Continued from yesterday.

Circa 1984: My psycho friend and I managed to talk our junior-year English teacher into letting us both read and report on the novelized version of The Empire Strikes Back. The gimmick she suggested (since we both, of course, had seen the movie just a few years earlier) would be for us to do our reports as a competition. We should both prepare a list of questions to ask the other one, and after our “reports,” the class would vote for who won.

Now remember, all you kiddies who’ve grown up in the age of VCRs, laser disk players, DVD players, and movies on demand: such devices were not common in the early 80s. And even if someone we knew had one, ESB was not released for viewing for several years after it was in theaters. And even after it was released, it was like searching for the Holy Grail to find any of the Star Wars movies on the movie rental shelf (read: convenience store shelf).

So, understand that our book reports would have to honestly come from reading the book — it had been 4 years since we saw the movie, only 2 or 3 times.

I read the book a couple times and made many notes about the plot, people, places, and things. I made a list of a dozen questions I thought could stump psycho friend in our competition. He and I didn’t talk about the book or movie with each other for a couple weeks. Then the date of the book reports came.

He and I stood at two podiums at the front of the classroom. We both had note cards and memories in order for the bout. Although my opponent considered me a friend (even though he had threatened me with a knife a couple years earlier), I considered him a jackhole that I wanted to nail to the wall with tough questions.

How long after Star Wars was The Empire Strikes Back set? [Everyone still knew the first movie as just “Star Wars.”]

Who was the general leading the AT-AT walker force invading Hoth?

What is standard Imperial procedure before jumping to hyperspace?

What kind of creature attacked Luke on Hoth?

What is the name of Darth Vader’s flag ship star destroyer?

Name three of the bounty hunters Darth Vader was talking to on his ship? [One name is a gimme.]

What is carbonite usually used for?

What substance did Cloud City mine?

What were C3PO’s first words after Chewbacca turned him back on after finding him in the junk pile?

That last one was directed at me. I answered, “Stormtroopers? Oh no!”

Unfortunately, that wasn’t exactly right. I missed a couple of inconsequential words, but my psycho opponent played up the error very well. “Ooooh, nope, that’s not right. It was . . . .” I still can’t remember what the exact words were — and I just saw the movie again with Calfgrit8 two weeks ago. (I now have a mental block about that scene, C3PO’s lines now just sound like warbled gibberish every time I see the movie.)

That was the only question between us that either of us failed to answer exactly right. We both had that story nigh perfectly memorized, and it greatly annoyed me that he asked me to exactly quote a line from the book. It’s one thing to know a character name, a plot element, and such, but really, he asked me to exactly quote a single, unimportant line.

After our competition, the class voted for who won. Because only one question was missed, by me, my psycho friend was the victor.

I was unhappy.

My opponent managed to mention that victory every once in a while for the next year. He found ways to work it into completely unrelated conversations. If he had been a true friend (one who doesn’t chase you around the kitchen table with a butcher knife), I would have taken it all as fun ribbing. But since I had a real dislike for him by that time, every mention of my loss at his hands rankled me to no end.

Since then, I’ve tended to avoid competition with people I dislike. Even with things I’m sure I could win over them, it’s just not worth the potential of having to lose against someone who would love to rub in my face. So if you know me, and I’m willing to be competitive with you, you know I like you.

Bullgrit

Continued from yesterday.

Circa 1984: There was one guy in my high school class with whom I had a little unannounced competition going. (I had a personal competition with him, but I don’t think he knew I did or cared if I did.) Maybe a reason for the competition was that he was also an aspiring writer. He was smart and articulate, and for some reason I wanted him to think of me as smart and articulate.

One time he and I were in the library on a computer — an Apple IIe, with a green text monitor, pre-Internet — playing a trivia game. The game would show a question and we had to press our assigned key on the keyboard (on the same keyboard, as we sat next to each other in front of the monitor). Our score was tied when the program showed the final question: “What was the largest dinosaur?”

I knew the answer to this question: Brontosaurus. (Yes, I know it’s more correctly Apatasaurus, but at the time it was best known as Brontosaurus.) Unfortunately my competitor hit his button first.

“Tyrannosaurus,” he said.

He’s wrong! I thought. The game rules allowed both players to answer the question, but the first to press in got first answer, and if he was right, it didn’t matter what the other player answered. He was about to press the spacebar to reveal the answer, but I stopped him. “That’s wrong,” I said, and I gave my answer. In my excitement I then immediately hit the spacebar.

Answer: BRONTOSAURUS

“I win,” I said.

“You said Tyrannosaurus, too,” he said.

Oh my God! I thought. I had, indeed, said “Tyrannosaurus.” In my excitement — elation at being able to beat him at this game of knowledge — I had just repeated exactly what he had said. Oh. My. God.

He chuckled, but I believe he thought I was just joking by repeating what he said and then claiming victory. He said, “That was fun,” and got up and left the computer.

I sat there, staring at the green text, still showing on the monitor. I had completely blown my chance to win over this guy. My gut wanted to curse and swear, but my brain couldn’t form a thought.

That was the one and only chance I had ever had, and would ever have as it turned out, to definitively impress this guy that I was smart. That one screw up has stuck with me my entire life. It taught me to never throw out an answer to anything substantive unless I give it a second thought. Even now, 25 years later, that event and that lesson haunts me.

To be continued.

Bullgrit

I’ve always been very competitive. When I play something, I play to win. I’m not all in-your-face, and I don’t talk much smack, and I’m a good winner and loser, but I definitely am not casual when it comes to any kind of competition. And I’m not competitive just with things I’m good at either; I’m competitive in any sport (though I don’t often play any sport), any game (I’ll play any game at the drop of a hat), and any even mildly challenging subject.

Because I’m willing to compete on anything, it’s not unusual for me to lose at something. Several years ago, (two companies and four jobs ago), our department had a foosball table. One of the guys in the department was a real wiz at the game. For a few months, I played him one to three times a day but I never won a single game. The best I ever got was to give him an actual challenge.

I didn’t mind losing because I didn’t lose because I especially sucked, it was that he was so good. Another guy in the department could occasionally beat the wiz — they were definitely the #1 and #2 players in the department. I was able to sometimes beat that #2 guy, but never the #1. I liked to think of myself as the #2.5 guy.

When I think back to times in my life when I’ve lost at something, there are two times that stick out in my mind. Both are sore memories, and they annoy me. I really hated losing those two particular times. Both are from my high school years, with guys that I really wanted to best.

To be continued.

Bullgrit