic Weightlifting. My winning ways
continued and I gained a lot of credibility among my peers. I thought that I was going to play
Freshman football, but I got second thoughts after I took my physical, and I weighed-in at a
whopping 88 pounds (you’ll see that number again-and again). Mac and I continued to go at it
in the halls with an occasional takedown or suplex. We were however getting closer to being
actual friends and hanging out together. I trained harder and longer day after day and
promised myself that I would win a National title. As I said in an earlier chapter, I placed 2nd
at
the end of 9th
grade in the National junior Olympic Games in Houston, TX at 93 pounds. I was a
pretty strong kid. I ended up snatching 121 pounds, and Clean and Jerking 154 pounds.
I explained before about the power clean. Well, the clean and jerk lift is the clean with the
barbell resting on the clavicle then quarter squatting down and driving the weight overhead
very quickly while simultaneously splitting your legs fore and aft beneath the weight. You then
use your core strength to support the weight overhead, recover from the fore/aft split and bring
your feet into line to finish the lift.
The snatch lift uses a very wide grip on the barbell. You basically squat down and grab the
bar with the wide grip, push your feet into the floor, use your legs and hips to accelerate the bar
to the top of the thigh, and pop the bar off the thigh to continue elevating it while
simultaneously pulling your body under the bar in a deep squat with the weight held at arm’s
length overhead. If it sounds complicated-it is. It takes a lot of advanced bio-mechanics,
balance, speed, and strength to do this lift. It has been called the most explosive movement in
all of sports and also “gymnastics with a barbell”. There are very few weightlifters that
mechanically do it well. There are even fewer athletes that train this lift that can do it well. Those
that can do it well have unlocked the kingdom, and this lift is the key. The reason that you don’t
hear more about it from sports trainers and coaches is that they don’t understand it and don’t
know how to teach it.
35

36. It is this lift that enabled me to run sub 4.6 forties, vertical jump 36 inches, broad jump almost
10 feet (standing), standing slam dunk tennis balls on a 10 foot rim, turn back flips, and high jump
5 and one half feet (I am only 5 ft. 6 inches tall) . In short it turns coal into diamonds. I was coal. I
was not yet a diamond, and am still not (but at least polished coal). I was an athlete. I was no
longer a small kid using weightlifting as a means to gain weight and get stronger. I was an
accomplished weightlifter that developed into an athlete that could do things that almost all of
the population could not do.
Many times in my career I’ve heard various people say,” Well, it’s all technique”. I can
honestly say that - yes, technique has something to do with it, just like the technique of swinging
a baseball bat or golf club. BUT, you cannot take any “Joe Shit the rag man” off the street,
teach him impeccable technique, and expect him to be the best. People don’t understand
that it takes a lot more than that, not only in weightlifting, but in any sport or life for that matter.
That excuse by the lay person is a cop out. It’s a barometer that they employ to try and equate
their mediocrity to professional and Olympic athletes alike. They don’t understand that it takes
countless hours/days/months/years of training, lots of pain and sacrifice, and an inner will that
will accept no mediocrity. The people making these “armchair quarterback” comments about
athletes are wannabes at best. At worst they are a reminder that some couch potato read
about something in a book and now he’s an expert. Even worse are the guys who believe they
are experts in physical training because they have a degree in whatever with some acronym
behind their name. Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of excellent coaches out there that are
very receptive to this type of training. I met some of the best guys in my career just recently at
Velocity Sports where my kids and I train. They are very respectful and receptive to my regimen,
yet they all DO have degrees and have all learned differently. They however don’t have the
“My way or the highway” philosophy. They all have the “More than one way to skin a cat
philosophy”.
36

37. There is a basic formula to live by if you even remotely think about being an Olympian,
Professional athlete, etc…. and that formula is ten years and ten thousand hours of training-give
or take. To those who have lived it, and survived, I applaud you. To those that have not lived it
reserve your comments for your beer buddies and drown your sorrows with your ilk. Don’t talk
about what you don’t know. These people are a dime a dozen, from all walks of life, in sport and
in industry. There is no magic formula or easy way out in sport or in life. Those looking for some
magic carpet ride to fame better hunker down and be ready for defeat.
Anyway, I’m getting off on a tangent, but High School started off with a bang, and got
better as it went on. My neighborhood buddies continued to lift at Kappes’s Gym (my garage)
although I was training at the Allen Phys Ed Center. I would train at my house mornings and
weekends and at AHS during the week after school. One day my buddy (and later “Best Man”
at my wedding) Glenn Shipe decided to wrap a jump rope around my neck and throw it over
one of the steel rafters in my garage and proceed to hang me-just for kicks. He was pretty much
a sadist at the time, but he was one of the ones who stuck up for us when Dave Blotter and his
buds came around, so we tolerated him and the shit he gave us. He was the lesser of two evils.
Later in life he got sort of religious and tried to atone for his earlier sins. I could tell volumes.
Anyway, all of this stuff with Glenn was definitely character building-if not neck building. He
finally decided to let me down when my mom entered the garage and saw what was going on
and was about to whack him with a shovel. He was banned from the gym for a while but since
he was generally a good kid to have in your corner I urged her to allow him back in.
By tenth grade Mac and I had become fast friends and when I started driving, we became
inseparable. Mac was always a very good athlete despite his kidney problems as a kid. He was
an outstanding wrestler, cross-country runner, and track athlete. Mac was also a very good
power lifter; most noteworthy was his prowess in the bench press. As a result, He had a big upper
body, and great strength, even if he was on the shorter side of height. Un fortunately Mac didn’t
work legs very often, had somewhat of a top heavy appearance, and could actually bench
37

