My Mr. Universe

When I was in about fifth grade my parents got me a set of weights and a bench for my birthday.  I had been playing Police Athletic League football for the last two years and I had it in my head that it was time I started adding some big-time bulk to my ten-year-old frame.  They obliged me with a Joe Wieder set that I think totaled out at about 95lbs. 

I remember how excited I was putting it together, setting up the weights and reading the little pamphlet on recommended exercises and the proper technique.  I was convinced that it would only be a matter of days before I was pumping some serious pre-teen muscle.  A matter of months before I looked like the Fully Grown Professional BodyBuilders on the box. 

I quickly found out that I do not care for weight lifting.  Not at eleven years old and not now.  It is a tedious and painful workout.  There is no finish line.  No high or low score.  No winner or loser.  Just count reps, rest, repeat.  There are few things on this planet duller than lifting weights.  I was lucky in a lot of ways.  I'm naturally strong (freakishly so in my legs) and turned out to have a pretty big frame for a little kid (I think the department stores called it Husky back then) so even though I barely touched the weights I got stronger and bigger on my own.  I even got up to the point where I could lift the whole 95lbs at once.  Damn, I thought, I am one sexy middle school bad ass! 

I was thinking about this earlier today as I watched my Father struggle to sit up in his hospital bed.  A man that at one time watched me work out on my Joe Weider weight set.  Saw me revel in my achievement of lifting the Whole Damn 95lbs then proceeded to pick it up with one hand and lift it over his head.  He put it back down and just for good measure changed hands and did it again.  Holy fuckin shit, is what I remember thinking at the time.  It was a very clear message, you're a strong kid but you've got a long way to go before you can best your Old Man.  I have to admit, even pre-Hodgkin's I'd struggle mightily to do that.  I'm not so sure I could do it with my right arm even on my best day. 

Old age and illness have robbed my Dad of that strength.  It's robbed him of his energy and his stamina.  His vim and his vigor. (thought I'd throw in an old fashioned phrase for the older folks that are reading this and with the hopes that the younger generation of readers might adopt it as well.  Other great old time phrases - lollygag, ne'er-do-well and donnybrook.  Start using them today and see how much turn of the century style fun you can have!)  It wasn't until I was about eighteen that I had pulled even with my Dad in a wrestling match.  He was as strong and as tough of a man as I have ever met.  Now he struggles to breath.  Can't do it properly without the aid of a machine.  And yet, in those moments when some old friends come to visit and he's got the oxygen pumping into his lungs just right, he raises up in the bed, his eyes widen, his speech clears up and you can see that amazingly powerful man again.  If only for a moment. 

I'd like to see more of those moments.  I know there aren't that many left but I'd like to see as many more as he can muster for as long as he can muster them (Muster, another great old fashioned word, kids).