Crafted by Valor

It’s extremely hard for me to pin down just one traumatic event that led me to act and feel the way I have for the last dozen years. But when I really sat with the idea of a “stuck point,” one moment jumped out at me.

A nighttime training mission, early in my first deployment to Iraq, might actually be the genesis. We were probably in our second week of reception in Kuwait when I hit that wall. All of this came together for me in hindsight.

I’ve always had a multitude of personalities I call on depending on the situation. I don’t think that’s too weird. Think about how you act when you meet someone who catches your eye. Don’t tell me you don’t dial up the masculinity, or maybe soften up, trying to win favor. Dudes like me who go into the military? We’ve got a perception of how we’re supposed to behave, how tough we’re supposed to appear.

When it came to the military, I had my own ideas of how I was supposed to act. I watched all the movies—saw how a real “military stud” was supposed to carry himself. And I borrowed heavily from my upbringing too.

I’m the third son in my family. My two older brothers are fraternal twins. Trust me—it wasn’t easy living in their shadows.

Mike; my brother, he’s a damn gifted athlete. Born leader. Smart as hell. A legendary smartass who knows exactly how to push your buttons just to get the reaction he wants. I idolized that about him. He could command a room, stand out as the best in anything he touched. I tried to emulate him, two school years behind. It worked, except when it came to dealing with him. We were always at each other’s throats. Always fighting. Always competing.

Problem was; I always lost. And lost big.

But my head is a rock. My desire to be a badass was so strong I kept going, kept losing. I once owed Mike about ten grand from betting on ping pong. No lie. I never learned. I just kept trying to be at least half as badass as him.

Then there’s Mark, my other brother. Just as much of a badass, but with a gentler soul. He spent most of his life riding shotgun in the backseat between me and Mike on long road trips. He kind of protected me from Mike, but really, he was protecting me from myself, because I was the idiot constantly trying to square up with Mike.

Mark could run a room too. Standout athlete. Hilarious. Born leader. Wicked smart. Even as a little kid, I knew Mark was going to be an elite, wealthy man one day. And I had already made plans to be his personal pilot. He’d need a private jet and helicopter for his empire, obviously.

Mark and I fought once, just once. And that was it. He beat the crap out of me. Mike and I never really hit each other in the face or head. Mark? He had no such boundaries. He pinned me to the floor and wailed on my face. I never messed with him again.

Now, imagine the two of them together. Always side-by-side. Built-in best friends.

When twins like Mike and Mark roll through school in a small town like ours in Wyoming, they rule the place. Everyone knew them. Knew how special they were. And unfortunately, they expected the same from me.

By the time I came through, the teachers and coaches had already had my brothers in their classrooms and on their teams. Expectations were sky-high. I think I did pretty well, all things considered, but compared to them, I was just average. To my peers, I was probably above average. But in that shadow? I never quite measured up.

And for some reason, I quit trying. Pretty early on, actually. The only people who didn’t seem to expect greatness from me were my parents. Hell, they already had two high-performers. Lucky for them, success had been achieved. If I came in a little lower? No big deal. The bar had already been cleared.

I remember with perfect clarity getting my 4th-grade report card. There was a big fat “C” in math. I was terrified. Nobody in my family had ever brought home a C. Straight A’s were the standard. I shook all the way home. Thought about “losing” the card. Practiced my story for when my mom finally saw that dreaded letter.

Eventually, it was time to face the music. My mom looked over the report card. She was quiet for a moment, then handed it back to me. She smiled and said, “I’m proud of you,” and gave me a hug.

I was dumbfounded.

Not the reaction I’d been bracing for. As the confusion washed over me, I realized something: I didn’t have to perform at a high level in academics. And maybe, I kind of wanted to get in trouble. Maybe I needed the pressure to perform. But instead, I got a pass.

From that moment on, grades didn’t mean shit to me.

I shifted my energy to being the funniest. The one who got sent to the principal the most. I figured if I couldn’t excel like my brothers, I’d perform in other ways. I was going to be noticed one way or another. I wondered where the line was, and then I pushed it way past any known limit. There was never really any accountability for me. And I knew exactly where I excelled.

I was the best damn class clown in every room I entered. Legendary. Sent to the principal more than any other kid in the school’s history. I had my recesses taken away for an entire year and was forced to copy the Webster’s Dictionary, word for word. I actually got to the S’s by the end of the year.

I got in so many fights, I became well acquainted with the principal. And then one day in fifth grade, he tried to teach me a lesson.

I’d just been in another fight. He loomed over me, trying to intimidate me, and said something like, “If you think you’re so tough, maybe you should pick a fight with me.” He led me into the gym. He’d arranged with the PE teacher to bring out a set of boxing gloves.

He challenged me to a fight.

The opportunity wasn’t lost on me. Hell yes, I was going to fight the principal. Can you imagine the legend I’d become? No one—no one—had ever fought the principal. I wasn’t just going to fight him. I was going to kick his ass.

