"I want to show you the e-mails from all the people I help with weight."

By Dana O'Neil
ESPN.com

 ARLINGTON, Texas --

It was an ordinary Sunday, a boring Sunday, when Texas   graduate   Larry  Connolly sat down at his computer and wrote the e-mail that would change his son's life.   "At the improbable chance that you will respond to this," Larry wrote, "I felt that it was worth the effort to contact you because as a parent, I'm running out of resources."

For years, Larry had tried everything to help his son lose weight and shape his body: weekly swimming sessions, tennis lessons, lengthy meetings with the pediatrician.

Nothing worked. Silas Connolly was 5-foot-7 and weighed more than 220 pounds.
And he was 12.

Out of ideas and nearly out of hope, Larry dashed off the e-mail.

"I have been an attentive follower of Dexter Pittman's metamorphosis and sort of wish he'd adopt my son so he could be inspired to follow his extraordinary example," wrote Larry, before pressing send on that December day back in 2007.

A thousand miles away in California, Todd Wright was standing on the Pauley Pavilion court when his Blackberry vibrated, alerting him he had a message.

As Texas prepared to play UCLA, the Longhorns' strength and conditioning coach quickly glanced down at the message and then typed out the three words that would change everything:

"Call me tomorrow."

Wright's ability to transform Pittman and Pittman's dedication to remolding his body has been well-documented and rightly applauded.

But the Texas duo's real success story lies in the newfound spirit of a teenager.

Two years ago, Silas Connolly spent the days being teased by classmates and the nights uncomfortable in his own skin. He wouldn't look people in the eye and slumped his shoulders, unconsciously trying to shrink himself so he'd be less conspicuous.

Two weeks ago, Silas Connolly walked, shoulders erect and proud, into an Arlington-area restaurant, smiled, stuck out his hand and said, "Hi, I'm Silas."

"I feel comfortable," he said. "I don't feel like I have to worry about things anymore, about what people are going to say. Because of Todd and Dexter, I know who I am."

And then Silas said the six words that would bring any parent to their knees with gratitude.

"And I like who I am."

The most merciless place in the world is a middle school hallway.

Dexter Pittman can attest to that. He was the big kid who was too sweet to defend himself, a combination of the kind nature of his mother Selma and the 7-foot frame of his father Johnny, who played hoops at Oklahoma State.

"Oh, it was bad," Selma said. "Kids … kids are awful. They'd call him fat and say he couldn't run up and down the court. It was very hard on him."

In his heart, Pittman believed what his beloved grandmother, Faye Harris, told him -- to ignore the people who said he'd be a nobody because she knew he'd be something special. But it was hard. He was a kid. And like every kid, Pittman craved nothing more than to be like everyone else.

Except he wasn't. He was the worst thing a kid could be in a kid's eyes: He was different.

Pittman grew so self-conscious about his size, he'd scrunch his feet into shoes too small in hopes that people would stop laughing at his oversized sneakers.

An immovable force in the low post who scored 1,154 points in his high school career, Pittman was pushing 400 pounds by the time he graduated. He looked more like an offensive lineman, but Texas coach Rick Barnes saw the fluidity of movement lost in the big man's bulk. Pittman ran on his toes, not with the heavy-footedness typical of someone his size, and he slid from block to block with such ease and grace that Barnes knew he had a diamond in the rough.

He also knew he had a secret weapon.

Wright looks like a typical strength coach -- his neck is approximately the size of a normal person's thigh. His voice, thanks to a Boston accent that won't leave him 16 years after moving out of Massachusetts, only reinforces the tough-guy veneer.

But Wright is no lunkhead, giddily and mindlessly shoving weights on a bar to cut muscles into someone's unsculpted arms.

He and Barnes met more than 16 years ago at Clemson, where the two shared an office before Barnes became head coach. Wright would drive the coach nuts with questions as Barnes broke down film. What do you want this guy to do? What are you looking for on that play? Barnes thought Wright was trying to be a coach.

