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Working
Class
Manual
labor can build a stronger, better body than the usual gym routine.
MLB heavy hitters and Big Ten linemen get ready for game day with
wheelbarrows and sledgehammers. By Michael Mraz
After an off-season dominated by headlines of dugout dealers and
Balco, baseball returned this spring with news of yet another
freshly minted physique. Nick Swisher, a 26-year-old slugger for the
Oakland A's, had arrived at spring training with an extra 20 pounds
of muscle.
Rumors of wrongdoing were quickly dispelled, though, as
The New York Times
reported that Swisher had gained the mass by, among other chores,
chopping trees, pulling tractors, and busting concrete: His "magic
formula…was as basic as manual labor."
Shooting HGH between outs in center field would have seemed more
probable, but the truth was Swisher grew his heft on central Ohio
farmland, at a facility called Team Edge Fitness and Performance.
Employing crude tools in barnyard surroundings, he had actually
adhered to an innovative fitness philosophy: functional training.
The method re-creates the motions of the playing field in rugged
workouts tailored to specific sports. Swinging an axe is, after all,
a lot like swinging a baseball bat, only with considerably more
resistance.
I should know. Fired up by the
Times
article, I've headed to the Edge facility—a white ranch house adrift
in a sea of amber plains—to go toe to toe with Allan Johnson, the
trainer responsible for Swisher's new bulk. Up until my arrival I
had not fully understood why owner Bob Fry was so keen on vetting my
size and fitness (6 foot 4, 215 pounds, a former college soccer
player in as mediocre shape as anyone who works long hours can be)
or why he cautioned over the phone: "Be sure to bring outside
clothes and indoor clothes. We'll provide the sledgehammer." Now,
confronted with Johnson, it's all become clear.
Johnson's a bulldog of a man with a yellow Johnny Unitas flattop and
an easy smile at odds with his competitive-sports pedigree. Until
recently, he was the director of strength and training for Ohio
State University. Before that, he was one of Major League Baseball's
first strength coaches (the Baltimore Orioles hired him in 1989).
Johnson explains that I'll be doing a week's worth of training in
three days. Then he tosses me a water bottle and a towel—"In case,
heaven forbid, you sweat."
Nearly every sport requires compound movements (those using more
than one muscle and joint), so we start with compound weight
lifting. After 90 minutes of working my muscles in every direction
possible, I realize this is only a prelude to what Johnson calls
mental toughness training. Dark thoughts about what Swisher endured
begin to form when Johnson yells, "You're gonna love this—come on
now, big daddy!" and heads outside.
Through the muggy haze I see a mud-soaked field—and my new enemies:
a 150-pound John Deere tractor tire, a rusted wheel-barrow, and a
couple of cinder blocks. Beside the monster tire, Johnson hands me a
pair of work gloves and a sledgehammer and says, "All right, three
one-minute rounds from both sides." Painted on the top of the tire
are three silver circles that I'm supposed to hit to improve
hand-eye coordination. "You're gonna be using everything here,"
Johnson warns. "Your arms, shoulders, legs, your core. Have fun with
it now. Go!" He left one thing out—my hands. After each strike the
sledge trampolines off the tire and I have to stop it, regrip, then
shift my weight to swing again. "You're working on the railroad
now," Johnson howls. "Take pride in it." By the last round I can
barely keep my hands around the handle, my pace has decreased by a
third if not more, and I'm missing each circle by six inches. When
Johnson calls time, I drop the hammer and nearly collapse. "Six
minutes of work, that's all it was," he laughs.
Back inside, I'm on my knees between two 10-gallon buckets filled
with rice. Thrusting both arms as far down as possible and then
squeezing, I'm working on grip strength. I give it a few goes and my
hands, wrists, and forearms feel like they're on fire. It's simple
yet sophisticated—just like sadism is supposed to be. Want to add 25
yards to your drive or challenge James Blake forehand for forehand?
Drop the dumbbells and try this five times a week for five minutes.
Next it's on to the mats for core stabilization. Development of the
core—the muscles in the abdominal and lower back areas—is essential
to functional training. Consider a power pitcher like Roger Clemens,
whose fastball starts and finishes with his legs: It's all about
force transference between the upper and lower body. There are two
sets of a medley of ab eviscerations: crunches, reverse crunches,
feet-up crunches, pike-ups, bikes, Supermans (on my stomach, limbs
extended and raised), and Aquamans (on my knees, one arm
outstretched and the opposite leg jutting out behind me). "You'll be
sore tomorrow, but don't worry," Johnson tells me. "It'll be 48
hours before you really feel it. Wait till Wednesday!" The night's
meal (taken at the local mall's food court) and rest (at the
Marriott by the airport) are effectively ruined as visions of
Wednesday's hell cloud my brain. In bed, I pass the time by popping
Advil and watching reruns of the World's Strongest Man competition.
Tuesday comes first, though, and with it a whole new round of pain.
The day is a blur, beginning with two sets of pressing a 75-pound
water-filled keg over my head 15 times and ending with a retreat to
the mall to devour nearly 10,000 calories' worth of P.F. Chang's
fried noodles and a peanut butter confection called Buckeye Pie.
Between bites, my whining muscles assure me of one thing: This
really couldn't get any worse. Of course, they're wrong. It's
spitting rain on Wednesday and my muscles have turned to jerky.
After an hour inside working on core stabilization and grip
strength, I'm sent out to the sopping field in cleats. First, I
single-handedly push a 5,200-pound idling Chevy Tahoe—and driver—40
yards. Second, I shovel 20 heaps of gravel into a wheelbarrow and
dump them 10 yards away, five times. Third, I lunge-walk 40 yards
with two 25-pound sandbags yoked around my neck. Finally, I square
up against the tire one more time, and flip it end over end across
the field. "Excellent work," Johnson says. "To match Swish, you'd
only have a month more to go."
It's a couple of hours later at the Columbus airport, and my legs
have locked up. My stomach feels like it's been stabbed. I'm
shuffling down the gangplank when a few airline attendants intercept
me. It seems my bumping into the walls has led them to suspect I'm
inebriated. "Are you all right, sir?" one asks deliberately, clearly
anticipating a slurred response. Instead, I confess to the Tahoe,
the wheelbarrow, and the sledgehammer. "It's the truth," I insist,
lifting my exhausted arm to flaunt the whopping pound and a half of
muscle I've gained in only three days, a rate of return just behind
Swisher's. "Can't you tell?"
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