By Christian Thibaudeau 

Joe was looking nervous that night, the kind of nervous you see on a man heading into the dentist’s chair. He kept fiddling with the collars on a barbell, moving plates around like a chess player stalling for time. 

Finally, he shuffled over to me and said, “Coach, I think I’ll skip squats today. My legs are sore. And besides, I don’t want to overtrain. I was thinking maybe I’d just do some leg extensions instead.” 

Big Mike, halfway through chalking up for his own set, heard that and laughed so loud it echoed off the rafters. “Extensions instead of squats? That’s like trading your paycheck for a pack of gum.” 

Joe flushed. “Well, I just don’t like them. Squats are hard. They knock me out. I don’t even feel like I’m building muscle, just… suffering.” 

At that, Big Charles lumbered over from the corner. He was a walking advertisement for squats: thighs like tree trunks, a back like a barn door, and traps that looked ready to swallow his neck whole. 

“Say that again,” Charles rumbled. 

Joe gulped. “I said I don’t think squats are for me.”  

The Foundation 

I motioned for Joe to sit down. “Listen, Joe,” I said, “squats aren’t just another exercise. They’re the foundation. You skip them, and you’re skipping the very thing that makes the rest of your training work.” 

Joe frowned. “But I’m working chest, arms, shoulders. Won’t that build muscle too?” 

Mike snorted. “Sure, and you’ll get arms like broomsticks hanging off a coat hanger. Squats build the body. Everything else just decorates it.” 

Charles nodded. “You want to look thick, powerful, solid? You get under the bar. Squats hit more muscle in one set than curls will in a month. Legs, back, hips, even your arms holding the bar. And the weight you move — it forces the rest of your body to grow just to keep up.” 

The Hormone Factory 

Joe looked skeptical, so I leaned in. “There’s more. Squats don’t just work muscle. They work your whole system. Heavy squats light up your hormones, especially testosterone and   growth hormone. That’s like fertilizer for muscle. Do them right, and you’ll grow everywhere, not just in your legs.” 

Joe raised his eyebrows. “So squats help my arms too?” 

“Absolutely,” I said. “You push your squat up by fifty pounds, and you’ll be surprised how your bench and curls climb right along with it.” 

Charles grinned. “It’s like putting a bigger engine in your car. The whole machine runs stronger.”  

Pete’s Excuse 

Skinny Pete wandered by, hugging a pair of twenty-pound dumbbells like life preservers. “I don’t squat either,” he said proudly. “I don’t want to bulk up my legs. I just want upper body size.” 

Charles looked him up and down. “Pete, your legs couldn’t bulk up if we watered them with miracle-grow. And besides, a house built on toothpicks won’t stand. You want arms? Build legs first.” 

Pete opened his mouth, then shut it and slunk off toward the curl rack.  

Facing the Rack 

I turned back to Joe. “All right,” I said, “enough talking. Time to squat. Strip that bar and let’s start right.” 

Joe’s face turned pale. “Now?” 

“Now.” 

We set the bar to shoulder height, loaded a pair of plates, and walked Joe under. His knees wobbled before he even unracked it. 

“Chest up. Back tight. Sit down, not forward,” I said. “Don’t think about the weight. Think about standing tall.” 

Joe squatted down, almost tipped over, then fought back up red-faced. He racked the bar like it had tried to bite him. 

Charles shook his head. “Ugly as sin, but it’s a start.” 

Mike grinned. “First squat always feels like the earth’s pushing back. Do it enough, and you start pushing the earth instead.”  

The Revelation 

Joe huffed, wiped sweat from his brow, and managed three more shaky sets. By the end, his legs were jelly, his lungs on fire, and his pride somewhere between the chalk bucket and the trash can. 

“See?” he said, gasping. “This is why I don’t like squats. They kill me!” 

“That’s the point,” Charles said. “Squats aren’t meant to tickle. They’re meant to transform. Every rep builds the foundation. You want muscle? You want strength? This is the toll you pay.” 

I put a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “You’ll hate them for weeks. Maybe months. But one day you’ll look in the mirror and see legs where there used to be stilts, traps climbing up your neck, and a chest thick enough to block sunlight. That’s the squat. That’s the king.”  

The Lesson 

Joe limped off, legs wobbling, but there was something different in his eyes. Not joy, exactly — more like reluctant respect. 

“So you’re saying,” he muttered, “if I want the body I keep talking about… I can’t skip squats.” 

Charles folded his arms. “Not if you want to build anything worth looking at.” 

Mike slapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him over. “Welcome to the brotherhood, kid. You’ve just met the king.” 

The plates clanged, the chalk dust rose, Pete’s curls went on unnoticed, and in that sweat-stained little gym Joe finally learned the law every serious lifter knows: the squat rules all.