In fact, he was trying to figure out how to do his job better. His goal wasn't just to make his athletes fit, but to fit their skills for how coaches wanted them to play. If Barnes wanted someone to jump higher, Wright would design the players' workouts toward explosiveness. If a kid needed strength, Wright would target the weights.

In Pittman, Wright found his biggest project.

"When coach introduced us, I wasn't sure," Wright said. "I could tell he had unbelievable potential, but would he commit to the program? He did. He did it."

Under Wright's tutelage, Pittman rose each day at 5:30 a.m. for grueling workouts and reconstructed his entire diet. Out went the fried food and soda.

In came a dedication to eating right, so extreme that Pittman would call Wright from area restaurants and read off the menu choices.

As the weight came off, out came a new person, the person Faye Harris knew was hidden in her grandson, the person Selma Harris worried would never emerge.

"I knew he had so much to offer," Selma said. "I just didn't know if he'd ever feel good enough about himself so others could see it."

Pittman now weighs around 285. His body-fat percentage, measured in the summer of 2006 at 41.6 percent, is down to 13.5 percent. As his weight has gone down, his stats have risen steadily. The 6-foot-10 senior is second on the second-ranked Longhorns in scoring (13.6 ppg) and rebounding (6.5 rpg) and leads in blocks (24).

He is not only a better basketball player because of the weight loss, but his stamina has improved to the point that he recently played 26 minutes in a run-and-gun game against North Carolina without issue. Oh, and he contributed 23 points and 15 rebounds in the Longhorns' 103-90 victory. There is little doubt that he has moved himself onto the radar of NBA scouts.

But if you ask him about his changes, Pittman won't talk about the points, rebounds or basketball productivity.

He'll tell a story about walking out of a recent Texas women's volleyball game and, as he crossed the parking lot, watching a man stop his car.

"He put the car in park and got out. Stopped traffic," Pittman said. "And he walks up to me and just says, 'I just want to shake your hand. You've been an inspiration to me.' You can't imagine how that makes me feel."

No longer self-conscious, Pittman proudly shed his shirt in Maui when the Longhorns played there last year and now boasts about his size.

As he walked through a revolving door at a Dallas hotel recently, three pint-size preteens circled in behind him.

"Oh my God, are you a basketball player?" they asked. "You're like three of me. How tall are you?"

Pittman laughed and patiently answered their questions.

"Before, I was missing a part of life," Pittman said. "I would walk around with my head down and wouldn't talk to anyone. I was embarrassed. When I lost the weight, I became a different person. I used to hate being in public. Now I love it. I love talking to people. Would that have happened if I hadn't lost the weight? I don't think so. I think I would be shut out from the world, antisocial and unhealthy."

The day Dexter Pittman met Silas Connolly, it was like stepping back in time.

"Why did I want to help him?" Pittman asked. "Because I was him. I was that kid. All you want to do is fit in, wear the same clothes and the same shoes. You hate being different. When I first met Silas, his confidence level was so low and so was his self-esteem. He was just like I was."

Just like Pittman, who used to change in the depths of the Texas locker room to avoid being seen by his teammates, Silas never shucked his T-shirt at swimming pools.

Much like Pittman, Silas would leave school demoralized, his self-esteem taking a daily beating from rounds of cruel teasing.

"You can tell a lot by a person's posture," Larry Connolly said, "and I'd pick him up after school and think, 'Something has to be done. This isn't healthy.'"

And just like Pittman, Silas ached to be someone else, someone "normal."

Silas' only outlet was on the stage. He loved being in school plays, a stunningly public place for a kid so self-conscious.

Except to Silas it made perfect sense: "That was the only place I was comfortable," he said, "because I could be somebody else."

Larry tried everything. He watched TV's "The Biggest Loser" for tips and then coaxed Silas into every fitness activity he thought might work. At his father's insistence, the preteen developed healthier eating habits than his older sister.

But Larry also knew for a change to really stick, it would have to come from Silas. And for Silas to be inspired, he'd have to hear it from someone other than his father.

