Weighing in with the Big Boys
Jeff Foley
Monday May 1, 2000
Now, Dyke Naughton, the Albany Firebirds` strength coach, asks Stingley how many reps he`s aiming for. I can`t hear his reply, but I know it`s not a lowly four or five. One of the Arena Football League`s premier defensive players, Stingley spent some time with the New York Jets during the AFL`s off-season. And when he wasn`t under the tutelage of Bill Parcells, or wasn`t working as a teacher back home in Louisiana, he was building himself up in the gym. Now it`s time to find out if the hard work will pay off.
The object is simple; lift 225 pounds as many times as you can.
Stingley wraps his fingers around the bar and gulps in another mouthful of air. He nods at Naughton, indicating that he`s ready to begin. The hooting and hollering starts before the bar is in motion. "Come on, Sting! Let`s see what you got!"
The strength coach places the bar high, so that Derek has full arm extension, and Stingley takes over from there. He churns out rep after rep, going through 10 with an effortless, smooth motion. The bar touches his chest and jumps back up with each breath he takes, his arms working like an assembly-line machine. Reps 11 and 12 go by just as easily as one and two did. Stingley shows no signs of struggle until No. 14. Then, his triceps twitch, his cheeks twist, he bares his teeth and growls.
"One more!" is the cry from his teammates. They scream, veins popping out of their necks and foreheads. It`s as if they`re working with Derek, trying to give him their energy. "Get this one, Sting! You can do it!"
And he does. In fact, by the time Stingley stumbles to his feet, he has lifted 225 pounds 17 times. He can barely lift his hands higher than his waist now, his mouth is dry and he`s out of breath. Derek`s teammates pat him on the back, obviously proud of his effort. Judging by his haggard face, the sweat on his brow, the way his tongue hangs out of his mouth, and the white drops of foam on his lips, Stingley has given everything he has, and the other players appreciate that. It shows them that when gametime comes, Derek won`t quit until it`s physically impossible for him to go on.
Jeff Loots is up next. One of the older players on the team at 29, the quarterback has always had exceptional arm strength. After graduating from Southwest State University in 1995, he went to the NFL combines, where he went throw-for-throw with other rising stars like Drew Bledsoe, now with the New England Patriots. Loots, who had his No. 11 college jersey retired after throwing for a school-record 102 touchdowns and 10,116 yards, was projected to be the fourth or fifth quarterback selected in the NFL draft. Instead though, he suffered a separated shoulder in one of his last collegiate contests and was not picked. He ended up going to the CFL.
Even the AFL`s all-time leading passer, Mike Pawlawski, makes note of Jeff`s arm strength. "Catching me is nothing," says Pawlawski, Albany`s starter. "He can break your hands."
But Loots had off-season surgery, on his left shoulder, his non-throwing arm. It was a simple procedure, a scope, but he`s concerned about how it might affect him during camp. He hasn`t set foot in a weight room in five months, giving his shoulder time to heal, and now he`s expected to lift 225 pounds. His face is coated with sweat as he slides into the testing bench. Like Stingley, Loots warmed up with 115 pounds. The room is quiet as Jeff now prepares to lift the real weight.
"How many?" Naughton says.
"About 12."
Loots begins quickly, jerking the bar up and down. He forces out 14 reps before grinding to a halt. His face turns almost ugly with struggle. This, of course, makes his teammates cheer. Finished, Jeff steps off the bench. His chest heaves as he rubs his left shoulder.
"You OK?" I ask.
"Yeah," Loots says in between breaths. "That`s not bad considering how long it`s been since I lifted weights. I just missed my record. I think it`s 16, when I was in Canada [(playing in the CFL])."
Carl Sacco then blasts through 19 reps. Dale Koscielski rips off 25.
"Dang," says Stingley, who never curses. "What strong pill did you swallow, Dale? Man, stay away from him."
"Hlavacek, you`re up, and then Foley," says Naughton as Dale exits the bench.
