At 0430 on my first morning of Army basic training, we’re all in formation on the drill pad awaiting our first day of physical training. We were supposed to be there just long enough to make formation and go begin PT, but we never made it that far. Instead, we got smoked. The drill sergeants are screaming at us, “what? Did you think this was going to be easy?! Do you want to quit?! Come ring the bell, and you can watch the rest of the privates push! Ring the bell and you can go home!"

It was obviously a rhetorical question. It was meant to be a test of our will, and I don’t think the drill sergeants actually thought someone would take them up on it. But this short little dude just pops up, promptly jogs to the front, and rings the bell. He then watches while we sweat our asses off for what seemed like two hours. The drill sergeants are having a ball telling us we could be chilling like PVT Gibson, too; all we had to do was admit it was too much for us and ring the bell.

That night we’re in line for the showers and I say to him, “How the hell could you let yourself ring that bell? Don’t you have any pride?”

In the coolest, calmest voice, he just replied, “N___a, I’m from the south side of Chicago. Pride will get your ass killed.” Then a shower opened up and he walked away, leaving me speechless.

I’ll never forget that exchange; I always think of it when I’m letting pride get in the way of rational decision-making. Gibson ended up making it all the way through basic, graduating, and completing his service. He was a good dude, and I learned that my arrogant attitude about pride gleaned from high school football was best left in high school.