38. press as much as he could squat! To this day he gets ribbed about that by our other best friend,
Frank Schlofer.
He was also a comedian and one who wasn’t afraid to pull pranks at school. I was still the
Honor Student that would have a problem with bending the rules-a little bit. Mac would show
me how to still be that Honor Student AND have some fun at the same time. He taught me how
to lighten up a little and enjoy life. Life has to be a balance, and “All work and no play makes
Jack a dull boy”. Man did I ever lighten up and come to the “Dark side”. I can remember many
times when Mac and I were sitting in the Auditorium for Study Hall and Mac would open up his
“bag of tricks” (his gym/book bag supposed to be carrying books but rather carried objects that
he could roll down the aisle or hurl at the proctor) and pull out pennies or marbles or tennis balls.
Our gym teacher Mr. Fickets was usually one of these proctors and Mac just loved harassing the
shit out of him. He would pretend that he was reading a book or studying and then nonchalantly
lower his hand under the seat and roll pennies down the inclined floor. When they’d hit bottom,
they would rattle or clank something and Fickets would go ballistic. Of course by this time Mac
and I would already be back to reading our books (perfectly poker faced) which would only piss
Fickets off some more. He enlisted me in his pranks by “double firing” the items down the rows.
Still to come were the times when Fickets or another proctor was “heads down” reading or
grading papers and Mac would actually get up and hurl a tennis ball down at them and quickly
reseat himself perfectly behind his book. Now Fickets was REALLY pissed jumping up and down
like an Organ Grinder’s monkey, calling us all a bunch of babies and the like. So what did I do? I
started rolling more pennies.
Mac had taught me well. I was a far cry from my “Stop! I am a cub scout! “days. I was
coming into my own and this side of my character was forged by my buddies. I was a risk taker-
like them- not in the sense of being dangerous, but more of a guy who thought you can’t get
any rewards by keeping it safe all the time. It was another way of “hanging it out there” and
building character by being one (something that coach Moyer warned me against-“have
38

39. character but don’t be one”). Don’t get me wrong, I was still a straight A student and pretty
good kid, but I’d finally learned that you can be a good student AND have some fun at the
same time.
Now I’ll tell you a little about our buddy Frank Schlofer. Frank and I had known each other
for a while from midget football, but were not very close since I made a comment one day at
practice that pissed him off. Some old guy-his brother- picked him up at football practice one
day and I asked him if it was his dad. He said,”It’s my brother asshole!” See, Frank, or Frankie as
his whole family called him was the “baby” of the family by many years. His brother and sister
were both grown and married with kids, and we WERE just kids. Frank and I became close
eventually, and to this day he is one of the brothers I never had.
Did I say that Frank has a bad temper? Well, he does, and he’s definitely a good guy to
have in your corner, too. Frank also is about the only person that may be more competitive
than me and anyone I know. In fact he is the only person that gets pissed off playing board
games like Monopoly and turns them into a contact sport. Much more on THAT later. Frank has
been a lifelong friend that has a lot of talents. He is the ultimate competitor like I said before,
and an accomplished athlete in wrestling, football, power lifting, and track. He is also a very
creative guy in many respects with music, art, and cooking. He is an oxymoron of life. Just when
you think that you’ve got him figured out, he surprises you with some passion or emotion that you
never knew he had. He was Yin Yang and from him I believe I also fostered this trait. To this day I
am like this from both Frank and from Jeff Moyer. From Frank I would always learn to not be
satisfied and sit on my laurels. Frankie would eventually become one of the catalysts that
sparked my return from athletic retirement.
I began to systematically pick the friends that I felt would be the best guys to hang out with.
I only hung out with jocks, usually rowdy, ornery ones. That’s how we all developed; we were like
39

40. blood brothers. We would’ve spit blood for each other, and many times we ended up doing just
that.
It got pretty crazy until the day I met our other friend Mike Muschko. Then it got REAL crazy.
Talk about nuts-Muschko put Stevo from Jackass to shame. Muschko went to a different high
school than us, but he’d been friends with Frank since they were little kids, and he became one
of our posse-or I became one of theirs. All of this really came to play when I got my license. The
first time we met, Frank , Mac and I pulled up in front of his house(he was grounded) he jumped
out of his window, onto the roof then onto the ground carrying a jug of homemade moonshine
that he’d been fermenting in his attic for a few months. We were 16. Life was good, and we
were coming into our own. Mushy as he was affectionately called had an incredibly long list of
nicknames which I won’t go into or he would KILL me (I’m not kidding). He also is THE guy you’d
want watching your back if anything went down.
The Mush did a lot of stupid things, like I said, but he was also very intelligent school- wise.
The first time I met Mush, I saw that he had this grotesque looking scar all over his one hand and
forearm that almost looked like the skin was melted together and put back on his arm with a
spatula. I said,” What the hell is that from?” He went on to tell me how he made a homemade
pipe bomb that he thought was going to be like a “Roman Candle” and shoot out the top.
Instead of doing that, he packed it (gunpowder) too tight and the galvanized pipe exploded. I
said,” So how did that still blow up your hand if it (the pipe bomb) was on the ground?” Well,
Mush just sat there with a shit eating grin on his face and said “I was holding it”. Like I said-crazy.
Not a guy you want to f#*% with. I’m glad he’s on our side.
Well, life was certainly getting more interesting, that’s for sure. Like any other high school
kids, we liked to party. The Lehigh River banks were our party central. We confiscated a huge
fort that was built by some younger kids and that’s where we discovered BEER-and girls (well I
guess the girls part was discovered a few years earlier, but now we had a place to call home).
40

