In the last three years, I've grown a great deal. On the outside, I don't smoke anymore, don't drink as much, and I've lost weight. But psychologically there's been much more significant improvement. I've developed from a quiet, shy, meek, scared shitless wallflower into a boisterous, personable, confident and outgoing man.
L0ST STYLE FLASHBACK TO: ROB'S JUNIOR YEAR IN COLLEGE
Here's a good story to illustrate just how terrified I used to be of responsibility and/or control. Essentially, I was scared of making mistakes, so I altogether avoided making decisions. I was afraid of control.
There was this girl, we'll call her Eileen, who was in a class with me my sophomore year. Cute girl, beautiful eyes, nice smile. She was a bit different from normal. Not a psycho, just an Eat-Pop-Tarts-For-Dinner kind of weird. Interesting.
Junior year I'm smoking a cig before a class, she sees me, waves to me, walks up, and says "We've got to hangout sometime, here's my number."
For the entire semester, I waited for the "perfect" situation to call Eileen and invite her to hangout. We'd see each other between classes once and awhile and talk for 30-40 seconds. She once said to me: "You're real quiet."
"I'm tired."
"No, it's okay, it's cool just being around you."
Yeah, I know right! How did I not pounce on this girl?
I never took the initiative, never took control. I was waiting for one of my friends somewhere to have a party at their house that I could tell her to come to. I never even considered doing something at my place. And it never occurred to me to just ask her to my apartment on a Tuesday night to watch a movie and potentially make-out.
The whole semester, and into the next, I was doing nothing, waiting for the "right" time. It was like going fishing, sitting next to a pond, then waiting and hoping for someone to bring you a rod and tackle.
We never hungout.
BACK TO THE PRESENT...
So that was me then. This is me now. If I want something, I try to get it. I don't wait and hope for it to come get me. To steal from Swingers, I'm not the guy in the PG-13 movie that everyone's *really* hoping makes it happen. I'm more like the guy in the rated R movie, the guy you're not sure whether or not you like yet. You're not sure where he's coming from. At least, I'm well on the road there.
And a great deal of that is thanks to my working events. I've learned a lot from them, but learned even more from the people I've worked for and with. Specifically, my supervisor at Gillette and the other members of my response team.
And it's been a nice feedback loop of confidence helping me work events, and events helping my confidence.
I should tell you what I wore to the Bruins game. I decided to don my Vladislav Tretiak USSR (CCCP) jersey.
Why? Because we were playing the Capitals. Communist jersey... communism... anti-capitalism... anti-Capitals. It was a great example of my nerdly sense of humor. But I also love the jersey, and the player.
And if people can get away with wearing those Chiefs jerseys to a game, which were once funny and novel but are now tired and wornout, then why can't I be THE ONLY PERSON IN THE GARDEN wearing a CCCP jersey?
I was aware that the Capitals' also wear red. So just to avoid confusion, I wore a black Bruins shirt under the jersey, and my Bruins scarf.
During the game, one guy in passing praised the jersey. "Tretiak! Yeah!" Another guy asked me what it said (the name on the back is in Russian, so it looks like ТPET6RK with the R backwards). But there was little discontent.
After leaving the Garden, we walked to the North Station entrance at Valenti Way, went through the turnstyles, then rushed down the escalator for the approaching Orange Line train.
A group of three guys, in their mid 20s, challenged the validity of my jersey. Rather, they questioned my wearing it and also wearing Bruins gear, thinking that I was trying to represent both the Capitals and the B's.
So I explained to them that it's a goalie from the USSR who played in the 70s and 80s.
The train arriving next to us slowed and halted, and we all got on, the conversation continued. They asked if Tretiak played in the 1980 Miracle on Ice game. I told them he did but was pulled in the 2nd period (turns out it was the 1st period). My answers satisfied their original confusion, and my knowledge of the guy seemed to impress them.
Then I went into detail about my whole Communist/Capitals joke as the doors closed and the train pulled out. "Wow, that's deep man," one of them joked. "Are you an artist?"
"I'm a writer."
A voice rang from halfway down the train: "Are you a retard...?"
