By Donnell Alexander

“Those college boys have been reading too many of their press clippings.”

That’s what folks in Los Angeles are saying about its formerly top-ranked USC football team, which lost in spectacular fashion to Stanford on Saturday night. Three days later, the city is still tangibly reeling. Call me self-absorbed, but I apologize if this headline, which came out a week before the Trojans’ 35-game home winning streak ended, is to blame. And not just because the headline’s grammar is mad suspect.

That out of the way, let'now lavish affection on this teachable moment.

Know that so few folks thought this game would even be competitive that it ran on Versus, a channel envious of C-SPAN’s ratings. Las Vegas made USC six touchdown favorites. Nobody short of Buffalo Bills fans could name a recent stanford player since only fans on the West Coast are likely to have even seen Stanford play the Ty Willingham era. And yet there were the Cardinal, with a roster full of student-athletes whose professional accomplishments won't likely come on Sundays, hanging around for the game's thrilling conclusion.

How does something like that happen? From not fully trying, that's how.



Oddly enough, effort had been the dominant theme of the 30 or so hours at my crib. Wyatt, my younger son, busts his ass as only a middle child might. But the big boy Forrest is mad lazy. Not tying your shoes lazy. So I was on his ass. Great Santini on his ass. Through hoops with my girl. Through his vocabulary homework. Through the tortellini dinner. Just ridin’ him. On his ass like a goddamn thong.

Of course that shit didn’t work. The kid just got more truculent, digging in even further and reacting with increasingly glacial slowness. Forrest and I had reached a stalemate by the time my boys settled in for the last quarter of L.S.U. and Florida. Forrest, the biggest USC fan on Earth who doesn't have an alumni club membership, waited anxiously for the Stanford score. Wyatt could have cared less; he only wanted me to play the night’s DVD selection, Uptown Saturday Night. I turned into kitchen so as to do the dishes, flipping on the radio en route to the water.

And that’s how we got news of the historic result. Forrest burst into tears. At 11, he’s just old enough to think USC is never supposed to lose. And when it happens, that’s the new worst day of the year. Last year’s UCLA upset was tough, but that game is exceptional; He knows anything can happen when those two teams hook up. But Stanford? Losing to that bunch is simply about thinking God's gonna grant you victory for simply showing up in USC colors. Southern California recruits nationally. Stanford isn’t even the top draw in its region. The Trojans lost because they didn’t come to play. Here is what happens when you don’t try, I said.

“I understand!” Forrest sobbed into my chest. His brother holding onto him, Forrest even declined his ice cream. For a while. (Are you reading this John David Booty, you bastard?!?) And in the morning my big kid attacked his homework with a focus I’d not seen in a while.

Later I had to ask myself, How much trying do you really do, you big hypocrite? Maybe it was the canister of sugar-free Rock Star that I’d downed before handing the boys off to my ex-wife. Maybe it was the sight of my ex-wife in her Lexus with her boyfriend. But goddamn I was amped.

Sunday’s the best time to work out at my gym. Mostly poofs and femaes — and not many of either — are tying up the weights and cardio machines. (This is not to say that women and queers aren’t into the NFL, I’m just saying that the crowd’s very different when an episode of Tell Me You Love Me is debuting.) And I just went kind of nuts.

Despite having gone out very hard in Saturday’s basketball game, I did 12 miles on the bike at a very high level of interval training. Next I hit the weights. Using the 45-pound dumbbell, I did 40 reps on each arm. For me, that’s a lot. My biceps burned. Now was the time to finish strong.

The Hammer rowing machine had 180 pounds in place when I got to it. One of those ripped gay guys had been going to town.

"This is more than I work with," I thought, "but I bet I an do it. I love this machine."

That first set was awesome. It seemed as though I’d finally begun to challenge myself. The second set was, well, painful. Still, I pushed through without much slowing. My upper back seems to be a natural point of strength, albeit hardly  explored. Third set: Newly searing pain. A trainer told me last year that building muscle calls for literal tearing of the tissue. Now I knew exactly what he meant. Wowser.

The final set blew me away, not so much through its pain — which really ought not be underestimated — as through the heaviness of its content. Here was an exertion that transcended physicality. Man, listen: There’s a will that we don’t know we have. Sometimes Rock Star unleashes it. Maybe on another occasion it’s a loss from a sports team through which we may experience vicarious thrills. Whatever. The will is about love, a zest for life. A desire to achieve. I want to be strong, even though I’m getting old. I forever wanna bang my girl and play with my children, and pushing myself to the fullest at the gym is the best avenue toward those goals. Inside of effort there is revelation. I’d love to be able to explain this the kids, all of the kids. But, paradoxically (I think), they can only figure this out on their own.

This week I weighed in at 196.5 (that’s right, I’m doing halves now; whatever it takes). That’s up a 1.5 from the quest's low. I'm not really trippin. You should see my back; it looks awesome!