By Tim Robinson

When I was 12 I was 4ʹ7ʺ and 94 lbs. and a boy who read comic books before school work; this is how I became a late bloomer. By the ninth grade, everyone was taller than me. Even the girls. My dad was the same way. He told me he thought it was because he grew up in the depression in Portland, Oregon and rarely had anything but cold potato soup to eat. I believed him.

In the back of comic books and in publications like Popular Mechanics, there were ads for bodybuilding. Charles Atlas offered a course on ‘dynamic tension’ where you push or pull heavy items or even clasp your own hands together and try to separate them with your fingers intertwined. His ads would show a skinny kid getting sand kicked in the face by a bully who then stole his girlfriend.

I didn't have a girlfriend and I blamed it on being weak. I sent away for the Atlas plan and eagerly waited each day for the mailman.

When it finally arrived, I was excited to begin building my body. 

Step 1. Grab a rock and squeeze it. You need a good grip to start. After a week of rock squeezing, I could not hold a pencil. The following week, in 

Step 2: Get a rope and tie it around a tree and have a tug-of-war with yourself. Do it for 20 minutes each day.

For five days I pulled and pulled on that rope. By Saturday I could not lift my arms. My legs were noodles. I went to 

Step 3. Stand with your arms pressed to the inside of a doorway and attempt to push yourself away from each side with your wrists only. Do this for 3 or 4 minutes. I passed out and slumped to the floor, my arms flailing above my head. 

I was redfaced but that might have been from being embarrassed because I had failed to read the disclaimer in tiny type in the back of the book. Results not guaranteed for everyone. Allow 18 to 36 months to see physical changes. 

I'd be nearly out of school before I'd see any benefit from my labor. And I'd STILL have no girlfriend.

I'm not a quitter. I found another ad in a different comic. George Jowett was a renowned champion of physical fitness. His plan was to get bigger muscles by using weights.

The day the mail arrived I tore open the envelope with the last bit of strength. Inside was a form I needed to fill out and a request for payment of $79.95 for a complete set of barbells, but it included shipping! ☹️

I didn't have the $79.95 and saw no way to get it without stealing. My paper route got me $12 a month so it would take almost 8 months of savings. That also would mean no Mr. Goodbars, red licorice or Bazooka bubble gum for most of the next year while waiting to send in my money. I was a realist. I simply figured there must be a better way than giving up my entire source of income just to get bigger muscles.

I needed an alternative.

Boxing
I was an easy target. My dad knew this early on since his own childhood was a mirror of mine. He enrolled me and my brothers in boxing classes (self-defense). We learned from Seattle's Joey Velez. (learn more about him here) It was the time of Friday Night Fights sponsored by Gillette razors. We watched Carmen Bassilio and Gene Fullmer, Sugar Ray Robinson and Emile Griffith.

We trained all summer to be like them. 

I didn't look or feel stronger after 8 weeks. I did not have fists of fury. My wiry frame would still be a target, but I did learn to cope with bullies. I ran. 

With training comes jealousy. Other kids learned I had taken boxing lessons during summer vacation. This created the need by them, to challenge me, either for their own confidence that lessons were not needed, or simply because boxing isn't the only way to fight. 

It was more the latter when a friend announced to me that Buster Donovan wanted to fight me after school. I did not know Buster, but pride made me say ‘yes’.
 
Buster had red hair and was about my height but 50 lbs. heavier. He was a year younger. His roly-poly build suggested he was a wrestler, not a boxer. I was right. The fight began with Buster lunging toward me outside the school, in a small enclave between the buildings. I let him grab me to test his strength. I easily slipped out, stood up and using my boxing skills, I popped Buster in the right cheek. Flustered, he lunged again, an instant replay. I easily slipped out again and peppered him with another blow, this time to his left check.
Buster's cheeks turned bright red. We struggled and wrestled for another moment before the fight was stopped by some older boys returning from road guard duty after school. 
 
In the principal's office we were admonished for "scuffling". The principal asked if any "blows" were landed. My first reaction was "for crying out loud, look at his face" but realizing more trouble could be had, we both nodded "no" to the question. We were released to go home with a note sent to our parents. I was 1-0.

The next day my older brother Ken asked me about the fight. I told him the details. He explained he could help me and asked me to put up my "dukes". He did as well and asked me to try to punch him. I swiftly jabbed through his Floyd Patterson, peek-a-boo defense, popping him in the lip. Startled, he said "okay, you've got it,"

END OF LESSON.

 I had a few more fights, lost one and won one, all in junior high and never over a girl. It took 10 years BEFORE I HAD an adult frame. I did four years in the military. I gave up comic books with all those ads years ago. I grew whiskers. To heck with Charles Atlas and George Jowett. All it took was Joey Velez, Uncle Sam and time. I was 23, 175 lbs, kicking sand and finally dating.