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Fridge wasn’t made to run, but he did.
Across the country, football teams are toiling away in preparation for the upcoming football season. This means early morning workouts, 7-on-7 tournaments, and of course the dreaded “conditioning test.”
For those unfamiliar with the term, a “conditioning test” is a set of wind sprints a player must complete before actual practices start. Back when I was coaching, we ran 52 sprints at varying distances, trying to simulate a complete football game.
It’s grueling, especially given the time of year. The summer. The dog days. Air so wet and thick, it sticks. Nevertheless, it’s a necessity for any coach trying to gauge his team’s endurance before the season.
Here’s the funny thing about conditioning tests: everyone does them. Even the big boys. The linemen. The guys who will never run more than a few yards at a time. Yes. They too have to run the sprints—albeit with much longer time intervals between—they still run.
It’s painful to watch. The way the big boys run looks more like a fast walk with over exaggerated arm movements. Back in my college days, we dubbed the linemen’s peculiar waddle “the fat man shuffle.” They got a kick out of it. They knew what they were doing. Simply trying to survive.
When I became a coach, I saw the conditioning test from a new perspective. I saw it through the eyes of Fridge.
Fridge wasn’t his real name, of course, but it is what everyone called him. Fridge was the largest player I ever coached. Huge. Think the size of a refrigerator, then think bigger. The thing about Fridge was—he never passed the conditioning test.
Never.
Not once in his high school career did he make all the sprints in the allotted time. This led to his “punishment,” another round of running after the ensuing two-a-day practices. Running, running, and more running for Fridge, but he never wavered.
Instead, he’d just shuffle along, hips and elbows swaying as he went, and he’d pay his penance. Finally, summer would burn away, replaced by the cool dark of Friday nights, and Fridge would move back down to the trenches. I bet Fridge never ran more than ten yards in an entire season.
Still, Fridge never complained about the conditioning test.
Even when all the other players started hollering from the end zone, calling for him to “Hurry up” and “Quit being so lazy!” Fridge stayed steady, shuffling along.
I coached Fridge back in the 2012 and 2013 seasons. He wasn’t the best lineman we had. In fact, he never made the starting roster. But I liked him. I respected his dogged approach to a game that was more painful to him than it was to the other boys. So for his senior season, I found him a spot on our field goal team.
That was it, just a small reward for all those summers spent grinding away at the conditioning test, all that time and sweat he invested.
After his senior season was over, Fridge found me. I was in my class, probably grading papers, when I heard the knock on the door.
I wasn’t expecting it. High school coaches don’t get a lot of gifts from their players. But Fridge had a bag in his hand, blue with red paper—our team colors.
Inside there was a picture. It was of Fridge and me. There was a card. Written on the flap, in a high-school-boy scrawl, was a simple, “Thanks.”
I still have the picture. It’s travelled with me to every office, every classroom, every desk I’ve ever sat behind. It serves as a memento to perseverance, a reminder that hard work is worth doing simply because it must be done. I can only imagine why Fridge stuck it out, knowing he wouldn’t get a scholarship, much less a spot on the starting line. Who knows, maybe he just wanted his name in the local paper.
Well, Fridge, if you’re reading this—this one’s for you.
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Photo credit: Pixabay