ready for grading
Inside Wasrabi "Warpath" Gleel's Workshop [Part 1]
written by Pam Pringle
It's only 3:30am, and the camera crew and I are in the small Vermont town of Windsor. The drive from New York was only four hours, but it's fair to say without stopping for coffee every 70 miles or so, we might not have made the trip.
We pull into the driveway of an inauspicious colonial house of traditional New England architecture. After unloading our camera gear, and waiting for my co-editor/driver to have a relaxing smoke break, we approach the front door of the off-white house with a single porch-light illuminating the steps.
I reach out my hand to knock on the door, and am startled when my knuckles fail to make contact, as the door is quickly pulled open from the inside. We are greeted by who could only be the man we're here to do a pre-draft profile on--Wasrabi Gleel.
"Welcome, folks, welcome. Come on in. I trust you found the house okay? . . " He speaks very softly for his enormous stature, and as he speaks he beckons us to follow him inside. As he rounds the corner, I can see his sweat-soaked grey hoodie and realize he's already been training before we even arrived. We enter the home and are greeted by the strong scent of cinnamon, black pepper, cardamom, and tea--a familiar smell.
"Could I interest anyone in a cup of hot Chai?" Wasrabi calls out as he stands in front of the stove stirring a pot of the delightful aromatic tea.
"No, no thank you. We've all been caffienated heavily since we left the city. Unfortunately, due to our late start, we are actually in a bit of a time crunch: There is another prospect we've been sent to interview after you. Do you mind if we get started?" My crew is already unpacking the camera gear and microphones as Wasrabi turns around to make eye contact with me. He's holding a large mug of hot chai. He says nothing, but drinks deeply, audibly slurping a long drawn out sip. All the while his eyes remain locked on mine. In a word, I would describe this encounter as . . . intense.
"Very well, please won't you follow me to my basement workshop?" He finally says as he places down the now empty mug, still steaming from the residual hot liquid. Did he really just chug that scalding tea?
We follow Wasrabi into the basement, and are surprised to find a very spartan home gym, modestly furnished with simple benches and weights, a heavy bag, a squat rack, and a beat-up old treadmill. The crew set up the cameras, and a few lights to offset the yellowish luminescence.
"So, this is where you train?" I ask stupidly, at a loss for words. The whole basement is lit by three overhead incandescent bulbs, adding to the unsettling nature of the room and it's host, and despite the lights we used, the very corners of the room still seemed darkened as if they were gobbling up the light.
"Yes. This is where games are won and lost. Right here. I can see that you aren't impressed, but I can assure you that it's not the quality of the equipment that lead to better results, but rather, it's the quality of effort that brings results." His gravelly voice seems to reverberate and echo off the concrete walls as he moves towards a pair of dumbbells resting on floor-mats in front of a dirty streaked mirror. Before he picks them up, I notice they are 75lbs each.
"Right, well that is certainly something that the scouts would be interested in knowing about you. It's clear you're a workout warrior. But there is very little known about you, at this point. Why should any team take a chance on Wasrabi Gleel?" When I was finished speaking I watched him smile and close his eyes. He began, very slowly, to curl the dumbbells with a reverse-grip. When he lifted them to his chest, he'd slowly press them over his head and hold it there for a moment. Then he let out a big exhale through his nose and slowly reversed the motion. The muscles of his forearms bulged and flexed like corded steel as he repeated the lift again and again.
"Anyone who takes a chance on me will be rewarded handsomely. They'll be getting a junkyard dog; someone who doesn't have an ounce of quit in him. Those that slip-up and pass on me, well. . . I can assure you their quarterbacks will pay for their lack of insight time after time, after time, after time, after time." He smirked at what I believe could only be the thought of the many QBs he'd buried in the dirt during his time at Dartmouth.
He'd been speeding up the exercise as he spoke, but all the while he maintained his trance-like breathing and vacant stare as his visage in the streaky mirror. I stood silent for a moment while he got on the treadmill and began doing sprint circuits.
"Wasrabi, one of the biggest knocks against you is your speed and agility. Anyone can see that you're a fairly strong prospect coming out of college, but how do you respond to the naysayers who don't believe you can compete at elite level speeds?"
I waited patiently for him to respond. His breathing grew louder as he stared ahead. He began increasing the incline of the treadmill, then the speed. His eyes grew glazed over as the sound of the rhythmic thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump of his heavy footfalls increased in frequency and volume. When he reached the pinnacle of his sprint, he tried speaking through a slack-jack.
"Faster. . . Faster. . . Wasrabi . . . Goes . . .
Quieter. . . Quieter. . . Wasrabi's . . Foes. . ." He chanted in a low-growl, again and again, maybe six times before he pressed the stop button on the treadmill. As it slowed, he wiped off his slick forehead and blinked his eyes through the stinging sweat. He turned to me again. This time, there was something wild in his eyes. It frightened me for a moment, until the eyes softened and glazed over again.
"Speed? I'm working on my speed. See it and believe it, Pam.
See it, and believe it."
