Every now and then a player needs a wake-up call to remind him of what it takes to win at the game. He needs a rude awakening that should never have happened.
While alone I approached two 20-year-old Croatian girls sitting on a bench outside of a Zagreb club. After an hour-long chat, they invited me to come with them inside. I took a liking to the thinner one. She told me how she never meets people who speaks English, and how she would love to practice with me.
We walked into the club and I bought a round of drinks. They asked me to dance with them and I agreed. We danced in one of those lame circles and I didn’t even touch the girl I liked. I wasn’t concerned because I had already decided that Croatian guys couldn’t spit game, meaning I had my girl on lock for the night.
After fifteen minutes, I wasn’t in the mood to dance anymore. I told them I’d be at the bar. My girl said, “We’ll dance for a little bit longer and I’ll come find you.” I ordered a drink and checked out the talent, but there weren’t many opportunities. After twenty minutes passed, I got a bad feeling. I looked around and saw her dancing with a guy. I positioned myself to get a better look. He was just a kid, no older than 22, but he was aggressive. I stared, pathetically, until I finally saw them making out hard while he squeezed her ass.
It seemed that everyone was looking at me, even though nobody was. I felt a burn in my chest. The pain turned to anger and then self-loathing. Defeatist thoughts rubbed salt and pepper on my wound. You stupid, fucking idiot. A lifetime of earned confidence was sucked away in a flash.
I know that the difference between a winner and a loser is that the winner keeps going. He doesn’t let the transient feelings of anger and frustration determine who he is. He understands that he is human and will hesitate and make mistakes. I kept going that night, but I didn’t pull. I tried and failed, and that’s okay, because the next night I went out, I was prepared to dance for hours. I was ready to work.