Unattached Athlete

05/04/2025

Just another , from a certain point of view.

05/25/2023

Orange you glad I didn’t say, “banana”?

11/14/2022

09/07/2022

Unlike actual ninjas, Ninja Warrior competitors rarely have any martial arts training.

Either add hand-to-hand combat to the obstacle courses or just call it what it really is: Competitive Jungle Gyming.

07/20/2022

Threw some BP in the batting cage/bullpen yesterday and discovered that an Eastern Cicada Killer has taken up residence under the cage’s flooring near the ball funnel.

After a quick Googlin’ between hitters, I learned that these scary-lookin’ fellas are the gentle giants of the wasp world.

They live rather solitary lives usually only 2-4 weeks in duration.

They rarely sting humans, but when they do, they only register a 0.5 on the 4-point Schmidt Sting Pain Index, which is significantly weaker and less painful than a common Honey Bee’s average sting of 2.0.

Additionally, Sweat Bees register a 1.0 and Fire Ants a 1.2.

These benign wasps boast three broken yellow bands across their black abdomens, unlike more dangerous Murder Hornets whose abdominal bands alternate in multiple unbroken brown and orange stripes.

This strange new visitor can stay as long as she wants, enjoying free baseball for the remainder of her days.

07/18/2022

I'd venture to guess that 90% of all dietary supplements don't deliver on their claims, and many of 'em can actually cause unwanted side effects.

5% deliver on their vague claims, but only temporarily and only via some permutation of the placebo effect.

The remaining 5% contain an active ingredient that actually does what it says it does, but half of those are cut with useless fillers or packed with superfluous bells and whistles just to manipulate the pricing.

That being said, I'm not here just to crap on the supplement industry; I'm also here to crap on fitness influencers.

A large percentage of fitness influencers endorse supplement companies just to get free or discounted supplements.

That's kinda like a musician who endorses a music store just to get paid in air guitars.

07/10/2022

Next time you watch sports, especially male sports, I want you to look for all the "male supplement" ads/commercials that air during the broadcast.

The typical script will play out like this:

*Roll footage of out-of-shape dadbods sweating through their frumpy polo shirts and ill-fitting pants on a golf course, or struggling with minimal weights on a useless weight machine in the gym. Notice the drowned-out colors caused by strategic camera filters. Also notice the slowed-down speed of the footage...and tons of male grimacing.*

Narrator chimes in. "By age-X, the average male loses his ability to generate hormone-Y by Z%."

*Splash before-and-after photos of a former pro athlete or a men's physique model.*

"Paid endorser's testimonial, yada yada yada."

*Roll clips of very athletic men playing pickup basketball, lifting
heavier weights, and actually running with smiles on their spray-tanned faces. Notice the vivid colors and sped-up footage.*

"Try our pills, risk-free for one month, to enhance your natural production of hormone-Y. Reclaim your youth!"

*Camera cuts to a beautiful actress portraying the paid male endorser's blushing wife.*

"She'll love it too!"

*Elbow nudge, wink-wink, .*
..and scene!

There's so much sleaze to these ads like these and to the supplement industry in general.

Sure, they played all the common marketing cards: The camera tricks. The manipulated before-and-after photos. The pro athletes and figure models who probably don't even use said product. And even the not-so-subtle endorsement of shady sexual side effects to persuade dudes to make an impulse buy with their...precious downstairs organ.

Perhaps the most devious portion of the script is what ISN'T said.

Yeah, the stats about average males losing their ability to produce testosterone and human growth hormone at certain ages are probably valid.

The most underhanded ploy here is that the script leads the viewer to believe that the decline in male hormone levels is inevitable and automatic and that we are hapless victims of aging.

Notice how the script said, "the average male"?

What do we know about "the average male"?

He consumes more calories than he needs.

He consumes more alcohol than he should.

He doesn't exercise regularly, and when he does, he rarely lifts weights with any intent.

Marketing teams fail to mention that, whenever the average male is inconsistent with any of these health markers, the average male's hormonal profile adapts itself--or more accurately, it dumbs itself down--to match their lifestyle.

Lifting weights 3-5 times per week will naturally increase your testosterone and growth hormone levels, and even more so than any pill or powder can ever hope to. Plus, if you know how to manipulate your set, rep, and rest schemes properly, you can even choose which hormone you want to prioritize.

But that kind of info doesn't sell pills.

Well, maybe to average people, it does?

The sales script with the complete truth might look like this:

"By age-X, the ACTIVE male sees no loss in his ability to generate hormone-Y. By age-X-plus-ten, there is minimal loss. By age-40 and beyond, their hormonal profiles resemble those of average men half their age."

The takeaway message from all this is that you don't even have to destroy yourself in the gym. Just show up 3-5 days a week for the long haul, challenge yourself, ditch the snake oils, alcohol, and excess calories, and instead drink regularly from the closest thing we'll probably ever get to The Fountain of Youth: strength training!

03/06/2022

Conan the Instagramarian

02/25/2022

Imagine that your doctor prescribed to you a medication that lowered your blood pressure and improved your lipid profile as long as you swallowed one pill every other day.

What would you do if you accidentally missed a dose?

Would you swallow the recommended dosage the very next day and resume the prescribed plan, or would you say, "Screw it, I'll restart my dosage next Monday, next month, or next year with a fresh start?"

Exercise isn't medicine but its positive effects on health can be just as potent. So why do we tend to treat exercise dosages any differently than actual medicine?

Don't let an all-or-nothing mindset keep you from maintaining your health or pursuing your athletic goals.

Perfectionism can be a crutch for people who refuse to adapt. Perfectionists often lack the grit to persevere when their precious plans fall apart. Perfectionism borders on egotism.

Life happens. Unforeseen emergencies and responsibilities will always interrupt even the best-laid plans.

