On Things Worse Than Dying: The Old Man and The Boy

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40377630_10217526802779362_4820441353366274048_nI have struggled near two weeks now to put into lengthier form how I feel about the passing of Don McCauley. Conceptually, I envisioned writing about Don in the three phases he was in my life: purely as a Coach and Colleague; as a close personal friend and struggling business partner; and an old man and a young boy in room alone the last time I saw him.

I’ve struggled to execute this concept for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I want to celebrate Don’s life and all who he touched as athletes, coaches, and humans. That should be the raison d’etre for anything written about Don. You will find traces of him everywhere in our relatively small, but growing community.

I want to sit here and type all the things I first remember him teaching me as an exceptionally mediocre athlete. About the hours on the road we shared solving all the world’s problems with our unifying but flexible set of “guidelines”. How he was there to watch two of his pupils fall madly, embarrassingly, unapologetically in love with each other and the feeling of sanctity his blessings gave us. I’d like to tell you all the stories I’ve jokingly sketched about his father working for the Providence, RI Mafia, my only logical conclusion given his father’s string of odd professions (including “The Butcher”) or his gold-ornamented lawyer friend, Joe Rodeo, who wept at his father’s funeral accompanied by two suspiciously large body men. I hope, someday, I will be able to visit more with Don’s family and learn from his two brothers about his younger life, or perhaps from their mother who has had to bury her oldest son.

In fact, I would like to write just about fucking anything, because I really need to be getting some work done. But every time I stare at a blank page and attempt to write about anything, I can’t help but think about Don. Maybe this is because Don was famously quite verbose, particularly in the written form, having studied journalism and published his own book. It could be because we would trade books or even book ideas, and that storytelling was a cherished part of Don’s life.

Mostly, I think it is because I am riddled with grief that I’ve refused to acknowledge has been building for about a year and a half. So I am writing this for me. It is of course about Don. But it is not for him. It is not even for you, the reader. It is for me to begin to find some sort of peace, whatever the fuck that means, through this grief that is crippling me underneath the surface.


Cancer is in my family, and in it strong. Of the six siblings that were born in Ireland in my family, four have succumbed to cancer. When I die, it will probably be from cancer. There are so many things in Don’s life that he should have died from that, while unpleasant, would’ve been a quick and relatively painless end. When he told me what his diagnosis was, I ignored all of my life’s experience that taught me explicitly how his condition would come to an end.

For whatever reason, my brain immersed itself in the strongest form of cognitive dissonance possible. We knew what kind, what stage, and what time he would have. I had all the facts in front of me and read papers reasserting those facts. I instead, chose to believe the experimental trials working in mice and rats would get to him in time. That he could be the 1% of survivors. That my friend, who is perhaps the only man on Earth more stubborn than myself, could exert his will one more time in defiance of the natural order of things. What could be more “Don” than sticking it to an unbeatable cancer?

Initially, Tayler and I offered to take him into our care when he told us. I wanted to be there for the latest updates and make sure he had everything he needed. Instead, he was taken into care by his brothers, who were far better and more necessary caretakers than we ever could have been. This move, however, facilitated a secure place for my head to retreat in the sand. Out of sight, and out of mind. Don is doing fine, I pretended. In the best care possible and enjoying the glow of the Florida sun.

Tasked with my own duties of running a business and training to be a competitive weightlifter of some kind, our communication reduced to periodic calls. I transitioned into avoidance. The two sides of my brain weren’t able to reconcile the belief that Don could make it and that defeat was inevitable. Avoiding the situation entirely was simply more convenient.

During our occasional calls, we could still talk about weightlifting, books, movies, politics. All of our favorite topics. Even if Don was flat out wrong about some of them. Sometimes the tumors grew disruptive enough to cause his seizures, making communication more difficult. His sentences began to ramble longer than usual. Thoughts and concepts became more difficult to convey. Eventually, words would be too difficult to recall, even simple articles. His writing went first. Instead of messaging me, he began recording voice memos. These would stop too, and be followed by links to things he saw that would convey a point he wanted to make, but couldn’t verbalize.

I didn’t visit, I told myself, because I was busy. And that’s true. It is hard enough to have my gym run without me while I’m away for competitions, or getting the funds together to travel around the world for my competition schedule. A perfect storm of events occurred that could put off my visit no longer.

I got a voice memo from Don in the middle of the night.

“I wanted to tell you. I think this is it. I’m dying.”

Never once in his diagnosis or treatment did Don admit defeat to me. Until this. Fortunately, he was wrong. Well, temporarily. It was a bout of seizures that were giving him some trouble, but he was otherwise doing ok.