41. Every weekend we’d head down the road from Frank and Mushy’s houses with cases in tow and
hang out- and drink….and drink….and drink. And we didn’t just drink any crap; we were already
connoisseurs of the good stuff. We would get Mac’s brother Dan to buy us cases of Molson and
Heineken and we’d sit there at the river bank drinking ice cold brew and smoking Swisher’s
Sweets. Oh – and we also had Muschko’s homemade hooch that he used to brew in his attic,
but now his equipment had a new home.
All of this stuff was certainly ordinary for a few high school kids, but for me-well, I almost felt
like I was throwing away my dream by not maintaining my Spartan regimen of diet and training
seven days per week. I would ( at 16) get up five mornings per week to train in the garage, then
go to school, then train again at the Allen Cage with Moyer. I always felt guilty that I gave myself
the weekend to blow off steam, but in retrospect, I needed it-BADLY. I pushed myself constantly
to the limit, between dieting to make a weight class and then training constantly, and checking
bodyweight constantly- I was OBSESSED. Being obsessed about a goal is not a bad thing per se,
since almost all elite level athletes have similar traits, but as a kid I pushed myself relentlessly to
attain this goal. I don’t believe this anymore.
I believe that kids need to be kids at times and because of that I try not to push my kids
unless I find them really slacking. Over the years I’ve learned to figure out when to push and
when to back off. I don’t know where I got this obsession to be the best, since my parents never
pushed me to do anything. I guess I was born with it, or it developed over the years because of
things that happened in my life, like coming face to face with society’s Jeff Schlikkers and Dave
Blotters (remember them from Chapter One).
Whatever it was that transformed me, it had me for good. The little campfire inside of me
was now a full-on burning fire fueling me to succeed by any means necessary. I was a poster
boy for Machiavelli’s quote: “The end justifies the means”. I had tunnel vision and those around
me knew that I would stop at nothing to reach my goal. I was on a mission and I continued to
41

42. win and exceed everyone’s expectations-except my own. Little did I know that in a couple of
years that I would have a stowaway on my train bound for glory. That stowaway’s name is
Murphy, and his word is LAW, but for now it was “Getting better all the time”.
CHAPTER SEVEN
42

43. “FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT”
TRIUMPH
43

44. Suffice it to say that being in High School and having the set of adopted brothers that I did,
we came into our own and did our own thing. We followed our own set of rules while we were
still in good standing with the powers that be both in school and in the community. Every now
and then the powers that be had to tighten the leash that held the “Band of Merry Men
“together. Sometimes the leash was held by our High School Principal, who I’ll call Doc Mortimer.
And sometimes it was yanked by our parents, but not too often. Other times the local authorities
tried to yank it but were either outwitted, outran, or out-talked.
Mostly, we had a lot of friends and allies, but like the hellions (but good, clean hellion jocks)
we were, we had a lot of enemies too. Many of our enemies were druggies, potheads and dirt
bags. We thrived on getting into it with them. This got worse as we got older. We always tried to
uphold our honor and protect those that could not protect themselves. To this day I live by this
credo and I have taught my sons the same:”Protect those who cannot protect themselves, and
never ever ridicule those who have an affliction – mental or physical”. We as a group also lived
by the mantra: “He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword!”
Every now and then one of us went a little too far, like the time Mac and I protested the vile
spoiled food that was given to us one day in the cafeteria by the sinister cafeteria matron who
I’ll call Medusa Stone. Medusa was a hard-line no nonsense battleaxe of a woman with “Mr.
Heatmizer red hair” who slogged out nasty looking swill on a daily basis. She watched us from
behind the long stainless steel countertops with a sadistic glare that basically begged you to
complain about the food she served. Well, one day Mac wanted chocolate milk, and there
were no more cartons in the box. When he complained that there were none left, she went into
the back and came out with one for him. We sat down at our table and as we were shooting
the shit with a bunch of guys, he opens the carton, takes a drink and proceeds to spit out a
bunch of nasty curdled chunks and almost pukes at the sight of them. She is sitting on her fat ass
behind the counter just looking at us with no expression. She set us up, so we spill his remaining
44

