I am sure that this topic has probably been done before in different variations, but not in a while to my knowledge. As stolen from the fantastic movie "Van Wilder," some people are just waiting for that "dare-to-be-great" situation: Focus: Describe a time when you had a dare-to-be-great situation and took full advantage of the situation. To finish out my bachelor's degree, I enrolled in a study abroad program in Italy. Now up to this point, from high school to senior year in college I went from a 6'1", 185 lb. football-baseball player to a 260 lb. piece of shit. Didn't work out, didn't eat right, smoked like a chimney, and drank consistently. After being in mf'ing Rome, I realized that I would not see anyone that I know from home for 6 weeks. I started to eat healthier, walk more, did pushups at night, and came back to be picked up by my dad and sister 30 lbs. lighter. I would eventually lose more weight throughout the next year to get back to my "fighting weight," but I definitely would consider that a situation where I answered the "dare-to-be-great" call. Anti-Focus Describe a time when you had a dare-to-be-great situation and failed miserably. I once went on a 10-day long vacation, didn't smoke the entire time (because her parents wouldn't have appreciated it) and still started smoking after I got back. Dumbass. Should have just stopped after getting all of the nicotine out of my system.
This ought to be interesting. How have you performed in the clutch? I try to avoid situations where I have to act in the clutch. I'm risk-averse naturally. Speeches are the most common occurrence. I once made a billionaire laugh and a woman cry in the same speech, so that was a win. My anti-greatness moment was in managing a project I've been working on for years. When I was doing most of the work myself, things went great. Then I tried to build community involvement and tried to arrange a win-win situation and give up some control. The project went slowly to shit over the next two years. I'm trying to take it back again, but I wasted a lot...a LOT of time.
There have been four times in my life where I actually performed in clutch situations. They were clutch only because they meant something to me. So if they seem inconsequential to you, you're probably right, but for whatever reason, they were important to me at the time. The first, I wrote about on my blog: The second time was about 3 years later, during a Little League playoff. I am currently writing about it on my blog, but the basic gist of it was my team was down one in the bottom of the sixth. I came up to the plate, and to be fair, I wasn't that great of a hitter. For some reason, it was important to me that I come through. And I did, I hit a line drive into left field, we won the game, and went on to our league's World Series. I am staring at the game ball I received from that game at this very moment, 26 years later. The third time was really odd. One of my favorite musicians to collaborate with was gay. He ended up putting together a band that 1/2 gay, 1/2 straight. We were actually a really good band. The bass player was one of the best PR guys I've ever known, and somehow, he got us on the bill at Outfest, which was a gay pride festival (I can't remember what the name was changed to, but it still is an ongoing thing - and by the way, if you're gay, consider Philly, it is one of the most gay friendly cities I've ever seen). For the festival, they closed down part of Locust Street and had a big stage in the middle of the street. Anyway, Ed Rendell, the Mayor of Philly at that time, comes on stage. He turns around and does that Letterman thing where he wants me to crash the drums. So I do. It was fucking awesome. I then take a look at the crowd, and let me tell, subsequent tallies put the crowd at 12,000+, but it looked like a million to me from behind the drum kit. I played the best gig of my life. It was fucking fantastic. The last time I was clutch was on my Father's birthday, December 8. He had been suffering from cancer for a long time and he had been on a lot of painkillers. On his birthday, he said to me: "Son, am I dying?" I just sat there and stared. The hospice workers apparently hadn't told him how bad things were for him. I don't know how, but I found the courage to say: "Yes, dad, you are dying. You have about a week to live." Toughest clutch moment of my life. And I'm glad I did it.
