It's 3:30 in the morning, and I'm sitting at my kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee.
My wife's flight home from Boston was delayed, and she didn't get home until the early morning hours. I woke up around 2:30, picked up my phone to see where she was, and discovered she was on her way home from the Denver airport. By then, I was wide awake.
I've been getting up early lately at 4:30am to head down to the shop after I’ve snuggled with my dog and had my coffee. I figured my alarm was going to go off in another hour or so anyway, so I might as well get moving and start a brew.
The house is dark and quiet. I'm sitting here on my second cup, thinking about how easy it would be to complain about being awake at this ridiculous hour, knowing I've got a full day of work ahead of me.
But complaining isn't something I've ever been particularly good at.
And that got me thinking about why.
I played football for nine years when I was younger. Looking back, I realize that football taught me a great deal more than how to block, tackle, or run a play. It taught me about fear, pain, discipline, and perhaps most importantly, toughness.
When I played junior varsity football, I wasn't a particularly big kid. I probably weighed 150 pounds soaking wet. What I lacked in size, however, I made up for in quickness and meanness.
I wasn't necessarily the strongest player on the field, but I had a peculiar reaction to getting hurt. Instead of becoming frightened or backing away, I got mad. The harder someone hit me, the more determined I became to hit him back.
That particular character trait has followed me through life, and I suspect it's served me pretty well.
One of the drills our coaches used was called the Bull in the Ring.
For those unfamiliar with this particular form of organized childhood brutality, allow me to explain.
The entire football team would form a large circle. One player would stand in the middle, chopping his feet and slowly turning as he surveyed the players surrounding him. Eventually, he would choose someone standing along the outside of the circle, point directly at him, and call him out.
Then the two players would collide.
Hard.
There was no football involved. No touchdown to score. No first down to gain. Just two young men running into each other with every ounce of force they could muster.
And the entire team was watching.
The purpose was to teach us to overcome fear, commit to the hit, and demonstrate toughness.
But there was also a fascinating bit of psychology and politics involved.
If you were a big player and chose some little fellow you could easily run over, nobody was particularly impressed. If you chose your best buddy and the two of you conveniently decided not to hit each other very hard, everyone knew what you were doing.
And if there happened to be someone on the team you didn't particularly like, well, the Bull in the Ring provided a perfectly acceptable opportunity to settle a score.
But if you really wanted to demonstrate how tough you were, you chose someone worthy.
Someone who could hurt you.
And on our team, there was one player who stood above the rest in that department.
His name was Mark Davis.
We called him Mad Dog Mark Davis.
Mark was a broad-shouldered, stocky Black kid who looked like he had been put on this earth for the express purpose of playing football. He was tough, mean, aggressive, and absolutely relentless.
It didn't matter what position he played. If you had to block him, you were going to pay for it. If you had to tackle him, you were going to pay for it. Mark seemed perfectly willing to sacrifice his own body if it meant inflicting a little more pain on yours.
He was the kind of football player who made you reconsider whether you really wanted to play football.
And one afternoon, standing in the middle of that circle, I decided I was going to call him out.
I remember chopping my feet, turning around several times, looking at the faces of my teammates.
Then I stopped.
I looked directly at Mark, extended both arms, pointed both index fingers straight at him, and yelled:
"YOU!"
What happened next surprised the hell out of me.
Mark turned around and ran away.
Now, before you get the impression that Mad Dog Mark Davis was frightened of a 150-pound kid, let me explain.
He wasn't running away from me.
He was getting a running start.
Mark ran about 20 yards outside the circle, turned around, and came charging straight at me at full speed.
I had just challenged the meanest, toughest player on our football team, and apparently, he intended to make an example out of me.
I had a decision to make.
I could stand there and wait for the inevitable collision, or I could run straight at him.
So I ran.
I don't remember much about the actual impact. I suspect Mark plowed through my skinny little frame like a freight train through a wooden fence. I'm sure the rest of the team probably let out a collective gasp.
What I do remember is standing back along the edge of the circle afterward, hurting like hell and desperately hoping nobody else called my name.
I had taken an absolutely brutal hit.
But I'd done it.
I'd challenged the meanest son of a bitch on the team, and I'd hit him with everything I had.
I'm quite certain Mark wasn't particularly impressed. He probably forgot about it before practice was over.
But I never forgot it.
Because that afternoon, I learned something important about myself.