A meeting with a doctor drove him to the breaking point. Silas went in with an Achilles injury and the doctor -- not the family's regular pediatrician -- spent the entire session lecturing father and son on physical activity and eating habits, presuming Silas was a video game-playing, junk food-eating kid, when in fact he was anything but.

So on that Sunday, a desperate Larry wrote to Wright.

He didn't expect a response.

But Wright was so moved that he not only wrote back; two years later, he still has the e-mail.

"Why did I write back? Because I'm a parent," Wright said. "I could hear how desperate he was in his letter and I told him, 'I wish every parent loved their kids as much as you loved your son.'"

Wright invited Larry and Silas to campus a few days after the UCLA game and, with one sentence, turned everything Silas had heard and believed about his size on its ear.

"He told us that Silas was genetically gifted," said Larry, his voice cracking and his eyes turning red as he recalled that first meeting. "All those years, we had never heard that before. He said Silas' size was a gift. Can you imagine?"

At first Wright offered some basic training advice, suggesting Silas do something -- anything -- physical for at least 15 minutes a day. Then he introduced him to Pittman.

Pittman told him his own story -- how he, too, was teased, ridiculed and humiliated as a kid. And most importantly, how he felt about himself now.

Suddenly, Silas, a kid who would bring a book to basketball games, turned into a gym rat. Every day for six months, Silas went to the local gym to play basketball, often by himself.

The 15 minutes a day turned into 40 minutes, the 40 minutes into hours.

"I didn't even like sports before," Silas said. "I was just inspired by Dexter. I wanted to do what he did."

A switch to a new middle school, where Silas could start fresh -- coupled with constant contact from Pittman and Wright -- motivated Silas enough to learn the intricacies of the game.

Some instruction turned his original two-handed heave into a decent shot, and the decent shot landed him a spot on the middle-school team and a local select team, the Austin Wildcats.

"When I first started, I wouldn't talk to anyone," Silas said. "I was scared they would make fun of me. But it was like Dexter told me, to just be proud of who I was, so I started talking to people and they were so nice."

It's hard to know who has inspired whom more.

In Dexter, Silas found a role model who understood him.

In Silas, Dexter found a purpose.

"I have this dream," Pittman said. "If I make it in the NBA one day and I'm a millionaire, I'll have kids like Silas -- kids like I used to be -- over to my house, spend time with them and help them. This isn't about basketball. I want to make a difference in people's lives. It's like there are fireworks going off inside my head. I'm just scratching the surface on who I can be."

The sincerity in his words is backed by his actions. His was no one-time meeting with Silas. The two exchange e-mails or messages on Facebook regularly. As Pittman talked on a recent evening, he scrolled through his phone, reading the messages Silas and Larry send him.

Silas and Larry know everyone will want a number: How much weight has Silas lost? A lot, they both agree, but it's hard to quantify because, while he's been exercising and eating better, he's also grown. He's 14 now and already 6 feet tall.

Besides, to them, anyone who focuses solely on how much Silas weighs is missing the point.

His success can't be measured by what the scale says.

His success flourishes in the normalcy of the everyday.

The kid who once was ashamed of his size has no problem telling you he wears a size 17 shoe now (his sneakers, by the way, have Pittman's No. 34 etched on the ankle). And he will laugh when asked where he finds his shoes: "BigShoes.com, of course."

The bookworm who never felt athletic enough to compete not only is playing basketball, but the football coach at Austin's Westlake High -- where Silas will enroll next fall -- is already after him to play, and Silas is seriously considering it.

The kid who loved to lose his identity on stage is still acting, but recently he really put himself out there, taking the lead as a porcupine in "The Princess and the Porcupine."

And the kid who was teased and ridiculed? He has friends -- tons and tons of friends.

In other words, he's a kid.

A happy, healthy, normal kid.

"As parents, it's like the old Army ad: All you want is for them to be all they can be," Larry said. "I was worried Silas would never be all he could.