I was too afraid of contact and to0 physically weak to play football in high school, lacked the athleticism to play basketball, was too heterosexual to play soccer, and wanted nothing to do with lacrosse. So I ran cross-country. Every race was death, but because your ability as a runner was directly tied to your ability to withstand self-inflicted pain, and I'm basically a narcissist and sadist (except to myself) when it comes to that, it worked out quite well. - Great: One of my first races, sophomore year. Previously I had been doing 7:30ish miles (race was 3-ish miles) freshman year but my ability to judge my pace was still terrible at that time. I knew I could do better, as I was long and lanky and enjoyed seeing how much pain I could tolerate, but I just couldn't find a way to up the tempo. Well, that particular race was on an extremely rough side of town (this was in high school, mind you, and most all of the runners for the host school already had tattoos), and I knew the quicker I finished the race the quicker I could get the hell out of dodge. So I decided to implement a new strategy: I picked some of the fastest varsity guys on our team (we all ran together that race), and kept pace with them. At the first mile mark my coach was on the sidelines shouting out times, she saw me, "Sam, 5:30... wait, SAM?!? Slow the FUCK DOWN!" From there, I thought for a bit, told myself I was sorry for what I was about to do, and ran like I stole something. Finished in a little under 19 minutes. I went from a mid-pack JV runner to a end-of-line varsity runner a few weeks later after I showed it wasn't a fluke performance. - Dared, and ultimately failed: Training run, pre-season for senior year. I had been training for a marathon that summer because, like I said, I enjoy inflicting pain on myself. So a mile or so into the training run, I felt a pop in my lower back. Collapsed on the ground in agony. Could barely move foreword. Decided the most intelligent and macho decision was to run the remaining mile and a half back to campus. I had "Chariots of Fire" going through my head. A week later, discovered I broke my back, and that my decision to run like a macho dick back to campus was what ultimately made it about 100 times worse. I still have back problems five years later, and my running career was permanently over. I'd consider this a Great Moment, from another sober thread: Spoiler And the requisite hospital crap, though abbreviated: Spoiler - Dared but ultimately failed: When you're a kid facing almost-certain death, the natural tendency is to cry and shit. Well, everyone around me was crying, so I decided to hide my emotions and be the support for everyone else. This was 100% the best decision at the time, and at the time it was my most proud Great moment to date. It's also the reason I'm still in counseling three years later. That backfired. - Great: Literally could not walk post-surgery. Legs wouldn't move, needed physical therapy, all that shit. Well, day after surgery, I said fuck that, I'm a runner, and I pushed myself off my bed. Where I immediately collapsed into a chair when my knees buckles. Again, said fuck that, and a few days later I climbed two flights of stairs. There was no logical reason to keep me in the hospital at that point. - Great: I'm a Texan, and a man of my word. I told my boss before all the surgery crap happened that I'd be at her wedding. I promised her. Her wedding was also a month to the day after my surgery. I went off pain killers completely, and suffered unaided through some of the worse migraines imaginable, in order to drive myself to her wedding. If I promise something, I'm fucking gonna do it. - Great/retarded: Two weeks later, and still in critical condition, I went against doctor's orders and returned to work. I'd remain in critical condition for another six weeks, and if I so much caught even a cold or ran a fever, I was told it'd be life-threatening. The fact that I worked in a school did not make my doctors any more happy. No one knew of my condition except the administration, and the day I went out of critical condition we had a staff meeting. I decided to take the opportunity to tell everyone the condition I was in and thank them for their unknowing support... yeah, we rarely had anyone call in sick after that.
