A Personal Journey Through the People, Athletes, and Stories That Taught Me What It Means to Be Strong
This is the fifth piece Robert Sparkman has written for this site — and it is, I think, the most ambitious thing he has attempted in the Archive. The previous four pieces each had a clear subject: a training life, a philosophy, a collection of magazines, a tribute to a teacher. This one is harder to categorise, and that difficulty is precisely what makes it worth reading.
Robert has written about the films that shaped him as a young man — Rocky, Gladiator, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, It's a Wonderful Life, Warrior, Rudy, Miracle, Brian's Song — and the Iron Game figures who shaped him as a lifter: Peary Rader, Brooks Kubik, Dr. Ken Leistner, Tommy Kono, John Grimek, Bob Peoples, Terry Todd, Stuart McRobert, Jack LaLanne, Paul Anderson, Brian Shaw, and Bradley J. Steiner. And he has found the thread that runs through both worlds — the lesson that the strongest characters in either were not defined by what they could lift or win, but by what they did with whatever strength they had been given.
The closing section of this essay is some of the finest writing Robert has produced for this site. I will not describe it further. It earns its place by being read.
There are certain movies we watch as children that entertain us for a few hours — and then there are movies that somehow become part of who we are. For me, some of those films became much more than stories on a screen. Their characters, struggles, sacrifices, triumphs, and failures became teachers. They showed me something about courage, perseverance, loyalty, love, sacrifice, and the extraordinary power of the human spirit. Some made me want to stand a little taller. Some made me want to work a little harder. And some reminded me that the greatest victories in life aren't necessarily the ones that come with trophies, medals, or applause. Something very similar happened when I discovered the Iron Game.
Throughout my life, certain strength athletes, coaches, writers, and pioneers became much more than people I admired from a distance. Their words and examples became part of the way I approached training — and ultimately, part of the way I approached life. They taught me that physical strength is only one form of strength, and perhaps not even the most important one. The real test is what we do with whatever strength, talent, opportunity, or influence we have been given. Looking back now, I can see a thread running through all of it. The movies gave me heroes of the human spirit; the Iron Game gave me real-world examples of people who turned discipline into character; and my own life became the place where those lessons met.
One of the earliest and most enduring heroes of that journey was Rocky Balboa. I absolutely love Rocky because he represents something much larger than boxing. He is an ordinary, imperfect man from a poor neighborhood in Philadelphia who is given one extraordinary opportunity — and refuses to waste it. What moved me most was never simply whether Rocky could defeat Apollo Creed. It was that Rocky wanted to prove something to himself. He wanted to know that he wasn't a bum. That is why the final bell has always meant so much to me. Rocky is battered, exhausted, and barely able to stand, but when the fight is over, he has accomplished what he set out to do. He doesn't need the judges to validate him. He has already won the battle that mattered most: the battle against his own self-doubt.
When he calls out for Adrian, the moment becomes about love, dignity, and self-respect rather than a championship belt. As a strength athlete navigating the later chapters of my own life, that scene resonates with me more deeply than ever. Life is going to hit us. Age is going to present challenges. Circumstances won't always cooperate. But the question is not whether we get knocked down. The question is whether we get back up. That lesson has stayed with me for more than five decades. I still love the Rocky soundtrack, and I still listen to it when I train. And yes, I even continued the famous Rocky tradition of raw eggs for more than fifty years! But the real thing Rocky gave me wasn't a training routine.
He gave me a philosophy: work hard, have heart, and never surrender your belief in yourself.
If Rocky taught me how to get back up, Maximus in Gladiator taught me what it means to remain standing when everything has been taken away. When Maximus stands in the Colosseum, removes his helmet, and reveals his true identity to Commodus, he has lost his rank, his family, his freedom, and almost everything that once defined his worldly position. Yet the one thing Commodus cannot take from him is his character.
Maximus stands there as a man who knows exactly who he is. That scene has always struck me as a masterclass in uncompromising integrity. Physical chains and circumstances may restrain a person, but they cannot ultimately control a person whose purpose and moral center remain intact. His famous reminder that what we do in life echoes in eternity has always carried tremendous meaning for me.
It reminds me that our lives are measured not simply by what we accomplish, but by what we leave behind in the lives of others.
The same spirit appears in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, although this time the battlefield isn't an arena — it is the United States Senate. Jefferson Smith's exhausting filibuster is one of the greatest demonstrations of endurance in the history of cinema. His body is failing, his voice is becoming hoarse, and the political machine standing against him seems enormously more powerful than one exhausted senator. Yet he refuses to surrender his principles. I love that scene because it reminds me of a maximum-effort set in the gym. There comes a point when the body is screaming that it has had enough, and the only thing left to determine what happens next is the mind and the spirit. Smith refuses to drop the weight of justice simply because it has become heavy.
