Well, there might be. Some people in this fine life of mine, the ones who refuse to play me at some games because of my supposedly innate skill, tell me that I’m a natural at games, that something in my brain picks out the necessary plays and strategies needed to win, even if I only just learned the rules.

Case in point: Years ago I went with my family to the house of a family friend for a holiday evening. They introduced me to the game Rummikub. For those of you who’ve never played, it’s sort of a cross between rummy and dominoes. I’d seen the game in the store before, but it was always in that sort of lame adult-oriented, card-game section that I never paid attention to while lusting after my own copy of “Axis & Allies” or “Risk.”

I lost the first few hands of the game, but then something happened. I started winning. Not only that, but I started winning quickly and decisively, not just a hand here or there, but all of them. All of them. It was weird, and I don’t think anyone has played me at that game since.

You see, there are problems with winning. First of all, you could be a poor winner — I’m not, or at least don’t think I’m a poor winner. The poor winners are those who obnoxiously rub their victories in the faces of their defeated foes. You could call these people braggarts, but a more apt description would be to call them assholes.

There are the unintentionally poor winners, who don’t realize that they are acting superior after a win. The naming of these people as “poor winners” usually has less to do with their own assholish behavior than it has to do with the attitude of the person they’ve just beaten. Usually the unintentionally poor winner is declared so by an unknowingly poor loser.

I don’t think I’m often an unintentionally poor winner, but I do think that a third issue with winning does apply to me: accidental impoliteness.

You see, games are not only competition. They are social interaction. When you win over and over again, you violate a social more. You offend other people with what appears to be your focus on competition, rather than on the social nature of the game. The constant winner doesn’t allow for the game’s natural rhythms to take hold. There’s no give and take, no back and forth, no true “play.” Just a one-sided deal that’s raw for all but one player.

In such a situation, the winner — who may be winning accidentally, innately or purposefully — becomes an undesirable, unwelcome. The winner is pushed from the social circle so that the focus of the game can return to conversation and good times, rather than what it can only focus on when the winner is playing: “Why the hell does that guy always have to win?”

Usually this means that the winner is not invited back for game night, or the others grumble about him behind his back (or to his face). In my case, this amounts to not being able to play games with the people I know because they just refuse the challenge outright.

I’m sorry I win so much. I’m not being facetious. I really am sorry. It’s not my fault, and it would be even more demeaning to myself and to everybody else involved if I were to throw a few games just to make it interesting. So please, everyone, accept this humble apology and play me at games again. Please?

Now, the English are known for their reservedness and their cordiality. These things I made sure I attended to before coming — seeking out the organizer of the event, procuring a formal invite to attend, etc. When I arrived everything was great. I was immediately accepted into the group, hands were shaken, names were exchanged, and everything was fine until just after teams were chosen. That’s when it started.

All cordiality was thrown out the window. No relationships were honored except for those that were now in place: teammates and opponents. The gym floor squeaked with shoes and yelling across the room ensued. “Square!” “Line!” “Clear it out!” “Here!” The physicality of the game was immediately apparent as elbows, arms, and midsections were coming at me anytime I was near the ball, and other times as well.

We played for nearly two hours, and this was with some men nearly 60 whilst others were around my age — mid twenties. Nobody was watching, it was only for ourselves. As it seemed it was the venting point of the week. These two hours sweating and pounding away on the gym floor were an escape from the stresses of the week. A mediocre Maths teacher turned into a defensive god that evening, while I stood back in awe as grown men crashed into each other, yelled in each other’s faces, and humiliated one another only to smile and shake hands at the end.

That was the strangest part! We all smiled at each other when it was over by exchanging pleasantries like, “have any big plans for the weekend?” It seemed like no one had even known that the last two hours existed. Or perhaps they did exist, but only in that stress-free, heaven-like place where competition creates gods from Math teachers.

Dumbfounded, I showed up at school the next week and while I was walking through the halls I met one of my new football mates. “Coming to footie on Friday?” was his curt greeting to me. Stepping back I replied, “I better.” I haven’t been disappointed yet.

Sam was occasionally a troublesome friend to have; he didn’t always take care of himself very well, he could be easily offended, and he had a habit of slipping back into old habits. I often found myself worrying about him, I hated it, but he was also an enthusiastically creative, loving and supportive friend. I don’t think Sam loved anything more than making someone’s day. He went out of his way to do kind things, whether it was lending someone a book he thought they might like or recruiting a friend for an emergency, midnight road trip to reach another friend in need. He was an exceptional person and after a decade of friendship I couldn’t help but love him. He was, and is, a valuable part of my life.

In high school Sam drew a picture in pencil on a scrap of my notebook paper and gave it to me. I always liked it and wanted him to improve it for me–maybe redraw it in ink or paint it. He said he would, but over time the picture just got tucked away in a box with a lot of junk and we both forgot the promise.

A couple of months after Sam died my mother brought a trunk down to my house. Inside I found a random assortment of high school mementos including the notes my friends and I had written to one another, a pair of shoes, a glass nativity scene, and, of course, that picture that Sam had drawn for me. I realized that, without Sam, it was up to me to finish the project and improve the picture. It had become a collaboration–which I think Sam would have been quite pleased with. I scanned that quick and simple pencil drawing into my computer and fiddled with it until I felt like it was finished.

This piece of art means so much more to me because it is something that Sam and I did together. It’s ours.

At that point I was just beginning to play volleyball.  The year I dropped gymnastics, I joined CYO.  [For those of you unfamiliar with Chicagoland Catholic Schools and their sports, CYO stands for Catholic Youth Organization… it basically means it is a traveling team sponsored by the school you attend.]  In any case, I picked up volleyball pretty quickly and played on a traveling/competitive team from sixth grade through high school graduation.  I was a pretty decent player.  A major blow to my ego happened at the beginning of the season my senior year though.  My coach decided to pull me from the starting line.  She said I wasn’t playing as strong as she was used to seeing me play.  This really came out of left field, because I didn’t feel I was playing any differently than I had under her coaching for two years.  To add insult to injury, I lost my starting spot to a sophomore.

So, here I was, a senior in high school, sitting on the sidelines of varsity volleyball matches, while a some chick who still wore braces and ditzy ribbons in her hair bounced around on MY court.  I was peeved.

Lucky for me the season seemed really short that year.  I spent the rest of my time making art, acting in plays, and becoming increasingly excited about living in Montana for four years.

Tons of snow and one film degree later, I embraced the world in a quest to find the answers.  I guess I am still searching for a lot of them.  But there are a couple things that I have figured out.

1. The people that count are the ones that care and the ones that care aren’t always the ones you expect.
2. San Francisco is nice, but not for me.
3. 42… it’s the answer to life, the universe, and everything (and probably also my wedding date)
4. I don’t actually know Binary, my fiance does… and it just so happens that the date we are looking at for the big day, 101010, is point above.
5. As much as I try to curb the habit, I am addicted to coffee.  The smell, the flavor, the sensation after having had too many cups…
6. I really want to have a self-sustaining home one day (completely off the grid, growing my own food, creating my own [and others’] unique art).

So I guess, in the end, it’s not a big deal that I never made it to the Olympics as a gymnastics contender for a world record or that I lost my starting position on a varsity volleyball team as a senior.  I found my soul mate and I found myself and to me, that’s a great big win!