"...You'd have to be a retard to wear that!"
I saw the fat, mid-40s, salt and pepper bearded man who'd decided to disrespect me.
"You got a problem?!?" I yelled down the traincar.
He made a beeline up the car, like a bull charging my red jersey.
In the past, in situations similar to this, I'd get nervous, even anxious. My pulse would double, my adrenaline would surge, gooesbumps would poke through my skin. My body language would instinctively portray several things, a few tells. I'd take a halfstep backward with my left foot, I'd draw my shoulders slightly forward and in, I'd lower my head and neck, I'd have to do something with my hands like hold my keys in my pocket, I'd avert my eyes around the room, things like that. Weakness.
But as this puffed up ball of middle-aged angst rolled toward me, I did nothing. I stood rigid and firm, as if the train weren't even rolling. My eyes deconstructing his as he came nearer. No increase in pulse, no goosebumps, no twitches.
But in his body language, I noticed a great deal.
HIGHLANDER STYLE FLASHBACK TO: SOME HOUSE IN QUINCY - EARLIER THAT EVENING
When I picked up my friend to go to the game, it was my first time going to her new place. Two dogs that lived there, a pair of Yorkshire terriers, greeted me with barks. But not when I walked in (which would be when they'd smell and hear me) but when they saw me. I'm not afraid of dogs anyway, but their bluff of aggression was ridiculously easy to call. And they just wanted to put on a show.
BACK TO THE TRAINCAR...
This guy was bluffing. He was trying so hard to scare me, with how fast he moved up the traincar, with the billowing and wild swings of his arms, the almost inaudible grunts exuding from his nose, the puffed out chest, and the sourpuss grimace.
Plus he was wearing a Milan Lucic Fight Club shirt.
I like Lucic, but any shirt that says "Fight Club" on it and is splattered with fake blood is lame. If any male older than 15 wears it, they're a complete dink.
So this guy arrives at my face. We'll call him Tuffy. Tuffy answers my "Got a problem?" question:
"Yeah, you're wearing the wrong jersey."
"No, it's a Soviet throwback jersey, not a Capitals jersey. Anyway, what do you care? It's just a hockey jersey."
"No, it's not!"
I lean in toward his face, holding up the ridiculously wide longsleeves of this XXXXXL goalie's jersey. "Then what the fuck kind of jersey is it?"
"It's gay!"
"Good one, coming from a guy wearing a shirt with fake blood on it."
"This isn't fake blood!"
"It's real blood? Wow, I'm fucking scared of you."
He chuckles to himself, obviously proud of what he was about to say: "Man, you are ugly!"
FORGETTING SARAH MARSHALL STYLE FLASHBACK TO: ROB'S COLLEGE DAYS - A HOCKEY RINK
Attending an Ithaca College club hockey game against some other obscure Central NY school. These were fun events to occasionally attend. Half our players were drunker than the fans, and we'd usually lose by 10+ goals. Still fun though.
I'm attending the Ithaca game with the same friend I went to the Bruins game with. I walk up behind the opposing bench, and start screaming at #22. "HEY DEUCES!! WHAT DOES #3'S COCK TASTE LIKE?" #22 turns around, looks at me, and says "Man, you're the ugliest motherfucker I've ever seen."
And I was devastated. No lie. Crushed. Back then my hair was ridiculously long, I had glasses, bad acne, was 30 pounds fatter. I looked and dressed like Michael Moore.
As non-photogenic as I was back then, I was 1,000 times more selfconscious. I let this guy's remark get to me. After the game, instead of having a good time hanging out with some of the hockey players, I went back to my apartment, downed half a bottle of vodka, and hated the ugly bastard looking back at me in the mirror.
BACK TO THE TRAINCAR...
I'm hardly George Clooney now, but I don't much care. It is what it is. If a girl I want thinks likewise, then ship it. If not, whatever. I'd prefer they did, but I'm not going to brutalize myself because of what someone else thinks. And I certainly don't give a rat's ass if a male finds me unattractive.
"Man, you're ugly!"
I laughed at him, "That's nice."
