When I had a study hall in high school I usually read bodybuilding magazines. I attended a Christian school. I was flunking Bible class.

I remember reading the July 1980 issue of Muscle & Fitness. The article was titled: "Who says Dreams Don't Come True?" by Tom Platz, Mr. Universe. He said,

"I am turning people on to my religion. I'm a bodybuilding priest in a sense."

Tom was one of my favorites. I used to love his seminars. He was one of the few professional bodybuilders who spoke openly and honestly about using drugs. 

That same issue of Muscle & Fitness had an article titled, "The Responsibility of a Champion," by Larry Scott, Mr. America, Mr. Universe, Mr. Olympia. In 1965 he became bodybuilding's first Mr. Olympia. He said,

"How disappointing to see someone win a big contest and hear him loudly proclaim, 'I'm the Greatest. I did it all myself!' Wouldn't it make the night complete - to have the winner acknowledge how totally he recognizes that his success was due to his guidance from God?"

He also said,

"It makes me feel great when an impressionable young bodybuilder looks at me with admiration and knows that I am pointing to something higher than Larry Scott. This, in my estimation, is what it means to be an IFBB champion."

Looking back now, I can honestly say that bodybuilding had become my religion - using drugs had become my religion. Every bodybuilding contest I'd ever watched, all the winners seemed to be giving thanks to God. After opening my gym I began competing in bodybuilding contests. When I won, I displayed an outward sign of worship by glancing skyward. I would thank God even though I was drugged up.

I began selling steroids to support my own habit of using them. It was easy. Everybody wanted
them. I even had a father of a high school kid approach me. He came into my gym and explained to me that he wanted his boy to receive a college scholarship. His boy was on the wrestling team. He thought steroids were the answer, and in so many words, he asked if I could help out. On this particular occasion, though, I played dumb. I acted like I didn't know what he was talking about. 

I went through a lot of denial. When my father was in the hospital because of cancer, I sought refuge in lifting weights.

I didn't like hospitals. They smelled like medicine. I couldn't stand to see my dad wither away. The cancer was eating his body. I wondered if steroids could be the answer. That's how sick I was.

At the time, I thought I handled my father's death well, but looking back, I realize I didn't. Today I find myself wishing I had spent those final days in dad's room, telling him how much I loved him.