"It wasn't about weight loss. It was about confidence and liking himself. I'm not sure what would have happened without Todd and Dexter. I just don't know. I just know that they are heroes to us … real heroes." 

Heavyweight fight has Pittman in shape, ready to roll at Texas
By Erich Schlegel for USA TODAY

"I want to show you the e-mails from all the people I help with weight," says the 6-10, 295-pound junior center for the Texas men's basketball team.

Pittman, who has lost 93 pounds since he played his last game three years ago for Rosenberg (Texas) Terry High School, never imagined he would go from being the butt of jokes in the school yard to a role model for dedicating himself to a weight-loss program the way some adolescents fixate on video games.

"People are asking me for help," he says in a soft-spoken manner. "It's a joy."

Pittman, 20, is trying to become a consistent force for Texas on the court, while continuing what will be a lifelong battle with weight. A starter in 15 of 23 games, Pittman averages 8.9 points and 4.4 rebounds while playing 13.3 minutes a game.

At times he fights fatigue on the court, but in spurts can give opponents fits. He has a lot of work ahead to achieve his goals, but his college journey thus far has been a mountain of progress.

When he arrived on campus in June 2006, he couldn't squat to simulate a defensive stance because he was too heavy. Pittman's poor posture spoke volumes of the self-assurance he lacked. It also caused aches and pains.

"It was so bad that it really beat up his body," Texas strength and conditioning coach Todd Wright recalls. "His knees were beat up, his lower back really hurt and his feet hurt."

Back then a lonely Pittman used to find a hiding place in the locker room to change. He was too embarrassed to let his teammates see him without a shirt.

His self-esteem had been decimated in childhood by cruel teasing. Classmates found flaws in him from head to toe. "They always used to say I had big feet," says Pittman, who wears size 18 shoes. "I tried to impress them and wear smaller shoes."

His feet now have deformities. He has large bunions and hammer toes that cause claw-like curling of some toes. "Imagine if my toes were straight," he says. "I'd probably be the best center in college. It would be crazy how I'd be able to move."

'I wanted to cry'

The reality is that Pittman isn't alone with weight problems and the myriad complications they cause. According to MayoClinic.com, two-thirds of adults are overweight, a condition that can lead to hypertension, diabetes and other illnesses.

There are studies showing obesity has increased sharply among all children and adolescent age groups in the last three decades.

"I call them the McDonald's kids," says Bennett Hatten, Pittman's godfather and now retired high school coach.

Hatten and Pittman's father, Johnny, told Pittman that his size, once manageable, would one day be a blessing. After all, Pittman had inherited some of his father's basketball skills. Johnny Pittman was a 7-foot center for Oklahoma State from 1989 to 1991.

"The same kids who poked fun at you, one day they'll be asking you for tickets," Hatten says he told Pittman.

Pittman became a dominant high school player, scoring 1,154 career points in three years on varsity. He towered over others and scored at will. He impressed college recruiters with his shooting touch and massive hands that could grip a basketball "like it was a grapefruit," Hatten says. Yet his weight figured to be a major impediment in college, where he had to keep up with the nation's fastest and most gifted players.

When he visited Texas, coach Rick Barnes, who says he viewed Pittman as a project, introduced him to Wright, a fitness guru who has worked with Barnes' teams for 15 years. Wright offered to design a weight-loss program to keep Pittman healthy and injury free but the strength coach never had been confronted with such a challenge.

"To tell you the truth … I didn't know if he was capable," Wright says. "Losing 80 or 90 pounds, that's a lot of weight."

Pittman gave his commitment to play for Texas and follow the training regimen. "We told him it would change his life if he would buy in," Barnes says.

Pittman was motivated, in part, by skeptics at his high school. "People always said I wasn't going to be able to play at this level," he says.

The day after his last high school game, weighing 388 pounds, he called Wright for weight-loss tips he followed religiously. Pittman rode a stationary bike, walked on his high school's track and ran a little when he wasn't too winded.

