The Unwritten Rules of the Iron Temple (and How You Broke Them All)

One of the twisted pleasures of training at Walt’s Gym in the mid-70s was sweating it out beside the Big Time Wrestling stars you once watched religiously after school on Channel 44. For two straight years, those hulking, cartoonish men had been etched into your imagination, and suddenly—there they were, no longer trapped in your Zenith TV, but flesh-and-blood titans grunting beside you as you tried to make a name for yourself as a thirteen-year-old Olympic weightlifter.

You couldn’t believe your luck. Kinji Shibuya, Pedro Morales, Hector Cruz—icons of your adolescent screen time were now regulars at your crusty little training temple. But with awe came idiocy. You were built for your age, sure, but common sense hadn’t caught up to your biceps.

Take the time you ran cable lat rows next to Hector Cruz. Somewhere between rep six and seven, you decided to open your mouth and muse aloud whether wrestling—dare you say it—might be fake. Cruz turned, his forehead looking like tectonic plates mid-quake, and fixed you with a death glare. “Look at these scars on my face! Do they look fake to you?” he growled. You nodded dumbly, suddenly aware that your joke had been the conversational equivalent of lighting yourself on fire.

Then came Towelgate. You spotted a sweat towel draped across the calf machine and figured, hey, free towel. You wiped your pubescent brow and basked in your temporary coolness—until a mountain of muscle barreled off the bench press and accused you of theft. With twitching biceps and a voice that rumbled like thunder, he threatened to rearrange your face if you ever touched his towel again. That was the day you learned: gym towels are sacred. More sacred than communion wafers. More sacred than your own dignity.

But nothing topped the screaming incident. You thought your loud, primal grunts gave your lifts an air of badassery. They didn’t. One day, a competitive bodybuilder who looked like an enraged Renaissance statue cornered you between sets and snarled, “Kid, if you don’t cut the screaming, someone’s going to shut you up permanently. And they’ll get a standing ovation for it.”

That was your education. Walt’s Gym wasn’t just about the weight on the bar. It was about knowing the tribal codes, reading the room, and shutting the hell up before your next breath became your last. You didn’t just lift—you survived. And sometimes, that was the heavier feat.