The birth of Gold's remembering Joe Gold

Flex, Oct, 2004 by Dave Draper

I first met Joe Gold when I moved to California in 1963. I was a 21-year-old Jersey boy, and Joe was a 41-year-old Californian. We were down in the Muscle Beach Dungeon where light was sparse, scattered and dim. An open back door at the top of a steep and shaky staircase allowed a single harsh ray of sunlight to stream in, while the front door was more generous, offering a flood of light throughout the day. In the far corner, Joe stood under one of three strategically placed 60-watt bulbs hanging by a wire next to the only mirror in the gym.

I was performing weighted chins and dips in slow supersets when Irvin "Zabo" Koszewski introduced me to his longtime friend, the Gold. The two were like the head and tail of some rare coin: very different and very much the same. They stood side by side in what was the common attire of Muscle Beach muscleheads--cut-off sweats, flip-flops and well-worn T-shirts. I hated flip-flops so I wore cheapo Keds, but I was right in style with the rest of the gear.

Joe was talking about building a gym in Venice that would "get the guys out of the hole in the ground." I couldn't imagine any place in the world that could be better than the Dungeon. It was a perfect, dark and ominous mess. Sacrifice and pain were inscribed on its cracked walls, and toughness was inhaled with each breath of stale air.

"Joe's got a hunk of property a block off the beach," Zabo said in his disconnected Jersey accent. I didn't know much, but from the looks of those two leathery mutts, I was not about to give up my precious membership to the Muscle Beach Gym. They're cool, but they couldn't build a sandcastle in wet sand.

Between sets, I wondered if they could get any tanner. They lived for the beach and had trained on it for a hundred years before some saps from the city came with a legal technicality and a bulldozer and took it all away in 1959: a spirit, a culture, a way of life, an expression and a freedom. I missed the real deal, but the memory was so thick that I absorbed what was left from the men who hung on, wouldn't let go and couldn't let go. Those two were the quintessential Muscle Beach bums--bronzed, healthy, muscled, strong, loose and free.

Both men honorably toured the South Pacific with the military during World War II and happily toured Las Vegas nightclubs with Mae West and her troupe in the uplifting aftermath. Live and learn from the good, the bad and the ugly.

The Joe Gold leaning against the crumbling plaster of the Dungeon wall was a man of many skills and experiences. He served in the merchant marines as a boatswain and a machinist's mate when ships were going to places of interest.

He had already built a gym in Mississippi during an extended stay on the Gulf Coast while serving in the mariner's world. The gym's equipment was handmade, robust, efficient and innovative--large pulleys, handsome oversized structures for mechanical advantage, functional adjustments--and this was barely the middle of the 20th century. Joe was sailing, lifting, growing, learning and on to something.

It was just another day in 1963 when the three of us shared hopes and dreams in the cool depths of the Dungeon, and breaking ground for the imaginary gym was at least a year away. I looked like a blimp and was yet to compete and win the Mr. America; the ground beneath my feet was as sure as the desires and plans of our muscle talk. I shrugged my shoulders, wished the sun-soaked team the best and promised I'd visit the site when I had transportation. Zabo, my West Coast mentor, told me he was helping Joe in every way he could. I knew the Chief well enough to seriously consider what help he might offer Joe: trench supervisor, nail inspector, water boy, tool attendant, timekeeper, night watchman.

As I shifted into gear in preparation for the 1965 Mr. America, I saw less of the Dream Team and more of the inside of a tuna can. One day, I cut loose and brought a bag of fresh fruit--maybe it was a six-pack or two--for the boys who were finally digging the footings for the foundation of the future Gold's Gym. Zabo was nowhere in sight since he was asked by Joe to dig a hole at the rear of the site. We, a muscular motley mob of five in tank tops and headbands, stood around in the late afternoon sun, guzzling, gabbing and bragging, and more than a little curious about where Zabo was hiding.

Although I believe we all heard it, Seymour Koenig was the first to see it. In the shadow of the northeast corner was a crunch, followed by a tuft of dirt flying out of a mysterious hole. The first observation was unsure, a bit mystifying, and our eyes connected as if to say, "Do you see what I see?" Artie Zeller reached for his Rolleiflex. "I gotta get a picture of this."

Joe shook his head with calm resignation. "That's the Chief; I know it," he said. "I asked him to dig a hole for a power pole and not to stop till I came back with the cement. That was this morning after breakfast. I forgot."

We edged our way over like a pack of curious stray dogs. Zabo looked up from a hole the size of a Buick and said, "Hey Joe, where ya been, man? How big ya want this thing? I can't get out."