Chapter 1

I led anything but a normal childhood. On the day I was born my mother had just turned sixteen years old, my father was barely seventeen. My mother’s family hated my father with a passion and did everything they could to make his life a miserable hell. To his credit, he withstood the abuse and became my role model, never ever turning his back on me, even though my mother’s family criticized him every chance they got.

He dropped out of school at seventeen and went to work at the local lumber yard. He sent my mother a check for child support every month, even though they had never been to court, his check was there every month. He enrolled in night school got his GED, then enrolled in college, again at night. It took him six years, but he received a teaching degree and went to work at a local high school.

He was a gifted quarterback in his high school days, many say he was good enough to perhaps play professionally, but he gave all of that up at seventeen. It only made perfect sense that after four years of teaching, he would also assume the head coaching position, a sport he loved dearly.

Although we lived less than twenty miles apart, I rarely saw my father, my mother’s family saw to that. But he never relented; he was determined that one day we would be close. Every Birthday, every Christmas he was there much to their dismay.

After several years of coaching, my father turned a perennial loser into one of the strongest high school programs in the state. He was being recruited by every major high school in the state, as well as several smaller colleges.

My father was a big man, six feet, five inches tall and about two hundred twenty-five pounds. It was pretty obvious at even at an early age, I would take after him physically. At age twelve, I was already over six feet and close to one hundred ninety pounds.

That year is particularly etched in my mind, that’s the year my mother married Richard, a man she had been dating for a few years. He was the sort of man you never trusted; he always seemed to be up to something.

I could not stand him but for my mother’s sake, I kept my mouth shut. From the moment he moved in, my life was never the same. He constantly ordered me around, demanding I work around the house to earn my keep, as he called it. This went on for a year or so until my size began to threaten him, or at least that’s what I thought at the time.

I really don’t remember what even started it, but one night my mother was at her parents’ house, and it was getting late. I had been working in the yard all day, and I was extremely tired. One of the things he had asked me to do, apparently I had forgotten. He came into my room and began to curse and scream at me.

I got up out of the bed, and I am guessing he must have thought I was going to confront him. The next thing I remember, I was on the floor with a terrible pain throbbing in my jaw. I reached up, touching my mouth, seeing blood on my hand. I quietly got up and went and did the chore he asked me to. I finished and went back to bed, but the pain kept me awake most of the night. The next morning, the entire right side of my face was swollen and bruised.

My mother asked me what had happened, and I told her exactly what he had done.

Her answer to me was, “You must have deserved it,” not giving it a second thought.

I went to school that morning but immediately upon seeing me, my homeroom teacher sent me to the office. The vice-principal called my mother and asked her to come down to the school immediately. My mother arrived an hour or so later, very annoyed that anyone had taken this seriously.

Because our middle school was the feeder school for my dad’s high school, everyone at my school knew my father, and many were close friends. It didn’t take long for news of my injury to reach my dad; he arrived maybe thirty minutes after my mother.

He quietly walked over to me, kneeled down and touched my face. With tears building in his eyes, he asked me what had happened. I told him, as I had told my mother, exactly what happened. He slowly stood, turned, and walked right into the principal’s office where my mother was. After a short argument, where I heard both of them raise their voices at each other, they reappeared before me. I will never forget his words, as he kneeled back down in front of me.

“If anyone ever lays a hand on you again, you call me. I will make sure it will be the last thing in this life, they ever do.” He said, in a very low, matter of fact tone. “I will try everything I can do to get you out of that house as soon as possible, I promise.”

It took him close to two years, but eventually with my testimony, he got full custody of me. It was the happiest day of my life. He took me straight to my mother’s to pick up my things; I couldn’t leave there fast enough. As I collected my things, he helped me load them into his truck. I collected my last box, making my way to the door for the last time. My mother looked up at me from the sofa, I will never forget her last words to me that day.

“You two deserve each other; you’re both sorry excuses for men. I regret ever meeting your father, and I certainly regret the day you were born. It was the worst day of my life.” She scowled.

I simply looked at her, not really angry, more sad that she felt this way. Her parents had implanted a seed of hate within her that she would never be able to overcome. I simply stepped out and closed the door behind me.

My mother made absolutely no effort to be part of my life from that day forward. It affected me, seeing my friends interact with their mothers, the love that they felt. Although my dad did everything he could to make sure I knew how much he loved me, nothing replaces a mother. I guess always in the back of my mind, I hoped one day we could all overcome this.

The next year, I was a freshman, enrolled at the same school my father taught and coached at. By now, I was six feet four and weighed close to two hundred twenty pounds. It was a given, I would play football; I was my father’s son after all. My dad had been around football long enough to know that a strength and conditioning program was vital to a team’s success. He immediately started me on a rigid weight lifting program as well as make sure I was getting all the essential supplements I needed to be successful.

I didn’t play in any games my freshman year; I spent nearly every waking minute in the weight room. Initially, my weight dropped to around two hundred pounds, but then slowly it came back. By the end of my freshman year I was again back to two hundred twenty pounds, but now had very little fat on my body. I was leaner and much stronger after just one year in the program. During the summer that year, my dad sent me to the local college to work out with a buddy of his who coached there. My dad had designs that as a sophomore, I would start on the defensive line for the varsity.

After several weeks in the weight room, I could not help notice how huge the players were, but more important how strong they were. It was routine to see lineman squatting over five hundred pounds; their strength was incredible. As I began to ask questions about training techniques, diet and supplements, one thing became obvious. There were other factors in play here. Nearly every player to a man, either had taken, or was taking steroids on a periodic basis.

I was told that if I truly wanted to play this sport at the higher levels, I too would have to dabble into the underworld of performance enhancing drugs. Because I had always heard such negative things about steroids, I truly had no idea what to think, much less if I thought taking these were a good idea. When the summer had come to a close, I was sure of one thing. If I wanted to play major college football, I would have to take drugs, and the time was now.