You had a great coach that year, Toddy. ::lol:



I did indeed misspell is all this time. It's something that totally gets ignored when learning English over here. It's amazing how many people use the literal translation over here. They call it "chicken skin".



Those moments are the best. I still recall just about every goal I scored from age 11+. My best one was when I got the ball deep down in our own territory, passed 3 guys while running up the left flank, tried to put the ball in front of the goal, but lobbed it over the keeper and scored. I was smiling for about the entire game after that.

The same goes for when I scored the equalizer, which turned around the game, which we won with 3-1 eventually.

It sounds like touting my own horn a little here. I can barely help it. Lol.

A lot of great clips have been posted in this thread. Another one here.

[youtube]-GfJ2-HPUh4[/youtube]

That was back when I followed baseball just as much as I follow football now. Kirk Gibson was one of my favorite players. Back then, baseball had star power. I remember it well. Loved that video.

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So, did Laundry Number Fuckup (the guy you killed) do anything to you later for showing him to be "so useless his own guy kills him"?

I ask because I'm wondering whether you'd be okay with using this example of yours later this term when I teach the "iterated prisoner's dilemma." Of course I'd have to make the Marine language a bit more, er, politically correct. LOL :)

Added by edit: er, this was in response to a post by foster...which I can't find now...where'd it go?

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I got rid of it because it wasn't really a goosebump moment. It was more along the lines of a "I wonder what the ramifications of what I just did will be?" moment...

It could have gone either way, but since there was (scotch? bourbon?) heading my DI's way as a result, I really shouldn't have been fretting all that much, but that is hindsight.

As to the guy I "killed". He couldn't march. He was always fucking up. Everyone always paid for his failures. He had a lot more to worry about from the rest of us than the other way around.

I'll call him laundry number 37.

Close order drill. 87 guys in perfect precision. Laundry number 37 out of step.

Drill Instructor (on parade ground):

"HIPPITY HOP, MOB STOP" [insert 10 minute tirade]

"BENDS AND THRUSTS...BEGIN- MOTHERFUCKERS"

"THANK YOU LAUNDRY NUMBER 37!"

Platoon (in unison, repeating drill instructor, per established protocols, while doing aforementioned bends and thrusts):

"SIR, THANK YOU LAUNDRY NUMBER 37!"

I believe that captures the sentiment. There is always one in every platoon...Think "full metal jacket" movie for how that works, and don't think for a moment that the other DI couldn't pick his ass out of our crowd with absolute precision.

My personal goosebump moments were two:

1. Running junior varsity cross country, a meet hosted by a conference rival. Had never finished in top 20 before.
About half way into the race, I passed a teammate -- who I had never beaten before -- and realized I was in first place. Where I stayed for the rest of the race. At the end, fearing last second disappointment added an extra kick of acceleration. Crossed finish line, turned around and realized I was 10-15 seconds ahead of finisher #2.

Never won another races, closest being a 4th place finish, but I'll always have that one race. Every time since that I've driven past the trap shooting range where the course ran, I remember that race.

2. Junior year, basketball. After warming the bench for the first eight games or so, finally got into a game for about 3 minutes. Scored three points, had two rebounds and an assist. Two of the points came via a sweet fake and finger roll layup.

Glory was extremely short, though. Next day, coaches called me into the office and told me I was being cut from the team so they could give some freshmen more time. Team went on to the excellence of a 6-16 record, which improved, IIRC, to 10-14 each of the following two years.

To this day, I regret that, when they offered me the manager position, I just said "no thanks," and walked out the door. That I didn't throw my practice jersey in their face, yell "Fuck you, you motherfucking assholes," and slam the door so hard the glass broke and sprung the hinges.

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That was a good one.

This is one of my favourite sporting moments. Not for the satire from the commentators (which is on purpose - from a late night show in Australia) but for the sheer determination by the competitor. The story behind it is awesome.

[youtube]3zjCc_VyxM4[/youtube]

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I remember watching that video a few years ago. Thanks for bringing it back out of the mists of memory, TE.

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But it doesn't ever end the way part I of FMJ did? (that scene by D'Onfrio in the bathroom was intense in the eyes!)

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Nah. Real life isn't that easy, lol

They sent his ass back. Not to the civilian world, mind you, but to what is technically termed "remedial training", more commonly called- "The sick, lame and lazy". It doesn't count towards getting off that God-forsaken island.

For some perspective:

I had dove off the bus and hit the painted footsteps with 100 guys. I graduated with 88 fellows, but only 19 of us were the same original guys that had hit those painted footsteps some months earlier. All the rest were "pick-ups". As an example, one former soldier (there were actually quite a few of those) had been on that island for over a year when we picked him up in week ONE. He thought at the time (recruiter's office or Army career planner, I would have LOVED to hear that conversation) it would be a great idea to use Parris Island and the Corps as a forced weight reduction therapy.

I think it safe to say that while he did in fact lose the weight he wanted to lose, he would agree with me that it was not the wisest decision he ever made.

Speaking of therapy, 18 this week.

By far the most common reason to get "sent back" was "7 day mo"

Screw up, you went to one day mo. Motivation platoon. Screw up twice and you went 7 day mo. I was the only guy never sent to mo at all.

It went something like this:

0400-----

"Laundry number 37, Pack your shit, you are leaving bitch!"

He would be in front of the barracks, and a pickup truck would come by with ski ropes with leather handcuffs in tow. Your seabag (all your stuff) went into the back of the pickup truck. You got to run behind the truck handcuffed while they picked everyone up. I'm pretty sure that you strongly suspected you were in for a lousy day by then... All commands were given by whistle, (even eating-tweet-food to mouth-tweet-chew-tweet-spoon down, etc) and they had a muddy trench that you got to crawl upside down in while carrying a solid steel M-14 rifle while they threw tear gas and smoke on you.

They would arrive back in the squadbay around lights out with only their eyes and teeth visible from the mud. One day mo (as I said, everyone but me) and you still stayed with the platoon. 7 day mo and you were sent back (one training day is almost too much to miss, much less 7)

Sorry I missed that one, lol

Congress found out about it and it was outlawed sometime after I had gone through there.

Miracle on Ice, 1980 Olympics.

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