Big M and little M at the old Numazu Public Gym

I used to see them in the weight room at Numazu city gym—the old one.

 I loved that place. It was raw. There was tape on the benches, welds on the dumbbells, a million black dropped-plate divots across the countless shades of brown, sweat and gym-shoe worn hardwood flooring. It was all Weider bars, racks and plates. Olympic stuff! The best there is.

The Japan powerlifting champion was there all the time. I haven’t seen him since the last day of training there. About twenty years ago, after some months of “konnichi wa's", when I first started going there, we got to talking a bit between  grunts and occasional “ganbatte ne” words of encouragement.  I’d always tell about me, as I still tend to do a tad too much. But he, true to man of greatness humility, spoke little of himself, and thus left me ignorant as to how much of a badass he was. It wasn’t till after years of knowing him that I heard from someone else that he was Japan powerlifting champion back in the ‘70s. He told of competing at the world championships in New York. Strongest man in Japan! My buddy at the gym. 

But today it’s not him, but them, that I think of—it’s their images that I hold in my heart.

With them too, it wasn’t till after months of cordial weight room macho man nods and “konnichi wa’s” that we introduced ourselves. They, like I, were foreigners in this land. Back then foreigners were still few and far between in the small city public gym. We stood out. I don’t recall which language we spoke. Was it English? Japanese? The one who did most the talking spoke English well. I remember that much. And it definitely wasn’t his native tongue, though years later results of a DNA ethnicity test revealed I’ve a long lost ancestor that must’ve known it.

من ایرانی هستم

man irani npastam

“I’m Persian!” 

Sure only 2%, but that’s 2% more than I ever imagined.

In any event, one day we introduced ourselves. We shook hands and I said something about never forgetting their names—about how it’d be easy to remember:

 “Mohammad and Mohammad”

Then he clarified:

“I’m Big Mohammad.

He’s little Mohammad.”

We laughed and laughed, and every time we met after that I would greet them as such.

Hey! Big Mohammad. konnichi wa

Little Mohammad. Yo! 

The names definitely fit. The little guy was thin as a rail. 

And Big Mohammad? The dude was freak’n huge.

I swear though his smile was even bigger’n his biceps. Back then, as I see yet again now and seemingly never ending, my nation and his were in conflict, and the leader of mine had said some stupid shit about his. I mentioned something to this effect to let him know most of us didn’t share in such dumbassery, to which Big Mohammad just smiled, shook it off and said:

“That’s politics my friend”. 

My friend.

I've yet to hear where my ol Japan powerlifting champ gym friend went after the old gym closed down. I see a few old faces at the new gym. The free weights part of the weight room's much smaller there. And they replaced all the Weider equipment with fancy rubber coated plates and bars that are already showing rust. There's about four times as many and all fancy high-tech new treadmills as in the old gym though, which brings in a lot more people. The old gym was leveled last year. Seeing the big vacant lot when I teach in a nearby building on Fridays always makes me think of it. I competed in my first and only Shotokan karate tournament there in 2000 and fought in a couple full contact Kyokushin karate tournaments there as well. But it's the weight room I miss the most. The weight room and folks I met there.

 Like Big M and Little M. 

I thought about them when skimming news this morning. 

I heard long ago that they’d moved back to Iran.

 I hope they’re doing well. 

Ganbatte ne