Lessons in greatness (or, How to mop floors)
He was a short man, heavyset and seemed to have some difficulty with basic movements. He lacked fluidity, like there was a disconnect between his brain and his body. His dark skin framed his bald head and displayed eyes that didn’t quite seem to focus and teeth that had been chipped. He seemed old in demeanor although his appearance said otherwise. He was mopping the floor, moving around the rows of weighted punching bags and the kettlebell rack. The strong smell of ammonia rose from the floor as he silently maneuvered his yellow mop bucket back and forth. I know this because I saw him when I was leaving the gym.
****
I had recently gotten a new membership at this gym, simply called “The Boxing Gym.” It was small, with two rooms. One with the punching bags and jump ropes and mats, and the other with free weights with various benches, barbells, racks and exercise balls. In one corner lays a giant tractor tire and a sledge hammer, a thick rope curled up nearby. No machines except two treadmills. That’s all you need there, for a cool down walk or maybe to jog a few minutes to warm up. Otherwise they remain unused. People there know how useless boring cardio is.
That day I was working out in the hour before the gym closed. When I got there, I was the only person except one other man, training with the heavyset black man as he held up his mitts and called out punch combo’s.
“Jab, cross, duck, hook!” A second. Pop, pop, pause, pop!
I was lifting weights that day, doing my high intensity circuits. When I finished my workout, as the clock reached closing time, the other man was gone and only myself and the heavyset trainer was left.
“You should train with me; I’ll turn you into a real killer,” he said to me as I was leaving. Only I had to ask him to repeat it, because through his heavy slurring and nonexistent enunciation it was difficult to understand.
I told him I would if I had the time; honestly I was hesitant to work with him because it was so difficult for me to communicate with him.
After our brief communication, sweaty and exhausted, I walked out to the parking lot, thinking about the man. It was clear his slurred speech was a result of taking shots to the head during fights. I felt bad for him.
****
Now truth be told, I had heard about this man and had seen him in the gym often, but hardly spoken to him. You see, the man mopping the floors had known greatness in his time. The owner of the gym had told me about him; he was the best trainer in the city! He was a local legend! He was boxing by age 9. At age 18 he turned professional. He was a member of the United States boxing team from 1982 – 1988, and in 1988 he was chosen to go overseas for the Olympics. He trained with legends like Roy Jones and had been in over 300 fights! And now… he was mopping the floors, closing up a small boxing gym in the suburbs of the Midwest.
It was sweltering hot in the parking lot, heat waves rose from the asphalt. Parked a few spots away from my car was a brownish Oldsmobile, passenger mirror missing, front bumper dented in multiple areas, paint chipping and fading. Windows down – it was over 100 degrees out. The car didn’t look like it had much life left. And then I realized – there were no other cars in the lot. Surely this isn’t his, I thought. They must make employees park in the back. I drove around to the back of the building. Nothing but two cargo vans with logos of another nearby business. No cars. Nothing.
I was dumbstruck.
And then it hit me. All I’ve always wanted to do in life is just do something great. All the people I read about, study and respect that have accomplished great things in their lifetimes – they are my fucking heroes. It clutches my heart and squeezes until all the vast possibilities of life ooze out and overwhelm me when I think about them, the greats. The people that have accomplished amazing feats, have changed communities and societies and revolutionized our lives. It both intimidates and inspires me to know such people have walked the same Earth as me. How will I ever stack up; what can I do to reach such a standard? But that thought quickly gets brushed aside and motivation takes its place. I have to try! Is life worth living if you don’t attempt great things? Why else exist?
But for some reason, something as shallow as judging the man by his car rattled my view of the world. I always believed if I accomplished something great the rest of my life would just take care of itself. That I wouldn’t have much to worry about after that, except maybe keeping my momentum going. But that isn’t how it works. Greatness is as fleeting as time itself, and no harder to hold onto. But it lasts with you as a person forever.
The man mopping the floors, he is one of the greats.
