by Lex Luger
After the second heat, my teacher went over to the table where the official times were being recorded. A few minutes later, I learned why everyone was so excited: my time had blown the competition away—breaking the school record for the third grade and beating out all the fourth and fifth graders as well. I knew I was fast, but I had no idea I was that fast. I marveled at my ability and how easy it was for me.
Not only did I have lightning speed, I soared over the high jump—breaking the third-grade school record handily. I excelled in every fitness test, scoring above 100 percent across the board. My playground cred skyrocketed; everyone began treating me differently. I often heard my closest friends defending me to older kids.
“Larry is the fastest kid in the whole school, and he’s only in the third grade.” “Yeah, and he can jump the highest too!”
I would smile like a king, holding court while sitting on the monkey bars at recess, showing off my skills from time to time. I really am talented. Different from the rest of my family, but still the best at what I do.
My parents’ reaction to my achievements didn’t surprise me. Sports was foreign territory to them, light-years away from their world of music and art. They were happy for me, but with no point of reference, it seemed to me that the significance of my abilities was lost on them. That was okay. My natural talent didn’t match any of my family’s. But I was exceptional at something, and I’d stand out on my own.
During the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City, I was glued to the TV. I loved every minute of it, especially the track-and-field events. My parents were at the store during most of the two-week broadcast, but my brother and sister would occasionally watch with me.
We were together when Bob Beamon obliterated the world long jump record with a distance of 29 feet 2-½ inches, so far that it exceeded the optical measuring device. People called it the “Leap of the Century,” convinced it would stand until the millennium. When Beamon collapsed on the track after hearing his final distance, I sprang off the couch and announced to my siblings, “I’m going to break his world record someday!”
But that wasn’t the only record I wanted to break. I concentrated on every stride that American runners Tommie Smith and John Carlos took in the 200-meter sprint. When they raised their black-gloved fists to the sky as our national anthem was played, I didn’t realize what it meant or what all the fuss was about afterward. I simply admired how fast they ran and wanted to break their records too.
So I ran and ran and jumped and jumped, an enjoyable regimen. If anyone asked me what I was doing, I would quickly reply: “Training.”
I didn’t get a pass from playing music, though. In the next year, the piano lessons had been abandoned, but Grandpa Monteith attempted to teach me to play the trombone for band. I flat-out refused to practice but was still expected to play in a school parade when I was in fourth grade. I couldn’t play a single note of the songs, but I had an ingenious plan.
Watching the musicians on either side of me, I raised my trombone, pressed my lips against the mouthpiece, puffed out my cheeks, and moved the brass slide. March, puff, slide—perfectly synchronized. I smiled to myself. I’m good. No one was the wiser. My “Milli Vanilli” performance would have fooled even my grandfather if he had been there.
At school, I enjoyed the sports in gym class but never chose to play on any organized team in the summer like most of my classmates. I was so focused on my track-and-field goals that I became oblivious to most other sports. One day in sixth grade I happened to see some boys shooting hoops in the neighborhood. Looks like fun and pretty easy. I can do that. So I asked if I could try a few shots. I dribbled a few times to get a feel for the ball. I didn’t make any baskets on my first attempts, but I was hooked. From that point on, I spent hours at my friends’ houses playing basketball. It made sense to switch to an indoor sport because Buffalo winters are cold, and it’s hard to run in the snow and ice. I played basketball in an after-school recreation league. By the end of the season, I had proved myself to be one of the best players, if not the best.
I asked my parents for a basketball hoop at home so I could practice anytime. At first my dad said no, but he eventually came around. I would shoot for hours and never tire of it. Sometimes my brother would join me in a lively game. A good athlete, Barry could give me a workout. Inside the house, I worked on perfecting my vertical leap, aggravating my mother when she’d find fresh smudge marks from my hands on the white ceiling.
Fortunately, there was always a pickup game going on somewhere nearby. And being good at sports made it easier for me to make friends when we moved to a new neighborhood in Buffalo. As my parents’ business grew, my dad relocated us several times. As soon as kids found out what I could do, everyone wanted me to be on their team.
Being good at sports really expanded my influence. I could rally kids around me to do just about anything I asked them to do—good or bad.
The shoplifting started small—a few things pocketed here and there at the mall. My middle school friends and I hung out there a lot. We’d spend hours in the stores, trying on the newest athletic wear, jewelry, and clothes. The first time I successfully swiped a pair of Converse tennis shoes (this was before security scanners at store exits), I was pumped. The thrill of defying the authorities, especially pulling off something right under their noses, was exhilarating. Before long, we were taking orders from our classmates, stealing the merchandise, and selling it. To us, it was a game.
This went on for weeks. One night, a friend and I were caught. After the security guard called my friend’s parents, I gave him the number for my parents’ store.
“I have your son in my office. He was caught stealing,” the guard said into the phone. “Would you like to come get him?”
The guard seemed taken aback by the response. He hung up the phone and looked at me. “He said to lock you up and throw away the key.”
“You must have talked to my dad,” I said. “Call back and ask for my mom.”
Fortunately for me, the mall didn’t file charges, believing it was my first offense. My mom eventually picked me up, barely saying a word to me. When we got home, I immediately went to my room. I heard Dad come home later that evening and braced myself for a beating with his belt. “Lawrence, I’m beyond disappointed with you,” he said. “I don’t even recognize you as my son. No son of mine would steal something that wasn’t his. I didn’t raise my children that way.”
His words were chilling and hurt me more than any physical punishment from him. I was grounded for a month.
My parents seemed stunned by this latest development and probably wondered where my total disregard for everything they had taught me came from. Were sports to blame? The people I hung out with?
My passion for sports seemed to remain a mystery to my parents. Initially, I think they liked the idea of me being supervised by adults in some activity, but it was still a challenge to get them to agree to everything I asked. When I entered ninth grade, my friends convinced me to go out for football in the fall. Since I wanted to spend time with my friends, I brought home the parental permission slip for my dad to sign. He refused.
“That isn’t a sport! They’re like gladiators out there. What’s sporting about putting on pads and running into other people? What good could possibly come of that?”
I knew he didn’t want any feedback from me. When Dad spoke, we all listened. Everything was pretty much black-and-white for him; he was serious about everything, including my name. Everybody called me “Lar,” including my mom and siblings. It made perfect sense to my father why he never used it.
“Look at your birth certificate,” Dad would explain. “I did not name you Lar, and I did not name you Larry. I named you Lawrence. That’s the name we chose for you.” To this day, I’m Lawrence to him—always have been, always will be.
I forged my dad’s name on the permission slip. For a while, he didn’t even know I was playing, but my mom did. She tried to come to as many of my games as possible when she could ge
t away from the store.
I began goofing off with a J. C. Penney plastic weight set at home, not knowing what I was doing. I had always loved doing push-ups, so I was already more muscular than most other kids my age. I just hadn’t realized how physically developed I was becoming.
But other people were definitely noticing.
The summer after my freshman year of high school, we moved into a new house. My parents hired me to paint its exterior as a summer job. I had “apprenticed” for years under Grandpa Monteith, who supplemented his income as a musician and artist by painting houses. A few times my brother and dad grabbed brushes and helped, but I did the majority of the labor. It was a sultry summer, so I often worked shirtless. As the weeks passed, my tan got darker and my blond hair got lighter. Soon I became the subject of neighborhood gossip, especially since we were still getting to know everyone.
Finally, someone said to my mom, “Where did you find that Adonis to paint your house?”
“Oh, him?” she laughed. “That’s my youngest son, Larry. He’ll be a sophomore in high school this fall.”
“He’s in high school?” the woman said, completely flabbergasted.
It wasn’t only my body that was getting larger. My attitude was growing too. If someone challenged me—in sports or otherwise—I didn’t back down.
That included Carlos Garcia.
Garcia was a senior and a Golden Gloves boxer. He was also the leader of “The Motor Heads,” industrial arts students who spent most of their time in the school’s shop, working on cars and learning other skilled trades. They were adversaries of the college-bound athletes like me, but we usually kept our distance from each other.
One Friday night I was with my buddies when we ran into a group of Motor Heads. One of them began mouthing off to me. It was too dark to see who it was, and my friends held me back from going after him. Still, I wasn’t about to let it slide. My anger built all weekend.
First thing on Monday morning, an informant pointed out my challenger. I pinned him against the wall, grabbed him by the throat, and threw him down on the floor. “If you want to play the ‘big man,’ let’s settle this after school.”
Apparently, the Motor Heads talked about me all morning, because at lunchtime, I was surprised when one of them approached me in the cafeteria, surrounded by his henchmen. “If you want to fight someone, meet me after school.”
I didn’t know who this kid was, but with the buzz in the cafeteria, it seemed everyone else did, including my friends. “That’s Carlos Garcia, a Golden Gloves boxer. Are you really going to fight him?”
It was crazy, but there was no backing out now.
It was hard to concentrate for the rest of the afternoon. I knew I was strong, but I didn’t know how I would fare against a trained boxer. My adrenaline was pumping, and butterflies were fluttering in my stomach. The details of the showdown spread quickly throughout the school. I got nods and words of encouragement as well as deadly stares. Amazingly, despite all of the excited whispering, none of the teachers knew what was going on.
As soon as school let out, a huge crowd began to form in the soccer field between the high school and middle school. I couldn’t believe how many kids were there. The main athletes and Motor Heads pushed their way up front to control the chaos, forming a small circle. Hundreds of kids pressed in behind them, shouting and jumping up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of the action. Little did I know that the scene would be a harbinger of my future.
The crowd’s anticipation was palpable. As Garcia and I began sizing each other up like two prized bulls, the shouting died down. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.
I was waiting for him to take his first swing; my strategy was to duck under, tackle him, and get him on the ground. I was so focused, I couldn’t hear the crowd. Suddenly, my opportunity came. I took Mr. Motor Head down to the ground and began beating him in the face with my fists and elbows. It was over in less than a minute.