Then Glenn Pendlay died. As conflicted as I feel about Glenn’s life and my relationship with him, I felt great remorse in not visiting him before his passing, and with the suddenness of Glenn’s condition I don’t know that I could have done anything to change that. What I did know, is that I couldn’t allow it to happen with Don.


Before leaving to compete in the World Championships, I flew to Florida, both to visit Don on one side of the state and then to coach our team on the other. This is among the worst ways you can prepare for the most important competition of your life. But it had to be done.

I had dinner with Don’s brother, Bill, who had been keeping me updated. I had no idea what Bill looked like, or knew much about him. But his voice was a dead ringer for Don’s. The next day I visited the nursing home Don had been placed in for his caretaking. The McCullough family had arrived before me and were sat around Don in his wheelchair.

The half of his face that still operated turned into an excited smile. I don’t know if anybody other than Tayler has ever been that happy to see me walk into a room. He waved me over with the hand that could still move. I hugged him and he kissed me on the cheek, something he’s never done the entirety of our time together. We all sat and shared our stories of what had been going on in the world or training.

I said “the half of his face that still operated”, because Don’s seizures had paralyzed him on the right side, which is what necessitated his care in the facility. He could not stand under his own power or have function of anything on that side.

Don could only grasp a word at a time and had great difficulty continuing any sentence. He could, however, completely understand what you spoke to him and followed along well enough. He had a laminated card with a grid of words like “weightlifting”, “catapult”, “hungry”, “bathroom”, etc. On the other was the alphabet and numbers so that he could potentially spell out a word not on the grid. He never made it past the first letter, and much of our time was spent playing charades with an increasingly dejected Don. The McCulloughs hit the road so Morgan could train and I followed Don and the nurse on duty back to his room for his lunch.

Following down the hall from the visitors area, an overwhelming odor of death became evident. The bright and shiny lobby hid you from the aging, fluorescent hallways traversed by the wheelchair bound who could still move under their own will, but unsure of exactly where they were. The nurse on duty quickly acquired a meal from a stack of trays and set Don up in his chair for lunch.

He was able to ask, “the girl?” I sat with him drinking cold coffee and told him about Tayler’s lifting and her International trips. I told him about her new job and how much happier she was now. I talked about how coaching is the best job in the world and running a gym has got to be among the worst. I asked if he knew about Glenn’s passing. He nodded and raised his glass of water solemnly in remembrance. I told him I was leaving soon for Thailand and he intimated that he wanted the live stream to watch.

His occupational therapist appeared in the door and said she needed time to work with him. I removed myself to sit outside the door until they were finished. She asked him questions about how he was feeling, to which he couldn’t respond, using that loud voice one uses for children, the handicapped, or the deaf. He could hear her just fine. He just couldn’t answer her questions.

She tested his physical abilities on the paralyzed side. She talked about setting goals like “sitting up out of bed on his own” that they would work towards. I wept quietly so he wouldn’t be able to hear. After ten to fifteen minutes she walked out.

“Are you Donald’s son?”

I choked, “No, not exactly.”

When I came back in, he let me know he wanted to lie down and was done with lunch, but he didn’t have a way to tell anyone from his wheelchair. I walked down the hall to tell the nurse on duty that he’d like to be put in bed. She said someone will be there eventually.

I asked him if there was anything he wanted me to send him, like books. He just shook his head sadly and told me with his eyes that he couldn’t read them anymore. I put on the t.v. and tried to find something he might like to watch. After a rousing charades session, I figured out that he wanted his Team MDUSA shirt that said Coach McCauley if I could find it. And that he wanted more pictures.

He told me his back was hurting from being in the chair too long, so I investigated about when someone was coming to help. I discovered that there was one person on “lifting duty”, and she was going room by room far down the hallway and making incredibly slow progress. I rolled him to the bedside and, with some trial and error, was able to lift him into bed and get him comfortable.

At this point, he’s fighting to stay awake and I knew I had to tell him everything that I might not get another chance to. That he was the best friend and teacher a person could ask for. That we loved him very much. Our lives were significantly better for having him in them.

I saw him shed tears for the first time in our friendship, even if only one or two solitary ones before he did something I will never forget. Tayler and I were not shy about letting Don know that we loved him over the years. The regular response we got was, “yeah, yeah, yeah.”

He pointed at himself, used his able hand to lift the paralyzed one and place it on his chest, forming a heart with his fingers, and then pointed at me.

I left and sat in my rental car for around thirty minutes, screaming and weeping. A year and a half of avoiding grief washing over me in a moment. One of the greatest, authentic, and genuine communicators I had ever met was reduced to miming so he could say goodbye to me. For Don, being unable to speak, or write, or coach must have been far worse than dying. I think that may have been the reason why his last breath came just a few days after his 72nd birthday.


