Winning Losing

He emerged slowly, without a sound.  First his hair, smoothly through the water... next his forehead, then his ears and finally his eyes and nose.  He kept his lips below the water line and, moving gently so as to not cause a ripple, he scanned the horizon.  His prey was just 20 feet away... anxious, splashing, nervously looking ahead then back over his shoulder.  He lifted the gun just as quietly above the water's surface, took careful aim and fired.  The missile struck directly above his victim's fourth rib on the left side.  It was a fatal blow.

Smack!  Sonny's side immediately turned bright red as the inner tube band hit.  He knew he was a goner then and there.  He hit the water with an open hand, sending a spray toward his opponent and shouted; "*Motherfucker! You snuck up on me again!"
*Neither quite knew what the word meant then... just that is was a way adults expressed shock or something...

He stood up then, six years old, grinning while quietly reloading his rubber gun just in case Sonny suddenly decided he wasn't dead after all.

Rubber gun - much like they used to make them back in the day. 

That was how the game was played in the shallow North Dakota sloughs among the cattails.  One would 'shoot' the other and a decision would be made as to whether the shot was fatal.  There would of course, very often be arguments on either side.  It was played that way in the corn fields and yards too.

Thinking.  Thinking of ways to win. He loved to compete no matter where, no matter when.

***

"Eleven ball, corner pocket."  His much older opponent attempted a fairly difficult bank shot in an effort to carry out his call.  Cue stick struck cue ball and it sent the eleven ball on its mission. The eleven appeared straight in as it came off the rail at an angle. Then as it reached the corner it caught the rail ever so slightly and caromed across the lip of the pocket, coming to rest just a quarter inch away.

He was sixteen years old, a Junior in high school and "majoring" in billiards.  He was  five balls down in the game and five bucks down on the match.  He picked up the house cue, caught his rhythm, set his smooth stroke and practiced eye then went to work. Six shots later, the eight ball was in the pocket and his opponent was out a sawbuck on the double down bet.

"Motherfucker!  Where did you learn to run off the table like that?"

He grinned and pocketed the sawbuck.  "It felt good that run.  Just found the sweet spot I guess..."

God he loved it.  Stepping into competition, adrenalin putting all his senses in high gear.

***

Years later.... Lajes Field, the Azores, Portugal.  Air Force Base fast pitch softball championship game.  It was 1-1 in extra innings. Opposing team had a runner on third.  He was 19 years old, in right field, playing ball on a gorgeous night in the islands.  He was pumped... every time he saw his pitcher go into his windmill wind up he stopped breathing and every fiber of his body went into full alert.  

All of a sudden the right-handed batter hit a short opposite field line drive right at him.  He was instantly running at full speed in an attempt to intercept the ball before it hit.  It was literally at his feet and he had both hands down near his shoelaces... the ball hit his bare left hand and slid to the ground.  The runner scored.  Game over.  Potential hero to actual zero in a heartbeat.

He would come back though.  That's the thing about loving to compete.  Losing most often just deepens your resolve to win.  "Next time, Motherfucker!"