4 Guys Who Nearly Made Me Wet Myself

It can take a lot for a person to intimidate me. Part of it has to do with my size, I think. People generally leave me alone, even in situations where others might not be left alone. Believe it or not, my most dangerous moments thus far in life have come when I was a bouncer at Subway--yes, as in the sandwich shop Subway--on Halloween in Chico, California. I did that gig two years in a row. For those of you who don't know, downtown Chico on Halloween used to be pretty rowdy. All the downtown business snobs slithered away while Chico State students came out to flaunt their costumes. Oh, and they were drunk as skunks. And stupid. It never got too crazy while I was there. I only had to man-handle two guys. But the potential was there.

There's another kind of intimidation. I've worked for people who, in their devotion to the bureaucratic model, have truly lived in silent awe of organization directors and upper management. I've attended meetings with them, and with all kinds of people. I've never been one to feel like I need to sit back and let the big dogs bask in some kind of angelic light that shines only upon the high and mighty. We're all people, after all, and everyone snores, wakes up, showers, drives to work and gets hungry at lunch time. Just because someone gets paid more to do something than I do does not mean he or she is more important than I am. Nor am I more important than the people whose work I manage.

But today, everything changed. I came across some guys who stared me down so hard, so thoroughly that I felt that they could see every part of me. From the time I peed my pants in Mr. Persky's fifth-grade classroom while I waited for the final bell to ring, to the moments when my kids have told me that I'm fat, I felt completely open and exposed. I wanted to apologize to them. I wanted to say: "I'm sorry for being a sissy moron, Sirs. Please don't kick my can around the block." The worst part of it? I did not even meet them in person. They glared at me from the cover of a magazine. Imagine, if you can, the sight of four men so focused, fit and scary that all you can think about is running away before your pants become wet in all the wrong places. Yeah. That was me. Today. I had to put the magazine down and run to the little boys' room.

These guys were bad. Apparently they are the four biggest studs in the American Bowling Association. I've never seen them before. But there they were on the cover of the ABA's magazine with their huge balls. They were trying to look like four prison thugs locked away for something horrible. The four toughest bowlers I have ever seen. In fact, if I ever saw them at a bowling alley, I imagine I would not be able to bowl just then. At least not in the lane next to them. I'd be afraid they might come over and make fun of me. "Hey, pal," they'd say, "nice gutter ball. Why don't you get out of here before we throw our stale bowling alley beer at you." Perhaps one of them would want to arm wrestle me with his strong bowling arm. Or dare me to an eating contest to see how much bowling-alley-snack-bar food I could eat without getting indigestion. I'd be dead in the water.

And worst of all, I bet my wife would be there. Man, how could I compete with that? One look at their bowling shirts, and she'd be like, "Greg, I'm sorry, but those guys are so hot that I don't care which one I go home with to his trailer, as long as one of them will have me." Then I'd be forced to finish my game, bowling gutter ball after gutter ball while my wife was sitting on the lap of Doug, Chet, Dave, or Bob, running her fingers through his Pert Plus hair. They've got to be using Pert Plus. Have you seen how their mullets sway just right as they release their grip on their bowling balls?

And then there's the romanticism of conquering an enemy. We've all seen boxers strut to the center of the ring, only to stare each other down while the referee reviews the rules of the bout. Or the four captains of an NFL team walking deliberately to the middle of the football field like they own the joint. What gives? I'm sorry, but a professional linebacker sprinting in stealth to deliver a monster hit on a running back has nothing on a chubby white guy who rolls a ball at some stationary pins. Nor does the boxer who spends 26 hours a day jumping rope at the speed of nano-light. If I were a professional bowler, I'm sure my mantra would be the same as the one all the others chant as they bend over to heft their huge ball: "OK, pins, don't even think about moving. It's not going to matter. You could slide a millimeter to the right or the left, but I'm going to get you nonetheless."

I know--why don't we set up a staring contest between these guys and the top four chess players in the world? I bet we could sell tickets.

Give me a break. I've seen scarier two-year-olds. I'm sorry, but if you want to be an intimidating sports figure, don't go into bowling.