My Stubborn Journey Mirroring an MLB Giant
So I spent the entire winter trying to build myself into an Aaron Judge clone. Yeah, sounds crazy now.
First thing I did? Stopped looking at his home runs and started obsessing over his calves. Seriously, the guy’s built like a tree trunk walking on telephone poles. My legs felt like spaghetti noodles next to his pics. I grabbed my phone at 11 PM one Tuesday, marched down to the garage, and dug out old dumbbells covered in spiderwebs. Started doing calf raises right there on the cold concrete. Thought I’d pass out after ten reps.
Week two was all about shoulders. Judge carries that bat like it’s a toothpick, right? My gym’s smallest dumbbell felt like a cinderblock. I’d grunt through shoulder presses while gym bros side-eyed me like I was gonna drop it on my face. Did this ridiculous routine:
- 3 sets of front raises (arms shaking like a leaf)
- 3 sets of lateral raises (elbows wobbling)
- 3 sets of bent-over flies (almost kissed the floor mid-rep)
Walked outta there with arms that wouldn’t lift my car keys.
Then came the food. Holy meat mountain. Tried packing down six meals like Judge supposedly does. Meal prepped Sunday – grilled eight chicken breasts, boiled two dozen eggs, filled Tupperware with enough rice to feed a village. By Wednesday lunchtime? Caught myself sniffing week-old salmon in the office fridge like a stray cat. Swapped to peanut butter straight from the jar with a serving spoon. Zero dignity.
Biggest shocker? Thought brute strength = bat speed. Wrong. Tried swinging a weighted bat after deadlifts one evening. Nearly spun myself into the neighbor’s rose bushes. My actual baseball swing looked like a drunk guy swatting flies. Ball dribbled maybe 15 feet. Felt like a complete clown.
Woke up sore one rainy April morning – calves, shoulders, even my eyelids hurt. Checked the mirror: looked bulkier but moved like rusty Tin Man. That’s when it clicked watching old Yankee highlights. Judge isn’t just big; he’s like a coiled spring. That controlled explosion from his hips? His legs firing like pistons? I’d been building a statue, not an athlete. Started adding explosive jumps and medicine ball twists instead of endless bench presses. Still can’t hit a curveball to save my life, but damn if I don’t feel less like Frankenstein now.
Final takeaway? Muscles mean zip if they don’t talk to each other. Judge’s build works because every thick cable from neck to ankles is wired into one baseball-smashing machine. Me? I’ve got fancy pipes now, but it took snapping my swing to realize coordination beats raw beef every time.