(1031 words)
Inside Wasrabi "Warpath" Gleel's Workshop [Part 1]
written by Pam Pringle
It's only 3:30am, and the camera crew and I are in the small Vermont town of Windsor. The drive from New York was only four hours, but it's fair to say without stopping for coffee every 70 miles or so, we might not have made the trip.
We pull into the driveway of an inauspicious colonial house of traditional New England architecture. After unloading our camera gear, and waiting for my co-editor/driver to have a relaxing smoke break, we approach the front door of the off-white house with a single porch-light illuminating the steps.
I reach out my hand to knock on the door, and am startled when my knuckles fail to make contact, as the door is quickly pulled open from the inside. We are greeted by who could only be the man we're here to do a pre-draft profile on--Wasrabi Gleel.
"Welcome, folks, welcome. Come on in. I trust you found the house okay? . . " He speaks very softly for his enormous stature, and as he speaks he beckons us to follow him inside. As he rounds the corner, I can see his sweat-soaked grey hoodie and realize he's already been training before we even arrived. We enter the home and are greeted by the strong scent of cinnamon, black pepper, cardamom, and tea--a familiar smell.
"Could I interest anyone in a cup of hot Chai?" Wasrabi calls out as he stands in front of the stove stirring a pot of the delightful aromatic tea.
"No, no thank you. We've all been caffienated heavily since we left the city. Unfortunately, due to our late start, we are actually in a bit of a time crunch: There is another prospect we've been sent to interview after you. Do you mind if we get started?" My crew is already unpacking the camera gear and microphones as Wasrabi turns around to make eye contact with me. He's holding a large mug of hot chai. He says nothing, but drinks deeply, audibly slurping a long drawn out sip. All the while his eyes remain locked on mine. In a word, I would describe this encounter as . . . intense.
"Very well, please won't you follow me to my basement workshop?" He finally says as he places down the now empty mug, still steaming from the residual hot liquid. Did he really just chug that scalding tea?
We follow Wasrabi into the basement, and are surprised to find a very spartan home gym, modestly furnished with simple benches and weights, a heavy bag, a squat rack, and a beat-up old treadmill. The crew set up the cameras, and a few lights to offset the yellowish luminescence.
"So, this is where you train?" I ask stupidly, at a loss for words. The whole basement is lit by three overhead incandescent bulbs, adding to the unsettling nature of the room and it's host, and despite the lights we used, the very corners of the room still seemed darkened as if they were gobbling up the light.
"Yes. This is where games are won and lost. Right here. I can see that you aren't impressed, but I can assure you that it's not the quality of the equipment that lead to better results, but rather, it's the quality of effort that brings results." His gravelly voice seems to reverberate and echo off the concrete walls as he moves towards a pair of dumbbells resting on floor-mats in front of a dirty streaked mirror. Before he picks them up, I notice they are 75lbs each.
"Right, well that is certainly something that the scouts would be interested in knowing about you. It's clear you're a workout warrior. But there is very little known about you, at this point. Why should any team take a chance on Wasrabi Gleel?" When I was finished speaking I watched him smile and close his eyes. He began, very slowly, to curl the dumbbells with a reverse-grip. When he lifted them to his chest, he'd slowly press them over his head and hold it there for a moment. Then he let out a big exhale through his nose and slowly reversed the motion. The muscles of his forearms bulged and flexed like corded steel as he repeated the lift again and again.
"Anyone who takes a chance on me will be rewarded handsomely. They'll be getting a junkyard dog; someone who doesn't have an ounce of quit in him. Those that slip-up and pass on me, well. . . I can assure you their quarterbacks will pay for their lack of insight time after time, after time, after time, after time." He smirked at what I believe could only be the thought of the many QBs he'd buried in the dirt during his time at Dartmouth.
He'd been speeding up the exercise as he spoke, but all the while he maintained his trance-like breathing and vacant stare as his visage in the streaky mirror. I stood silent for a moment while he got on the treadmill and began doing sprint circuits.
"Wasrabi, one of the biggest knocks against you is your speed and agility. Anyone can see that you're a fairly strong prospect coming out of college, but how do you respond to the naysayers who don't believe you can compete at elite level speeds?"
I waited patiently for him to respond. His breathing grew louder as he stared ahead. He began increasing the incline of the treadmill, then the speed. His eyes grew glazed over as the sound of the rhythmic thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump of his heavy footfalls increased in frequency and volume. When he reached the pinnacle of his sprint, he tried speaking through a slack-jack.
"Faster. . . Faster. . . Wasrabi . . . Goes . . .
Quieter. . . Quieter. . . Wasrabi's . . Foes. . ." He chanted in a low-growl, again and again, maybe six times before he pressed the stop button on the treadmill. As it slowed, he wiped off his slick forehead and blinked his eyes through the stinging sweat. He turned to me again. This time, there was something wild in his eyes. It frightened me for a moment, until the eyes softened and glazed over again.
"Speed? I'm working on my speed. See it and believe it, Pam.
See it, and believe it."
(1031 words)