In life there is a natural progression of how we will meet and face death. Humans are uniquely aware of their own mortality, and that death will find us all some day. Long before that, the people in your life will meet that fate. The order of this is usually your older family members: grandparents, parents, maybe siblings. Then your peers: your friends, perhaps your spouse.

One of the problems with Don’s passing, is that he is my peer, my very good friend. I haven’t acquired the maturity and experience with death yet to be ready for my peers to pass, and hopefully I still won’t for a long time yet. Friends are the family you choose. Nothing can replace family, but there are members of the world out there, not many of them, that are kindred spirits who are long, lost family members. At least they are for me. I’m lucky to still have so many of you left.

The last thing Don has taught me is how not to handle the decline of someone you care a lot about. It’s the same story anyone ever tells you with a death: “I wish we had spent more time together.” For me, this isn’t just a lesson on cherishing the moments you have, but determining which moments and which people are the most important. If it’s important, it has to be a priority, regardless of what other perceived responsibilities may conflict. I ran away and avoided Don’s fate, and my punishment is not having more time with him. I’m hoping that never happens again. But, much worse than dying or this immense feeling of loss, would’ve been never getting the time we did have. I’m sorry I couldn’t write something more flattering, or a better memoriam this time, Don. I’ll try to do better next time and talk about the meaningful ways you improved all our lives.

On Professionalism and Bullshit: A Weightloss Story

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“I’d try weightlifting. But I don’t want to get too bulky. I don’t want to look like a man.”

“Weightlifting is fun, but I don’t want to do that because I’ll get fat.”

“I have to lose some weight. So I’m going to stop weightlifting and drop some body fat. I wish I could do both.”

I’ve been hearing these excuses, in one declarative form or another, for as long as I’ve lifted weights. I’ve also complained about them ad nauseum, on my social media soapboxes, to people in the gym, or over pints. I don’t know what compels me to believe that writing something more formal and of greater length is going to accomplish anything. They say writers write what they know. And after years of being acquainted with it, I’m something of an expert on this one field: Your Bullshit.


I’ve been big my whole life. Not Paul Bunyan, corn-fed, farming stock big. I recently went into a Duluth Trading Co. store and found out how comically small I am compared to actual big Americans (I’m a medium there). But I’ve had a 50 inch chest since before I ever started lifting weights to get strong. My shoulders span the breadth of most doorways. I was 5’10” at a physical when I was 12. They said I would grow to well over 6 foot. I am still 5’10”, possibly slightly shorter.

Being big is accompanied by an appetite. Maybe I could blame the evolutionary survival mechanisms that my grandmother instilled in us, even generations removed from attempted genocide in Ireland. We had food a plenty. Your plate was filled with it. You ate until that plate was empty, because someday, young man, there might not fecking be any. Of course, this hasn’t been the case. America isn’t the only country with obese people. But it’s the only one I’ve been to so far where I notice the obese poor people. And as new Americans, my family embraced the plenty of food, with no thought or education on nutritional content. Shepherds Pie all day.

I don’t recall the rate of advancement of my bodyweight and/or height. I do remember going to sign-ups for Pop Warner Football, somewhere around 13 or 14 years old. I remember the intense, collective gaze of all the coaches from across the room, salivating as I walked towards the weigh-in area, praying that I was under the cap of 180lbs. I can’t remember the exact number, but it was north of 200. I would be excluded from the simulated gladiator sport of American Football until High School, by which time it became evident to me that I was way behind in the skills necessary to succeed in the sport. I’m actually thankful that happened, and disappointed rugby or weightlifting didn’t find me sooner.

With the exception of a few years at the end of high school and just after, physicality and sports have been apart of my life enough to keep me from joining the outright obese quadrant of our population. Again, this is not to say I’ve ever been thin, or even knew how to take care of myself for much of this time. But it was enough moving around to keep on moving around without issue. It wasn’t until I found and started thinking about weightlifting as a sport that I ever really considered being aware of what I weighed everyday. By then I was sitting around 250lbs, usually somewhere between 110-115kg. This put me in the unlimited category against men who typically weigh a minimum of 300lbs and comes with a culture of tending not to really care much at all what you weigh. But in a sport obsessed with absolute numbers, you keep it on your mind.


I was only ever told to train hard, sleep well, and eat a lot. Your body will determine what you need to weigh. And for the most part, this general wisdom still holds true. We, as coaches, could do with a little more communication on what types of things you should be eating in abundance. And we, the coaches, aren’t the only people to blame for the very prevalent, failure to understand basic nutrition science. This age of leisure for the general populace is still a very new idea. After millenia of trying to understand and battle ailments outside of our control, humanity in certain parts of the world has rapidly been presented with the issue of self-inflicted disease from our own marvelous abundance and reduction of survivalist activity. Exercise as a hobby is a privilege only the wealthy and landed have known until the last century.

