Why It's Pat Croce's World

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What I found most noteworthy about Croce's performance in Nashville was less the content than the style. Throughout, he maintained the same high-voltage delivery and hyperkinetic flourishes with which he had begun. The message was standard fare as speeches by motivational gurus go. As in his book I Feel Great and You Will Too!, published two years ago, Croce extolled the virtues of a can-do attitude and never-say-die perseverance. Heed my example, Croce said in effect, as he drew on experiences from his life to illustrate how he had prevailed against long odds time and again. "You have the power, each and every one of you," Croce told the audience.

Making Torture Fun

Above all, Croce would have the world believe that he has the power. Make that powers. Energetic, driven, detail oriented, competitive -- Croce certainly possesses the stereotypical qualities of a successful entrepreneur, as his friends will point out over and over. "He's probably off the scale when it comes to his passion for winning," says Joe Masters, a friend of Croce's since high school and the best man at his wedding.

However, that supernova of personal power appears to run amok in ways that, by all rights, ought to hurt Croce as a business leader. That's the side of Croce that his friends have in mind when they joke that they drink only decaf when he's around and say that he's basically just a big, zany kid abounding with adolescent-like energy.

When he was a teenager, Croce had a yen for conferring nicknames on his friends. Masters became Bator, a creative extension of his last name. Others in Croce's circle were dubbed Jakester, Meat, and Hole. Masters recalls Croce as a "skinny little kid" in high school who played football tenaciously and was the first one to leap into a fight against a bully. Even then, Croce had a knack for organizing others. "It was always, like, 'We're gonna do this,' " Masters recounts. " 'We don't have Eagles tickets, but we're gonna go anyway, and we're gonna get in.' And we'd sneak in."

After stints as a physical therapist for hospitals in the Philadelphia area, Croce founded SPT in 1984, wheedling a local banker into lending him the $40,000 he needed to finance the start-up. It was part of a breakaway movement in physical therapy, and Croce was one of the boldest mavericks. His emphasis was not simply on treating injuries but on marketing sports-training services to fitness-minded Americans. Until then, physical therapists had worn white lab coats bearing the profession's official emblem on a patch on the pocket. Croce outfitted his employees in black warm-ups. "Physical therapists didn't knock on doctors' doors and ask them to send them business. Pat did," explains Masters, who worked for Croce at SPT and at the 76ers, where he is director of fan relations.

Croce had an eye for collecting friends who could put SPT on the map. A chance meeting in 1985 with Pierre Robert, a deejay on popular WMMR Radio, prompted Croce to invite Robert to work out every morning at SPT -- gratis. "He was taking it upon himself to find people who had extra baggage and offer them the opportunity," Robert recalls.

With Croce presiding, the workout sessions were "torture at the highest level possible," Robert says. If you didn't hit your weight, Croce would hover over you as you stood on the scales. "He would tell you what to do," Robert says, "and his henchmen would see that you did it." Robert's goal was to snap off 30 push-ups in a row. One day, when he stalled at 18 or 19, Croce noticed. "He starts yelling from across the room," Robert continues, "and comes running over and kicks me in the stomach. I collapsed on the floor. I was so mad, I started to take a shot at him." But Croce just laughed, and Robert couldn't resist joining in. Croce had a saving grace. He meted out the same torture to everyone, regardless of standing. When one bank executive swelled to more than 215 pounds and lied about it, Croce handcuffed him to a stationary bicycle.

A motley crew of celebrated athletes was soon working out at SPT. One morning six-foot-seven, 200-pound Julius Erving, then the 76ers' star forward, failed to show up for his 7 a.m. session. Croce telephoned Dr. J, as Erving was known. His wife, Turquoise, answered and told Croce that her husband was asleep, thank you. "He goes, 'Get Dr. J up right now,' " Robert recalls. "And she wakes him up. And Pat says, 'It's not a question. Are you going to make it? If you're not coming in now, I'm going over there to drag you here.' And Dr. J came in."

Before long, Robert was on WMMR offering early-morning physical-fitness tips he'd picked up from Croce -- a PR bonanza for SPT. Looking back on those days, Robert sounds wistful, even deeply grateful to Croce. "He helped me more than I could have helped him," Robert says.

Besides getting into shape, Robert got a front-row seat to witness the effects of what he describes as Croce's "unstoppable" drive to help people reach their goals. "People loved it," he says. "You feel pumped up when you're around him. What I've said is, 'Couldn't I get blood from him and bottle it and take an injection and feel wild and crazy and kooky like him every time I did?' "

People who subjected themselves to Croce's fitness regimen were awarded T-shirts emblazoned with bravado: "I Survived Pat Croce." Even the torture he made fun.

A Listener's Ear

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