We strapped on the gloves, all while he laid out his big intimidating speech. About how I was finally going to meet my match. About how maybe now I’d learn something. I wasn’t deterred. I was hyped. We squared up, moving around the gym, gloves up. Mr. King, that was his name, I’ll never forget it, started bobbing and weaving, punching the air, moving toward me.

I danced around, up and down, looking for my shot. Then he dropped his gloves, probably about to say something to bring the lesson home.

Too late.

I unloaded. A volley of shots straight to his nose. His head snapped back as I hammered his face. He jumped back, stunned. Now he was mad; face red, eyes wide. He couldn’t believe I’d actually hit him. But I wasn’t done.

I was on him like white on rice. Worked his body. My mind blacked out. I wasn’t home; Matt had gone to a dark place. I was kicking my principal’s ass. He asked for it. He was the grown man who picked a fight with a fifth grader.

The PE teacher, Mr. S, pulled me off him. Reality came back into focus. Both adults were yelling at me now; furious, shaming me, threatening expulsion. Telling me my parents would be called. That charges might be filed.

With a smirk I couldn’t suppress, in a voice that didn’t feel entirely like mine, I snapped, “What’s wrong? Got beat up by a fifth grader? You brought me here to fight. Can’t wait until my dad hears about this, he’s gonna kick your ass next.”

Nothing bad happened to me.

My dad came to the school. Walked straight into Mr. King’s space. He was pissed. A grown man had picked a fight with his son. My dad was intimidating as hell. He had my back.

I remember walking out of that office with a strut. The music playing in my head? Queen.

🎶 “Steve walks warily down the street, with the brim pulled way down low…”
“Another one bites the dust…”

I was feeling it, man. Until we got to Dad’s black pickup truck.

That’s when he turned on me. Got in my face. Scared me. He wasn’t happy. And though I was surprised, and afraid, I recognized something immediately. It hit me like a steel beam: being tough and funny was my thing. That’s what got approval. That’s what earned attention. That’s what worked.

I was a damn rock star when I got back to school.

The story of the fight? Embellished like crazy, by someone else. I didn’t lift a finger to correct it. Why would I? I was in the limelight now. I’d reached a new level of stardom. Hell, I might’ve even surpassed the fame of my brothers.

Nobody wanted to fight me anymore. I’d taken down all comers, even an adult. The chemical reaction that hit my brain was like lightning. It felt electric.

This was it. I’d found my thing. My future was in being a total hilarious badass.

Finally, I knew who I was. And I leaned into it hard. Every effort went into being “that guy.” Bad Matt. The tough, funny, can’t-be-messed-with version of me. And people loved him.

Even Angie Ayers, the cutest girl in our grade, suddenly wanted to be my girlfriend. She bought two buttons. One said “Matt,” the other said “Angie.” We traded. I was branded. Everyone knew she was my girl now.

She even called into the local radio station and dedicated a song to me. I think it was a Lionel Richie hit. The owner of the station? Best friends with my dad. One of the only “celebrities” in our small Wyoming town. Drove cool cars, especially Corvettes.

He knew about me. Word was getting around. My dad seemed proud. Told me he was glad I was strong and tough. Said I was going to need that because I wasn’t as smart or talented as my two brothers. I was going to have to be the brawn, not the brains.

And just like that it was solidified.

I didn’t have to try hard anymore. I just had to keep being a badass. Life was good. I knew who I was.

Right?

Nah. It was all an act. An alter ego. I knew it.

I was still the nice, sensitive guy underneath. The funny part? That wasn’t fake. That shit was real.

So now the stage was set.

There I was; young Warrant Officer, UH-60 Black Hawk pilot, Army Aviator. Not just a pilot, but an Instructor Pilot. The bad asses of the bad asses. Even as a CW2, with just a small stack of dots on my silver bar, nobody messed with me. Everyone’s intimidated by their IP.

And now take that and layer on two and a half decades of refining myself to be exactly that: intimidating, in-your-face, the super helicopter athlete.

I was a big guy. I used to be in shape. Threw around heavy weights. Had massive arms and shoulders. I used that to my advantage. Always brawn over brain. That was my way.

But I was also competitive. And when it came to Army Aviation, the mass of subjects and information you had to master lit a fire under me. I poured in the effort. I studied my ass off. I wasn’t about to be average, not anymore.

I was a professional. A military officer. An aviator. I had made it. And I was damn good.

My dad was proud. I was the only son to follow in his aviation footsteps. My brothers were proud too, they’d known for years I was crazy. An adrenaline junkie. The wild child. The black sheep.

And for a while it felt like heaven.

But even with all that laid out, even with the pride and confidence and swagger, there was still a side of me that hardly anyone saw. The true, authentic Matt.

My family saw him. They knew.

With them, I could take off the Bad Matt mask whenever I wanted. I always did, unless there was an audience. Then I slipped back into the role. The comedian. The tough guy. The showman.

And honestly? It worked. It always worked.

But now I was being called to the table.

It was time to put up or shut up. The big dance had arrived. A real war. The thing I’d hoped wouldn’t happen. The thing I’d been training for, pretending to want, running my mouth about for years.

Now I was in it. And I was in deep.

To Be Continued……….