So I lifted and I ate, until one day I found myself up to 130kg, or around 285lbs. When you’re only 5’10”, that feels like a whole lot more. I couldn’t stand it any more. So I got help. I learned and made lifestyle changes. I added in an hour of walking, because after you train with heavy weights 9xWeek, walking is about the only thing you have the extra energy to do. Slowly, I lost 10kg/22lbs. My body composition improved. I was training the same volume at a higher average intensity, going heavy in both the mornings and afternoons. I increased my competitive total. My absolute strength either remained the same or slightly increased. With the exception of tearing my shoulder labrum, this was probably the best I’ve felt in my life, physically and mentally.

Fast forward 3.5 years and I find myself in a slightly different boat. It is no longer my job to train 9xWeek. My ability to train my sport is significantly limited from the surgical repair in my shoulder. I have the added responsibility of running a weightlifting program/gym, a constant source of stress that is probably responsible for 99% of the arguments I have with my spouse. I’m painting this picture for you to understand something: my give-a-fuck was pretty low. When things aren’t going right for you personally or professionally, it’s easy to fall back on the crutch of something familiar, like eating to your heart’s content.

The only possible means I see of getting things done when you don’t particularly have the willpower is to clearly define your why. Examine if your why is significant motivation. Do you really care about your reason for doing “x”? Because if not, odds are you won’t be successful at all.

With your why examined and affirmed, you can reverse engineer concise goals, and then establish a professional system that guides you to achieving them. I use that term, “professional system”, for a reason. Most of you do not work what might be described as your “dream job”. There are likely varying shades of fulfillment from certain tasks in your workplace, with some of them being quite rewarding. Everyone I know has some bullshit thing they must get done, because it is their job to do it. My lifters come and tell me some new bullshit thing they had to get done that day. It is remarkable how many bullshit things people don’t particularly want to do get accomplished every single business day.

Your goals must be approached with that level of professionalism, or you will not achieve them. The benefit of your goals, is that they come from an intrinsic passion to achieve something dear to your heart. You get to do this. You don’t have to. The reward to you personally will be immensely satisfying. Achieving it will differ in no way from the workmanship you display in your daily profession.


Let’s go through this together, using my own situation as an example.

Why?

To push my body towards its highest possible physical capabilities in the sport of Weightlifting without the use of illegal drugs. To leave to no opportunity unexamined. To walk away with no possible shred of regret or doubt on what could have been.

Goal

  • Compete at the Weightlifting World Championships.

Requirements

  • Lose 13kg in 4 months
  • Set Personal Best in the Total, post surgery, in a qualifying event

Means

  • Regimented Nutrition and Meal Preparation
  • Elimination of Social Activities that may lead to food or beverage choices that do not fit parameters
  • Intense Training Protocol
  • Quality Sleep Hygiene
  • Supplemental Cardio sessions as needed

I came off the worst competitive performance of my weightlifting career and decided I wasn’t going to settle. My why gave me my tangible goals, and I executed them with the same professionalism as when it was actually my job. Body composition improved again. My strength did take a little hit, but my weightlifting total improved. I was feeling the most physically prepared in some time. And I achieved the end goal. There was no bullshit task too great. I had to. There was no other option.


Which brings us, rather discursively, back to our original discussion on your bullshit. Weightlifting is not for everyone. The vast majority of happy, exercise-minded individuals will not have my why. Discover your own, and determine what may be worthy of your professionalism. I want weightlifting to be available for those with casual interests and those with serious competitive aspirations alike. I think both of those relationships with the sport can still teach some very real lessons about yourself.

If you’re going to walk into my gym and learn about weightlifting though, please leave your bullshit at the door. Don’t tell me you can’t lose weight because lifting makes people fat. Your fatness makes you fat. Your lack of discipline makes you fat. Your binge drinking four days a week makes you fat. Your pispoor intensity and lack of conviction in your physical efforts makes you fat. How dare you accuse weightlifting. Your why for losing fat simply isn’t strong enough. This is ok. Self-examine, and find a why that might be sufficient.

Do not tell me you need to stop training with weights because you need to lose weight. I have lost a cumulative total of 23kg or 50lbs while training my ass off for competitive weightlifting, and improved my performance along the way. Your why for training weightlifting simply isn’t enough. This is ok. Reflect and examine. What why will give you enough contentment to pursue whole-heartedly? I have watched you grow more rotund, after turning away from hard training with your bullshit, piddling around in search of the next thing.

