I try to copy the motion, but I am dealing with decades of scar tissue from a torn ACL, compensating behavior, avoidance, and, I admit, increasingly active sarcopenia. My shanks have undeniably shrunk.
I try a third time, imagining myself as a baseball catcher crouching behind a batter.
Maddalozzo brightens. “Good,” he says. “That’s perfect.”
It hardly feels perfect. Bands of pain shoot through the decimated muscle fibers of my tight, weak hamstrings. I force myself to squat lower, and in so doing, I briefly lose my balance. I touch the mat to right myself. My quads begin to tremble. A cool breeze combs the room, but I start to sweat. With some gruesome noises from my knee joint, and another bolt of pain, I stand, a lean and sneakered pantaloon, summoning as much dignity as possible.
“I guess I should begin with a pretty modest weight.”
Maddalozzo gives an encouraging smile. “Just by repeating the proper motion a couple of times, you’re starting to redirect your neural pathways,” he says. “You’re on your way. Let’s go try some lunges.”
