Rogell - The art of war for dating: master Sun Tzus tactics to win over women

Most of us are pawns in a game of love we don't understand.

Leo F. Buscalia

You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.

Albert Einstein

Have you ever had an epiphany? You know, one of those ah-ha moments when a light bulb suddenly snaps on in your brain, and your eyes open to a realization that sticks with you for the rest of your life?

Yeah, me too.

And it happened the first time I tried to reach second base.

No, not that second base. (Although there were many epiphanies that happened there too.) I'm talking about the second base; the square, white bag, between first base and third base. I was in first grade, and we were playing kickball during one of our first gym classes.

At that time, the sum total of my knowledge of kickball was as follows: You stand at home plate and the gym teacher slowly rolls a big red ball to you. You kick that thing as hard as you can and run to first base before the ball gets there, or before some six year-old joker with a cannon for an arm nails you in the head with it. Sounds easy enough.

So I'm watching the kids in front of me in the batting order kick and run to first, I notice they all overrun the base, touch the bag and then keep on going a few steps because their momentum carries them past it. Alright. No problem. I got this.

So my turn comes, and I kick the ball as hard as I can I just bury my size four Keds deep in it and I'm off full speed down the first base line. I step on the bag and keep sailing past. I was safe, and moved a runner from first all the way to third. I heard cheers from my teammates as I walked back to the bag. One kick and I was the Derek Jeter of the kickball diamond. And I was pretty sure Susie Ellison, the Megan Fox of our first grade class, smiled at me.

Then the next kid comes up, and he drills the ball over the shortstop's head into the outfield. The kid on third heads toward home as I run to second, step on the bag before the outfielder can get the ball in, and keep going a few steps. Same as I did at first base, I overrun second. On my way back to the bag, the second baseman hits me in the chest with the ball. I'm tagged out. The inning is over and the run didn't score. And my teammates are no longer cheering. Instead, they are screaming at me in a Milk-Duds-and-adrenaline-fueled rage. Because, according to them, everyone knows first base is the only base you are allowed to overrun.

Everyone but me.

It is stated as fact: I am the biggest idiot ever to play kickball. And, if it were up to them, I would never, ever, be allowed on the field again. There is even talk of banning me from gym class altogether. And Susie Ellison is no longer smiling. (Which pretty much blew my shot at asking her to the prom in eleven years.) But here's what confused me: I wasn't bad at kickball I could kick hard and run fast, catch a fly ball when it came my way, throw it reasonably well to any base but obviously I wasn't good at it either. I couldn't understand how I could be technically good at something, yet suck so badly at it at the same time. And that's when the epiphany light bulb went on in my head: