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Good Story......will make you laugh!!

Discussion in 'The Lounge' started by Beast388, Feb 6, 2003.

  1. Beast388

    Beast388 1/2 ton status

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    (This guy writes for Sports Illustrated)

    On a Wing and a Prayer, by Rick Reilly

    Now this message is for America's most famous athletes: Someday you may
    be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's most
    powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have --John Elway, John
    Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few.

    If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest
    sincerity.... Move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death.
    Whatever you do, do not go. I know. The US Navy invited me to try it. I
    was thrilled. I was pumped.

    I was toast! I should've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip
    (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in
    Virginia Beach.

    Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like,
    triple it.

    He's about six-foot, tan, ice blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger
    crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators
    in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way. Fast. Biff
    King was born to fly.

    His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions.
    ("T-minus
    15 seconds and counting...." Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood
    kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps
    surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, "We have a
    liftoff."

    Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60
    million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike Colin
    Montgomerie.

    I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I
    asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning.
    "Bananas," he said. "For the potassium?" I asked. "No," Biff said,
    "because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down."

    The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my
    name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or
    Lead foot --but, still, very cool.)

    I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If
    ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, that was it. A
    fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then fastened
    me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would "egress" me out of
    the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked
    unconscious.

    Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over
    me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up.

    In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then
    canopy rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my
    life. Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80. It was like being on the roller
    coaster at Six Flags Over Texas, only without rails.

    We did barrel rolls, sap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose
    and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per
    minute.

    We chased another F-14, and it chased us. We broke the speed of sound.
    Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90 degree turns
    at
    550 mph, creating a G-force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5
    times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life
    as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie.

    And I egressed the bananas. I egressed the pizza from the night before.
    And the lunch before that. I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth
    grade. I made Linda Blair look polite.

    Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that did not even want to be
    egressed.

    I went through not one airsick bag, but two. Biff said I passed out.
    Twice. I was coated in sweat.

    At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a
    mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I
    was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in
    history to throw down.

    I used to know cool. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman
    making a five iron bite. But now I really know cool.

    Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and Freon nerves. I
    wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad
    Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in
    a home stand.

    A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he
    and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd send it on
    a patch for my flight suit. What is it? I asked. "Two Bags."

    Don't you dare tell Nicole.


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    The best line was "I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade."

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  2. mudhog

    mudhog THEGAME Staff Member Super Moderator

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  3. 83ZZ502_Jimmy

    83ZZ502_Jimmy 1/2 ton status

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