200 meters

Wrecked is the best word I have to portray how I am feeling tonight.  My shoulders, back, and quads are all shot to hell. Some of that is from today’s “Dirty Thirty”, but I really broke them down on Monday; all in the span of two hundred meters.

For a moment allow your mind’s eye conjure a football field. The distance from goal post to goal post is about 100 meters, a seemingly innocent length. Most anyone can sprint the span of goal post and back with no problem, but try covering 200 meters with a walking lunge followed by a 200 meter sprint.  At this point in the program your legs really aren’t working well which really makes a sprint a little changing.  Following a two meter sprint, two hundred meter walking lunges, and a second two hundred meter sprint; comes a two hundred meter bear crawl (if you aren’t familiar with this use Google).  Remember two hundred meters is goal post to goal post and back, and by now two hundred is not looking so innocent.  So let’s do another 200 meter sprint with no legs or shoulders now, and then proceed to broad jump burpees (Google here if needed).  By now the football field might as well be two miles, and these are excruciating when your body is fresh. Try them after all  this and they are damn near impossible.  Finish up with one more sprint.  43 minutes 13 seconds from start to finish and you are left with a depleted shell of a body, and that is before the soreness sets in the next day.

Don’t get me wrong I’m really not complaining.  I was out there doing this with a bunch of crazy ass crossfitters that really made it an enjoyable afternoon workout.  And after all, we do stupid stuff like this daily.  Tomorrow it’s one rep max clean and jerks, a 3 round “wod”, and rowing for extra conditioning. I don't think the wrecked muscles have any relief in sight. ...sucks for them

strength and doubt

Sometimes I crave quiet; there are nights when I couldn't buy five minutes of quite with a hundred dollar bill. Tonight though, with only the sounds of a summer storm for company this old house seems like it needs a few kids and a wife running around making noise and playing with the damn dog. But they aren't here, and I guess this is what it’s like to miss some one, but that's really not what I'm wanting to elaborate on tonight.

Webster’s Dictionary defines strength as follows: " the quality or state of being strong : capacity for exertion or endurance." I'm not sure that old Webster gives the word's meaning justice. Strength is a rare gift that is not given, it is earned. It's not something people need every day, but when hard times come there is nothing more valuable. In the last few weeks I have leaned heavy on not my physical strength, but the kind that is built into a person's insides. The kind of strength some folks call grit. Without it I would not have been able to look my wife in her eyes and say "We are OK." I would not have been able to say good bye to old friends and walk away with the relationships and dignity in tack.

I have learned from countless hours at the gym that the problem with strength is that there is only so much of it. There comes a point when there is no more to call on. So what then? When all of it is gone will there be enough grit to push through? This inevitably leads me to doubt.

Doubt (noun):  uncertainty of belief or opinion that often interferes with decision-making (Websters Dictionary). HOLY COW THAT SOUNDS BAD!!! If there ever was an emotion that a person in my kind of situation can't afford, it has to be doubt. Walking into an unknown future alone is tough enough, but I'm walking into it with a wife a two kids. This is no time for anything that interferes with decision-making. I have never been short on confidence nor I have ever been one for wondering what might have been, but things are a bit different these days. Even before any decisions have to be made, I am forced to wonder if the one I make will be the right one. I know that my little family will go wherever I ask them to go. I know that they will support me no matter what, but knowing that does not lessen the pressure to make the right decision.

Apparently, for now anyway, doubt will be part of my life. But I haven't run out of strength yet either. I'm hopeful that I will be able to find a place inside where strength and doubt intersect. That should be a healthy place to move forward from. Ya'll wish me luck.


Tonight's post is inspired by a song call "Strength and Doubt" by Son Volt. (its a good song)

the ted

If you have never been; the trip to Turner Field is well worth your drive, ticket price, and seven dollar beer. Within the walls of the Ted there is some kind of unexplained magic that is felt by young and old  alike. I can tell you that there are about 110,000 square feet of Tifton 419 Hybrib Bermuda covering the playing field. I can tell you that from home to straight away center is 401 feet. I can even tell you that that fans are encouraged to do the "tomahawk chop" by 40 foot tall, 15,000 pound Chick-Fil-A chopping cow. But what I can't describe is feeling of awe that overcomes a person as they pass from the concourse to inside of the stadium and majesty of the diamond is unveiled before before your eyes.

If you will, allow me to take you on the trip to The Ted, and I will do my best to channel my inner Hemingway.

For me the experience begins on 75 south. With the passing miles more and more vehicles pass that you know are going to the game.They all converge south of the down town canyon at exit 246, Fulton Street (which becomes Hank Aaron Drive). Once you park you find your self moving around a mass of beer drinkers and corn hole players immersed fine spring after noon. Moving through the gates in Monument Grove, fathers pose with their children in front bronze statues of Aaron, Niekro, and Spahn. All this leads way to the concourses filled with thousands of people wearing jerseys and t shirts bearing the numbers 10, 16, 22, and 26. Along with the red, white, cream, and blue jerseys the smell of beer, hot dogs, and pizza combine to fill your sense of smell with smell that can only come from a ball park. As you walk concourse posters of past teams and heros line the walls. One in particular stands out to me; a team picture of the 1988 squad that went 54-106. All this is before the  first pitch.

There is no other sound like the pop of leather from the catchers mit and the umpire's call of a first pitch strike. As the game settles in the crowd begins to get a feel for how the game will go and can begin to sense or maybe even feel the big plays that haven't happened yet. But it's the case with baseball that we don't get the chance to read tonight's script before the game. So the RBI double to center or the 5 - 3 double play inspire a level of excitement that can't be experienced at home on the couch.

At Turner Field the home team's fans have a tradition that dates back to Deon Sanders called the Tomahawk Chop.  Once the chop gets going through the crowd it seems all bets are off. We believe that there is no opposing pitcher in MLB that can stand the pressure of 50,000 strong chanting together and waving foam tomahawks.

On Saturday Mike Minor pitched a beauty and Kimbrel picked up a save in a 2 -1 win over the Brewers. But in the end; baseball is really not about winning and loosing. Baseball is about hope. It's about the hope that tomorrow your team will be better than they were today. It's about the dream of being the best against all odds. It's about the idea of our home town hero being just a little better than their hero. Baseball is hope and faith, and belief. That's why it will always be America's past time.

THIS IS WHY WE CHOP!!!