BRING A STICK TO A KNIFE FIGHT
My first course on my first day of college was boxing—a mandatory class at West Point. I vividly recall racing from that class to the showers and then to my chemistry class, my hair sometimes frozen in the cold New York air as winter set in.
I also remember that none of us really wanted to get hurt, so we pulled (faked) far more punches than we actually threw in that class. Most of us did, that is, but not Harry Haymaker, a mild-mannered classmate outside the ring and a terror inside it.1
We were all friends with Harry. But once the bell sounded, to the delight of our muscle-bound instructors, Harry would charge forward with both arms swinging. He had neither superior skill (it would be hard ...