Jan. 26, 2004

By Mick Mixon

The door to Ted Roof's office at Duke swung open and in I walked. It was Wednesday, November 19th and I had an appointment with Coach Roof to tape a short interview for our Tar Heel Sports Network pre-game show that Saturday.

"Coach, this is Mick Mixon from UNC radio," said Art Chase of Duke's Sports Information staff. "Mick, meet Ted Roof."

Coach Roof swung his chair around to face me. He started to extend his hand but then pulled back and looked at me carefully from top to bottom. A look of grave concern moved over his face like a bank of storm clouds. He spoke solemnly, as if he were afraid of what the answer to his question might be.

"Son, are you healthy?" he asked.

"Well, yes, I believe so." I said. "I'm kind of old and I never have weighed a whole lot, but as far as I know, I'm healthy."

"Oh well, okay then. Nice to meet you. Have a seat."

In fairness to Coach Roof, he impressed me as a very friendly and accommodating person. Still, I drove back from Durham that morning with the confidence building sensation that my physical appearance makes me look like I am doing battle with some tenacious illness.

Not that this was totally new information for me, mind you. All my life, I've been, well, I guess the word is "skinny" although people like me prefer "wiry" or "lean" or something more athletic sounding.

Friends feign envy at my jackhammer metabolism and ectomorphic build but how would they feel if the electric door at the Harris-Teeter didn't open for them?

If a fat guy walks into the room, everybody kind of looks down and thinks to themselves, "Okay, there is a fat guy in the room. Act natural. Don't stare. Eeeeasy does it, now. Make the adjustment." Slim, however, is more approachable somehow. People feel free to come right up to you and poke, prod and examine you like you are a moon rock on display from NASA. I've had total strangers grab me at Ram's Club meetings and start handling the merchandise.

"Thelma, lookie here. I've got post-hole diggers at home bigger than this announcer fella!"

In the 9th grade, Terri Clark, kind of a full-figured African-American girl, wrote in my yearbook, "Mickey, don't get no smaller or won't no one be able to see you. Love, Terri."

I played one game for the Washington Generals against the Harlem Globetrotters back in the late '80's and while I was in the lay-up line, one of the Globies came up to me and said, "Say man, you could floss with those legs." Then, that night on local station WIS-TV, sports anchor Joe Daggett showed highlights of the game and referred to me as "the flamingo-legged Mick Mixon."

Well to the devil with all of the wisenheimers. The week after Coach Roof asked me if I was healthy, I plunked down $400 for a two-year membership to a gym. Now, instead of jogging, my bony self is in the health club 4 or 5 times a week picking up heavy objects on purpose. That's right, dang it. I've weighed 152 for the last 30 years. Now, it's 165 or bust.

The gym is a curious place filled with all types of people. You may know some of them. First, there is Mirror Man, who can't walk from here to yonder in the health club without eyeballing himself in the looking glass. Mirror Man loves himself. He does all his reps (that's weightlifting lingo for "repetitions") right in front of the mirror and then flexes and poses like some sort of action superhero. Doesn't he have a mirror at home he can use?

Sitting on the bench press is Magazine Man, who reads an entire Newsweek, does one set of lifts, reads an entire Sports Illustrated, does another set, then tells his buddy who has just arrived, "Man, where you been? I've worked out for an hour already!"

That guy with his face pressed up against the window watching the 6:30 aerobics class is Peeping Tom. As near as I can tell, Tom doesn't exercise, he just comes in to be near all that estrogen.

In the back corner of the gym getting ready to punish the squat rack is Brawny. This dude looks like he should have his own line of paper towels. He is huge, mustached, perpetually tan and all during his workout he drinks distilled water out of a one gallon plastic jug. One night when he is getting ready to squat lift over 800 pounds, I think I'll go over and say, "Hey, you mind if I work in with you?"

The psychology of weight training is even more fascinating than the sociology of the gym. The other night a great big guy volunteered to spot me as I attempted a death-defying bench press of my own body weight. The barbell descended, bounced off my chest to a height of about a foot and then stopped. I could move it no farther. But instead of helping me, the big guy put his face down near mine and screamed, "COME ON, MAN! PUMP IT, PUMP IT, PUMP IT!!!!" And at that exact moment, a drop of sweat rolled off his chin and splashed directly into my left eye.

You are kidding me, right? "Pump it, pump it, pump it"? I've paid $400 bucks, my arms feel like pieces of angel hair pasta, I'm getting ready to wear the bar as a necklace, Joe Musclehead is sweating in my eye and these inspirational words are supposed to help me summon the strength needed to rack this weight?

I don't know about women, but for most men, peer pressure is the world's greatest motivator. Former Carolina basketball player Michael Brooker works out where I do and a few weeks ago when he came walking up, I put my ear to the side of the pull-up station like I was listening intently to it.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Brook, this pull-up bar just called you a wuss. It said if you don't do 15 wide grip pull-ups right now, you are a wuss. Are you gonna let it talk to you like that?"

"Awww man," Michael said. "I'm doing chest today. How about if I teach it a lesson tomorrow? "

"Suit yourself, but the Michael Brooker I USED to know would teach it a lesson right now." Brooker held true to his workout schedule but in the face of that type of challenge, about 90 percent of the males reading this column right now would have jumped up on that pull-up bar and given the best account of themselves humanly possible.

I've only been hard at my crash weight gain program for a couple of months but a few nights ago I decided to show the wife the results from my training.

"Honey, look at that muscle!" I said, tensing the billiard ball sized uprising in my left arm as hard as I could.

"Where? There?"

"No, here! My bicep muscle!"

"Oh, that? Why yes, I think I see it now. Good job, honey."

That's it. No more typing on this story. I'm getting changed and heading to the gym.

You can contact Mick at mmixon@tarheelsports.com . The above column appeared originally in the February issue of Tar Heel Monthly. To subscribe, click here.