45. curds all over the lunch table and then dump all remaining food onto the table. Many other
tables follow suit.
Visions of Blutto in Animal House yelling “Food Fight!!!!” But it was not to be. The Café
proctor who I’ll call Mr. Angerine (the wrestling coach) grabs us both by the necks and reads us
the riot act unless we clean up the whole cafeteria. We protest, we explain, and although he is
an ally of ours-and a good guy- he is a true hardass and sends us packing to the Principal.
Doc Mortimer is not amused. He kicks Mac out to wait until his dad gets there (Mac’s dad
was one of our teachers) and he closes the door to deal with me. First he asks me what
happened to me. I say “Why, Doc Mortimer I have no idea what you mean”. (I really do know
what he means). Then he asks me why I hang around with the friends I do. He says, “Why don’t
you hang around with so and so, and so and so? They are all honor students like you and are in
student government, national honor society, etc... “. My comeback is, “Those dudes are geeks,
that’s why. You can’t tell me who I can hang out with and who I can’t. The guys I hang around
with are like brothers, and we are good kids. I am a defender of righteousness (AND STILL AM).
Yeah, we may be a little rebellious, but like Thomas Jefferson said,’ A little revolution is a good
thing.’ Now he says,” See, my boy you are a scholar, not a ruffian like these hoodlums you hang
with-you’re quoting Jefferson!” Little did Doc Mortimer know that while I was quoting Jefferson, I
was thinking about Jeff Spicoli quoting Jefferson to Mr. Hand in Fast Times at Ridgemont High!
“Like hey dude, we left this England place because it was bogus, right? So if we don’t get some
cool rules ourselves-pronto, we’ll just be bogus too!” So I told him we were leaders, not followers,
and that we would uphold the greater good; and with that statement and the Jefferson quote
to the Doc, I spun him to coming to our mode of thinking about the milk incident (and Medusa
Stone) and Mac and I didn’t get suspended. He still thought I needed some new friends, though-
sorry dude, not happening. I was in THE ZONE.
45

46. Years later and to this day I have the ability to get people to see my way of thinking and
follow it. Sometimes a gift, yet others, a curse. All that I know is that my life was in a good place,
a good balance, walking that fine line and pushing the proverbial envelope. Acceptance,
prosperity, sanity – in an insane world.
I learned a valuable lesson here from my friends and that is don’t give in to the mainstream,
safe philosophy of ordinary people. Push the limits of everything in life or you will only ever be
another face in the crowd. Captains of industry, scientists, artists, and the Michael Jordan’s of
the world will agree with me on this. And in no way am I comparing myself to them, only that I
have emulated their recipe for success.
46

47. CHAPTER EIGHT
“GONNA FLY NOW”
BILL CONTI
THE SPECTRUM, THE KID, AND THE OLYMPIC TRAINING CENTER
47

48. Getting back to my athletic career, by 10th
grade, I was in the 104 pound weight class, and
won my first of three Teenage National Championships (now called the National Junior
Championships), setting two National Records in the process and tying another. It was 1979, and
my goal was the 1988 Seoul Olympics with an outside chance at LA in 84. I made my first US
National Team at age 16, and spent a couple of weeks at the Olympic Training Center in the
summer at Colorado Springs for this team. Although this weight class was not contested
internationally, I was making some big weights for a small kid, and was invited as a result. I could
snatch 143 pounds and clean and jerk 181 pounds at this bodyweight.
During that summer I went up a weight class to 114 pounds and got a bronze medal at the
National Junior Olympic Games in Topeka Kansas. I was pissed that I got third, but I was just
moving up, and I only weighed about 110 pounds, so just like in wrestling, being underweight for
a class is a BIG disadvantage. Your best bet is to go about 3-4 pounds over the class limit and
cut weight quickly prior to the meet. Later in this book there is a whole section about insane
weight-reducing methods and how I recovered from them (what not to do and what you pay
for later).
For now, just being at the Olympic Training Center was a dream come true for me. I finally
was getting closer to the dream- The U.S. Olympic Team and that coveted USA warm-up suit.
Right now though, I had a pretty good collection started of Nationals t-shirts, U.S National team
AAU patches, and an actual U.S. Olympic Training Center I.D. badge that you hung around your
neck while at the center. The U.S. Weightlifting Team was one of the few sports that had
permanent residence there, and I felt extremely lucky to be there as a sixteen year old kid. Man
was it cool. You got to meet other athletes from other sports, like Edwin Moses, Carl Lewis, Scotty
Hamilton, and Jackie Joyner. The Center was built on an old US Air Force Base with lots of
Quonset huts lined one after the other. These days, The OTC is a brand spanking new state of
the art campus which houses many National Teams and visiting teams. Back in the day the
weightlifting housing was lucky enough to be in an old B.E.Q. or Bachelors enlisted quarters. It
48

49. was a few stories tall and basically like a college dorm built out of Hollywood block and painted
battleship grey. There were two bunks to a room, and mine happened to look out on Pike’s
Peak. I quickly adorned that wall with a centerfold of Miss July.
Training there was great but took a little getting used to at the 6200 foot elevation (I was
used to sea level, basically). I would soon learn that altitude training turned your body into a
turbo charged machine when you returned to sea level training. Along with Russian and
Bulgarian training systems, we learned other Iron Curtain secrets like Plyometrics, various
recovery methods, and supplementation. It was there that I learned about Vitamin “M” which
was sometimes required after 2 and 3 training sessions per day. Vitamin “M” is Motrin (Ibuprofen),
and to this day it’s still my wonder drug of choice.
The Medical Department at the Center is phenomenal, though, and they would only
dispense as much as was needed and not all the time. We were being taught how to feel and
deal with pain, and what it felt like to overtrain versus having delayed-onset muscle soreness. We
were also taught how to use various recovery methods to combat overtraining like manual and
hydro-massage, proper nutrition and supplementation. In order to feel recovery, we were told
that first you had to know how to recognize pain, fatigue and lactic acid accumulation. Once
we mastered this, then and only then did the Vitamin “M” get dispensed. Thank God for Vitamin
“M”! Sports medicine which was tantamount in the Eastern Bloc was now finally born in the
United States. It would grow quickly into a mega-billion dollar industry.
At first, upon arrival to the Springs, I had culture shock, but then I was like a kid in a candy
store, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. The older kids there as well as the resident athletes were
really great with me – I was sort of like the mascot- and they liked my intensity. As soon as the
camp started it was over, and back home to Allentown I went. I was sad to go, as I’d learned a
lot there, but vowed to be back again soon, perhaps for good. I would be back again many
times, but not for another two years.
49