His willingness to fight for what he believes is right, even when the odds are overwhelmingly against him, has always inspired me. Sometimes the value of a cause isn't determined by whether we know we will win. Sometimes the victory is simply having the courage to stand for what is right.
Longfellow Deeds taught me another lesson: kindness is not weakness. In Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Deeds is surrounded by people who mistake his simplicity and goodness for foolishness. Yet when he is confronted with suffering, his instinct isn't to protect his wealth. It is to help. His famous courtroom defense, using the analogy of a drowning man and a large boat, resonates deeply with me because it expresses something I believe very strongly: when we have been blessed with abundance, we have a responsibility to help those who are struggling to stay afloat. Deeds doesn't need sophisticated theories to understand compassion. His homespun wisdom is enough. He refuses to allow a cynical world to convince him that caring about other people is somehow a sign of weakness or insanity.
That is a lesson I want to carry throughout my life: true strength protects. True strength serves. And true strength never loses its humanity.
George Bailey taught me perhaps the most profound lesson of all. In It's a Wonderful Life, George spends much of his life believing that his sacrifices have prevented him from becoming the man he was supposed to be. He gives up opportunities, postpones dreams, and carries burdens for his family and community. When despair finally overwhelms him, Clarence gives him the devastating gift of seeing what Bedford Falls would have been like had George never existed. Then everything changes. George runs through the snow-covered streets asking to have his old life back. Suddenly the very things he had considered burdens become blessings. His home, his family, his friends, even the problems waiting for him — all of them become precious because they are his life.
That realization has stayed with me. A meaningful life isn't necessarily a life without burdens. Sometimes the weight we carry for others is precisely what gives our lives meaning. And when the people of Bedford Falls flood George's home with love, friendship, and whatever money they can spare, the truth becomes unmistakable: the impact of a life cannot always be measured while we are living it. Quiet acts of kindness can travel farther than we will ever know. "No man is a failure who has friends." That message is one I will never forget.
Warrior takes us into a much harsher world, but ultimately arrives at a remarkably similar destination. The final confrontation between Brendan and Tommy appears at first to be about two brothers fighting for survival.
But when Brendan finally has Tommy trapped and screams that he loves him, the fight transforms completely. The submission hold becomes an embrace. Physical dominance gives way to emotional surrender. The greatest victory isn't defeating an opponent; it is finding a way back to someone you love. That scene deeply affects me because it strips away all the superficial ideas we sometimes attach to masculinity and strength. A man's highest expression of strength isn't necessarily his ability to overpower someone.
Sometimes it is his ability to forgive, to lower his pride, to say "I love you," and to help heal what has been broken.
Rudy carries another variation of that same message. Rudy Ruettiger is the ultimate underdog — not because he possesses extraordinary physical gifts, but because he doesn't. He is undersized and faces rejection after rejection, yet he keeps showing up. His dream survives because his determination survives. When Rudy is finally carried from the field by his teammates, the moment represents something far greater than playing in a football game. Years of unseen work, doubt, sacrifice, and rejection suddenly become visible. His teammates aren't carrying him because he was the greatest athlete on the field. They are carrying him because they know how hard he worked to earn that moment. That scene reminds me that effort deserves respect regardless of outcome.
We cannot always control our natural abilities, our circumstances, or the obstacles placed in front of us. But we can control our commitment.
Miracle brings that lesson into the world of teamwork. The transition from the brutal "Again" conditioning scene to the eventual confrontation with the Soviet Union represents something I find incredibly powerful. The players begin as talented individuals with competing personalities and egos. Through shared suffering, they gradually become a team. Herb Brooks understands something important: greatness isn't created merely by assembling talented people. It is created when those people learn to sacrifice individual identity for something larger than themselves. The Soviet game becomes the ultimate expression of that transformation. Every exhausting practice, every painful sprint, every moment when they wanted to quit suddenly has meaning.
They aren't simply skating for themselves anymore. They are skating for the name on the front of the jersey and for the brothers beside them.
And then there is Brian's Song. Gale Sayers dedicating the Most Courageous Player Award to Brian Piccolo remains one of the most powerful expressions of friendship and selflessness I have ever seen on screen. Gale could have stood there and accepted the glory of his own remarkable comeback. Instead, he uses the moment to honor his dying friend. That scene reminds me that our greatest victories aren't always the moments when we stand in the spotlight. Sometimes our greatest victory is using that spotlight to illuminate somebody else. Brian and Gale's friendship transcended competition, race, ego, and even mortality. Their story reminds me that the measure of a life is not simply what we accomplish, but how deeply we touch the lives of others.
These movies taught me something that became increasingly clear as the years passed: the strongest characters weren't always the people who could hit the hardest, run the fastest, or win the biggest trophy. Their real strength came from what lived inside them. And eventually, I found men in the Iron Game who taught me exactly the same lesson.
