I’m about to break an unwritten rule.
I’m sending out two blog posts in a row that deal with a high school memory.
This is like the equivalent of putting up two Instagram posts in the same day (not stories but honest to goodness “on-the-grid” posts) or texting that person from the bar the same night as getting their number (shit, I don’t even know what I’m talking about here. I’ve been married for long enough that texting someone right away and not waiting the requisite two days may no longer be a thing).
But, there I was, sitting in the high school auditorium for the last time as we prepared to go out to the football field for our graduation ceremony - a sort of gathering before the gathering - when Mr. Sorka, beloved Health teacher and full-time hippie, appeared at the lectern in front of the entire senior class, tapped the microphone to get our attention, opened a seemingly innocuous booklet and began reading.
It took me a full 8 seconds to recognize what was happening. That booklet was our high school literary magazine. The words he was reading were my own.
I no longer remember the poem but I do remember the theme.
This will shock no long-standing readers of this blog that it was a piece of nostalgia on fleeting youth. I definitely remember something about a “rusty basketball hoop” and a “shiny class ring”.
I can definitely assure you that no other members of the 190 person graduating class of Wantagh Senior High School that day remember any of it.
But, I’ll tell you this, I’ll never forget the way I felt when Mr. Sorka, dressed in that official, velvety, teacher-version of the graduation robe and cap, finished reading the poem, took a dramatic pause, lifted his gaze to the restless and excited student body in order to add some gravitas to the moment and closed the booklet.
To steal a phrase I learned from the first “Rocky” movie, I am a ham and egger. I work hard, I try hard, I’m reliable and I have good intentions.
But I don’t possess top 5% talent. I’m relatively strong. I’m an okay guitar player. I can make remarkably edible pork chops.
This isn’t self-effacing modesty. It just turns out to be what is true.
I’m in good company. Most of you reading this are ham and eggers too. You are my people.
But while I am not Vonnegut or Dylan Thomas or Joyce Carol Oates, I’ve always taken some level of pride in my ability to write. To be able to tell a story or paint a picture or get across an idea with nothing more than the ideas and experiences that are floating around this giant noggin of mine.
Most people fear the blank page. I love it.
Prior to my career as fitness icon (these are the jokes, people) I worked as a copywriter at several advertising agencies. When I did make the switch to fitness it wasn’t long before I was submitting articles to magazines and websites and, ultimately, was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to write two books on training.
In reflection, and at the risk of grandiosity, I’m not sure if any of this happens if it were not for that pre-graduation moment in that auditorium decades ago.
Sometimes, if you are lucky, people will see things in you and for you that you cannot see for yourself.
Without question, that trait, to me, is the greatest value that a coach or a teacher can bring to someone.
It’s the premier thing our training staff brings to our members.
That belief that they can safely add one more kilo or do one more rep or go one second faster than last time.
Because when you are tired or breathless or feel that heavy weight on your back, you will not see it for yourself. You need someone you trust to see it for you.
It’s very rare that you realize the most important moments in your life are happening in the moments they are happening
Sure, there’s your wedding day or the birth of your children, but so many things that you value when you look in the rear-view mirror of life seemingly brush by you like a stranger walking past on a busy sidewalk in the moment.
But as I drove away from my high school on that perfectly sunny day in late June my already nostalgic self was fully aware that something profound was happening. That a significant experience had come to an end and I was about to start a new chapter in my life.
I just didn’t realize what the most impactful moment of that day was yet.