50. I returned to Allentown (Catasauqua) a small celebrity of sorts in my small town. I received a
commendation from the Mayor in a formal ceremony regarding my Nationals win and selection
to the National Junior Team. It was a pretty big deal- to me at least and my family and friends.
Others, though, like the dirt bags we despised and some guys from neighboring schools were not
impressed; and basically due to some recognition I got, now they were gunning for me to prove
myself. Holy shit, here we go again. Does it ever end? “No”, I answer to myself, but I forge ahead
and keep going despite some threats and adversity. I had my boys, my posse, and my brothers
that would stop at nothing to defend our honor. I feared for nothing-quite the contrary-even
though I was only about 112 pounds, I was quite confident in my ability to protect myself. I was
strong, wiry and ripped; and even though my friends could push me around or pick on me to
keep me tough, God help anyone if anyone else did because my buds would mash them into
paste. It wasn’t that they thought I couldn’t handle myself; it was them protecting me to keep
training to reach my goal and not get hurt by some ahole trying to fight me. And it was always
big guys, much bigger than me that wanted to test me out. “Oh yeah-how much can you
bench?” was always their calling card-friggin douchbags.
By eleventh grade, I was a full 114 pounds, lifting not only on the Junior, but also Senior
National Level. I could get elected to International teams representing the US. I very handily won
the National Junior Championships again, and again knocking on the door of the National
Junior Olympic records in that class. But the records eluded me for the time being. I did however
qualify for my first Senior National Championships, to be held at the Philadelphia Spectrum in
June of that year. This was a very cool thing, outside of being a 17 year old kid in the biggest
meet in the United States; this was the home of Rocky Balboa, and his Championship fight with
Apollo Creed. I was stoked, as I was a BIG “Rocky” fan. I loved the movie, the music, and the
concept of the character.
Approaching the Championship, I was on a high, ready to win, ready to put my face on the
weightlifting map, and ready to go into the record books.
50

51. Uh oh- along comes Murphy for the first of a long line of visits in my career. As I’m driving
back from Franco’s house one night about 2 weeks from the meet, I drop an 8 track tape ( yes
an 8 Track tape - for you younger readers ask your parents) on the floor of my car , reach down
to pick it up, and smash into a parked car. What an idiot .Bad Juju. Bad pain radiating through
my right shoulder. My vision of running up the Philadelphia art museum steps is waning. For the
first time in my career, I had to go to an orthopedic surgeon.
At the behest of my coach Jeff Moyer, I went to see the area’s best Sports medicine Doc,
Dr. Tom Dickson. “Dr. D” as I grew to call him was more than just a Doctor to me. He was a friend,
a mentor, an advisor, a confidant, and a certifiably friggin creative medical genius. He used
theories, techniques, surgeries and wrap systems like no other doctor. Some of his peers thought
he was a mad scientist, using unproven methodology, but inside they were envious of what fruits
his instincts and practices came to bear. Later in my career he would do two different
experimental surgeries on me that kept me in the game and put him in the medical journals. Dr.
D was an advocate for the athlete and their rights, and also was on the USOC Doping staff for
athletes drug testing. He was a warrior of medicine, an unconventional warrior. His methods got
my separated shoulder back in just two weeks to take on the USA’s best at the 1980 Senior
National Championships.
I was introduced to a very effective NSAID (non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug) called
“Bute” or Butazolidin Alka. Bute was originally developed for racehorses that turned ankles and
the like and was quickly found to be very effective at not only reducing inflammation and pain
but also healing the tissue. It was potent stuff, but came at a price. It could only be used for a
couple of weeks and then discontinued due to RBC (red blood cell) and bone marrow
suppression. As I said, Dr. D pushed the envelope to keep you in the game, but he made doubly
sure that I got a CBC (complete blood count) test after the treatment was over. I found a new
best friend in Bute since even my beloved Vitamin M wouldn’t make a dent in the pain I had.
These days, Bute is gone as far as humans go, I guess due to more risk than reward, but I had
51

