Sorry, Tom Petty, but you were wrong: Sonny Liston did not go down swingin'. Frustrated after trying, for six rounds, and failing to catch Cassius Clay, he threw in the towel. He didn't rise from his chair. He didn't answer the bell. He bowed his head instead.
Clay went on, of course, to become Muhammad Ali, and travel much further down the road. I don't know what happened to Liston: did he rise and stalk back to the dressing room? Did he stay there until the lights had gone out, alone with his own echoes? True fans know, I'm sure. But for the rest of us, the Sonny Liston Story ended with his butt in his seat.
Liston couldn't take any more punches. I, however, can.
One month ago, I left the bus running; climbed down the steps, beneath the driver's seat, and dove beneath. I committed myself to perfect practice. In our CrossFit box – The Park – you can pay monthly to come every day. Or you can buy a punch card – 4, 8, or 16 CrossFit sessions - and just check 'em off as you show up. I bought a 16-punch card. For the first time, I was paying to be coached.
On the other side of the whistle, things change. Though the competition is still only me against me, my heart rate rises beyond the Life Fitness Treadmill "Fat Burning Zone" (patented) long before the coach starts his countdown. Anxiety is my 'cardio' now.
What am I – a 'personal trainer' with a degree, fourteen years in the industry, lifting competitions under my belt – doing with a coach? How the heck can I still benefit from turning up to these groups? I'll tell you.
Picture: me, gasping hard enough to suck the dust off the floor below. Sweat coating the face of a black leather medicine ball. Triceps experiencing fear. "Coop! Get your elbows under that ball!" – punch.
Picture: third round, out of five. Me, tasting the olive oil from lunch. Hands on my knees. 'It's too hard,' whispers the amygdala, playing Defense. "Hands on the bar, Cooper! Just get the first one!" – punch.
Picture: hook grip on a 28mm bar. Me, hamstrings tight. A coach over my shoulder. Individual attention. A magnifying glass on my triple-extension. 5 more pounds, down and up. – punch.
Picture: me, off the pace. 6 pullups behind Eddie. He's not dropping from the bar. Me neither. – punch.
These days, I'm listening to Keith Richards' autobiography, Life. Sometimes, I have to skip back a few seconds to catch what he's just said, but six hours in, it's been well worth the time. Listening to his thick voice in the 5am darkness on my drive to work, I absorb it all. This morning, he was talking about touring through Texas, where rock 'n roll was truly born, and discovering amazing bands in every tiny town through which their station wagon rolled. "They were bloody amazing," he says. "Some were better than us. They were never going to make it. And most didn't want to. That's what made them so great."
I'm not going to win CrossFit Games 2011. Of equal certainty: I will never stop trying to be great.