Peary Rader holds a special place in that history for me because, in many ways, he represents where so much of this journey began. Rader pretty much started it all with Iron Man Magazine. Long before the internet, social media, influencers, and today's enormous fitness industry, he was helping create a community for ordinary people who wanted to become stronger. He believed in honest work, heavy training, patience, and the potential of the everyday lifter. There was no Hollywood flash surrounding Peary Rader. He represented something much more authentic: the belief that a person didn't need perfect circumstances or expensive equipment to improve himself. He helped make strength training accessible to people who simply wanted to work hard and become better.
That message resonated deeply with me.
Then I discovered Brooks Kubik. I read Dinosaur Training and devoured everything in it. I loved his unapologetic rejection of fitness hype and his emphasis on heavy barbells, dumbbells, odd objects, grip work, hard training, and patience. But Brooks' influence on me wasn't merely philosophical. I applied what he taught. At the time, his training philosophy helped me take my muscular bodyweight from approximately 220 pounds to 265 pounds. That changed the meaning of his writing for me. I didn't simply read Dinosaur Training. I lived it. And that is why I love saying, "I'm one of those lifters." Dinosaur Training isn't simply a book I enjoyed. It became part of my identity.
Dr. Ken Leistner became another enormous influence. To me, Dr. Ken represented the old-school, no-nonsense spirit of the Iron Game. He believed that short, brutally hard workouts built around basic movements could accomplish extraordinary things when combined with discipline, consistency, and recovery. His Iron Island Gym became legendary, but what mattered most to me was the philosophy behind it. Dr. Ken understood that the weights were a tool. The real objective was to build a stronger person. He wasn't interested in "Hollywood muscle." He wanted young men to develop strength, confidence, discipline, responsibility, and character. Heavy squats, deadlifts, presses, logs, chains, and stones were simply some of the instruments used to teach those lessons.
That philosophy has stayed with me.
Tommy Kono's story showed me another side of strength. Here was a frail young man whose severe asthma could easily have defined his future. Instead, weightlifting became the beginning of an extraordinary transformation. His discipline, self-reliance, mastery of diet and physique, and mental toughness eventually carried him to Olympic gold medals and world records. What I admire most about Kono is the message behind the achievements: our beginnings don't necessarily determine our endings.
John Grimek taught me that extraordinary physical development and extraordinary character can coexist. He represented strength, athleticism, flexibility, vitality, humility, and kindness. He helped destroy the old misconception that muscular people must be stiff or incapable of athletic movement.
Bob Peoples demonstrated that greatness doesn't require perfect conditions. He trained in what became known as "The Dungeon," built equipment himself, and pursued extraordinary strength without the conveniences available to modern athletes. His famous deadlifting achievements became legendary, but what continues to inspire me is the self-reliance behind them. He looked at limitations and treated them as raw material.
Terry Todd showed me that strength and intellect aren't opposites. He was an accomplished strength athlete, scholar, journalist, mentor, and historian who helped elevate strength sports into something worthy of serious study and preservation. That combination has always fascinated me. His life taught me that true greatness requires breaking false societal limits while developing the mind along with the body. He didn't simply become strong; he helped others understand strength and created opportunities for generations who followed.
Stuart McRobert gave ordinary lifters another tremendously valuable gift: perspective. His message was that natural lifters don't need to imitate professional bodybuilders or destroy themselves with endless volume. Master the basics. Train intelligently. Recover. Be patient. Build something sustainable. His philosophy became particularly meaningful to me because it respected the everyday lifter — the person who simply wants to become stronger without pretending to be someone else.
Jack LaLanne represented another extraordinary dimension of physical culture. He showed generations of ordinary people that fitness could become a joyful, lifelong pursuit rather than something reserved for athletes. His enthusiasm was contagious. He demonstrated that discipline and vitality could continue throughout an entire lifetime and that taking care of the body could be part of living a purposeful life.
Paul Anderson took that idea of strength in an entirely different direction. To me, Paul was a mountain of a man and a real-life superhero. His physical strength seemed almost beyond comprehension. Yet what made him truly extraordinary was the contrast between that enormous power and his gentle spirit. He used his gifts to help others and devoted himself to giving troubled young people another chance. He traveled and spoke about his faith, and he demonstrated something I deeply believe: strength becomes most meaningful when it is placed in service to others. Paul Anderson taught me that true strength isn't measured only by the weight we can lift, but by the burdens we can lift from other people.
And then there is Brian Shaw. Of course, I admire the four-time World's Strongest Man champion and the extraordinary feats of strength that made him famous. But that's not really why Brian belongs in this story. What draws me to Brian is the man behind the strength. Here is a man possessing extraordinary physical power who nevertheless carries himself with humility, kindness, warmth, and gentleness. I see him as a true gentle giant — a devoted family man and someone who seems genuinely interested in lifting other people up rather than simply lifting more weight than anyone else. His strength inspires me, but his character inspires me even more.
