The kind that whispers, “I bet you could…”
By now, you’d think I would’ve learned. You’d be wrong.
Vol. 5 isn’t about one bad decision. It’s about a handful of moments where I got just close enough to that edge… to feel what flying might be like.
The tower climb started, like most of my stories, with someone else going first. There’s always that guy. The one who does something just dumb enough to make everyone pause… and just impressive enough to make you think,
“Well… I can do that.” The difference? He didn’t have a bowling ball in his hand. I did.
No countdown. No plan. Just grabbing it and starting up. A few steps through, reality checked in—one hand gripping, the other holding 10 pounds of “this was a mistake.” That moment hits where everything slows down. Not flying, but definitely not on terra firma either. Just hanging there, with one arm, somewhere in between.
The most insane reason I even attempted this, my roommate Steve, was forced to do something similar while he was pledging a rival fraternity. I did not want him to get the one up in insanity! No bragging rights in our dorm room... territory had to be marked!
I think I always had a secret desire to be The Fiddler on the Roof . That was the closest thing to flying I ever got. Late nights. Warm air. That quiet hum of a campus settling down. We’d sit on steep, slanted roofs like it was completely normal—leaning back just enough to convince ourselves we had control, looking out over everything like we’d somehow earned that view.
For a few minutes, you forget gravity exists. You feel light. Free. Like if you leaned just a little too far forward… you might not come back the same way. Then somebody lets out that ridiculous moose howl, someone down below panics, and just like that—you’re grounded again.
Who could forget the antenna crossing… That one was less “flying” and more “defying gravity and reasonable explanation.” Two rooftops. A gap. And instead of saying, “Let’s not,” we said, “We can make that work.” The antenna flexed the second weight hit it. Not reassuring. Not stable. But by then, you’re committed.
There’s a moment in the middle of something like that where everything goes quiet. No jokes. No bravado. Just you… balancing… realizing you’re one bad shift away from finding out exactly how this story ends.
And then there are the smaller moments. The ones you don’t even think to tell at the time. Climbing a little higher than you should’ve. Jumping a little farther than you needed to. Balancing where there wasn’t much to balance on. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to feel that lift for a second… before gravity reminded you how things actually work.
Looking back, that’s what all of it was, wasn’t it? Not just bad decisions. Not just stories. But little attempts at something bigger. At freedom. At weightlessness. At proving—even for a second—that the rules didn’t fully apply.
And somehow… every one of those moments ended the same way. I made it back down. Back across. Back inside. Still standing. Still tilted.
When it comes do to it, here’s the truth: People have been chasing that feeling forever. Some build wings. Some build planes. Some of us… just climbed things we probably shouldn’t have and leaned a little too far into the moment.
Thankfully, unlike Icarus, I never "flew" too close to the sun. Because that would’ve been an entirely different story… and probably written by someone else.
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