It's sad and maybe telling that I can't think of anything in my recent history but, meh. I remember in 5th grade I took my 13 hour two day hunter's safety course to get my Ohio Hunting license. I remember feeling really shitty after the first day because I didn't think I was going to pass since I hadn't had my dad take the class with me as he did with my older brother a few years before. The actual test was really easy and one of the old timers putting it on came by and asked if I had any questions. I said I didn't but he took out a piece of paper with holes punched in it that corresponded to the correct answers and gave me a few freebees. Anyway the part of the story that I stepped up for was the shooting competition at the end of the day. It consisted of air pistols and air rifles. The prize for winning either event was a NRA pin celebrating 125 years of existence. I miffed the air pistol one but was determined to win the rifle round. They were just Daisy's with shitty scopes on them but I put 10 out of 10 dead bulls eye. I remember that the guy watching me kept asking how I was shooting and I'd say, "putting holes in holes," my grandpa's favorite expression when shooting a tac driver. My mom had arrived to watch and saw how ecstatic I was when I gave my target to be judged. The old guy, the same as before, saw it too and joshed me by deliberately passing mine over very quickly while judging. He had a good laugh and gave me the pin. The next day my mom called my school's principal and had him come to my class to announce my victory. My teacher nicked named me "sharp shooter", a name that stuck the rest of the year. I still have the pin on display at my house. Also, a story that doesn't really count in my mind but at that moment it was dead on focus. I wrestled B team my eighth grade year. It was the first, and only, organized school sport I played. I forget my record going into our last match but there were only 3 guys including my self in my weight class that day. I only needed to win twice, so I thought. The match went really well for my school and I won my first match handily. The second match was against someone more my skill range, poor to average. I remember it being a drag out match but I was determined to beat the fucking kid no matter what. At one point my friend yelled from the sideline to head and arm throw the kid. I then preformed the purdiest and most satisfying wrestling move of my entire career. I jutted my hip out as I twisted and the kid bounced off it and flew over with ease. I could feel him get the wind knocked out of him as we landed. I pinned him right after. I remember the physical exhaustion was over powering but I was fucking king of the world. I had locked up the first place medal... Then about ten minutes later a forth guy showed up and they let him compete, fucking B team everyone gets a chance Bullshit. The match didn't go well. My friend yelled for a head and arm throw again only this time I whiffed the twist and wound up with my back to him, he subsequently threw my ass to the mat. I lost. Even though this was my third match to his second he was given first place. I remember giving the team mom taking pictures of our medals the bird when she complemented my second place medal. Fuck.
I love those clutch moments. I think it's an opportunity to see what you're really made of, it's a moment when all the bullshit is stripped away. I perform at my best when my back's against the wall and stakes are high. A few clutch moments: - Placing my first IV. I set it perfectly, and then messed up the next five. - The first time I encountered an emergency after becoming an EMT. Friend spilled boiling water all over herself, there wasn't much for me to do but find a cold compress and calculate BSA burns. But, it was gratifying to instantly snap to action and suddenly recall every textbook passage pertinent to the situation. More of a personal accomplishment than a real example. - A lot of moments when I was rock climbing and found myself in a really shitty situation, with no other option than to sack up and finish the climb. Anti-clutch moment: I was going skydiving for the first time and felt fairly calm about it as the plane made its ascent. Door opens and suddenly I am standing at the edge staring out 10K feet about the ground. Instructor yells for me to jump, and my brain instructs my body to shift my weight forward—instead, I stood frozen and totally unable to move. It was the first and only time I've frozen up, which was a fascinating experience that I've continued to reflect on.
