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Tommy Gunn · (04-18-2014)

What does it mean to be a Paul Heyman guy?

Let me tell you.

But before I do I want to tell you a little bit about myself.

Growing up I was always bigger than the other kids.

I suppose you could say genetics played a role in that. My father was in the NFL for a few years. He never amounted to anything of consequence in terms of making pro bowls but he played long enough that he was able to provide a nice living for our family. As a result my mother never had the need to work, instead opting to stay at home.

As I said, I was always bigger than the other kids, that helped me in sports and it helped me in life. No one wants to mess with the biggest kid on the block. And that was fine with me.

At some point, I want to say around middle school I started using my size to my advantage. Instead of being the quiet kid who mostly kept to his circle of friends, or himself, I decided to be the stereotypical school bully.

I went after every single kid I could get my bear sized paws on.

Stuffing heads into toilets? Check.

Stuffing kids into lockers? Check.

I took every hand held video game system I could find.

Lunch money? Absolutely.

Easy pickings. Little kids, God bless them knew it was easier to just comply than to fight back.

By the 8th grade I was a full foot taller than anyone else in my class.

Gym class was always fun. Especially dodge ball, which was essentially school sanctioned bullying.

By my count I broke two noses and blacked one eye before dodge ball was replaced with badminton.

The school principal said I was too aggressive.

I told her I was just putting Charles Darwin’s theory to the test.

She did not approve.

But it didn’t matter.

One of the many benefits of my father playing professional sports was that we moved around a lot.

Some might consider that a problem, I however did not.

For me it meant fresh meat everywhere I went.

My Freshmen Year of High School also coincided with my first year in that town and so on day one I did what any good bully trying to establish himself does. I found the biggest, and toughest guy in the school and pounded his face in after school. Funny enough, that school’s version of biggest and toughest was me, in the 6th grade. And so just like that, yours truly was the new big bad of Caffrey High.

My father likes to tell me that if I hadn’t agreed to try out for the high school football team that I would have spent as much time in detention as I did in classrooms actually learning. He’s probably right. But we will never really know for sure.

Not only did I try out for the team, I made Varsity, by mid season due to an injury to the guy ahead of me on the depth chart I was named the starting Middle Linebacker. A position I would hold for the remainder of my four years in high school. Football became my life in high school. It was the only thing that gave me focus.

Not to mention, it allowed me to hit people, repeatedly, without consequence. Broken noses were just the start of the punishment I handed out game in and game out. In my sophomore year a running back for the opposing team broke through the front line and headed right at me, he lowered his head, I lowered mine, it would be the last time he ever did such a thing without the help of a metal halo attached to his head.

I suppose I should have felt bad, maybe even somewhat guilty but I didn’t.

Maybe I am an asshole.

Maybe I am heartless.

Chances are I am both.

As I said before, football was my focus in high school. Football and chasing tail.

Call it low self esteem, or perhaps an affinity for the alpha male but finding girls to spend quality time with was both the easiest and most satisfying thing about high school.

Of course, chasing tail and playing football exclusively is what lead to my lack of options post high school. Sure, I could have played football for some D-III college that no one had ever heard of but what was the point of that? I wasn’t good enough to play in the pros nor did I have any desire to do that.

So what were my options?

Going right into the work force?

Flipping burgers for minimum wage while taking orders from some asshole?

No thanks.

Go to a trade school?

No thanks. I have no desire to be a mechanic or to hold some other menial job.

And that’s when it hit me.

Literally.

I was walking through town staring at the back side of this fine piece of grade A beef when I accidently bumped into an Army Recruiter.

Let me tell you something about Army Recruiters.

They are without a doubt the greatest salesmen in history.

Seriously.

Think about this for a second.

These Military Recruiters jobs are to talk you into signing up for a job where you could potentially get your head blown off, or worse. And yet they get thousands of people to sign up every single year.

So here I was, cornered by an Army Recruiter because I was too busy staring at a piece of ass instead of paying attention to where I was going.

Two hours later and I had essentially just signed my life away.

A month later and I was on a bus heading to Basic Training. My mother of course was in tears. Her baby, her only child was off to the military. My father was the big strong brute that I had always knew him to be. If he had any feelings on the matter he didn’t show them. Instead he just handed patted my on the shoulder and said “See you in 3 and a half months.”

Thanks Dad.

Fourteen months in Basic Training may sound like a lot, and it is, or rather it can be depending on your circumstances. But I left behind no girlfriend, no real friends and while my parents were always good to me they were as much there for show as anything else.

As odd as it may sound, Basic Training felt more like home to me than my real home ever did. I enjoyed my time there. As much as anyone can while being screamed at repeatedly, running until you puke, and then running some more and when you actually are fortunate enough to eat meals you get 45 seconds to eat it all or go hungry.

Yes, Basic Training, it’s paradise for the future challenged.

And yet, I made the most of it.

I impressed those above me, from what I am told it was my initiative and my never quit attitude that got their attention. I also think my ability to dominate anyone I engaged in hand to hand combat with helped. Well, anyone who wasn’t already trained. On the few occasions that the Major and I would spar he got the best of me.

Every.

Single.

Time.

And it wasn’t pretty.

But those beatings, and yes, there were more than one, afforded me the chance to get somewhat close with Major Johnson. Yes, his name was actual Major Johnson, something that in a past life I would have easily thrown in his face. But in this life, in that place. No thank you.

Major Johnson was a Sniper in the Army for over a decade before taking a job at the academy. It was through my conversations with the Major that I figured out what path I would walk after finishing Basic. I would follow in the Major’s footsteps.

And that is exactly what I did.

Two tours in Afghanistan and two in Iraq. I racked up kills like SwagMire racks up rejections from the ladies. Some of the other guys in my unit would get a tattoo denoting every kill. Some of them were pretty fancy. I felt no need to do that. I know what my orders were. I know how many people’s lives I was tasked with ending. And I ended every single one of them. Without prejudice.

Four tours and 3 promotions later and I was out.

Not for good mind you.

But for now.

The army taught me a lot of things.

It taught my loyalty, it taught me respect for my superiors. It taught my about watching my friends backs. It taught me about duty and about having goals and achieving them, at any cost. It taught me about greatness.

Earlier I asked the question, “What does it mean to be a Paul Heyman guy?”

Now you know.

[Image: us-army-sniper1-gif.gif]

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