As the Charger’s V8 faded away, Macauley collected himself and looked at the door to the garage. It screamed, ‘Stay out!’ He swallowed and walked towards it, his left foot dragging, his right hand pinned against the side of his jeans. His heartbeat quickened but he was 100% committed.

Inside, the smells of oil, gas and sweat hung heavy. In the far stall was his father’s endless fixer-upper, a ’73 Ford pickup. In the near stall was the workout bench.

Macauley shuffled towards it. It represented so much of what he hated; he needed to make it real. He focused on his right hand and it loosened, letting him slide the bar inside. Cold and heavy, it evoked memories of his father’s grunts and moans, profane screams and celebratory shouts with his friends.

He’d only been in this room…before. Then, he was small and could barely lift the ten pounder high enough to slide it on.

“Count ’em off, Mac!” he’d be ordered and would happily oblige. And when his dad’s strength faltered, Mac would scream at him like his friends did: “What are you? A pussy!? Push it!”

He’d thought his father shuddered because of the weight, but now, six years later, he realized he was laughing at his 10-year-old acting like a man.

Macauley smiled, but it faded. “I am a man,” he thought.

Focusing, he loosened his right hand, pulled it off the bar and turned to the weights stacked nearby. But first, he checked the garage window. No sign of the truck.

How much should he put on? He wasn’t as strong as his dad, of course, but the bar without any load just felt—meek.

“I am a man,” he repeated, with a hint of doubt.

The 35 lb. was heavy and he had trouble pulling it off the pipe with his clasped right hand. Too much. He slid it back on.

“25.”

It took surprising effort to balance it, lift it and place it on the bar. The doubt in him grew. The other side plus the bar too, he wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

“I’m a man.” The words barely made it out.

He stopped, hearing his father’s voice echo in his head, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it, Mac.”

Even now, 6 years later, the memory still burned…

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it, Mac.” His father’s first words the moment the disease showed its face and he saw his son struggle to remove just 20 lbs from the bar. He tried to hide it but it was all there; the sadness, the fear, the loss.

“I can do it!” Mac yelled.

But he was pushed away and his dad removed it, refusing to meet his eye.

“Let’s get inside. Your mother will be home and we can make her favorite.”

It was a cheap escape and Macauley ran to pull the 45 lb from its pipe, but his right arm rebelled and his left wasn’t nearly strong enough alone. He knew his father stood at the door, back turned, hoping for the son he loved to return, but no matter what he tried, the weight was too unwieldy.

He slammed his betraying hand into the plates as shame-filled tears streamed down his face. What had he done to deserve losing this badly?

Now he scorned the memory. “I am a man.”

25 lbs was fine!

He sat on the bench, flipped his right leg over and let his left leg do what it did best, mostly nothing. Calming his mind, he relaxed his right hand enough to slide it around the bar, then let his resentment clamp it down. With his left hand in place he checked his positioning, took a few deep breaths then pushed the weight up over his head.

The rage of a life he’d lost blinded him for the moments it took to lower the bar. Rushing up behind it was the undeniable truth that what he’d just lowered to his chest was far heavier than he’d expected. He didn’t need much power to keep it from crushing him, but pushing it back up was another story.

His right hand was holding, locked hard in place. But he was having trouble coordinating his elbow and bringing the force from his chest to the bar. It wobbled. He struggled, compensating with his left, but felt the bar’s balance shifting, putting even more pressure on his already unstable right side.

He screamed, and pushed, beads of sweat coalescing on his forehead. One inch. Then two. The bar rose as a pain in his left arm ignited. The momentum slowed, a half inch, a quarter inch.

It was almost motionless. Panic rose.

“It’s gonna beat me.”

The strain was draining Macauley of hope and strength. He turned and saw himself at 10 and wept for what was taken from him. His father. His future. He relived all the pitiful looks he’d gotten. The ‘I’m sorry’s’. The back pats from everyone who didn’t come around anymore. All of it sat on the bar now four inches above his neck and was readying to fall to take the rest.

“They were right. This is all I get.”

He thought to let it go. To let it crush his windpipe and end it. He’d rather have that than see his father smile again with lower expectations in his eyes. His left arm started shaking. The tears wouldn’t stop now and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the choice would be taken from him.

“I’m not a pussy!” he screamed.

“I’m NOT A PUSSY!”

“I’m a man!”

His body contorted as he forced as much downward power as he could muster through his one leg that never failed him. His misaligned hips rose off the bench and he could see the stalemate stare back at him. It wasn’t going to be that easy.

“I’m A MAN!”

He yelled as hard as he could, commanding his right hand and willing the nerves and the muscles to give him what he demanded! The bar’s right side moved upward. Half an inch. An inch.

The stalemate’s back was breaking. His scream released the rage of his father’s silent sorrow in a geyser of his own power. Another inch.

He couldn’t feel his body. He couldn’t feel the bar. Something happened and it was a contest now of metal and mind. And he was resolute. His body was ravaged but he was commanding it, and now, in this moment, he would accept nothing but obedience.

The last inch.

His arms extended, he pulled the bar back and let it fall with a heavy slam against the metal bridge.

He yelled a triumphant cry, exploding with pride and heard his 10-year-old self exclaim, “I told you could do it,” with a voice he’d silenced years ago and welcomed back with love.

“I am a man!” he yelled. And believed it.

At that moment he heard a tap on the window. Startled, he looked up to see his father’s hands against the glass. Eyes filled with tears, he yelled with pride and love, “My son is a man!”