My children were kind (?) enough to give me a Fit-Bit as an early Father’s Day gift. For those who don’t know, a Fit-Bit is an electronic bracelet that monitors how many steps one takes throughout a day. It can reflect the total on your computer screen along with numerous other tidbits of information if one chooses to enter them, such as: water consumption; caloric intake; and, how deeply one has slept.

For now, counting steps is sufficient to maintain my interest; I take off the Fit-Bit before I go to sleep. A typical target number for daily steps is 10,000. Boosted by a tennis match in the morning I managed 20,000 my first day. I’m also a Fit-Bit “friend” with my daughter and wife, so I can compare my performance with theirs throughout the day or week or month.   Time will tell if intra-family, friendly competition is desirable.


Though not a social scientist, and without statistics to support my contentions, I believe the middle-aged recognize there is less physicality in life than there was a century ago. We believe our efforts to reintroduce movement and strength conditioning positively impact our health, appearance and quality of life. To that end, we PAY MONEY to join gyms, hire trainers, participate in yoga, and, yes, wear equipment that encourages these virtuous tasks.   I smile, after all, when my wristband buzzes to mark my ten thousandth step each day. It “syncs” with my computer to greet me with an image of a golden sneaker when I sit down at the end of a walk. How different from when I attended college!


In the mid-1970’s, I played soccer goaltender for the glory of Dickinson College. During my first two seasons, team conditioning was sporadic. At practice, while I fielded light shots from an assistant coach and chatted with passersby, my teammates jogged a little, scrimmaged a little, and kicked the ball around in drills that lacked clear purpose or connection. It was as though our coach, Bill Nickels, a former football player, had simply copied a list of possible activities from a book. (In fact, he had).

The highlight of each day was shooting practice, where my teammates lined up to take a crack at the goal defended alternately by me and my back-up, a person without athletic skill, who had joined the team in order to recruit freshman for his fraternity. Never mind that shooting on goal is a skill rarely undertaken in a game by most defenders and mid-fielders. Twenty people stood in two anaerobic lines to await their turn to blast a ball in my general direction. Through no great skill on my part, their efforts were rarely rewarded; balls that did not go directly into my hands usually sailed over the goal or squibbed sadly to the side like popped balloons.

Our won-lost record during my first two seasons was nearly even. Apparently, in the 1970’s, other small college soccer teams also had coaches who had never played the sport, and consisted of players who were more hobbyists than dedicated athletes.

It was shocking, therefore, to arrive for my junior season and find Coach Nickles a changed man. He still looked the same, with his substantial mustache and dark glasses above a barrel chest in a too-tight tee shirt. But he had attended a seminar over the summer and resolved to mold our squad into a well-conditioned athletic machine.

“This season is going to be different,” he announced to the throng lounging on the grass in front of him. “First of all, there will be no more standing around between drills.”

Several of us looked up with mild interest.

“Second of all,” he continued, “only the forwards and halfbacks will take shooting practice. Fullbacks will work on their long kicking and heading.”

A few players raised eyebrows in surprise. A fullback groaned in disappointment.

“Finally,” he declared, “you’re going to get in shape. Two days a week, half of practice will be spent on ‘brutality drills,’ a combination of running and weight-lifting that will set us apart from the other teams.”

Now the coach had everyone’s attention.

“Weight-lifting?” said several players, surprised.

“That’s right,” said Coach Nickels, pointing to the entrance to the weight room adjacent to the locker room, an environment as unknown to Dickinson soccer players as the moon. “And the running begins right now.”


True to his word, Coach Nickels cajoled the team to do wind sprints of varying lengths. Next up were calisthenics. Then an introduction to the various weights and machines from the trainer who we’d thought worked exclusively for the football team. Then more sprints, then a water break. Then, amidst looks of disbelief, he lined us up for more running.

“When are we going to use the balls?” asked one player, in a plaintive tone.

“When I’m satisfied there’s been a good enough effort in the running,” said Coach Nickels.

A group of 18-20-year-olds looked at each other like contestants at the end of a dance marathon. Lucky for me, as a goaltender, the coach sent me off with the assistant to field some shots; even under the new regime, field-long wind sprints were not deemed essential for me. From my vantage point in goal, I watched my teammates continue to run and strained to suppress my amusement.

While most of us complained bitterly and loafed whenever possible, particularly in the weight room, after several weeks, practices seemed more purposeful. And when we played our first game, the difference was clear. We knew from past seasons that Lebanon Valley College had a terrible soccer team; we looked forward to an easy game to start the season. But the anticipated 3-0 win became a 9-0 blowout. My teammates ran circles around the opponents while I stood, bored and inactive, in front of the goal.

Nonetheless, at practice, the complaints continued. Several players, who usually sat on the bench, quit the team. Soccer for them was meant to be a social experience, not a struggle. A few others begged off some of the running due to minor injuries or allergies.

We won two more relatively easy games and then lost to our only D-1 opponent, Bucknell, by a respectable score of 1-0. (The goal went in off the post; I still remember it like it was yesterday). We were a winning team. We felt strong. Yet, on ‘brutality’ practice days, we dragged ourselves to the field like prisoners approaching the gallows. To my knowledge, no one ever congratulated Coach Nickels for his initiative. No one acknowledged aloud that they could run farther without heavy breathing or that they could lift increasing amounts of weight. All we did was complain, even while compiling a record of 9 wins and 4 losses instead of the usual six wins, six losses and a tie.


The following season, to my surprise, Coach Nickels returned to the drowsy routines of my first two years. Had someone complained to the administration? Were ‘brutality’ drills undignified? Un-Dickinsonian? The concept of coach/player communication had not been invented in the 1970’s. Whatever the reason, most of my teammates breathed a sigh of relief. I admit I was among them. We vaguely realized our regression to a record of 7-6 stemmed from the demise of serious conditioning. However, in our lazy, young minds, we were happy not to have to run those extra sprints, not to enter the weight room on a regular basis.


Fast forward thirty or forty years. We pay to belong to a gym. We pay to belong to a tennis club. We purchase a collection of weights, bands and balls for home use on days we can’t get to the gym. We schedule walks or runs.   We own Fit-Bits to monitor our every step. All of this was free, available (not the Fit-Bit) and AVOIDED LIKE THE PLAGUE when we were young. It is said: “youth is wasted on the young.” I’m not always an adherent of that conclusion. In this instance, however, it may be true. I’m going to take a long walk and think about it.