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I Did Not See That Coming

A kick brought me back to a hilarious story from over 20 years ago.

I kicked my trainer right in the dick.

His words, not mine.

He positioned the sparring bags like I was supposed to do a shin kick, even though I’m sure he instructed me to lift the leg and do a straight kick to the chest. My wires got crossed.

Encouraging me to fire through and push him back gave me the confidence to let fly. Of course. I kicked freely. It was obviously the wrong kick.

He wasn’t prepared. You know when a catcher is expecting an off-speed pitch outside, but instead has to corral a 99 mph fastball coming at his chest? It’s an awkward catch, and he’ll probably call for time, because that shit stung.

Alas, the shin kick probably wasn’t as funny as this. But it had the same effect I’m sure.

I mean, he was in pain.

At first I thought he was joking. But then I realized that he wasn’t playing and I basically unloaded on him. Free shot. Jesus.

I apologized profusely. Thankfully he was really cool about it, and he soldiered on. But I really didn’t want to do anymore kicks.

Anyways, I’m pretty sure he cut the two and a half minute session down to two minutes, so he could, let his parts, ahem … descend?

There was ample justification for retaliation. I don’t think a strike like this would be out of the question:

As mentioned, nothing like that came close to fruition. It’s now a story I can tell for the rest of my life.

On my way home, that experience jogged my memory of another incident, from years ago, that still appears crystal clear when I recollect.

I couldn’t stop laughing to myself. If I tell you the story in person, I can’t finish without breaking out into laughter.

I used to be a dishwasher at a shitty restaurant — my first job out of high school if I’m not mistaken.

This place was greasy, and if it did meet health code standards, they were passable at best. Think Blake Bortles-level competence.

Anyways, there was a manager there, in his 20s, and he was your typical sort of resto manager in the 90s: brash, cocky, talked shit to his staff, and if anyone got out of line, his go to non-HR move would be a threat, usually of physical harm.

Think “I’ll kick your fucking ass” or some reasonable facsimile.

So one of my chores at the end of the night was to take a big white bucket (like 10 litres) and fill it with piping hot water, and toss it down the back staircase outside. By the end of the day, those stairs were dangerously slippery and unsafe to walk on, like a skating rink surface (substitute ice with sludge).

There are about 20 or 25 concrete steps.

It’s a Friday night, and he’s gotta make moves and get outta there, so he’s especially surly.

“Eric, don’t fucking forget to pour hot water down the stairs.”

I’ve already got the water running in the sink, waiting to turn the faucet to the bucket below when I see steam.

Ready.

I fill that bucket up and drag it with me to the back exit. Down the hatch it goes.

And then I hear it. I can’t even explain it. It was a shriek. A scream. It was not manly. It sounded like pain.

Under the stairs is the garbage bin, and I essentially poured a 10-litre bucket of scalding hot water onto my unsuspecting manager, who was taking out the trash. The only thing that helped save him were those steps, which perhaps absorbed maybe four of the 10 litres.

He came flying out from under the stairs like a guy who’d just seen a David Blaine trick or a dude who just found out he wasn’t the daddy on Maury.

He looked up.

We made eye contact.

And I giggled.

“Shit, I’m so sorry man.”

He marched up the stairs. It was the first time in my life where I felt like I was going to get my ass kicked. For all his bravado, I believe he was actually a bad ass. He wasn’t going to let this one slide.

At about stair 10, I’m thinking he’s going to ask me this:

At stair 15, I’m wishing I had worn my brown underwear with the yellow crotch.

He gets to the top of the stairs.

Looks me in the eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly reaches for the bucket, still in my hand.

I have a goofy-ass grin on my face, for sure. It’s disbelief. I can’t shake the fact I just doused this dude in heat.

He takes the bucket and flings it over the railing.

“Now go and fucking get it.”

With that, he walked by me and back inside. I walked down the stairs and grabbed the bucket.

All I was thinking was how that easily could have been me going over the rails.

I came back up. And he was changing.

“You’re lucky you’re young. I would kick your fucking ass.”

I was 16.

I still wonder what the going age would have been to be certified to be beaten to a pulp.

As I’m typing this, I’m literally laughing out loud because he was saying that while putting on a t-shirt, and his white skin was dotted with spots of pink where I water bombed him.

The damage wasn’t permanent or anything. It just hurt like hell for that moment.

So, sorry to him and sorry to my trainer. **Snickers**

After two weeks, I’m down 13 pounds and 1.9 per cent body fat. My family is calling me the infomercial — I’m the testimonial dude that these transformations happen to on the extreme end of the spectrum.

Of course, as accomplished writer Bill Barnwell will tell you, losing weight is easy when you gain so much.

No real secrets. Eating well and doing my workouts. Thank God for lettuce wraps and peanut butter shakes. That’s all I got.

Talk soon.

Peace!

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