Page 28 of Playing to Win

FitnessFanatic: Melissa Z, it wouldn’t just be entertainment, it would actually be useful. All these trainers say their method is the best. Let’s have a chance to put them to the test.

Diane16x: This post is disgusting. Izzy Coulthard is trying to tarnish Brooks’s good name for her own benefit. I’ve been a client of Brooks for five years and I’ve never looked or felt better. He doesn’t adopt a one-size-fits-all approach like this Izzy woman tries to do. I say you should go back to England, Ms. Coulthard, and spout your poisonous BS there.

“Wow, you go, Diane!” Be nice. Be nice. Be nice. “Don’t respond, Brooks, come on buddy. Don’t respond,” I tell myself.

The devil on my shoulder wins. I click to open a new comment box and begin to type. At first, I follow Madge’s advice. Dear Izzy, I apologize if you feel threatened by my methods and put out because I didn’t allow you to train in my gym. I did, of course, give you access to a studio to film your new DVD. As I have previously explained, I have a wait list of clients. Some names have been on that list for months. I do not operate on a system of preferential treatment; therefore, I could not allow you to take a slot in my gym, thereby favoring you over others. I hope you can understand this. I am sure your classes and fitness advice work for many people. I wish you success with your new book and the upcoming DVD.

As I hit Submit and complete the CAPTCHA—God, those things are annoying—I’m more riled than I started out. Why should I be nice to her when she’s nothing short of awful in return?

Before I can add another comment, she replies: Dear Brooks, I only wanted to try out your gym as a fellow instructor for one hour. You were rude and obnoxious. Good luck to anyone who decides to go to your gym and train with you!

I can’t help myself.

Please. You are so celebrity hungry you think you are better than others. You strutted into my gym, upset my staff and clients, and tried to instruct my kitchen staff as to what they should be doing. Who the hell do you think you are?

I know I shouldn’t have sent it as soon as I hit Submit.

She replies in seconds. Who do I think I am? Mr. My Way or the Highway!

Angry, I thump out my next response. You have no idea how I advise clients. Everything is tailored to their needs. Unlike your methods!

Izzy: Ha. As I said in my post, Mr. Adams, put your money where your big, rude, ogling mouth is. You didn’t want me in your gym because you were worried your clients would see a better alternative to your methods.

My knuckles are showing white as I type. I did not ogle you. Nor do I scrutinize my clients in any way other than professionally, when they invite my assessment. You are so up your own “arse” that you think every woman wants to be you and every man wants to nail you.

I’ve completely lost my dignity. Madge will be sitting at home screaming at me.

Izzy: You are so far off the mark, you can’t even see the mark. If you think your training is more effective than mine, Brooks, prove it. Follow my plan and see how much better you feel. It might even curb some of those tantrums you keep having.

I start writing a reply and stop. I have no intention of following her plan. How would that even work? But she has boxed me into a corner. Acknowledging that I have already stooped to her level and made myself look like a petulant child rather than a thirty-five-year-old businessman with an adult daughter, I slam the lid shut on my laptop.

* * * *

Sitting in my truck with the windows down and the wind in my face as I cross the Brooklyn Bridge, I feel better about this whole Izzy situation. I heard nothing more about it on Sunday and refused to look at any more comments. It was a blog post. One silly little blog. It’s done. She’ll go back to England and I’ll forget she ever existed.

Out of nowhere, a yellow cab slams on its brakes in front of me. I hit my hazard lights as I come to an abrupt halt behind it. Next thing I know, a police vehicle comes tearing across the bridge with its lights flashing.

Looks like I’ll be late for my meeting with my main merchandise printer.

Not sure what lies ahead or how long I’ll be stuck here, I turn on the radio and shuffle in my seat to take my iPhone from the ass pocket of my jeans.

“Folks, that was Dobie Gray with ‘Drift Away.’ Now we’re back with Izzy Coulthard.”

I’m about to connect my iTunes to the car when her familiar voice comes through the speakers.

“Hi.”

“Izzy, we’ve talked about your new book, Be Green. Be Clean, which releases tomorrow. We’ve discussed your presence online with your Salsa Yourself Slim classes.”

“Yes.”

“But there’s another element of your online marketing that viewers have been texting in about. You have a blog.”

She clears her throat. I set my iPhone down on the passenger seat before turning up the radio. “I do, Steve. I use the blog to give my followers new recipe ideas and fitness tips.”

“Except, in the last few days, you seem to have used the blog to…how should we put it? Criticize a fellow fitness instructor. For our listeners, we’re talking about Brooks Adams, owner of the Brooks Adams gym. What’s the story there, Izzy?”

“Well, Mr. Adams and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. Our fitness advice differs and our manners certainly do.”

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