Gift of Strength
Throwback to 1999: Squatting 555 at Santa Barbara Gym & Fitness under the watchful eye of Coach Steve Holl (RIP), with “Eagle Eyes” Jack Carrillo checking depth like a hawk
At Santa Barbara Gym and Fitness, 16 years old, I wasn’t just there to lift—I was there to stake my claim on the totem pole. 405 pounds sat on the bar, staring me down, daring me to get under it.
This wasn’t just any gym.
It was a wild mix of millionaire businessmen, serious lifters, athletes, and strippers from the local bump-n-grind joints—The Spearmint Rhino and PJ Grunts—alongside charismatic personalities who could command any room.
But the undisputed king of chaos was The Veteran.
He was a wreck of a human: a white-trash skullet, a body that screamed “30,” and a face that looked like it had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. Turns out, he wasn’t a war veteran but a veteran of the penal system and weight pits.
Word around the gym was he’d been a powerlifting and bodybuilding hero in the ’80s—though maybe all the pre-deadlift cocaine had scrambled his brain.
The veteran was crazier than a shithouse rat.
That day, I got under 405 for the first time. The weight felt like a mountain. As I unracked it, doubt crept in. I chickened out—barely squatting it to shallow depth before racking it. I told myself I’d try again later. But The Veteran had seen everything. For someone I’d never spoken to, he moved fast. He limped over, barking like a drill sergeant on his worst day.
“If you don’t get this, I’m gonna slap the shit out of you!” he roared, wild-eyed. “My coach did it to me, but I’m giving you a second chance. Don’t waste it.”
This wasn’t a pep talk—it was a threat.
The whole gym stopped. I’d been acknowledged by the top lifters. The topless dancers always said hello. But somehow, earning his respect (a psychologist would have a field day with that) felt like the missing piece.
I got under the bar again. This time, I didn’t just go deep—I sank it ass to grass. Not for one rep, but two. My legs were shaking, my lungs on fire, but I stood tall and racked it. The place erupted.
The Veteran lost his mind, strutting around, yelling, “The kid’s hungry! Somebody feed him!” with that maniacal, unhinged laugh of his.
Nearby, two jacked black dudes visiting from out of town caught the hype and started shouting, “Ho cake, motherf***er! Ho cake!” The gym was alive, like a scene ripped straight out of a movie.
Respect wasn’t just given that day—it was earned. I learned something important: in life, just like in the weight pit, you get your place by showing up, going deep, and rising up— hungry for more!
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