Behind me, those 3 guys who'd first asked about my red jersey, suddenly make their presence known. Apparently I'd recruited them to be my followers. One of them pointed his arm over my shoulder at Tuffy.
"Hey man, it's just a fucking jersey! He's a Bruins fan!"
This is when my brain changed gears. I'm fine with the 1-on-1 with Tuffy, and whatever happens happens. But now there's 3 semidrunk guys who've joined in spewing testosterone all over this cramped and poorly ventilated subway car. That's a recipe for drama that ultimately ends with police involvement.
Up until this point, I've had one priority in mind: Don't back down to this asshole.
But now a second priority enters the equation: End my night in my bed in my house, not at a police station.
My body language changes as well. I morph from a tower into a wall, spreading my arms and legs wider so I can box out the people behind me and keep them separated from Tuffy. I even try to negotiate a ceasefire with him.
"Listen man, you hate me, I hate you, you don't like my jersey, and that's great. Do you really want this bullshit to go farther than this subway car?"
I calmly presented him with an opportunity to walk away without losing much face. It was 4 against 1 at this point, there's absolutely no shame in discontinuing.
I know what he wanted to say. It was all over his face. This guy wasn't drunk, maybe 2 or 3 beers in, no big deal. But he couldn't bring himself to end things. Instead, he brought out his tough guy act for an encore performance.
"Shut up you fucking Guinea!" He yelled at the kid who'd stuck up for me.
The 3 kids behind me start laughing. They're all standing up behind me now, and I can feel their adrenaline as the traincar seems to heat up. They start yelling back at Tuffy. Tuffy yells at them.
Then enter the final clown in this comedy of ignorance. This guy we'll call Shorty, because he was short, 5' 3" tops. He was also twisted and trashed beyond recognition. His eyes were like black dinnerplates they were so dilated. He stumbles into the fray from behind Tuffy.
At first, I think Shorty might be there to reason with Tuffy, help convince him to back down.
"This guy a friend of yours?" I ask Tuffy.
"He's my fucking cousin!"
Shorty's entrance drew the involvement of my female friend, whom I'd attended the game with. She could've taken out Shorty even if Shorty were sober. She towered over him, and now the fight was 5 against 1.5 (Shorty=0.5). And at least now I had a true and dependable ally I could fully rely on, instead of just 3 random guys.
But the stage on which this drama unfolded was becoming too cluttered with actors. And being the chauvinist that I am, I kept my friend in check. But keeping her safe from any ensuing circus wasn't my sole motivation. Ulteriorly, I wanted to keep myself safe. Had Shorty put his hands on her (or bumped headfirst into her crotch, really, he was short enough), or had Tuffy spat some insulting slur, then I would have snapped, and stuffed Shorty up Tuffy's ass.
I convinced my friend to let me handle things. She respected me enough to not knock Shorty's head off, but she stood her ground with me.
FAMILY GUY STYLE FLASHBACK TO: A PARKING LOT, ONE OR TWO YEARS AGO
Drunk and disorderly mayhem, with the same friend. I grew ridiculous beer muscles (technically, grain alcohol muscles). And a friendly, joking insult in my direction riled a childish temper tantrum. An insult that came from a man that was about 400 pounds. The immature Junior Captain Ahab that I was back then, fueled by grain alcohol, tried picking a fight with this imposing man. My friend tried to restrain me, and I pushed her away, insulted by her offer of assistance. Thankfully the large man took pity on me and let me live.
But my friend, rightfully so, didn't respect me in that moment. And I didn't respect myself. I felt the need to prove myself to the world, to prove that I was a tough guy. I was a lot like Tuffy in those days, trying to get other people to beat the crap out of me so I could look at the wounds and say "I'm tough."
"I'd strike the Sun if it slighted me."
-Moby Dick
BACK TO THE TRAINCAR...
Now it's just getting worse and worse. 1 of me, 1 partner, 3 pissed off allies/strangers behind me, 2 pissed of assholes in front of me. One of them small, but due to drunkenness is utterly unpredictable. This was like the start of World War I here, with some Serbian guy killing some Austrian duke, which due to complex strings of alliances results in Germany and Turkey fighting Britain, France, and Russia, and 10 million people dying over essentially nothing.