When he entered summer school at Texas, he was down to 366. Nevertheless, his body fat was 41.6% and his waist was 54 inches.

He and Wright went to work. Pittman promised due diligence.

"Well, understand, the words are the easy part," Wright says he told Pittman. "This is the hardest thing you're going to ever do in your entire life. He said, 'I'm prepared to do whatever you tell me to help get where I want to go.'"

Pittman followed a strict training schedule. He reported for 5:30 a.m. individual workouts with Wright, went to classes and returned to the weight room for more conditioning. That was followed by study hall and a practice with his teammates.

His conditioning workouts started with slow movements, such as squatting and lunging. He gradually moved to the treadmill, equipped with a heart monitor, and did other aerobic exercises. He also has had routine physicals.

Pittman also started eating healthy foods such as fruit, salad and grilled chicken. He made a pact with Wright, calling the coach before every meal to evaluate menu choices. Soda was out, along with Pittman's favorite foods: pizza and the Ultimate Cheeseburger from Jack In The Box. "He never complained," Barnes says.

The conditioning workouts were a grind. Pittman's exhaustion showed in practices, when he lagged behind teammates.

"Some days I wanted to cry and say, 'Man, I want to give up,' " he says.

Pittman says he was driven by the example set by his mother, Selma Harris. Harris sometimes worked two jobs to support her four children. Pittman's goal is to provide for his mom and send his two younger brothers and sister to college. Of course he hopes to do it with an NBA contract but says he could always find a job with a degree in kinesiology that he is on track to receive next year.

'Sexy Dexy'

With every pound he has shed — he lost about 40 in his first five weeks at Texas — he has gained a dose of confidence that goes beyond sport. In multiple semesters, he has made the Big 12 Commissioner's Honor Roll. This comes after he struggled academically in high school.

Every chance he gets, Pittman studies himself in the mirror, sometimes in awe that his body fat is down to 13.8% and his waist now is 46 inches.

"He's always flexing in the mirror," teammate A.J. Abrams says, grinning at the thought. His teammates now call Pittman "Sexy Dexy."

In November, Abrams helped convince Pittman to take off his shirt on the beach, something Pittman had never done, when Texas played in the Maui Invitational. "I felt really good," Pittman says. "I was like, 'Am I dreaming?' "

His first two years at Texas, Pittman couldn't run sprints with his teammates because pounding the gym floor was too hard on his joints. Instead, he ran on a treadmill. This season he has joined them for every workout.

When his team is at a restaurant, and the menu has nothing healthy to his liking, Pittman will settle on fruit and wait on the bus while the team eats. "I train myself to do it," he says.

Sometimes he reaches out to his mom or friends for moral support.

"The main thing I tell him is to keep the faith and ask God for strength," his mother says.

His will power strikes a chord with his teammates.

"He did probably the hardest thing anyone ever did at UT, and that's lose (nearly) 100 pounds," junior Damion James says.

Pittman slumped in January while struggling with stiffness because as he played more, he conditioned and stretched less. Wright has since reintroduced more stretching and conditioning. Barnes believes if Pittman loses another 20 pounds next summer in yet another test of his fortitude, he could show off NBA-caliber skills.

Meantime, e-mails are pouring in from all over Texas from admirers who have read or heard about his weight loss. He developed a special bond with a 13-year-old Austin resident, Silas Connolly, who has struggled with weight. Connolly's father, Larry, e-mailed Wright and Pittman in despair over how to help his son.

Pittman met with Silas privately. Not long after, Silas began playing basketball. Pittman's No. 34 is monogrammed on the teen's gym shoes. "He can relate to Dexter," the teen's father says. "Dexter's a hero to us."

Pittman isn't shy about giving advice. "It's not hard to speak," he says. "I've got confidence now." 




To help get into shape, Pittman would attend early morning workouts starting his day. But the grinding schedule had the junior center exhausted by the time practice rolled around. "Some days I wanted to cry and say, 'Man, I want to give up,' " he says.