I learned that being afraid of something didn't mean I couldn't do it. I learned that being smaller didn't mean I had to back down. And I learned that sometimes the only way to discover what you're capable of is to run straight at the thing that scares you.
Now, sitting here at 58 years old, I have to acknowledge that there was a price to pay for all that toughness.
I've had a knee replaced. I've had a vertebra in my neck replaced and four vertebrae fused. Both of my shoulders hurt pretty much all the time. My back occasionally decides it's had enough. My left knee will probably need replacing someday, and my left ankle has its own collection of complaints.
And there's no telling what nine years of collisions did to my brain.
So when people debate whether young boys should be subjected to that kind of physical punishment in the name of sports, I understand the argument.
My medical history probably makes a pretty compelling exhibit for the prosecution.
But here's the other side of that argument.
Those nine years of football taught me to endure things that I might otherwise have believed were unbearable.
I learned to deal with pain. I learned to deal with stress. I learned to manage fear and anxiety. I learned that being uncomfortable wasn't necessarily a reason to quit.
Those lessons followed me through nearly 25 years in the military. They helped me raise a family, navigate difficult times, and build and operate a small manufacturing business.
They taught me that there are going to be days when you're tired, hurting, frustrated, worried, or overwhelmed.
And sometimes you just have to put your boots on and get to work.
But I've also learned something else as I've gotten older.
There's a difference between being tough and suffering in silence.
For most of my life, I've been pretty good at both.
Someone will notice me limping and ask, "Is your knee hurting?"
And I'll usually reply, "No, it's just a habit."
That's not entirely true, of course.
It hurts.
But I've gotten so accustomed to living with pain that complaining about it seems pointless. I've learned to accept it as part of life and keep moving.
There are downsides to that mentality.
As I've gotten older, I've also found myself more susceptible to periods of depression. My way of dealing with those feelings has generally been to stay busy. I work with my hands. I build things. I fix things. I find something productive to do rather than sit around dwelling on my problems.
Most of the time, that works for me.
But I also recognize that keeping everything to yourself isn't necessarily the healthiest way to live. There's a kind of toughness involved in admitting you're hurting, too. I'm still learning that lesson.
I think about the generation of men who raised me and the coaches who helped shape me.
My father taught me the value of hard work. Complaining and whining about life's difficulties weren't particularly acceptable in our household. If something needed to be done, you did it. If the work was hard, you worked harder.
My football coaches reinforced those lessons. One couch that stands out was Coach Charlie Johnson.
He taught us kids discipline, commitment, accountability, and how to push ourselves beyond what we thought were our limits.
Were all their methods perfect?
Probably not.
Would I recommend putting a bunch of teenage boys in a circle and encouraging them to run full speed into one another today?
Given the condition of my knees, neck, shoulders, and back, I might have a few reservations.
But I wouldn't trade the lessons I learned for anything.
I worry sometimes that we've become so concerned about protecting young people from discomfort that we risk denying them the opportunity to discover just how resilient they really are.
I'm not suggesting that anxiety isn't real or that people shouldn't seek help when they need it. I've lived long enough to understand that some of life's hardest battles aren't visible to anyone else.
But I do believe there's tremendous value in being challenged. In failing. In getting knocked down. In being afraid and doing something anyway.
Confidence doesn't come from someone constantly telling you how capable you are.
Sometimes it comes from getting the hell knocked out of you by Mad Dog Mark Davis and discovering that you can get back up.
I hope my children have learned some of those lessons by watching me.
I hope they've seen the long hours, the hard work, the sacrifices, and the determination it takes to build a life and support a family. More importantly, I hope they understand that toughness isn't about being the biggest, strongest, or meanest person in the room.
It's about character.
It's about doing what needs to be done when you don't particularly feel like doing it.
It's about having the courage to face something difficult, even when you know it's going to hurt.
And perhaps, as I've gotten older, it's also about knowing when to ask for help.
Well, my coffee cup is nearly empty now.
The house is still dark. My wife is finally home and getting some much-needed rest. In a few minutes, I'll put on my work clothes, lace up my boots, grab my headlamp, and walk down to the shop in the dark.
My knees will probably hurt. My shoulders will remind me that I'm not 17 anymore. And by the end of the day, I'll likely be pretty damn tired.
But I'm not going to complain about it.
I've got work to do.
And somewhere inside this 58-year-old, worn-out body, there's still a 150-pound kid pointing both fingers at Mad Dog Mark Davis and yelling, "YOU!"
