Winning and Losing
Mike Cox

A friend of mine enjoyed shooting pool so much he joined a league. One night while he was practicing, a stranger approached and asked to play. Before breaking, the stranger asked Gene if he was any good.

"I'm pretty good; I play in a league," he replied. The other guy proceeded to shoot pool like Willie Mosconi. He had extra incentive because of my friend's remarks. Gene found out why most pool players downplay their talent.

One thing that gets lost in our over-analysis of human behavior is that we are mammals. One of the things male mammals do is compete with each other. On a basic level, we do it to attract females. Actually that's why we do it on almost any level.

In the animal kingdom, the toughest or smartest usually wins the ladies. Humans try to make things more complicated, but it is the same principle. From the time we are able to tie our shoes, boys are looking for something we do well, so we can beat the other guys.

We compete at everything. We compete subconsciously and unconsciously. We compete subliminally, and sometimes sublimely. That's why many of us will pay to watch Tiger, Kobe, and Peyton compete.

Every guy on Earth likes to win. Getting a promotion isn't just about the money; it means you are better than the other guys. And there are few feelings like buying a round in the clubhouse with the money you took from other golfers that day.

But, in the end, we all compete for the same thing. If our car is faster, our arm is stronger, or our TV is bigger, we think a woman will like us better than the others.

Winning is also fun because getting your butt kicked is not. Every champion can remember a time when the other guy was better. That feeling makes a lot of guys try much harder the next time.

Once, during a visit to Nevada, I saw an old acoustic guitar gathering dust. It belonged to my cousin's husband, and he allowed me to play it. Barely able to form chords without breaking any fingers, the noise I was making was unbearable. Even the dogs left the house.

Earlier in the week, I had picked at him a little. He was quiet and took it well but didn't forget. After I finished setting string music back several decades, he picked up the guitar and popped off a pretty impressive bit of Wildwood Flower.

When he was done, he put the instrument in its case, smiled at me ever so slightly, and walked away. Now that could be the only song he knew, or maybe it was the best he ever played it. But none of that mattered. His point was made. I was not the dominant guy in the group and didn't like the feeling.

Last month, as Tiger helped Phil Mickelson into his new green jacket, I'm sure he felt the same way.