But I'm still as calm as can be. Not a bead of sweat in this boiling cauldron of masculine aggression. Why? Because I was in control of the situation. I felt nothing but confidence in myself, and confidence in my ability to handle things in order to achieve MY desired outcome.
Three years ago, even two or one year ago, I would have been terrified to assume so much responsibility. I'd be shaking, my toes twitching, sweating like Ron Jeremy trapped in an elevator in July.
Shorty wobbles around, then bumps into my chest. I push him back, but not in a hard, shoving way. Tuffy tries to restrain him. He says to Shorty "Dude, we don't want to get arrested tonight."
One of the 3 kids behind me yells: "So what the fuck are you gonna do?"
Tuffy explodes: "I'M GONNA KILL ALL THREE OF YOU!"
Tuffy was such a mess of conflicting goals. He wanted to fight 3 people in front of 20 witnesses and also not get arrested. Meanwhile, I had my priorities aligned, focused, yet flexible. To quote Henry V: 'We would not seek a battle as we are, yet as we are, we say we will not shun it.'
Tuffy continued to make idle threats.
"If this faggot weren't standing in front of me, I'd kick all your asses."
I'm not a very physically strong man. I can't benchpress my own weight, not even close. I was no obstacle to this guy. He was using me as an excuse to not throwdown, yet still seem tough by threatening to throwdown. Yelling from behind an imaginary wall.
I decided to raise my voice. "HEY ASSHOLE, LISTEN TO ME! YOU AND YOUR COUSIN BACK THE FUCK DOWN OR ALL THIS IS ENDING IN A POLICE STATION. DO YOU WANT THAT?"
Shorty continued to drift around me, repeatedly being restrained by Tuffy.
We rolled through Haymarket and State with this absurd dance playing itself out. We got to Downtown Crossing, my stop, and me and my friend tried getting off the train.
Shorty purposely wobbled into my way. This time I shoved him with authority and anger.
He muttered "Who the fuck do you think you're pushing?"
"You!" I snapped back.
Tuffy now felt free to threaten me again. "Yeah, walk away, fag!"
"It's our goddamned stop!"
The doors closed, and that's when I heard an exchange of yells, then the muffled sounds of bodies being knocked around a subway car. I turned around and saw 5 guys all dressed in Bruins attire, throwing reckless haymakers.
For some reason, call it event staff instinct, I turned around, thinking I could breakup the fight. Then my brains returned to me, I realized I wasn't getting paid, and decided to continue downstairs to the Red Line platform.
The train didn't leave the station, the doors re-opened and somebody summoned the MBTA Police.
It was unreal. I recruited 3 disciples without even trying, who stuck up for me and my Soviet jersey. And once I left the traincar, and released my handle of the situation, it imploded in an instant. But while I was there, it was mine, all mine. My group of assholes, my new friends, my new tough guy enemy, my friend's new diminutive drunk pet named Shorty, my subway car, all mine.
Riding the Red Line back to Quincy, we talked with 2 guys who'd witnessed the drama on the previous train. When they asked what I first said to the guy, and I told them I'd said 'You got a problem,' one of them criticized me. "Don't say that man, that's how shit with assholes like that gets started."
I smugly leaned back in my seat, and said with a grin "Yeah, I wasn't too worried about that."
Since then I've realized that my confidence during The Incident didn't just come from within. If my friend weren't there, I may have still performed the same actions, still said "You Got a Problem?" still seen the big guy's bluffing posture, still restrained myself, still ended the night in my bed. But my heart would have been racing, my palms sweaty, my eyes darting, my lips quivering. I was calm in my performance because my friend had my back. I trust her enough to support me in any shitty situation, and trust her capability to do so. She's got good nerves.
And appreciating that trust is kind of new to me. I've started learning it at Gillette with my teammates. I'm able to stare down some drunk bozo that's 10 inches taller and 100 pounds heavier then me, then ask him for his ticket, because I know I'm not alone. This series has focused a great deal on my own personal growth, but I want to emphasize how much that growth has been helped by people like my teammates/friends.
