STARKVILLE, Miss. -- My first reaction, my gut reaction, was hell no.

I had watched Mississippi State's chiseled football players struggle through their Navy Seal-like obstacle course and there was no way that I, at a robust and thoroughly out-of-shape 6-foot-2, 230 pounds, would get suckered into doing the same.

	"The Compound" is no Calistoga Oasis Spa or Sandals Resort in the Caribbean, as ESPN.com staff writer Wayne Drehs recently found out.

"The Compound" is the core of the Bulldogs' offseason training program. No other school has anything like the 13-task course that strength coach Mike Grant verbally whips his players through.

Grant recalled a time when his cousin, then in the Marines, once ran the course and said it was harder than the one at boot camp. "If anybody ever ran full speed," he said, "their heart would blow up."

I didn't want any part. But Grant, like he had been with his players all day long, was relentless. His demands were reminiscent of a drill sergeant with an attitude problem. His voice rang in my ear like Mr. Buzzcut from "Beavis and Butt-head." No was not an acceptable answer.

Run at your own pace, he said. Go ahead. Nobody was watching. All the players had made their way back to the locker room. Besides, he promised, "If you look like you're going to be sick or pass out, I'll stop you."

So, in part to get this guy off my back and in part to discover just how far I could push my body, I agreed to the challenge.

Sandals, khaki shorts and an Ashworth shirt were hardly ideal attire. But I took off the shirt, emptied my pockets, tightened my sandals and paused. I didn't want to be embarrassed.

Instantly, a piercing voice snapped me out of my daze.

"ALL RIGHT, HERE WE GO DREHS! TWENTY PUSH-UPS!"

Uhhhh …

"I probably can't do 20," I whined. "And if I can, I'm not going to be able to do anything else."

"All right," he said, granting the first of what would be countless double-standards. "Gimme 10."

	Not exactly dressed for success at 'The Compound.'

So down on the ground I got and ploddingly performed 10 push-ups, each more difficult than the last. It was the first of a series of 13 increasingly excruciating tests of physical agility and endurance. Next was a series of ropes, under which I crawled as if bullets whizzed overhead. Then there was a 15-yard bear crawl.

As I felt my heart begin to race and looked down at my now-mud-covered shorts, I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

"HEY DREHS! YOU WANT THE FULL EFFECT?"

"Sure," I said. "Why the hell not?"

Grant grabbed his megaphone, the annoying toy he had tortured his players with earlier in the afternoon. First he blared a deafening siren in my ear. Then he tore into me, yelling sarcastic comments about my manhood, my appearance and the future of my journalist career as encouragement.

"COME ON DREHS! COME ON YOU BIG WUSS! YOU WORK LIKE A GIRL! LET'S GET A MOVE ON IT! YOU'RE SICK! YOU'RE EMBARRASSING ESPN!"

I jogged to the tire pull and fastened a rope, tied to 130-pound tire, around my waist. My job was to tug the tire across a 60-yard sand pit, like I was the sled dog in some sort of Sun Belt Iditarod. This is where the players say the pain begins.

Johnny Wadley, a 6-foot-4, 345-pound sophomore offensive lineman, had run 31 100-yard dashes the day before and struggled to rumble through the sand pit two hours earlier. He looked like his legs were trapped in sludge.

	At day at 'The Compound'
	Task	Comment
	Push-ups	At least 20, military style
	Rope crawl	On your back, arms across your chest, you can only use your feet to move yourself
	Bear crawl	Ass in the air, hands and feet on the ground for 15 yards
	Tire pull	60 yards of sand never seemed so far
	Blocking sled	To move the unmoveable
	Hurdle	Watch out for the splinters!
	Dips	Legs already are gone, and soon the arms
	Rope climb	Not for those who fear heights of 30 feet or are a lineman of 300-plus pounds
	Another hurdle	Perfecting that Olympic form
	The wall	To scale 8 feet looks easier than it is
	Sewer crawl	Easiest part of course
	Maze run	Another breather before the big finale
	Tractor tire flip	At 600 pounds, don't forget to use your legs

I scooted along with little trouble and, for a second, I started to believe I could do this. I dropped the rope, moved on to the next test and it hit me. Pure Jell-O. My legs were throbbing. I could barely stand.

"LET'S GO! DON'T GIVE UP ON ME NOW."

Staring me in the face was a blocking sled, which was entrenched in a warn patch of dead grass and mud. I leaned over and pushed the huge, wooden contraption. Nothing. I pushed again. Nothing. I pushed again. Still nothing.

"USE YOUR LEGS, BOY! GET SOME LEVERAGE AND USE YOUR LEGS!"

I leaned lower, bent at the knees, let out a throaty growl and pushed. It didn't budge.

Apparently tired of watching my futile attempts, Grant told me to move on. A rusty, brown bar with two handles now stood in front of me. "Ten dips," said Grant, the enthusiasm of minutes earlier now sucked out of him.

I looked at the bar and remembered back to high school, when even in good shape, I couldn't do a dip. I propped myself up on the bar and slowly lowered myself until I collapsed.

