Our coach, Brian, showed up to Angels practice one day a few years ago with long, silver, shiny tubes. We looked at them with wonder, as he also made us tackle with socks on our hands and throw lineouts at target brooms.
These little bullets of love are secret sandbags in disguise, sixty pounds of hell. When they come out of the car, we know we'll be doing stationary squats or walking lunges. We might do shoulder presses or stand in small groups and have relay races as we pass the bullets overhead. Most often, we combine all of those activities into a half hour of intense sweat in which the bullets become slippery.
Since we usually practice in a park of some sort, Brian sometimes stashes the bullets in a dark corner. Who would harm a sixty pound sandbag? They usually get stolen or ruined. I almost feel like any thief who is willing to drag something like that away deserves his or her spoils. Each theft brings the tiny glimmer of hope that we have seen the end of the bullets, but they rejuvenate. I suspect Brian has a sand mountain at his house, resting atop a river of duct tape.