After pulling me off Garcia, my friends jumped around me and raised my arm in victory. I couldn’t believe how easy it had been. A police car pulled up, and the crowd scattered. I went back into the school to get ready for basketball practice, but Garcia followed me and got in my face again.
Some teachers intervened. One look at Garcia’s swollen face tipped them off that they had missed the main event. Our reward was a suspension.
A few weeks later, Garcia attempted a surprise attack in the cafeteria, trying to get his reputation back. I couldn’t take the bait. I was on the basketball team, and if I got one more suspension, I would be kicked off the team. Finally, he gave up and left me alone.
Now there was no doubt I was “the Man” of Orchard Park High School.
It wasn’t just students like Carlos Garcia whose authority I would challenge. I began defying teachers so often that I wore a path to the principal’s office. I tallied up numerous suspensions during high school, but never enough in succession to affect my ability to play sports. My conduct was bewildering to my parents.
One day during my senior year I was feeling more raucous than usual as I angrily pounded on the door of the weight room adjacent to the gym. Behind the locked door was a brand-new Universal weight station, the most advanced equipment available at the time. And yet we athletes had only limited access. That did not sit well with me. I voiced my opinion loudly in the hallway, which caused the assistant principal to come out of his office.
As a former football player, the assistant principal always intimidated people by his size alone. He heard the commotion and pushed through the crowd until he found me. “Break it up—now!”
“What have I done? I have a right to speak my mind. It’s not my fault that everyone is listening.”
He glared at me. This guy was used to students backing down. Not this time. Not with me.
“We have every right to use this weight room at any time!” I addressed the growing crowd gathered around me. “Can you believe this? It’s unfair and a waste of our parents’ hard-earned taxpayer dollars!”
“Move on, Pfohl,” he growled.
I refused to budge. Within seconds, the assistant principal and I were nose to nose, with fists clenched, about to take a swing at each other. I wasn’t intimidated and was ready to go at it before other faculty members arrived and quickly separated us. I earned another three-day suspension.
Basketball had been my first love since middle school. When the NBA introduced a new Buffalo franchise in 1970, Barry and I were regulars at the Braves games, whooping loudly when Bob McAdoo lit up the scoreboard. He was my new inspiration, and my Olympic dreams of track stardom were replaced by hopes of an exceptional college basketball career, Olympic team gold, then on to the NBA.
By the time I was a freshman, I was pulling off some highlight-reel slams in practice without any trouble at all. I had trained myself to dunk, starting with a baseball, then moving on to a softball, a volleyball, and finally a basketball. Unfortunately, I could never show off my skills in an actual game—dunking was prohibited in high school basketball at the time. In my sophomore year, I was the starting power forward for the varsity team.
For three summers in a row, I attended the Five-Star Basketball Camps for elite players, comparable to the Nike Basketball Camps and Adidas Phenom America Camps held today. More than once I was asked if I played football; my body type looked more tailored to football than basketball. But for me, high school football was all about hanging out with my friends and killing time before basketball season began. My coach, Harris Weinke, thought differently, believing that I had unlimited potential. Because of my athletic ability, I played tailback, fullback, tight end, linebacker, offensive guard, defensive end, and on special teams. I went both ways and did well in almost every position.
Yet I still thought basketball was going to be my ticket to fame and fortune. And then reality hit—I had stopped growing at six feet four inches. I could dominate the boards on the high school court because I had huge ups—anywhere fro
m a 36- to 38-inch vertical leap. In practice, I would show off by throwing down a two-handed tomahawk dunk from a standstill position under the hoop. With a running start, I could get my hand over the top of the painted square on the backboard. Impressive for sure, but the reality was that I would probably need to switch positions to play in the big-time conferences.
Although I was still focused on pursuing college hoops, Coach Weinke heard the rumor that I wasn’t going to play football my senior year. He called me into his office and said, “If you focused on football with the same passion you have for basketball, you’d be a shoo-in for a Division I scholarship.”
It might have been the best advice I ever received, as college scouts soon came to know who I was.
Compared to New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, our part of the country had never really been considered a fertile recruiting ground for Division I college teams. However, my senior class had an unusual collection of athletic talent, luring representatives from almost all of the major college programs. Like bees in a hive, they were buzzing aplenty about two of my blue-chip teammates: future longtime NFL starters Craig Wolfley and Jim Burt, who was a year younger.
Wolfley was a dominant offensive lineman who would eventually start at Syracuse as a freshman, before going on to play twelve seasons in the NFL, most of which were spent with the Pittsburgh Steelers. Burt was a tough-minded nose tackle who later played with me again at the University of Miami before making the most of his eleven years in the NFL, contributing to two Super Bowl winning teams—the 1986 New York Giants and the 1989 San Francisco 49ers.
When the college coaches came to look at my teammates, they couldn’t help but see me on the films too. Even though I hadn’t officially been on anyone’s radar, they weren’t going to leave without meeting me. My name was added to their priority list.
The Orchard Park Quakers did well my final year, and the major college coaches were all taking notice. By season’s end, I was up to 235 pounds and could run the forty-yard dash in 4.6 seconds—a perfect combination for football.