Do not tell me you will get bulky and look “like a man” from teaching your body how to strength train, while touting the benefits of toning in the next sentence. There is no muscle toning: there are only strong people and weak people. I promise you will never look like me or any athletic female you project your own body dysmorphia onto. Not only do you not possess the physiology. You simply lack the mental ability to undertake so great an exertion for the prolonged body of time that would make such a physique possible. We can teach you. We can show you what it means to actually try fucking hard at something. We can show you how to cope with the failure of your immense efforts. These lessons will reverberate through your being and exercise themselves into every facet of your life thereafter.

I expect none of you to do the things I have done, for so mediocre of a career, in an arena the general populace can’t be bothered with. Instead, I hope that you find something meaningful enough in your life to escape your bullshit and sacrifice more than you would’ve ever dared possible. I hope you find a love so consuming that you can’t possibly live without it. Absence from that thing is not life at all, but a death sentence with the added indecency of eternal longing for a missing piece of yourself. I hope you find whatever that is, and it absolutely kills you with sublime grace.

Coffeeshop Exchange: A Portrait on the Collapse of American Dialogue

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“You know, it ain’t right. How Pelosi can just tell the President what to do. She’s elected by 250,000 people and the President was elected by 64 million.”

“Thank goodness for the Electoral College. The most perfect stroke of genius ever devised in the Constitution.”

“You know, there’s style and then there’s substance to a President. I have to admit, Obama really had some style. He was smooth, looked good in a suit, and held his head up high. But he had no substance. That’s why I love Donald. He doesn’t kick the can down the road. His style may be crude, but he’s all substance. He’s done so much for this country, that he can fuck all the hoes he wants as far as I’m concerned.”

I’ve accidentally stumbled upon the Wednesday morning meeting of the local RNC old boys chapter at the coffee shop. They’re worried about what happens if someone like Bernie or Warren get the primary. And in the same breath of being worried, they claim the Dems will be shooting themselves in the foot if either get the nod. Why worry about assured destruction? It tells me what they fear the most.

I’ve stopped reading about American politics since the 2016 Election. I’ve withdrawn. The landscape is intentionally muddled by the Fox News and Huff Posts of the world, twisting facts to fit the narrative of their shareholders. Infotainment has consumed the major media outlets anyhow. Gotta sell papers; gotta get the ad revenue.

In withdrawing from reality, I’ve let them win. That’s the strategy of the times: to absorb the flock too ignorant to filter the noise or to deafen into submission those who no longer wish to take in every insidious note. I’m not a bureaucratic insider or some savant of political discourse. I just have a healthy constitution of skepticism, the training to interpret critically, and a pretty reliable bullshit meter. And fuck, I’m tired of that thing reading off the charts.

I don’t want to be involved in this conversation. I come to work at coffee shops because, if you can believe it, I actually like people. Well, I find observing them comforting. Call it an evolutionary instinct to be amongst the tribe. It is comforting to see people living their lives, even the vapid ones. Even this group of old white men closed in their own personal echo chamber. I admire that they come together and meet in this place, what feels like a semi-regular basis, to seek validation from one another. They refuse to go quietly into the night. They are raging against the dying of the white light.

I should put my headphones in immediately. I came here to be productive. I have work to do. I am in the rarefied love of a muse who actually wants to help me pen some words to paper today. I’m not even diametrically opposed to their party: I’m in the silent third of American voters who don’t cling to one party or the other. The last thing I want to do right now is to be an apologist for Democrats, the presumptive intellectual superiors who are guilty of the same sins. Except they have a penchant for the cardinal sin of losing.

I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s the Californian in me. Something about the stinging inaccuracy of how many people actually live in San Francisco’s 12th, or inflating the numbers of the popular vote by over a million brought the words out of my mouth.

I don’t attack, but I’m direct. They’re taken aback. Maybe they weren’t expecting someone who looked like them to be a dissenting party. They see my Dodgers hat sitting on the table, and all of a sudden it makes sense. I’m one of “them”. A progressive.

I’m not really anything, I explain. In fact, I’m probably a Libertarian if that was anything more than a theoretical construct, when it is in fact entirely impractical for constructing a governing society.

The one nearest me sees an opportunity to recruit me. He volunteers for the RNC. He speaks kindly, but with an air of moral superiority only God’s children could have. He shares his copy of “The Epoch Times”–an “alternative news outlet that sets the record straight. Unlike The New York Times.”

I return his tone in kind. Sure. Let’s do this here and now. Let us four white men, from different generations, bridge the gap today and let the healing begin. Let’s open a dialogue.

I hear about all the great things the President has done. About how he’s more productive than anyone else ever, but you never hear about it. I concede, you don’t hear a lot about the “good” things, but to say he’s more productive is patently false. I tell them I’m not really concerned about his policies, because it is not really the job of the President to legislate. I’m concerned with his judgment, his narcissism, and his typically emotional responses to criticism. I’m concerned with his divisiveness and his proliferation of misinformation. They tell me he’s not once lied, he’s a straight-shooter, so I needn’t worry.