This is my dare-to-be-great story: It was the day two young boys, maybe 15, pulled a knife on my friends and asked for their money. We were seniors in high school. Every Friday, we congregated at the same spot before splitting off in 5 directions, each carpool heading to a park for some football or basketball, depending on the season. I walked with Mike to his car before continuing to my own. Leaving him behind, and now alone, I took a short-cut to my car, which I knew I would cause me to run into Josh and his carpool at the next corner. I got to the corner, looked around the next street, expecting to see Josh and co. The were still 100 yards away. I decided to wait, despite being just a half block from both our cars. I stared at my shoes, drank my 7-up and spaced out. Minutes passed by. More than enough time. I looked down the sidewalk again. Still 50 yards away, they talked to two boys I didn't know. For a full second, I thought nothing of it. After that second, I looked again. Something is wrong. It took only another moment to recognize what I'd experienced first hand at this school too many times before; they're being mugged. I took off my backpack and placed my soda on the ground, careful not to spill. (I take far too much care of innocuous objects in times of peril. It's a running theme in my life.) John was walking towards me, leaving our friends behind. "Don't go over there," he tells me. I ignore him for the time being but make a mental note to never trust John with anything ever again. As I run, I asses the situation. Sean has his wallet out and shows one boy that it is empty of cash. Sean learned never to carry more than a dollar on him after we were robbed together our freshman year. Ryan has his hands in the air like a movie character at gun point. The second boy is searching through Ryan's sports bag that is still hanging across his belly. That is where I head. I step in between Ryan and the second boy. I turn my back on Ryan and address the boys. But they are startled and address me first. "This ain't your business. You gotta leave." I am a picture of calm. I speak slowly and clearly. "These are my friends. I'm not going anywhere." The boys bounce in place and speak a mile a minute. They tell me to leave every way they know how. My answer is the same every time. My eyes follow a group of three girls from my class. They walk around us on the sidewalk but are never out of arms-length of our attackers. This is our high school. This is our town. Girls pass by while boys get mugged. I make eye contact. They keep walking. Silence breaks the repetitive conversation. My eyes scan the one then the other. They're going to hit me. The fist comes from my left. It lands square on my jaw. A jaw that had received several harsh blows over the years. When it's over, it's going to hurt. A lot. For now, I feel nothing. I don't flinch. I raise my hands to shoulder height and stretch them wide in a gesture of peace. "I'm not going to fight you." The silence returns. The boys continue to bounce like boxers in a ring. The first boy looks at the second. "Let's go." They turn. They run. They jump over my backpack at the corner and are gone. I follow them, walking. Around the corner, I see them. They walk too. They don't look back. My friends scatter briefly. I rally them, reassure them. Sean catches a ride with me. Ryan goes with Josh. John is in the wind. In the car, Sean relays the story from the beginning. They were followed for a couple hundred yards. The boys opened with the typical ploy, "Can I borrow I dollar?" Usually ignoring such a question will suffice. The boys would not be ignored and when Josh yelled at them to leave, they pulled out a knife. That is when I saw them, but the knife, I never noticed. I'm glad I didn't. Maybe I would have reacted differently. We got to the park where the rest of the crew were getting impatient. "We got mugged." "You got mugged?" "Really?" "No way." "Whatever, guys. Let's just play." "Yeah. C'mon, let's play." So, we played. That's our high school. That's our town. You get used to it.
Dude, that's from "Say Anything". Focus: Describe a time when you had a dare-to-be-great situation and took full advantage of the situation. I'm 2 1/2 years into a 5 year Physician Assistant Master's program. It's been tough on us in every possible way (time, commute, financially, you name it), it's been a huge sacrifice for my wife and kids, but I'm going full bore at it because it will make all our lives so much easier when I'm done.
High school was frustrating for me. I was a die-hard hockey player, and our school had the best hockey program in the city. I also was about 5" shorter than most guys at the school, so playing meant being mutilated. I went to wrestling (a sport where you only face guys your own size) and won the city gold medal for my weight division in my last year. I still love both sports, but have been forbidden to play any contact sports because of my head injury. FUCK. Please don't ever use those words together in the same sentence again or I will rape your corpse. Thank you very much.
