the ground in Pittsburgh fall away as I pointed myself toward the setting sun.
chapter five
It is hard to get up to do road work when you are sleeping on silk sheets.
â MARVELOUS MARVIN HAGLER
T raining sessions in Seattle went as follows: Up at eight A.M. for breakfast; first strength and conditioning training from roughly nine thirty A.M . to eleven A.M . Quick snack and a change of clothes before driving over to the Bellevue Aquatic Center. Swimming training from just after noon until two P.M . (Maurice was big on swimming. I am certain to this day that it is a huge component of why he is one of the only combat athletes I know who never required a knee surgery, shoulder surgery, nothing.) Drive back, shower, meal, and rest. Then at four thirty, small snack, change into training gear, and kickboxing training at Mauriceâs gym from five thirty until whenever he saw fit. This could mean finishing up at seven P.M ., or it could mean nine P.M . If we had a good training session and were finished at seven, sometimes we would shower, change, and go out for a meal together, or maybe to a movie. If it was a rough night and we got finished closer to nine, we would usually end up going home, showering, and passing out, oftentimes on the couch, or even in the shower itself. Nights like that, the only motivation to actually get yourself in and out of the shower quickly was the promise of food before sleep. The desires and creature comforts of a professional fighter are simple when locked in a solid training schedule. No booze, no excess, just training, food, and sleep. You find joy in whatever particular meal you are going to get to savor. You look forward to little things like silly TV shows or downtime to read. You glorify cheat meals. Brief forays into the ânormal worldâ feel odd. You start sympathizing with dogs on leashes. Everything out there seems so tantalizing and amazing, but it isnât within your reach, it isnât anything you can even taste, not without sacrificing the goal. My existence was fueled by green tea, steel-cut oats, baked chicken, sweet potatoes, broccoli, spinach, whitefish, brown rice, a multitude of testing strips to keep my glucose levels balanced, gallons of water, and the occasional doughnut or bag of popcorn for when I decided to fall off the routine. I saw more of Maurice and my training partners than I did any significant other I had ever had, including my then-wife. The greatest excitement I experienced was hearing Maurice say, âNot bad,â in regard to a technique we were practicing, which came very, very rarely, and making fun of whatever new brightly colored, obnoxious Speedo he had chosen to wear to swimming training that day.
âYouâre already black, Mo, do your really have to wear that?â I said to him one day. âThat little piece of cloth is just fighting to keep everything in place. I mean, it is fighting .â
The other fighters laughed; a few patted me on the back, saying things like âNow, that is the truth!â Mo stood on the side of the pool, sporting some multicolored slingshot of a bathing suit. He was totally disinterested in our giggles; instead, he put on that âSo what?â face of his and spoke so calmly you almost couldnât hear him over the sound of the water slapping against the tile.
âFirst of all, Mark, Iâm not black, I am brown. If we were to go to the paint store, you would not find a color that matched my skin that was called black. Black would be the color of the street, or licorice, or some shoe leather. My color would be brown. It would be called milk chocolate, or rich mahogany, or something like that. Not black. And second of all, I wear this suit because it reduces drag in the water, unlike those floppy ridiculous shorts so many of you are wearing. Have you ever seen an Olympic swimmer wear board shorts in the pool? No you have not. And last, I am sorry that not all of you are as
chapter five
It is hard to get up to do road work when you are sleeping on silk sheets.
â MARVELOUS MARVIN HAGLER
T raining sessions in Seattle went as follows: Up at eight A.M. for breakfast; first strength and conditioning training from roughly nine thirty A.M . to eleven A.M . Quick snack and a change of clothes before driving over to the Bellevue Aquatic Center. Swimming training from just after noon until two P.M . (Maurice was big on swimming. I am certain to this day that it is a huge component of why he is one of the only combat athletes I know who never required a knee surgery, shoulder surgery, nothing.) Drive back, shower, meal, and rest. Then at four thirty, small snack, change into training gear, and kickboxing training at Mauriceâs gym from five thirty until whenever he saw fit. This could mean finishing up at seven P.M ., or it could mean nine P.M . If we had a good training session and were finished at seven, sometimes we would shower, change, and go out for a meal together, or maybe to a movie. If it was a rough night and we got finished closer to nine, we would usually end up going home, showering, and passing out, oftentimes on the couch, or even in the shower itself. Nights like that, the only motivation to actually get yourself in and out of the shower quickly was the promise of food before sleep. The desires and creature comforts of a professional fighter are simple when locked in a solid training schedule. No booze, no excess, just training, food, and sleep. You find joy in whatever particular meal you are going to get to savor. You look forward to little things like silly TV shows or downtime to read. You glorify cheat meals. Brief forays into the ânormal worldâ feel odd. You start sympathizing with dogs on leashes. Everything out there seems so tantalizing and amazing, but it isnât within your reach, it isnât anything you can even taste, not without sacrificing the goal. My existence was fueled by green tea, steel-cut oats, baked chicken, sweet potatoes, broccoli, spinach, whitefish, brown rice, a multitude of testing strips to keep my glucose levels balanced, gallons of water, and the occasional doughnut or bag of popcorn for when I decided to fall off the routine. I saw more of Maurice and my training partners than I did any significant other I had ever had, including my then-wife. The greatest excitement I experienced was hearing Maurice say, âNot bad,â in regard to a technique we were practicing, which came very, very rarely, and making fun of whatever new brightly colored, obnoxious Speedo he had chosen to wear to swimming training that day.
âYouâre already black, Mo, do your really have to wear that?â I said to him one day. âThat little piece of cloth is just fighting to keep everything in place. I mean, it is fighting .â
The other fighters laughed; a few patted me on the back, saying things like âNow, that is the truth!â Mo stood on the side of the pool, sporting some multicolored slingshot of a bathing suit. He was totally disinterested in our giggles; instead, he put on that âSo what?â face of his and spoke so calmly you almost couldnât hear him over the sound of the water slapping against the tile.
âFirst of all, Mark, Iâm not black, I am brown. If we were to go to the paint store, you would not find a color that matched my skin that was called black. Black would be the color of the street, or licorice, or some shoe leather. My color would be brown. It would be called milk chocolate, or rich mahogany, or something like that. Not black. And second of all, I wear this suit because it reduces drag in the water, unlike those floppy ridiculous shorts so many of you are wearing. Have you ever seen an Olympic swimmer wear board shorts in the pool? No you have not. And last, I am sorry that not all of you are as
Similar Books