"One."

He and I both knew it wasn't a dip. But if he was going to count that, fine. I couldn't help but flash back to earlier on that balmy afternoon, when one after another, Bulldog players cranked out 20, 25, 30 dips. It took all I had to lift myself on the dip bar and collapse five times.

Shoulders slumped, arms hanging by my side, gut sticking out, I walked to the next station. I didn't care; I just wanted this to be over. My entire body felt like warm, runny pudding and my heart was racing at a feverish pace. My head was drenched in sweat and my mouth gaped open, the better to gasp for air.

A bright yellow rope hung before me, attached to the top of a 30-foot wooden pole. I thought back to the players, especially incoming freshman Brett Morgan. Only about 20 percent of the Bulldogs climbed to the top of the rope, but Morgan did it without a glitch. Like he was riding a bike. "It's not that hard," he said.

For him.

I hopped up off the ground, grabbed the rope and hung on for dear life.

"CLIMB! CLIMB THAT ROPE, MOOSE BOY! CLIMB!"

The excitement was back in Grant. But not in me.

"All right," he said. "Just hang there until I tell you to move on."

Seconds later, he cut me loose. A wooden, cross-country hurdle stood in my way. I used my gimpy arms to prop myself over it. By now, I felt like a 65-year-old minutes after his third heart attack. Grant didn't care.

"DON'T YOU CLIMB OVER MY HURDLES, BOY! WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS? YOU'RE NOT AT HOME ANYMORE! DON'T YOU DARE INSULT ME LIKE THAT!"

No offense to the coach, but I had had enough. My brain told my body to keep moving, but my body told my brain it didn't know how. I got back on my knees and crawled my way through a plastic, sewer-like tube. The players had breezed through this like it was a slip-n-slide.

Up next was the wall climb. A series of 2-by-4s were stacked one upon another to form an 8-foot wall. I placed my hands on the top, jumped and tried to push myself over. Nothing. I did it again. Nothing. Again. Still nothing.

"Get a running start," Grant suggested.

Like a cop preparing to break through a locked door, I stepped back, bent my knees, cocked my shoulder and took off. This time, I was almost there. I was higher than before and my arms were trembling to keep my body up.

"THROW YOUR LEG OVER! THROW YOUR LEG OVER! LEAN FORWARD! JUST THROW YOUR LEG!"

I tried. But fell. On the wrong side.

Grant and I were both deflated. I think he wanted me to finish so he could go home. I craved the comfort of my stiff motel room bed. But there was more. Grant directed me through a series of zigzagging, maze-like cuts, which led to the final obstacle.

	Just hurts the back watching him.

There, resting before me, was a 600-pound tractor tire. Most of the Bulldogs had labored to flip it over. They were all successful, but none made it look easy. One player -- sophomore walk-on Scott Goldberg -- flipped the tire, but in doing so fell through it. Now it was my turn.

I didn't think I'd get it off the ground as I leaned over, dug my fingers in the mud and wrapped them around the tire's massive tread. My confidence soared as, shockingly, the tire came off the ground. I lifted it a little more, leaned forward and balanced the tire on my knees. It was like Santa's worst nightmare -- Rosie O'Donnell and Star Jones sitting on my knees with a four-page holiday wish list.

After adjusting my hands and centering my balance, I lifted the tire a little further, balancing it on my waist. Grant, who had been quiet throughout all this, got excited.

"COME ON DREHS, COME ON MOOSE BOY! THIS IS THE LAST TEST! THIS IS YOUR FOURTH QUARTER! SHOW ME WHAT YOU'RE MADE OF!"

Soaked in encouragement and sweat, I repositioned my hands again, this time cupping my palms on the tire's sidewall. Then in one, big, get-this-damn-thing-off-me maneuver, I flipped the tire over on its side, letting out a monstrous roar. I felt like I was the World's Strongest Man. Somehow, Grant kept from laughing.

It was over.

I felt nauseous. It took everything I had left to walk the 15 feet toward Grant's pickup and fall to the ground. I spread out my arms and legs like a snow angel, hoping my chest would stop hurting, my legs would stop throbbing and I'd be able to move.

The final tally: Thirteen tasks. Seven failures. Six passes. Infinite fatigue.

"You all right? You need some water?" Grant asked.

I mumbled a "No," figuring the task of drinking would require too much movement. I didn't have the energy.

I felt like hell. I looked worse. When I walked into my hotel, the man behind the counter asked, "Sir, are you all right? Were you in a fight or something?"

Too tired to speak, I just shook my head no. When I made it to my room, I chugged two bottles of water, called my fiancee to tell her what I had done, then started to fall asleep.

I was beat, both mentally and physically, yet I felt a sense of accomplishment. I wondered what my body could do if I had trained for this.

And in a strange way, I wanted another chance.

As I laid there, I thought back to the sign you walk under when you approach the course, the sign Grant had referenced so many times.

"Where Boys Become Men."

Wayne Drehs is a staff writer for ESPN.com. He can be reached at wayne.drehs@espnpub.com