I wrestled in high school. During my sophomore year, we were at one of the annual tournaments my team attended. To that point, I was a very mediocre wrestler. I didn't have any big wins or that great of a duals record. However, I did find myself in the finals of this tournament. Wrestling tournaments usually have at least 5-6 mats going during the early rounds, but everything is cleared and one mat is placed in the center of the gym for the finals. The gym will be packed with parents, friends, and teammates. To a fifteen-year-old kid, that's a pretty exciting atmosphere. The kid I was wrestling in the finals pretty much breezed through the earlier rounds, pinning everyone in the first period. I knew I had my hands full, and had an almost toxic level of adrenaline pumping through my veins. The whistle blew, and the battle commenced. It was the kind of match that had everyone in the gym on their feet. But at the end of the second period, I found myself down by a point. I had deferred my decision at the end of the first period, and my coach told me to take bottom. For the next minute and forty-five seconds, I did everything I could to get away. Stand-up, sit-out, switch, stand-up, switch, stand-up... but none of it mattered. The motherfucker was stuck to me like glue. The situation did not look good. I was gassed, completely wasted physically. The only thing left was pure will. With fifteen seconds left, we went out of bounds and had to be restarted. Stand-up, switch, sit-out... 10 seconds... stand-up, stand-up, granby... 5 seconds... the crowd is at the crescendo... SWITCH!!! The move is executed to perfection, giving me the two points I needed to win at the buzzer. My coach rips his suit coat off and throws it in the air. The crowd is pure chaos. My hand is raised as the winner. I am the champion. That was the moment that I learned what it meant to truly dig deep inside one's self for the will to finish. Note: For those that aren't familiar, a stand-up, switch, sit-out, etc. are all defensive (bottom) techniques used to get a reversal or escape.
As I recently mentioned in a post, I'm dropping out of of school (education program) to play in a band. My friend is an unusually talented guitarist/singer/songwriter, and he wants me to be his bass player. With or without me, he's going to get started this summer (he's in music school right now). Now, the problem is, I've only been playing bass for 3 months, so it seems a little crazy for me to do this. Basically I was thinking I would finish this year while trying to improve as much as possible on the bass, and then see if I'm at the level I need to be in order to justify dropping out. But then I thought fuck that. I'm either going to do this or I'm not. Although I'm showing some pretty decent natural talent, I still have a fuck load of work ahead of me, and I'm just not able to play as much as I need to while going to school full time. So I'm dropping out after this semester to move down to Nelson, where my friend is, to play as much music as humanly possible with him and his music school friends. So now I either work my ass off and make a go of this, or I fail and go back to school with my tail between my legs. I guess time will tell...
My clutch moment came when my abusive ex fiance decided that hitting me wasn't good enough anymore, he wanted to smack my 3 year old around too. Breaking his nose was the perfect distraction under which to vacate the premises. I don't think I've ever moved that fast before or since.
About two years ago I went to a stop light party with some work friends. If you don't know what that is, it's a friend you only have because you spend so much time at work together and because you can't get friends any other way. Also, a stop light party is where you wear red, green or yellow based on relationship status. Red is taken, green is available, and yellow is "it's complicated" (aka: willing to cheat). Basically, the point of the party is for single people to hook up, and their non-single friends to not be harassed. Two of the girls I'm with are pretty good looking, and should have been able to manage as decent wingmen in a clutch. I know girls like to all think they're great wingmen, but most are actually pretty bad because they've never had to pick up someone before. But still, an attractive girl with a decent sense of what's going on can be useful. A couple hours and many drinks in, I'm talking to a pretty good looking girl and we're hitting it off. Then, two really tall, extremely good looking foreign guys decide to join our conversation. They obviously had a game plan. One of them was wearing red, and immediately went to work distracting me while his buddy flirted with the girl. Things are going down hill quick, and while I had pretty decent game at the time, I know when I'm outmatched. I start looking around for either of the girls. Adding a new person to the group could easily disrupt things and give me a better chance at recovering. And then I spot them. They are both standing in a corner...talking to each other. They were both single and at a party where the point is to meet someone with compatible genitalia and they weren't even socializing with new people, nor were they paying enough attention to see that I was in serious need to backup. Chicks suck as wingmen. Not content to just give up, I got a brilliant idea for how I could regain control of the situation. I picked the girl up. Literally. I'm a pretty averaged size guy, and my ability to haul things is not particularly great, but yet I lifted her up and carried her about 10-15 feet away (pretty far in small, crowded bar space). Finally, back to some quality one-on-one time. I don't know if the other guy ended up talking to her again later, but he didn't interrupt our conversation. Also, one time I blocked two go-ahead field goals against Tennessee in the same game, one of which was on the last play and would have spoiled an undefeated season.
