In a time long ago, I was a stupid high school senior touring Northeastern’s campus, deciding whether or not I approved of the campus. My mom was with me as we walked around Huntington Avenue with fellow tourists in sub-freezing temperatures. The place that impressed me the most was the Marino Center.
I acted like I was seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time, gazing up at the seemingly endless rows of college kids on stationary bikes and what not. Now that I am a disillusioned, soon-to-be-unemployed college grad, the gym is a place of dread for me.
No, this isn’t a rant against the Marino staff. This is a pure case of the old break-up line: “It’s not you. It’s me.” There is nothing like a lanky, awkward, socially inept writer like myself walking into a building full of bigger, taller and stronger people to totally shame me back to my barely lit cave with my old-fashioned typewriter for my rambling manifestos and a box of Gushers fruit snacks for sustenance.
First off, I can’t work up the will to work out. I need to be playing something. There needs to be a goal, like winning or missing an open lay up, for me to participate in physical activity. Running in place or jogging in a circle never really appealed to me.
The few times I have tried jogging on that little track, someone always comes in, runs 50 laps effortlessly as my life flashes before my eyes by the half-mile mark.
Then there are the weights. All you need is one look at me to tell I don’t enter that part of the gym all that often. Chances are your little sister can kick the crap out of me. (Though I bet I can outrun her. Fear is a powerful motivator.) There may be no sight more laughable than a stick figure like me lifting 70-pound weights while Popeye lifts 250 on the next machine. At least when someone is lifting to lose weight and get in shape, it’s noble. With me, it’s a bit pathetic, or at least that’s what my laziness tells me.
Another factor in my scant number of visits to one of the crown jewels of the campus is sloth. I spend a lot of time not doing work and there are things that are more convenient. I just got HBO. I need to catch up on “Entourage” or “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” leaving precious little time for marginal activities like physical exercise.
In addition, the gym is about a 25-minute walk from my apartment and if there isn’t a fattening coffee roll waiting for me on the other side, I think I’ll just stay inside and remain unproductive.
As I have progressed from Smith Hall to Davenport to Jamaica Plain and now to Brookline, I have frequented the gym less and less. When I do go, it’s usually to play basketball. It is one sport where I don’t totally suck and it was my second option after I failed to make the intramural badminton team.
The routine is usually the same. A group of 10 or so kids decides to start a full-court game. The teams are picked (you can guess who gets picked last) after a confusing time where everyone stands off to themselves, shooting 15 basketballs at the rim simultaneously as the minutes pass by, waiting for a game to magically develop. I don’t think the NHL lockout was as long as these things. Once a game gets started, one thought runs through my mind: “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
As a result, I run up and down, grab some rebounds and loose balls, pass up open shots, get rejected a few times and ride the coattails of better plays to a team victory. Sometimes I get stuck playing “Sweaty Guy” who stands at his own basket every game and repels me with his protective layer of perspiration. Other times I play someone who can back me down in the post like I’m not even there and look like the second coming of Hakeem Olajuwon as a result.
On occasion, I will run into a volleyball net or something similar that has been erected in a stealth manner by some bitchy person in a passive-aggressive attempt at saying, “Get off the court, jerks. Playtime is over.” I mean, what if someone told Michael Jordan to get off the basketball court back in the day because it was time for bocce practice?
There would certainly be no Air Jordan shoes for which to mortgage the house.
For all the people who go to the gym on a daily basis to get in shape, get huge muscles, play hoops and so on, I admire you. During the cold winter days, it can be comforting to walk in there amid an aroma of sweat and Au Bon Pain and work out to get the juices flowing. (It can also help improve your lateral quickness so you can avoid Lyndon LaRouche supporters on the sidewalks.)
Every now and then, you may see someone on the basketball court who clearly does not belong with former high school varsity starters. I’ll be wearing blue jogging pants and wearing an “I got a Tommy point” t-shirt and running around trying not to embarrass myself. That’s tougher than lifting a 300-pound dumbbell anyway.
– Stephen Sears can be reached at [email protected]