If your training plan goes to pot after missing one measly workout, then it probably wasn't a very good plan, was it?

Always have a plan B...and maybe even a C and D.

Your training plan should address the following disruptions:
(1.) What will I do if I'm injured?
(2.) What will I do if I get sick?
(3.) What will I do if the gym is so crowded that I can't perform some of my exercises?
(4.) What will I do if the gym is closed?
(5.) What will I do if I have to work late and I cant' start my workout on time?
(6.) What will I do if my training partner or coach is absent?
(7.) What will I do if I'm too tired?"
(8...) Etc.

If your training plan is nothing more than a list of exercises, sets, reps, weights, timers, and PRs then you're probably not gonna stick to it.

Great training plans can resemble a flow chart instead:

"If _____, then perform _____."

"If _____ and _____, but not _____, then perform _____ until _____."

Perfect health and fitness programs don't exist, but the best ones will have adaptability and improvisation written into them.

02/24/2022

The attached image is cropped from the official gameday program cover from the November 22, 1980, Nebraska-Oklahoma game. (The Huskers lost to the Sooners 21-17, BTW.)

Does anybody else feel like college athletes looked WAY older in the '80s than they do nowadays?

No. 53 is senior Husker guard Randy Schleusener (listed at 6'7" and 242 lbs.).

No. 92 is senior defensive end Derrie Nelson (listed at 6'2" and 220 lbs.).

By comparison, today's collegiate players are much bigger...but, to me, they look soooooo much younger than these guys did at the same age.

Is it just me?

Or is it the whispy Marlboro Man haircuts, the gunslinger mustaches, the oversized pads, and the dated photography that made these student-athletes look like middle-aged men?

01/20/2022

Book Update: One or two chapters will center around the sandlot. Not the movie, but the DIY baseball fields that I obsessively carved into both of my childhood neighborhoods.

NOTE: I won't ever use the word "obsessive" lightly. Looking back, I've displayed obsessive behaviors throughout my entire life. Some served me well and were rewarding, and some proved to be colossal wastes of time. My obsession with sports--baseball, in particular--was both personally rewarding and essential to experiencing the cause-and-effect relationship of work and progress.

Not only were my sandlot diamonds a HUGE part of my athletic development from age-11 through age-14, but they were also a source of pride.

At age-11, I researched the dimensions on my own. Such a task was a bit more tedious back then. I couldn't just Google the rules and regulations of my league and local parks; I had to crack open encyclopedias, visit the library, and ask real people for input. The latter wasn't ever easy for a shy kid like me.

The fields' geometry changed a bit every year depending on the age group in which we played, but I took painstaking efforts to ensure that the mounds, bases, angles, even the warning tracks were symmetrical and precise.

I mowed the baselines and warning track down to the dirt, and I'd often rake the infield to both de-thatch it, and to knock down the molehills. Even though I was trying my best to eliminate bad groundball hops, THAT turned out to be an exercise in futility.

The game of baseball's dimensions and angles are far more nuanced than most people realize. The casual observer glances at a diamond and they think they see right angles everywhere. Excluding the batter's box, there are none. That idiosyncratic precision made it difficult for an eleven-year-old to mimic with little more than a tape measure.

For much of my childhood, my dad traveled throughout a four-state area due to his road construction job. I only spoke with him on the phone on weekends (because long-distance phone calls were costly in the '80s), and he'd suggest using string-line, wooden stakes, marking flags, and spray paint to make my life easier.

When I wasn't playing Little League, practicing, or playing home run derby, I was usually mowing or tinkering around the sandlot. I even built backstops, benches, and bat racks, for Pete's sake.

A few of the neighborhood kids would often comment, "Wow. Must be nice having parents that'll build your own baseball field for you."

I was extremely grateful for my parents who granted me the freedom, the time, the supplies, the mower, and the gas, BUT I BUILT THOSE FIELDS. Most of my buddies never realized the time I invested, nor the literal blood, sweat, and tears that I poured into those fields.

But every second of toil and frustration was well worth it because every one of us who stepped foot on those sandlots got a bit better every day, even when we were just half-assing our defense and swinging for the invisible fences.

Each moment on those fields was sublime because we played of our own accord, even the neighborhood kids who weren't official "ballplayers".

We didn't have age groups; my sandlot included anyone who showed up to play regardless of age.

Nobody dragged us onto the field; we rode bikes and carried bats and gloves as we pedaled our way there.

Nobody screamed impotent coaching platitudes at us through the fence like, "Just throw strikes," or, "Keep your eye on the ball"; we lovingly heckled ourselves and others, but we also expressed awe when someone else, even our opponents, made a dazzling play.

Nobody micromanaged our playing schedules; we called each other one by one and somehow we just "arrived" at the field almost every day.

Nobody pampered us with sports drinks and treats; we played with such a natural and easy focus that we simply forgot that thirst and hunger even existed.

And nobody screamed at coaches or umpires on our behalf because we WERE the coaches and umpires. Sure, we argued with each other and suffered bad calls, but we usually settled it within a minute and nary a grudge lingered.

And guess what?

We even had cable TV and video games back then, and even those indoor activities didn't deter us from sweating our asses off in the Nebraska sun or Pete-Rose-sliding through a sticker patch 3-4 times per week.

We didn't play for trophies or to see our names in the paper; street cred was enough, and yet somehow, everybody in the neighborhood STILL knew who the best hitters and pitchers were.

We made do with some pretty shabby equipment because we knew that players do the hitting and catching, not shiny new bats and exotic gloves.

These are some of my fondest childhood memories, but even with my obsessive passion for baseball, I wouldn't savor any of these key moments without the kids I grew up with.

If you were one of those guys or a parent of them, feel free to add a memory about those old sandlots. I wanna know what stood out to YOU.