I was hiking a pedestrian route this summer up Mt. Sherman, one of the easiest 14,000-foot peaks in Colorado. Children, dogs, inexperienced tourists, etc. -- they swarm this trail in a never-ending conga line, and most are successful in reaching the summit. The last few hundred feet, however, consists of a narrow ridge that is hopelessly exposed to the elements. On this particular day, the winds on the lower route were gusting up to 30 miles per hour. That made the winds on the ridge at least 40+ mph sustained, with gusts as high as 60. The ridge is narrow, like I said, but it's wide enough that it's not too scary. There's maybe 10 feet to work with, and if you stay in the middle, there isn't really any danger. Unless you're getting blown backward, forward and side-to-side by nearly hurricane-force winds. I made it to the top, along with dozens of other people, with little trouble. The mother and her approximately 8-year-old child I passed on the ridge on the way down weren't so lucky. The girl was a sobbing mess, terrified out of her wits, hunkered behind a rock and whimpering. The mother was trying to coax her on. "We're almost there, honey!" Now I, at 180 pounds, had struggled with the wind. This little girl was in danger of becoming a human kite. On either side of the ridge were drops of several hundred feet. On any other day, maybe, but this little girl had no business being up on that mountain. All the other parents I'd seen on the trail had turned their kids around long ago. I told the mother this, which required laying flat on the ground and literally screaming at point blank range over the howling wind. She asked if I thought it was safe for her daughter to continue, and I told her flatly, "No." She considered this, and then said her girl had been up several other high mountains and could handle it. We argued for a bit (Mt. Sherman is very easy to get to and would be there another day), but she wasn't budging. Finally I just looked at the girl and asked her if she wanted to go down. She nodded. So I picked her up and carried her a few hundred feet until she was off the ridge. She was literally shaking with fear, and when I tried to put her down she wouldn't stop hugging me. The mom wasn't happy, but she turned around and took her daughter home. Alive.
There are a few swimming related moments, but this one is particularly timely. It was a summer league swim meet and I was about 14. The other team at the meet was from a higher division and was eating our lunch. In particular, there was a kid in my age group who had won all his events with ease. He would later go on to set a national high school record in the 500 free and be a 2 time ACC swimmer of the year. The last race of my night comes up, the 200 free relay, and we're both the anchor leg for our teams. At this point the outcome of the meet is a foregone conclusion and the only thing left to swim for is pride. My teammates somehow manage to give me a bodylength and a half lead going into my leg, but I'm pretty sure it won't be enough. I hit the water and I'm going as hard as I can, determined to at least make this kid work for his victory. I go into my flip turn and notice that I'm still ahead, and not only that, this motherfucker is dogging it on purpose so he can pass me on the last lap and feel like a bad ass. To hell with that. I kick it into a gear I didn't know I had, running on sheer determination and spite. He's working now, sensing that I'm not quite the scrub he took me for. If it had been a longer race he would have caught me, but he ran out of room that day. I slam into the wall just ahead of him and raise my head out of the water to the cheers of my teammates and everyone who had stood there and watched this team treat us like red-headed stepchildren all night. The icing on the cake was getting to hear his coach and father both lay into him for the next 10-15 minutes about the shit he just pulled. Believe it or not, it was this guy right here. It sounds like he eventually pulled his head out of his ass and turned into a decent human being, but for the few years we swam against each other he was always a colossal douche.
