Manhood: How to Be a Better Man-or Just Live with One by Terry Crews

their job to make us tough, and they did not mess around.
    I took my position, ready to get moving as soon as the play started. A big, grizzled man in his late twenties or early thirties, his arms roped with muscle, hunched down across from me, staring me down, psyching me out.
    “Hey,” he said. “You ain’t gonna do nothin’ in here.”
    As soon as the action was under way, he lunged toward me. I knew better than to show any fear. I ran at him just as hard as he was coming at me. With a whack that reverberated throughout my core, he smacked me down to the uneven asphalt. I lay with gravel poking into the back of my head, trying to catch my breath. In an instant I was up. If I showed any weakness I was done. We took hits that hard from grown men every time we played. It was really kill or be killed. Looking back, it seems crazy. I’d never let my son be in a situation like that. But I can tell you this: I became a better player. It hurt too much not to learn to run faster, get out of the way quicker, and take on full-body blows, all without complaint. As long as those guys were looking on, when we got hit, we brushed ourselves off and kept on going.
    We had to decide whether we were going to grow up quickly, and be strong, maybe even earn enough respect from the older guys to make a name for ourselves, or if we were going to sneak away. A lot of the other boys my age knew it wasn’t for them, and it didn’t take them long to stop messing with these pickup games. But I wasn’t going to show any fear. I was obsessed with my own internal mantra:
I’m big enough. I’m strong enough. I’m fast enough. Even if you beat me today, I’m coming back tomorrow
. That’s how I first realized the power of physical fitness and athleticism, which soon took on an even greater significance in my life.

BASKETBALL WAS THE FAVORED SPORT IN MY hometown, and I started playing in sixth grade. Pickup games in the summer were huge, and during Flint’s cold winters, it was also a social thing, as well as a sport you could excel at indoors. In ninth grade I added football and track to become a consistent year-round athlete. I knew, however, I was not good enough at basketball to go pro or even play at the college level. Because there were so many great basketball players in the city who were better than me, I decided football would be my ticket out of Flint. My need to be the best meant that I not only threw myself into practice and did extra drills on my own time, but I also volunteered for everything. No matter what the coaches asked us to do, I was the first person to raise my hand.
    Fortunately, during my seventh-grade year, I finally came under the leadership of a man who recognized not only howhard I was pushing myself but also saw something special in me. My football coach, Lee Williams, took an interest in me like no one else ever had, and he became a father figure to me. His encouragement was crucial, arriving at a moment in my life when it was enough to change everything for me going forward.
    My father hated sports. He was all about the Army and wanted me to enlist as soon as I graduated from high school. I knew this was one of the only ways to escape Flint, and the only way out that would also earn Big Terry’s respect. But something about this path didn’t sit right with me. It wasn’t what I wanted.
    I was an artist, and now I was an athlete. I didn’t know what this meant for my future. But Coach Lee did. After yet another practice when I’d worked as hard as if we’d been playing a championship game, he pulled me aside. My first instinct was always to fear I was in trouble, even though I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong.
    “Terry Crews, let me tell you something,” he said. “There’s no way you should not be playing football at a Division One college on a Division One scholarship.”
    His voice was so sure and strong it was as if he was giving a speech about me.
    “Really?” I said.
    “Terry Crews,