Gotta' work...gotta' keep going...can't let up, can't back down...I've gotta' push myself...I've gotta' be able to last...
Ronnie was working himself to near-death because he thought that that was what it took to beat whoever was put in his path, and win the World Heavyweight Title. He kept kicking, and kicking, and kicking, as if to exorcise all of his past failures, in the desperate hope that he might be able to gain some notoriety, some sort of accomplishment beyond his past exploits and his last World title reign, which wasn’t much of one. And then, suddenly, in between kicks, the leg that was supporting his weight simply gave out, too tired from the pace of the exercise to continue.
Nobody came to help him. He had done this repeatedly over the past few days. The first time it had happened, about three people came over, including one of the personal trainers. Now, they knew why he was falling, and didn't seem to care so much. Ronnie rolled slightly, resting on his back. He looked at the nearest clock and did the math.
Sixty minutes at full tilt...damn it...that is nowhere near long enough.
Ronnie stayed on the ground, feeling the weight of what he viewed as inadequacy pressing down on him. He wasn't breathing heavily at all, but his heart was racing, and he suddenly felt the pain hit his legs at full force as they began to cramp.
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"Dieciocho..."
"Two more, you're almost there."
"Diecinueve..."
"One last lift!"
"Veinte!"
Elsewhere in the gym, James and young Diego Manaussa were also working out. Diego had just finished doing three sets of twenty bench presses, and placed the bar back on the supports. He pushed himself out and sat up. Both of them looked over at the punching bag, and saw Ronnie fall about three seconds afterwards.
"Why does he keep doing that?"
"Couldn't tell you, Diego. Ronnie has his own way of doing things, and sometimes, they defy explanation."
"Ah...right, my turn."
James went and sat back on the bench, not even attempting to change the weights.
"James, are you sure that you can lift that."
"Sure. I weigh as much...well, actually more than you do, I should be able to lift as much as you can."
"James, its two-hundred seventy-five pounds. Are you sure you can lift it?"
"Sure. Just let me try."
James grasped the bar firmly in his hands and slowly began to push, and push, and push some more, and the bar didn't even budge. James once again struggled with all his might, but it didn't even move. James sighed.
"Okay, so maybe I can't lift this. Maybe I should just stick to barbells or something...or machines instead of actual benches..."
"Well, I know why you tried, anyway."
Diego helped James get off of the bench.
"Yeah? Why's that."
"Same reason Ronnie's been working himself almost to death."
"Hey!"
"Not what I meant, James."
"Oh...so what's the reason, then?"
"Hope."
"What?"
"Hope. The hope that maybe, just maybe, you could be more than you are. It's almost the American Dream, boiled down."
"Really?"
"Yeah. The American Dream is about being anything you want to be. And generally, unless you've already reached your dream, that dream tends to be the hope for something better, for something more."
"So my trying to lift more than I could was..."
"It was you being an idiot..."
"HEY! I thought you said..."
"But yes, it was you hoping that maybe, just that time; you could do more than you ever really believed you could."
"Diego, I thought that I could do it."
"James, what's the most you've ever bench pressed?"
"Uh...well...honestly?"
"Yeah."
"About a hundred fifty-five pounds, I think."
"So you knew that it was over a one-hundred pound difference, right?"
"Uh...yeah..."
"So you had to know that, even if you refused to acknowledge the fact, you were never going to be able to lift that bar."
"Well, I guess so."
"But you tried anyway."
"Uh...yeah, I guess..."
Diego nodded, then looked back over to the punching bag, and saw that Ronnie was still down on the floor, nursing his legs.
"Ronnie is doing something similar. He knows he has limits, and he knows what they are, but he's trying to go way beyond them in the hope that it will make him a better competitor. He's never trained like this before, James, never. It's almost suicidal, when you get right down to it. But he's doing it in the hope that it might give him the edge."
"Interesting...kinda' funny, actually."
"How so?"
"He's doing something that is essentially related to the American Dream, and it's for the sake of winning a match that, in a way, is celebrating the rebirth of his legacy."
"Yeah...well, estadounidenses are a bit stubborn sometimes...and it doesn't even have to do with machismo."
"Estadohoobewhadda?"
"It's Spanish. Literally, it translates as United States citizen. More accurate than 'American'."
"Oh...wait, how is it more accurate?"
"Canadians, Mexicans, Hondurans, Brazilians - all of them are Americans, mang. North Americans, Central Americans, South Americans...United States citizen just more clearly states jour country of origin...but that's really getting off topic..."
James shrugged.
"So, where are the barbells, anyway? I wanna build my arms up so that some day, I can lift as much as you just did."
"It's gonna' take a while...and I doubt you'll be able or willing to put in the gym time. But c'mon, might as well do something."
Diego directed James towards the free weights and started walking in the same direction. He looked over his shoulder, and saw Ronnie McNeil slowly getting to his feet.
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Ronnie slowly stood, still feeling the pain in his legs. He slowly drank the liquid in his water bottle, letting the sugar, water, and electrolytes rush down his throat and relieve his aching body, slowly but surely. He slowly limped towards the nearest bench and sat down, then took another drink. He looked back at the bag ruefully, realizing that he hadn't gone past thirty minutes the last five times that he'd worked himself to exhaustion. He thought about the match, and knew that sixty minutes at full tilt was almost to be expected. In fact, more than that was probable.
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