“Give us an example of one time he lied.”

I go with an easy one, even the folks at home know. “He popularized the birther movement and insisted that President Obama wasn’t born in the United States.”

The black man across from me who has been working away studiously till now begins shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Oh, well that doesn’t really matter. And who knows for sure anyway. Give us a second one.”

“Why? The list is monumental in length. Why should I give you another one to brush aside and tell me it’s not important, when you don’t even acknowledge the first as a legitimate example?”

“You can’t give another example can you? See, the liberal media has convinced you that he’s terrible when you have nothing to offer.”

They’re half right. I’m ill-prepared. I’m not equipped to do this because my withdrawal has also robbed me of any munitions for discussion. I don’t have developed discussion points outside the superficial. Any I can actually think of are muddled with too much grey and not going to be fielded well in this crossfire. Most of the President’s lies aren’t really insidious. They’re “this hurricane will definitely hit Alabama” level lies. Shenanigans, if you will.

I tell them to have a good day and thank you for the discussion. I tell the RNC volunteer and Epoch Times subscriber that I’m disappointed he would sell out the values of his party, a party I grew up in, for the short-sided victory of keeping a destabilizing clown in power. They tell me I should consider seeking out the truth instead of being blinded by the liberal media.

I put my headphones in and concede defeat. The commotion had grown over the past fifteen minutes. I could feel my adrenaline pulsing. We are collectively uncomfortable. What I’m sure would’ve been a much longer gathering had been cut short by my interruption. The men begin packing up and inventing responsibilities they must attend to. I sit here and begin to write this, because damnit I need to write something today. Even if it’s a bitch piece that should only exist in some pseudo-journal that’s not particularly inventive.

The adrenaline and agitation from our conversation takes my thoughts dark. I am right to withdraw. There is no room for reasonable discourse on substance. We’re not even arguing about abortion or the death penalty anymore. I feel past Post-Truth. Post-Meaning. Post-Purpose maybe.

Just when I feel I’ll be wrapped completely in this blanket of nihilism and entombed, the third man, who was mostly quiet, lingers to gather my attention.

“You know, I’m more of a libertarian myself. Which compels me to disagree with a lot of these candidates on their social policies. But there’s no denying it: Trump is a terrible person, and I can’t stand him either.”

I thank him for his concession and willing to speak with such an unruly young man as myself a bit more. I apologize for ruining his morning meeting with his friends. We wish each other a good day.

I take a moment of comfort in his statement. It means all hope isn’t lost. Maybe there’s still hope to salvage the dialogue by better, more equipped persons than myself, possessing the necessary optimism and patience. This however, is met with an immediate return to sadness for the man who must wait until his friends are out of earshot so he can whisper his truths to me. I am sad the toxicity of division is so great that this man has closeted himself in the midst of his friends just to keep the peace. That’s not freedom. That’s not America. That’s not great at all.

An Immodest Proposal: Phil Andrews

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Author’s note: I originally wrote this piece with the intention to publish yesterday but after reaching out to Phil himself, unaware of the fate that awaited him, he respectfully requested that I do not publish the work until after the final decision had been made.  Painfully, I obliged, because I was dreadfully fearful that enough had not been done. In light of the decision by the USAW BoD, I can very happily say this work was never necessary.  However, Phil himself found a few chuckles out of it.  I have decided that it should be published so that others may likewise enjoy a few laughs.  Phil, you have my most sincere congratulations, and I will attempt to be slightly less of a curmudgeon in the future about the politics of American Weightlifting if only for your sake.

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An Immodest Proposal: Phil Andrews

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story

Of that man unskilled in all ways of weightlifting,

The wanderer, harried for years on end.

I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in New York, that a young, energetic Phil Andrews as CEO of the USAW is a dubious and disastrous proposition, whether this is considered practically, financially, philosophically, or morally.

It is well known and been established by the faculties of modern business management that only candidates who have graduated through the ranks of preferred weightlifting circles possess the necessary capacity to address the wants of the NGB.  I will attempt to enumerate the many and varied categories where Mr. Andrews is hereby found inadequate or disagreeable for the position in question:

I. His Failures As Event Coordinator
a. Mr. Andrews is directly guilty of altering the model and management of National events in the United States. Under his tutelage the organization has woefully strayed from the confines of local roller skating arenas into the “vacation” destinations which distract from the solemnity and historical exclusiveness of the sport. Travel to major cities with desirable secondary locations and holding prestigious competitions in equally prestigious venues is a concept met with success in other many major sporting events but unlikely to suit this one.

b. Events during his tenure have likewise strayed from the proud tradition of disorganization and dilatory execution practiced by meets of both local and national in kind.

c. The presentation of sessions has been absurdly focused on the athletes, a spectacle of sorts seen perhaps only in other sports where engagement between competitor and spectator is valued. This should obviously not be the case in weightlifting.

d. In the face of unprecedented attendance at events under his manage, Mr. Andrews chose to accept the demand, adapt his format, and provide the materials and staff necessary to cope with a regrettably high number of competitors interested in weightlifting.  This evolutionary progress is dangerous to the values weightlifting holds dear and threatens its storied establishment as a niche sport.

