TALE OF A TENDON — HOW DID LIVER KING TEAR HIS BICEP?
For a good couple years, I've been tormented by this injury that I was convinced was in my shoulder. I’ve had every goddam treatment you can think of. Hell, I even bunked on mounds of towels because some chiropractor thought my hardcore wooden plank routine wasn't letting the damn thing heal.
But get this—after all that bullshit, it turns out it was the bicep all along. I threw everything at it, thinking the shoulder was healed up, and stupid me, I started busting out muscle-ups like nobody's business. You know, I would hammer 150 of those bastards even on my rest days. It's like, alright, I can squeeze muscle-ups in for 30 fucking minutes. That's my jam right there.
AND THEN, THE EGO HIT
I was pumped about launching the next big fuckin' competition—was gonna dominate that bitch. Time to stack the deck so when I show up, it's game over. Nobody will have a clue I’ve been secretly training. But, stripping the bullshit away, I'm done with that sneaky game. Although, I’ll still stack the fucking deck 'cause my tribe deserves nothing less.
So, I'm doing these muscle-ups, right? At the end, I think I'm hot shit—I’m gonna grab onto the ring with one arm, point triumphantly at the camera, spew out some power speech. But just as I strike the pose, my damn shoulder shifts—not tearing, just a nasty shift. Immediately, I know I’m fucked.
jiu-jitsu with my boys? no f*cking problem man!
Next day, I'm half-ass working out, can barely do jack. One-rep maxes are off the table. But Jiu-Jitsu with my boys? No fucking problem, man. That's fun, and I'm not about to say no to that. Sure, I knew something was up in the shoulder region, but fuck it, I can do a push-up. I can fucking push my boys away. I'll just take them down.
But you've got to understand, they're not little boys, you got a 15 and 17-year-old here who train Jiu-Jitsu every week, work out twice a day. They're pretty fucking strong. Rad was coming at me hard, I mean, I had Striker handled with my right just fine, but Rad swooped in like a Tasmanian Devil. I tried to push him back to create enough room, some separation. I'm thinking I’ll deal with Striker, maybe take Rad down quick, get back to Striker, choke them out fast.
But the moment I tapped into that explosive strength to keep Rad at bay—POP. The pop is so loud, I’m dead sure only I felt and heard the damn thing. But turns out, everyone heard that shit, and I hit the deck knowing damn well what happened. The pain is screaming, "Oh fuck, man. I'm done for.”
Of course, the cameras aren't rolling past the 60-second mark. I'm sprawled out there trying to act like all’s fine and dandy, but I know a part of me's just been sacrificed at the altar. And I think that a little part of the tendon was actually left over. I ripped it fully off when I was doing the family Bond day climbing down from the Eagles Nest at the Treehouse.
But here’s the godsend: I learn I can pull a sled no problem. I can still use my right hand, pump out some push-ups, as long as I keep it tight. I can't stretch out fully, but fuck it, I adapt. That’s a gift, primals. That’s the goddam blessing in this clusterfuck.
