The beginning of high school football practice.
Fifty seven years old and I’m still scarred by the recollection.
Running sprints in temperatures that would cause Bedouins to wilt. Doing so many pushups and sit-ups that Arnold Schwarzenegger would whimper. Getting yelled at by coaches in language that would cause Kid Rock to cringe.
It’s probably true that misery loves company, because there was plenty of company on that practice field.  Not just teammates and coaches, but rocks and ruts; weeds and weasels. Nobody would call them plush accommodations because they were not.

Two-a-days were supposed to be a team-building endeavor. I called it tough love, only nobody bothered to call Social Services to confirm that.
All these years later, I still quiver every time I hear a whistle. My therapist has been working earnestly for a long, long time.
The theory was that all of that practice would turn us into winners. Our inept play later during the regular season disproved that premise.
I think we only won two or three games as seniors.
Practice has officially begun in Michigan. By Thursday, kids will be slipping on their pads and the crunching and cracking will begin.
Good luck, everyone. If you're lucky, physical therapy is the only kind of therapy in your future.