Whose house.
Every workshop has names on the door. One who writes the programs. One who walks beside them. One who watches over the work.
Dante.
Former D1 pitcher. Florida Atlantic, then Western Carolina. Throwing arm intact, hips less so; two torn labrums and counting. That's most of how Dog House Fitness got started. Programs written for elite twenty-two-year-olds don't always work for the rest of us. They don't always work for elite twenty-two-year-olds either.
I write the programs. I review the form-check videos. I answer the messenger.
The pitch isn't that I have it all figured out. The pitch is that I've been the guy who showed up to the gym with the wrong plan enough times to know what the right one looks like.
Giovanni.
Man's best friend and elite training partner. Never misses a workout, by my side through thick and thin. Not a great spotter, but an elite companion. Wakes up for tug-of-war, walks, and the sound of the treat drawer.
Doesn't know what soreness is. Doesn't know what motivation is. Shows up because the day arrived. There's a lesson in there for the rest of us.
Saint Michael.
The fighter. The protector. The one with a sword in his hand and his foot on the dragon. He is the patron of the warriors among us, and we look to him in reflection of the warrior within.
The discipline to stand when the body is asking you to sit. The fight against your own weakness. The willingness to show up in the dark hour of the morning, alone with the bar. The example is the example, and we keep it on the wall.