Enjoying the moments...and I am aware that the phrase was originated in "Say Anything," but was just having fun with it since it is also mentioned near the end of Van Wilder (which I think is a funny movie, but not exactly fantastic). Sarcasm doesn't exactly translate through text... Anyway, I did also have a humorous dare-to-be-great situation in high school: My senior year of baseball, my team suprises a lot of people and not only makes it into the playoffs, but does suprisingly well. We end up making it to the second round against a small framed lefthander who is throwing bullets complemented by a devastating curve. I get up the first two times and strike out twice, looking like I've never faced live pitching before in my life (even though at the time I had the highest batting average on the team). So we are in the top of the 6th inning, tied at 2s, and the guy in front of me takes a walk. I take a look at my coach on the third base line for the signals: *indicator* hit-and-run, bunt What the f*ck?!? So the first pitch comes in well outside and I watch the guy at first base. If he takes off, the sign was a bunt, if he hesitates, a hit-and-run. He doesn't move. So I look at the coach again, and he gives me the same damn signals: *indicator* hit-and-run, bunt So I am getting pretty frustrated at this point in time. The pitcher is making me look ridiculous, no one on my team is hitting, and the damn coach is giving me two different signals. As the pitcher is winding up, I think to myself, f*ck it: he signaled hit-and-run first. Two run homer to left center to put us up 4-2. Now as I am rounding third base, my coach mutters under his breath as I run by, "Nice bunt, stlcardinals1982" We end up holding on to win the game by the same score. Now granted, it wasn't the championship game, but still a great moment because seriously, I hated that coach.
I was in a 45 minute qualifying session in Portland. Our car had an electrical problem, and the dash shorted out. As a result, I had no idea what the RPM or speed or any pressures/temps were, no in-car timing, and no radio. To top it all off, it was just starting to rain. Came into the pits, kind of unhinged, and worried about the fact that everything was going to shit. I talked to the team owner, and he said, "well, we don't have time to fix the dash, and we don't have time make the swap to intermediates or wets and get them up to temp. Just go and drive the fucking car already." (He also made mention of knocking the sand out of my vagina, but that part's a little fuzzy). I had time to put in 2 hard, fast laps, and had no idea what the times were, just put my head down, concentrated, and drove as well as I could. End result was I beat my personal best time, on a damp track, by 3 seconds, and got us the pole. Crazy.
Generally, I strive to be the best. I have a lot of natural talent in a lot of areas, but I'm also so lazy its Biblical. So while I'm never the last guy picked for the basketball team (or whatever) , I simply don't have the drive to become a serious competitor. The one exception to this, which simultaneously thrills and terrifies me, is things that involve weapons or violence. The first time I ever went to a trap shooting range, having never fired, loaded, or held a shotgun before, I was shooting 23 out of 25 targets every round. There were world class shooters at this gun club, and I rendered them speechless. I've seen dozens of people have their first day on the range, and never seen anyone do better than 10 out of 25. So I'm a surgeon with a shotgun... great? But it doesn't end there. I went to King Richard's fair a few weeks back (who knew a beer was 10 bucks in merry old England?) and they had all these Ye Olde weapon ranges, archery, knives, throwing axes... and I was gnawing on a juicy and delicious turkey leg... this is life as it was meant to be. But I go to each and every one of these ranges, having NEVER fired a bow, thrown a knife or axe before in my life... and hit bullseye's on the first and every subsequent try after. Guys were embarrassing themselves out there and I was landing 3 axes within about a 6 inch spread. So if you see me with a weapon, run fast cause otherwise your ass is grass. I'm not too bad in a regular old fistfight either, but I really don't take any pleasure in it. The last one I got into ended with the other guy pretty much demolished, me on an 8 hour adrenaline rush that I didn't find very fun, and now the world's most awkward roommate situation. He picked the fight, so I have no remorse about what happened, but that is actually a time where I wish I hadn't risen to the challenge and just walked away.
So many wrestling/grappling related moments... Any time a really muscular dude has come into the gym and all 5'5 145 lbs of me choke him the fuck out, I'm on cloud nine. It's the most masculine high I've ever experienced. Only days later do I realize that I'm still short and he's still much more heavily muscled, which equates to more sex for him. But fuck it. I still kicked his ass. On a mat. With rules. And no fists. Yeah.