Saturday, March 15

Before the gates of excellence the high gods have placed sweat

I don't like losing; who does? But I don't mind losing as much as I hate being absolutely slaughtered. J.R. is a far better pool player than I am, but I keep playing him (mostly because I don't have anyone else to play). And I don't mind losing, as long as I come close. If I get a shot on the 8 ball, that's a win (whether I make it or miss it by thismuch like tonight). It's when I leave five balls on the table that I get truly pissed. We were talking about our competitive natures earlier and what gets us riled up, and I think I've got it pinned down. I can take losing, as long as it was a close fight. (This, of course, in no way applies to the Sox, the Pats, the Lady Vols, or any other team I'm rooting for. Then I want the win, and I want blood.)

Maybe it's years of losing at euchre to my older sister that have tamped my competitive spirit, or maybe it's just lying in wait for a cutthroat game of Scrabble. (I still haven't forgiven J.R. for the 50-point ox/ox debacle.)

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