II. His Outrageous Productivity
a. Mr. Andrews’ workaholic attitude is a rapid departure from his would be predecessors.  It is unbecoming for the chief executive to be seen laboring for hours, loading trucks up into the wee hours of the night,  and overseeing proper execution of tasks.  It is known that the sole responsibility of the CEO is to write a quarterly discourse on the state of the organization and assume credit for the unprecedented growth experienced with little to no marketing that is in no way related to the explosion of Crossfit other fitness training models.

b. Mr. Andrews has likewise exhibited an unhealthy appetite for responding to personal inquiries from all manner of questioning parties.  Evidence of this behavior would increase this discourse to an unmanageable length.  Suffice to say that his practice of fielding questions and providing answers to organization members in a prompt fashion is an objectionable habit for a chief executive.

III. The Disastrous Effects His Work Enthusiasm May Portend
a. His current brief tenure has already forced the production of such things as a quadrennial calendar, by which athletes and coaches may plan their training cycles, travel plans, and provide equitable time to promote and market said events.  This practice is borrowed from other successful sporting bodies and nations but breaks away from the conventional lack of foresight that has resulted in such spectacular moments as a complete unlawful revision of the 2015 World Team Selection Procedures.

IV. His Complete Lack Of Weightlifting Knowledge
a. This is perhaps his most reprehensible offense, despite his frankly laughable attempts to educate himself otherwise.  Mr. Andrews has demonstrated near encyclopedic knowledge of rankings, startlists, qualifying numbers, percentage standards, etc. He furthermore has attempted to develop a vigorous youth outreach program, contacting innumerable schools and programs across the country seeking to develop a depth and quality of athlete’s unlike anything seen before in the USAW, a frightening thought to entertain.

b. It is a farcical concept to consider that the position of CEO is not one of intimate familiarity with weightlifting, but one chiefly of business leadership that may draw inspiration from the examples of other successful models as it attempts to grow in today’s rapidly changing society.  As the United States Congress has shown, only lawyers are best suited for lawmaking and yield the most suitable and productive results for their constituents.

V. The Need Of A Suitable Replacement
a. In spite of Mr. Andrews’ misgivings and departure from the orthodox vision of national events, he has at the very least proven a somewhat satisfactory manager of this role.  It is likely impossible for any suitable replacement to be found, and certainly none of the staff Mr. Andrews’ has employed in the past would be qualified for the task.  More concerning is the difficulty of discovering a candidate willing to assume the role for the modest salary for which it is budgeted.

VI. His Foreign Allegiances
a. Mr. Andrews’ is, frankly, an immigrant from the United Kingdom.  Should the USAW, an NGB in olympic sports for the world’s greatest democracy, employ a tea-drinking, fish-and-chips-eating, HP sauce using, son of a monarchy as our CEO?  The United States economy is already facing the threat of many jobs being sent overseas, let alone the quandary of immigrants coming into the country and ousting our citizens for American jobs.  Even if he has assimilated and since earned US Citizenship, what kind of standard would the organization be setting?  What’s next, foreign coaches?

VII. His Unsavory Personal Character
a. Personal experience and testimony from my peers have proven conversing with Mr. Andrews’ to be an untenable endeavor.  He is often filled with good humor, an inviting laugh, and a rapier wit even when sleep deprived and inebriated by one of his infamous caffeine binges.  His zeal for enterprise under such conditions is exhausting to stomach.

Further enumeration beyond these points is surely unnecessary, though I do encourage the reader to investigate further grievances.  I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the least personal interest in endeavoring to promote this necessary work, having no other motive than the public good of my country, by advancing our sport, providing for the old guard, excluding the neophyte, and giving some pleasure to the politically savvy.

