football :: essays research papers

The Road Less TraveledPeople of ten-spot go by their life working-out and going to the gym to get buff. For ninety-five percent of Americans that do work out, few can say that they have pushed themselves as unstated as possible, but I have the distinct, and often painful, pleasure of conditioned that there is another way to work out. This option is unlike either other that I have ever personally been through and is a way that I would not wish on any mediocre American. 455 a.m. Seventeen degrees Fahrenheit, a mild breeze of ten miles per-hour-- for the fifth day in a row and second serial month, it is time for me to wake up, make the face-numbing, core-hardening walk through the snow to the Mildred and Louis Lasch animal football game Building. After the half-mile hike, a swipe of my student identification card opens the door. A quick walk to the locker get on takes the prisoners of pain into line for their kindred. We device on stale, manila shirts manila, of course, from previous uses. Each resembles an old Mexican poncho, failing to conform to our bodies. The matching short follow both shirt and shorts are embossed with one simple letter, S. The men, clad in uniform and crude(a)ly awake, file out of the locker room, silently shuffling checkmate the dimly lit back hallway, dreading the impending infliction of pain. Each socked foot becomes heavier, latching onto each fiber of carpet, but human will, not muscular tissue mechanics, moves our warm, muscle bound, ligament and tendon attached, skin encased carcasses to the double doors. Thirteen feet away, the pungent whole step of hot rubber, cool iron, moldy sweat and old coffee collides. around men gag at this point, but the leader of the pack enters the room and there is but one choice.Thirteen thousand square feet of machines, weights, ropes, chains, and pain. The fluorescent fixture lamps fill the room with an unnatural light. Sunlight, just like excuses, is not allowed in Satans lair. Each horse is paired up with his driver. A seven minute warm-up is prescribed by the trainer, and so it starts. I jump on the stationary bicycle. A light breeze against my bare legs blows gently attempting to cool me, but does little to diminish the internal veer of the quadriceps and hamstrings. Upon completion of the warm up, John Thomas, former Navy S.E.A.L., commands me to gather him at the manual neck resistance station.