There`s no way I can lift 225 pounds, not unless God comes down from heaven and lends a divine hand. I haven`t worked out since high school, and even then, the most I could bench press was 185. But I know that not giving it a shot would disappoint my teammates, probably much more than if I try and fail.
Evan Hlavacek, listed at 5-foot-10 (although that measurement seems generous by an inch or two) and 185 pounds, lines up underneath beneath the bar. The defensive specialist is not only one of the fastest players on the team, but despite his relatively small size, he`s also known as a ruthless hitter. In street clothes, Evan looks like a normal, everyday person. But with his shirt off, he`s a miniature Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Loots taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, do you want to warm up? I`ll spot you."
I tell Jeff no thanks. The truth is - I`m not sure I can lift 115 pounds. Eleven years have passed since high school, and the only bar I`ve touched in the last decade is named Hershey. I can`t imagine lying on the bench with 115 pounds on my chest, crushing the life out of me. Even if Loots did spot me, he`d probably think I was playing around - what grown man can`t lift 115 pounds? - and he`d wait until I was almost dead before pulling it off.
There is a crowd watching the testing now. It`s no longer just skill players in the weight room. A group of college students, guys wearing Siena baseball T-shirts, are crammed into the doorway. They look like they`re watching a freak show, staring at Evan as he rises off the bench and makes his way across the room. Their eyes are filled with awe. One mouths, "Oh my God! Did you see that? That little guy just cranked out 21!"
Coach Dailey is also in the room, arms folded across his chest, a serious look on his face.
"Foley`s up."
There`s no turning back now. I approach the bench as my teammates pat me on the back, offering words of encouragement. The college kids study me, probably wondering who the really little guy is. At 5-foot-6, I make Evan look like a giant. Suddenly, I want to explain to the whole room that I`m just a writer, that there`s no need for me to do this.
Think positive. It`s 90 percent mental. You`re going to lift that weight. You will succeed.
But there`s also another voice inside my head.
Who are you trying to kid? You haven`t got a shot. They`re all going to laugh at you.
"How many?" Naughton says.
I speak softly. "I`ll need help to get one."
Naughton nods with a look of indifference. I count to three and he lifts the bar off the rack. It immediately falls to my chest, descending like an airplane that`s had its wings ripped off, but Naughton keeps his hands on the bar and slows down its flight so that it doesn`t sever me in half. I struggle to get the weight off me, arching my back, and the room erupts. It sounds like every one of my teammates is screaming at the top of their lungs. The loudest voice of all belongs to Coach Dailey.
"Come on, Jeff!" he yells. I catch a glimpse of him. His arms are no longer folded. His hands are cupped and he`s using them as a megaphone. "Fight it, Jeff! Fight it!"
I let out a roar and my butt shoots up off the bench. I push with all my might, wanting so badly to get the bar up just once. And, after a moment of struggling, it rises, going about halfway up. All I have to do now was extend my arms and lock my elbows. I push again, taking courage from the noise in the weight room, and the bar goes up again. It`s a miracle - it goes all the way up. Naughton quickly slips it back into the rack and turns away, grinning. I stand and try to ignore the sharp pain in my right shoulder.
"Good job, Jeff," Coach Dailey says. "Good work."
Every one of my teammates congratulates me. The Siena students look confused, probably wondering why anyone would get excited about a professional athlete bench pressing 225 pounds once. But I don`t care about the students. I feel like a player now. I know that the strength coach did most of the work, lifting the weight for me, but I also know that I gave it my best and succeeded. Sort of.
We leave the weight room several minutes later and join some of the lineman in the gymnasium. We have a short break before it`s time for more testing, so I sit on the bleachers, next to Evan.
"How many reps did you get?" asks one of the big guys, a rookie.
"One. Kind of, but not really."
Evan jumps to my defense. "You got one. That counts. He did one."
The lineman grins and nods his approval.
Jeff Foley was a writer for ArenaFan Online from 2000 to 2001.