If you got his far, I sincerely hope you have identified this work as a satire.  The USAW is in a uniquely fortunate situation to have a member of its staff so well suited for the currently available position to helm our beloved organization.  I have met no other person in the community with the particular skillset and passion he possesses and it would be a catastrophic failure to overlook his candidacy.  This is not the renaissance, but the cusp of it, and my friends it can easily be undone and unrealized.  I believe given the power and resources available to Mr. Andrews he will at best see weightlifting become an established sport in the American landscape, at the very worst continue the incremental progress we’ve seen in organization and professionalism of the sport over the past few years.  I sincerely hope he is given the chance he deserves to show us his capabilities. #feelthephil #andrews2016

Sean Rigsby is a multiple time Senior National Medalist in Weightlifting.  As a former member of Team MDUSA, he contributed to several National Championship Team Titles and has risen through the ranks as a competitive 105kg+ lifter. Sean is currently in the process of completing his undergraduate degree in English and holds multiple professional certifications.  He provides remote coaching, free CrossFit programming, and lifestyle apparel through Heavy Metal Barbell Club.  You can visit www.heavymetalbarbellclub.com to find out more or follow Sean on Instagram @seanmrigsby.

People Watching

/ seanrigsby / Leave a comment

In an unusual departure from convention, I chose to leave the house early to do my studying elsewhere. There’s a long day ahead, and a proper breakfast is needed if any sort of critical thinking is going to get done. I drive to the nearby eclectic cafe with little to no parking and an outdoor patio that is oddly quiet and more than suitable on a beautiful Southern spring morning.

The cafe is an artistically renovated older building with bright clashing yet complementary colors. The inside is littered with local paintings for sale, most of them overpriced pop art pieces. One is a blend of “Starry Night” and Charlotte institutions obstructing the sky as opposed to Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. The noisy vibrance of a busy kitchen is sedated by the music softly playing in background, a bright and comfortable playlist of Marley, Dire Straits, and Sublime. The food itself is local, free range, organic, single sourced,  with a plethora of vegan options. Even I cringe inside as I ask the waitress where there coffee is from. “Dilworth,” she responds; not my favorite but decent and fresh at the very least. As pretentious as this can seem, this dedication to fresh, quality food is why the very diverse group of patrons are here in the first place. The air is a thick smoky, sweet perfume haze of Southwestern chilis and sweet potatoes. Though not a place for traditional Southern fare, it cannot escape the necessity of baking fresh biscuits and keeping grit bowls as a morning staple.

I forget that it is the morning after St. Patrick’s Day until a few minutes after sitting down. That explains the quiet, which doesn’t quite last. Despite very likely being the only person in the cafe with an Irish passport I celebrated the least, resorting to little more than a pint of Guinness at home and a relatively early night in bed. I can see the day before weighing upon patron and server alike. The waiting staff is unified into an archetype by their collective eccentricities. All but one waitress, for there are only waitresses on duty, have their left nostril pierced (the Ayuverda side), and the exception to this standard is the lone septum piercing.  Second hand dresses and shoes accompanied by hand made jewelry are the staff’s uniform. Fueled by caffeine the pure necessity to provide nourishment for a hungover clientele, each bustles gracefully about proud of the plates they bear to each table.

It’s late morning, too late for a pre-work crowd, but too early for a lunch crowd. The lone business professional in his navy chinos and tobacco Allen Edmonds appears to be getting an early lunch in so he can take off from work for the weekend. Equal populations of hippies, yuppies, and the blue collar crowd are here. This was apparently the rare occasion where St. Paddy’s coincides with the kick off of March Madness, and many of latter group are flying their various collegiate colors. It’s hard to tell if they took the day off, have the day off, are out of work, or are just dodging on account of the headache.

Depressingly, I hear no Southern accents and I realize that I’m surrounded by transplants like myself. I shouldn’t think so negatively on this but I have come to endear the lyricism and meter of the language.  I came to get some reading down while I ate, but I found myself helpless, drowning in the cacophony of life, waves of inter-personal conversations crashing and receding on me. I find myself being slightly annoyed by various trivialities. The pack of middle aged women covered in Indiana red, various sneakers with matching pink accents, and uniform Coach purses who are fresh out of group fitness and in search of pseudo-healthy brunch. The parents who let their child order an apple juice, flapjacks, topped with fruit compote, and a side of hash browns ensuring only one macronutrient will be employed today. Perhaps most bothersome, is the unwashed hipster wearing fake spectacles explaining to his female company why the ergonomics of glassware doesn’t agree with him.

In the midst of my annoyances, I realize something much grander in an age where authentic currency is rare. While I may not endorse eclecticism for the mere sake of appearing aesthetically unique, and I was likewise in protest of the commercial uniformity others were casting their vote to, everyone here was engaged with the people around them, listening, conversing, and sharing It was a rare moment, where no one was glued to a screen, whether handheld or wall mounted. The imaginary and well curated online personas of each individual were put aside. People instead became united by a shared love for good food as they recovered from the jubilation of the previous night. The veil of representation and the copy of life was torn down, and instead this hooky playing patrons were living. For that, they gained my admiration.