If I had an older brother, I would have loved for it to have been him.
That sentence probably says more about why Brian Shaw belongs here than any list of championships or world records ever could.
Bradley J. Steiner belongs among my heroes of the Iron Game because he represented something I have admired for most of my life: strength with purpose. Bradley was a true old-school physical culturist, writer, martial artist, and teacher of self-defense. His message was direct, practical, and uncompromising. He believed in hard work, progressive resistance, basic barbell exercises, consistency, self-discipline, and the development of a strong and capable human being. He had little patience for shortcuts, gimmicks, or training that valued appearance over substance. What always resonated with me, however, was that Bradley's idea of strength reached far beyond the muscles. Through his writing, he continually connected physical development with mental toughness, self-reliance, courage, dignity, preparedness, and character.
The barbell was not simply a tool for building a bigger body. It was one of the tools through which a person could learn to become stronger in every sense of the word. I first discovered Bradley's work as a young man, and his teachings became another important link in the chain of influences that shaped my own philosophy of physical culture. His words reinforced something I was already beginning to understand: genuine strength should make us more capable, more disciplined, and better prepared to meet whatever life places in front of us. Years later, I had the extraordinary opportunity to speak with Bradley personally. What began as a telephone call simply to thank him for the influence he had had on my life became a conversation lasting approximately three hours.
That experience made his writings even more meaningful to me. The man whose words had traveled from the printed page into my training and philosophy was suddenly there on the other end of the telephone, generously sharing his time, knowledge, and passion for physical culture. Bradley J. Steiner taught me that strength should never be merely ornamental. It should be useful. It should be accompanied by discipline, courage, self-respect, and character. And above all, it should help prepare us to stand strong when life demands something more from us than another repetition with a barbell. For me, that is why Bradley will always remain one of the true heroes of the Iron Game.
Because that is what I have ultimately come to understand about all of these men. Their physical accomplishments are remarkable, but their character is what makes them memorable.
When I look back at all these movies and all these men, I realize that I wasn't really collecting heroes. I was collecting lessons. Rocky taught me resilience. Maximus taught me integrity. Jefferson Smith taught me endurance in the service of truth. Longfellow Deeds taught me compassion. George Bailey taught me that an ordinary life can have extraordinary meaning. Brendan and Tommy taught me that love and reconciliation can be stronger than anger. Rudy taught me never to quit. Miracle taught me that individual talent becomes something greater when it is surrendered to a shared purpose. Brian Piccolo and Gale Sayers taught me that true greatness is found in how we lift others. And the Iron Game reinforced those same principles in real life.
Rader taught me the value of honest work and community. Bradley J. Steiner taught me that strength should be useful and rooted in discipline, courage, self-respect, and character. Kubik taught me that hard work can change not only the body but the person inside it. Dr. Ken taught me that intensity and discipline can build character. Kono taught me self-reliance. Peoples taught me resourcefulness. Grimek taught me that strength and grace can coexist. Terry Todd taught me to develop the mind along with the body. McRobert taught me patience and honesty. LaLanne taught me that vitality can be a lifelong pursuit. Anderson taught me that great strength carries an even greater responsibility to serve. Shaw reminds me that immense physical power is most beautiful when accompanied by humility.
And somewhere along the way, these lessons became my own. That is perhaps the greatest gift they gave me. I have spent much of my life training the body, but I have come to believe that the body is only one part of the equation. We must train the mind to endure, the character to remain honest, and the heart to remain compassionate. We must learn how to carry our own burdens while still being willing to help carry someone else's. For me, faith belongs within that equation — not as a matter of preaching or imposing beliefs upon anyone, but as a quiet foundation for trying to become the very best version of myself in body, mind, and spirit, and to use whatever strength I have been given for the greater good.
The older I become, the more I understand that strength isn't simply about adding another plate to the bar. Sometimes strength is getting back up. Sometimes it is standing alone for what is right. Sometimes it is forgiving someone. Sometimes it is admitting that we need help. Sometimes it is carrying someone else when they can no longer carry themselves. And sometimes the greatest act of strength is simply choosing kindness when we have every reason not to. Perhaps that is why these movies and these men have remained with me for so many years. They remind me that we are all writing a story, whether we realize it or not. Every workout, every hardship, every act of kindness, every failure, every decision to get back up becomes another sentence in that story.
The movies gave me heroes of the human spirit. The Iron Game gave me real-world examples of people who turned discipline into character. And my own life became the place where those lessons met. I don't know what pages remain in my story. But I know how I want to write them. With purpose. With gratitude. With integrity. With faith. With strength. And, above all, with a heart strong enough to use whatever strength I have left not simply to lift the weight in front of me — but to help lift someone else.
Upward and onward, always.