52. dodged my first bullet of my career. Unfortunately, Murphy’s aim would eventually get better,
and the bullets would hit their mark, making that the story of my life.
I was feeling pretty good going into the last few days prior to the meet. Since I was tapering,
I wasn’t training heavy the last couple of weeks, and I was allowed some rest, which continued
to heal my shoulder. My buddy Frank to this day tells the story about “the knee brace” which, to
this day, I refute. The basic premise is that I asked my Mom to buy me some new “extra small”
knee sleeves for the meet for some added rebound and protection. Frank swears that she came
home with size “small” braces and I flopped on the ground kicking and screaming like a two
year old having a temper tantrum. While I was a superstitious athlete, I refuse his claims and say
no way did I do that, but it’s always a source of comedy when we get together for the holidays.
Well, I made it to the Spectrum for the 1980 US National Championships and Final Olympic
Trials for the Moscow Olympics and did very well, finishing third and narrowly missing second.
Considering that I was banged up a couple of weeks before, I wasn’t too disappointed. I was
however disappointed that the National Junior record still eluded me. It wouldn’t elude me for
long though, as the next weekend were the Region 2 Junior Olympics, qualifiers for the National
Junior Olympic Games. At that meet I blasted the National clean and jerk record of 214 pounds
by doing 220 pounds at 114 lbs. bodyweight. That lift also beat the combined total record by 2.5
kilos.
I had just broken the National records and now was poised to win the National JO Games in
Waterloo Iowa, which I did handily but got no more records. I had a bunch of friends on a team
known as the “Crushers Unlimited”, a group of inner city black kids from DC. We hooked up in
Waterloo at the hotel and hung out before the Games. They offered my Dad and me a ride to
the meet venue on the day of competition. My Dad thought, “Great, I don’t have to drive and
find this place”. Unfortunately, the Crushers’ big Chevy Van driven by Coach Bob Thompson was
more like Spicoli’s VW van in Fast Times at Ridgemont high. The guys that weren’t competing
52

53. were all smoking weed-big time. It was a cloud inside. And when the door opened the cloud
came out and we all staggered outside. My dad and I were green. Thompson and The Crushers
were laughing their asses off at how we looked. I don’t know if the smokescreen had any effect
on my performance, but even though I got the gold, I wasn’t happy because I broke no more
records. My days as a 114 pounder were over – look out Pizza Hut. I was on my way to the 123
pound class and hopefully my first International team. Although I again made the USA National
Junior team, I did not get selected to go to the Junior World Championships as the higher weight
classes always took precedent. That summer I would have made the National Sports Festival
(had there been one) but since this was an Olympic year (boycotted by Jimmy Friggin Carter)
there were none held. I did have the distinction, though, of being a 17 year old kid that just got
the bronze medal in the 1980 Olympic Trials for Moscow.
My Junior year was over, and to date I owned Three National Championship Titles, and a
number of runner up and third place slots. I was now well past the Gearharts combined medal
and trophy count, but I was one and they were three. But actually, now that it happened, it was
no big deal to me. I felt no different, and I still had no trophies in the case. They adorned the big
bookshelves in my parents den, and the fact that I had surpassed my friends’ medal count
didn’t make me feel better about who I was as a result. I did feel better about whom I was
because of what I’d accomplished, but not at others’ expense. I was never about that and
would never BE about that. It became a paradoxical struggle of self within self and it hardened
my resolve. I would cultivate this more and more as the years went on. And by 1988, I would
need it more than I ever would know. I felt even better about myself than before, in that I was
very humble (remembering Moyer’s “humility, humility”) and also very confident without being
cocky. I was very supportive of my friends and their endeavors as well. I was about to enter my
Senior year of high school. Now What?
53

54. CHAPTER NINE
“JUST DO IT”
BILL BOWERMAN, NIKE FOUNDER AND UNIVERSITY OF OREGON
LEGENDARY TRACK COACH
54

55. My Senior year in High School started with the BIG question of where I was going to go to
college, just like any other College Prep Senior. I had a few options. One was to stay close to
home and go to Kutztown University to study Graphic Design, another was to go to the University
of Colorado at Colorado Springs, and another was to Annapolis via an appointment from
Congressman Don Ritter – three altogether different options. Each option had its merits, as
Kutztown was a great art and design school, Colorado was right there in Springs by the Olympic
Training Center.
The third option is a bit of a head scratcher in that it had nothing to do with the Olympics. It
involved another dream (s) of mine to be a Navy Seal or Naval Aviator (long before Cruise and
Top Gun). Both careers, like trying to be an Olympian are extremely challenging and rewarding.
The Seals were/are/and always will be the epitome of toughness, both mental and physical and
flying jet aircraft in combat is just cool; especially when it entails shooting down bad guys and
defending our country. I’ve always had that type of patriotic, “defender of righteousness” ethic,
so the Naval Academy really appealed to me. The Navy also took discipline - which I definitely
had- and was structured and challenging. I had very good grades, was ranked 6th
in my class,
was a National Champion athletically, so the Navy was interested in looking at me. I took a
couple of tests, the FAR-GTI test for pilot types / Officer Candidates and the ASVAB, a general,
multi subject exam, and aced both of them. It seemed like a no-brainer going to a Service
Academy and all that, but when my handler told me that I could forget about training for the
Olympics (because Academy Plebes that weren’t competing for the Academy shined shoes
and buckles and didn’t train four hours a day), it pretty much lost its luster.
No, the Navy would be put on the back burner for now. It was decided that I would go to
Kutztown and study Graphic Design, live in the dorms with my best friends (who were also going
there) and train in Allentown with Coach Moyer. Colorado didn’t pan out in that I really wasn’t
drawn to their curriculum and it was really far away from home. I wanted to be a resident
athlete at the OTC, but for now, all slots were taken. I chose Design/Graphic Art as my major as I
55

