This past weekend, I had the opportunity to travel to Northern Minnesota with a great group of guys to participate in a charity ice fishing tournament with some of our Minnesota friends whom we had met just a year prior and who share the same love we have for the great outdoors. This great event benefitted our friends in Law Enforcement from NW Minnesota's FOP Lodge 8. Despite the bite being a little slow and the temperatures quite cold, our group still caught several fish and were able to enjoy a couple of nice fish dinners together.

One evening on our trip, we found ourselves in a local bar recovering from a hard day of fishing. The bar was a spectacular sight. The walls were accented in knotty pine and decorated with mounts of trophy fish and big game taken in previous outdoor adventures. I had no doubt a lot of tough fellas frequented this place. If you don’t know, these guys are a different breed—lumberjacks, miners, and the occasional loner who looks like he might eat glass for a living. They manifest a toughness of which few can compete. When most folks would avoid the cold temperatures and remain in the comfort of a cozy fireplace in their living room, these guys venture miles out onto 30” thick ice, drill holes, and set up tents where they remain for hours, pursuing that one trophy that could be the next fish reeled up through the hole. With that in mind, I didn’t want any trouble, so I kept my head down to avoid eye contact with any locals and hoped to just enjoy a beer and maybe talk some fishing.

Unfortunately, I was soon confronted with a challenge when an impromptu arm-wrestling competition broke out at the tables next to where I was seated. We watched as the lead changed among competitors and a clear pecking order was soon established, with one wrestler rising to the top—a fella whose T-shirt hugged his thick, tattoo-covered arms. He had no neck and an upper body that clearly indicated he could bench press a Buick.

My friends nudged me to step up and challenge this established “Champion” of the Great North Woods. I didn’t want anything to do with it. After all, at 50 years old, I’m no spring chicken, and I don’t bounce back the way I used to when I was younger. Despite that, with their continued encouragement—and that of several IPAs—I decided to answer the challenge. I stepped up to the table and took my position as the next challenger across from the “Champ.”

Now, for those who do not know, arm-wrestling is a technical sport with rules and regulations like any other. Thankfully, our friend John had stepped up to officiate the matches when they began. Given John’s extensive experience in the arm-wrestling world, he quickly became a well-established referee and the clear choice to oversee such an event. Plus, I was happy to have John close by and in my corner should things “go south” after the match.

As I locked hands with my opponent, I made a couple of observations, specifically about his hands—he had some mitts. One onlooker noted that the Champ had “sausage fingers,” digits similar in size to a bratwurst, and given their size, the Champ had likely not been able to pick his own nose since he was in the 4th grade. I made one other observation… despite the size of the Champ’s hands, he had unusually small thumbs.

These weren’t just any thumbs, but the kind of thumbs you might hear referred to as “Carny Thumbs.” You know, the kind of thumbs you might see featured in a real-life carnival exhibit. The kind of phenomenon that brings the same kind of curiosity one might find with the “Yak Lady” or the “World’s Strongest Man.” I couldn’t allow this to distract me—I had to lock in and focus.

John took charge and went over the “rules” while repositioning our hands in such a manner that both opponents agreed was “fair.” Bets were being shouted in the background—“I got $20 on the new guy!” I felt the pressure. If I lost, I might find myself the focus of an angry mob—I had no choice but to win! A “3-2-1…GO” was announced by our officiant, and the match began. We were locked for a few moments—a standstill where each opponent was unsure if he would be able to defeat the other.

I started to gain the upper hand, outstretching the Champ’s arm as I pulled in tighter to my center. I blocked out the screams and cheering from the onlookers and remained laser-focused, keeping my breath under control and my strength steady. I almost had him… I only needed to drive down my opponent’s wrist about ½ inch more to win the match and dethrone the Champ. Mustering all I had, I took a deep breath and revealed my secret move, a move the locals are now calling the “Kansas City Crusher.” One final push downward, and my opponent succumbed, no longer able to withstand the Viking spirit flowing through my forearms and biceps.

The crowd erupted in cheers as John raised my arm in victory. Later that night, I had a dream. Upon my victory, I was quickly hoisted onto the shoulders of the patrons, paraded around the bar, and given limitless IPAs while everyone joyfully sang verse after verse of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!” High fives and fist bumps were received from several in the crowd for representing the “old guys.” It ws then that I knew how Ralphie felt in the movie “A Christmas Story” after he defeated Bart and his gang of thieves with his Red Ryder BB Gun. What a day! One that will be a cherished memory for years to come. In the words of the late, great Toby Keith, “I’m not as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.”

This story is just that – a Story. It may or may not describe the actual events that occurred. Only those that were there will ever know. It’s meant to bring humor and a smile to your day -I hope it did!