A month before my senior year in high school, I seriously contemplated working the 6 a.m. shift at my dad’s gas station rather than report for another season of two-a-day football practices.
I dreaded the approach of August, the early-morning practices and the voice of our tough-guy coach, Hal Lewis.
“Two laps, on the track!” he’d shout at the beginning and end of every workout.
We would run a half-mile in full gear, practice for two hours, run two more laps after practice, and then return in mid-afternoon to do it again. There were no words in any language to properly describe the soreness and fatigue in a young man’s body.