56. was always a very good artist and my Dad was an art and design teacher at Easton High school
for many years. It seemed like a good fit, and I got accepted to the School of Design early fall of
my senior year.
Coach Moyer would never let on that he was pleased at my decision to stay close to home,
but I know that he was happy that I would keep coming to the cage to train after high school.
We were at odds constantly about training projections and butt heads on a daily basis when it
came to the workout of the day and training intensity. I would go heavy (high intensity)
constantly-like Pre did with his front running- and tweak this or pull that while Moyer would sit
there with this “Cheshire cat I told you so” grin on his face. There was a constant struggle over
my philosophy versus his and like Bowerman used to tell Pre about similar situations,” You can do
anything you want but what University are you going to be running for next week?” There was
never a day that went by that he didn’t infer the same “my way or the highway “philosophy on
me and “remember you’re a guest here” now and then. It was his way of saying again-
“humility, humility”.
But the coach let me slide many times and gave me a long leash when it came to what I
could and could not do at Allen High School. He did that because he knew my agenda – the
same one he’d had back in 1968 for the Olympics in Mexico City.
Now at 17, almost 18, my bodyweight was going up fast, too fast and I went from 114 in the
summer to a full bantamweight 123 pounds. I actually went to about 130 pounds by Christmas
vacation, and although my lifts were going up a lot, I needed to stay at 123 pounds to let them
catch up proportionately to what I’d done at 114. I would have trouble reducing weight all that
year, and many times I would eat stuff to get the taste only to spit them out while trying to suck
weight. While I wasn’t bulimic, this practice was pretty weird, but effective. I thrived on broiled
chicken, tomatoes, egg whites, and spinach. I used a lot of f’d up methods to make weight.
Most were benign, like rubber suits in the sauna while doing jumping jacks, etc... I also figured out
56

57. how to lose a full pound of weight just by chewing Cramer’s Quench gum, squirting lemon juice
in my mouth, and spitting- and spitting- and spitting. My weight and my lifts stabilized and were
now proportionate to what I’d been doing before- actually better
As I turned eighteen, I made my first “double bodyweight” clean and jerk by doing 248
pounds at 123 pound bodyweight. This happened for a few reasons. One was that I slowly
listened more to what Moyer was saying about “hills and valleys” – his way of saying we had to
vary training volume and intensity. Another was that I had tons of Testosterone floating around
inside my 18 year old body-naturally I will add. I was maturing late but it was now coursing
through my body, building strength, speed and muscle every nanosecond. I experimented with
lots of different natural supplements to increase performance. I got Waaaay more aggressive,
and when I had to make weight I was downright mean. I was primed to go for my third National
Junior Championship in three years, but as you know someone always “comes out of the
woodwork”. “We’ll see,” said the coach, “Don’t be impetuous, go with it easily and just do it, let
it come. Train don’t strain was also a mantra of his (and also of my coach for the World Masters
Games-Nick Curry). Well, easier said than done. I was the epitome of impetuousness and
impatience, some things that I’ve worked very hard at over the years, and I work hard with my
kids not to be like me in that regard. I got pretty ballsy in school that year as well. While my
grades didn’t suffer, I basically walked around like I was on a mission all the time. I WAS on a
mission-but not everyone knew it yet.
My current regimen was to wake up at 530 or 6 am four days a week and catch an early
morning workout at the recently renovated Kappes’s Gym in my garage, drink a protein drink for
breakfast, go to school, and then leave school early (I had last period study hall) to go train at
Allen High with Moyer for 3 hours.
This was working great until one day I took home my architectural renderings (Architecture
class) to show my Dad and some a-hole in my class I’ll call Jeff Jockstrap told the teacher what I
57

58. did and I got in BIG trouble. The teacher who I’ll call Terrance Unfairance had some bullshit rule
about the drawings not leaving the classroom, but nowhere in his bullshit bylaws did it say that
you’d get a ZERO on this yearlong project if you did. I WAS PISSED ROYALLY! Not only did I get a
zero for the YEAR but I lost my last period study hall privileges, and had to stay in Terrance’s class
(right before my last period study hall) with my thumb up my ass doing nothing when I should be
training. So I took it upon myself to use my time to do my warm up exercises for my workout in
the back of his class. Oh- Boy did he NOT find this one bit amusing. He told me to get my books
and get out- go sit in the office. Talk about “throwing water on the gremlin”. I exploded and
took my pile of books and threw them all right at him-some big books I may add. I said “you can
take my books and shove ‘em up your fat ass!” – no shit, no exaggeration. The fat guy was
about to have a coronary and the class was in mayhem. I stormed out and promptly went
to see Doc Mortimer the Principal, who was now Doc Mortified by what I was telling him. I had to
figure out how to make him Doc Mollified, but to no avail. I got friggin in- school suspension for a
week in his office-LOVELY!
Obviously my Dad got called to come in after school, pissed at me but more pissed at what
had happened, being a tenured educator himself. Didn’t these morons know that I had an
Olympics to train for?? Obviously not as the Doc in his infinite wisdom starts giving me a lecture
on school spirit and why I didn’t play scholastic sports for OUR High School, or be on the Debate
Team or some other feeble activity. This WAS my attitude of the day, the year, the time. It would
get more intense as time went on until D-Day. So after the in-school suspension period I was
back in class, but unable to get the extra hour of training.
So I started “mind training”, using my time to learn biofeedback and visualization, two things
that I use to this day. Later in my career I would take a test that determined how the athlete (or
human) deals with adversity and is able to maintain focus and reach the mission objective
regardless of the severity and intensity of the stressor. I was found to be in the 99th
percentile of
all human beings that had taken this test. I’m very proud of that fact, and time and time again
58

59. in my life I have proven this to be a true valuation. Today I have tried to pass the things that I’ve
learned on to my kids and the kids that I’m coaching.
I ended up having a great athletic and academic year, finishing 2nd
at the National Junior’s,
4th
overall in the Senior Nationals, but 3rd overall at the Seniors in the clean and jerk. I was
selected to USA National Team and went to the Pan Am Championships in Colorado Springs.
That summer I was a resident athlete of the Olympic Training Center, got 6th at the Pan Am
Games and again won the Gold at the National Junior Olympic Games at 56 kilos (123 pounds)
with lifts of 85 kg (187 lb.) snatch and 110 kg (242 lb) clean and jerk.
I was again sad to leave the OTC, but late August I said goodbye to Miss June (Playboy
Centerfold) that was hanging on my dorm wall facing Pike ’s Peak, and headed back to
Allentown for my Freshman year of college. It was time to gain some needed bulk, move up a
couple of weight classes, and have some fun. All in all, 1981 and my Senior Year proved fruitful
on both the athletic and academic fields of play.
I really came into my own as an independent individual that wanted more out of life than
just being smart or just being a great athlete. I learned once again that hanging it all out there
and being a little rebellious gains a lot of credibility with your peers and adults alike. I was no
longer a pushover by any sense of the word. The seeds planted a long time ago by Morty
Immatura and Jeff Shlikker were duly cultivated and nourished by my buddies and were now in
full bloom.
I didn’t think I was quite ready for college, I’d have rather trained full time for the Olympics,
but like Bowerman used to say, “JUST DO IT!”
59

60. Chapter Eleven
“Crazy Train”
Ozzy Ozzborne
OR
“God Help us All”
60

61. I don’t know what is funnier, seeing your roommate running down the quad with flaming
toilet paper pinched between his butt cheeks or entering my dorm room to find some weird
substance on my doorknob when I closed my door. The latter is not so funny unless you’d been
there and seen / heard my buddies literally crying/laughing and rolling on the floor as they
looked at my expression on my face. On further inspection of my palm, it had some hair on it
and a sticky substance. I said,” Who’s got curly hair?” Now the room was in uproar. It seems my
buddy Frank cut off some (or all – I don’t know) of his pubes and rubber cemented them to my
doorknob inside. The room was in uproar and these guys were pissing themselves. What began
as bewilderment turned to anger and quickly to hysterically laughing myself. This was gonna
work out. College was gonna be JUST FINE.
Funny thing is my buddies are still like that. I don’t think we ever really grew up, especially
not Frankie. He is still always the life of the party, and the first thing out of his mouth the” morning
after” is always, “Damage control?” He is the biggest performer, biggest antagonist and biggest
volume AND THE BIGGEST PERIOD. He also is the biggest backer of causes if you ever need one.
We all arrived at college already larger than life. We were small fish in a big pond, but we
walked around like we owned the place. I finally had my USA National Team uniform and I was
never seen without it on campus (the jacket, that is). You could say that I was proud of it, and
people knew it. It was like GOLD to me. No one else at my college had earned or possessed
one. To this day, my original USA warm up is kept under plastic in the back of my closet, and my
wife and kids are under orders to have me buried in it- no kidding. It is the one possession that I
have that will not be passed down to my sons- or wife. Getting back to college, I wasn’t too
cocky, and definitely not conceited, but I did carry myself with an air of quiet confidence and I
definitely had earned the right to do that. People said that I always walked around like I was on
a mission, just like in high school. (Remember this material, you’ll see it again). Once people got
to know me, they told me that they always thought that I was unapproachable, and basically
61

62. they did not approach me, but as time went on, the stigma diminished. Truth is I WAS
approachable, but I was just VERY focused on my task at hand. I’ve always been that way.
People have said “Why don’t you smile more?” I say that I smile when I wish to smile and not
walk around like some “smiling idiot”. The people that I’ve crossed paths with in my life that walk
around smiling and glad-handing are usually a-holes and fakes. One thing that I pride myself in
life is being real, and honest, and having character. I also feel that I am a great judge of
character. I have always surrounded myself with friends and people of character (some of my
friends are characters-me too, sometimes) and I think that this cultivates one to be a person of
character.
Talking about characters in college, let me tell you a little story about a guy who called
himself “Mr. Tie”. Mr. Tie was the moniker for a small time DJ that was hooking up with one of the
girls that lived in an all girl apartment next door. His claim to fame was wearing one of those
skinny leather ties popular with the Punk Rock crowd back in the early 80’s or the one that
looked like a piano keyboard a la Joe Jackson (or Mike Da Mone in Fast Times at Ridgemont
High). As you’ve seen, I talk about “Fast Times” a lot in this book. It’s one of my favorite comedies
of all time. I guess I was also a “closet” Jeff Spicoli-Surfer dude extraordinaire. I envied his laid
back/devil-may-care attitude but realized that I could never be like him if I ever wanted to go
anywhere in life. But I could always dream.
Anyway, back to Mr. Tie, he was truly irritating and very cocky. He liked to strut his tie-
wearing scrawny butt all over campus, waving wads of singles at the bars to try and pick up
chicks. One evening, after returning from my second workout session of the day- this one at
Allen High- I saw our buddy Mr. Tie under the lights in the largest parking lot on campus. It was
getting dark, and I saw him in the corner of the lot spray painting his car-with spray cans! It was
too good to be true, and it was time to rally the troops and go on some night maneuvers. Did I
tell you that our apartment complex backed up to the end of this lot where Mr. Tie was
62