The SEAL and the Squeezer

Dymocks Bookshop. Brisbane, AUS: 11:45am.

So, no shit, there I was … 

And I’d fucked it already. My mission hadn’t even begun, not fully, and I’d cocked it up.

… I had on pink shorts.

It hit me too late because I was already 20min waiting in the line and I couldn’t back out now. I was in the bookstore and I had my brand spanking new copy of Extreme Ownership tucked under my arm and ready to get signed by the man himself, Jocko Willink. 

His Instagram videos are scary enough, can’t even look him in the eye over social media, so there’s no way to overcome the intimidation radiating off him in real life – in live combat. But I was at that moment decisively engaged.

I was proper fucked.

Now don’t mistake me, I have fantastic legs, so I love those damn shorts – but! When you’re off to meet the platoon commander of one of the most highly decorated SEAL Teams in US military history, who boasts about how he enforced the strictest standards of uniform and grooming in one of the most hostile, heavily contested and vicious provinces of Iraq during a savage war … you should probably consider what’s appropriate attire. 

 Fucking. Pink. Shorts.

… colour of a bruise. He was leader of Task Unit Bruiser. Maybe that’s his thing? Maybe that’s what he’d do to me: leave me with a bruise? A head-butt as soon as I approached. Bam! Stand down!

My shorts were pink, and my face was turning red. 

The dust jacket of my new copy had that little sticky paper bit affixed to the corner (much to my annoyance) where I’d panicked and tried to peel the price-sticker off too quickly; lest I look like a complete novice, or worse yet, a poser. Get outed like those cringe-worthy stolen valour videos on YouTube of phoneys who are called out at airports for being dressed up in military fatigues when the only combat they’ve seen is via C.O.D. 

But this was Jocko. 

This motherfucker had shot (probably) people.

Jesus – had he shot people? Almost certainly. I was looking at a killer, probably for the first time in my life (that I know of anyway) face to face.

See this was the problem: I hadn’t read the book yet. I’d been meaning to, honestly I had … hadn’t got around to it was all.

Excuses!

I found out about Jocko Willink the same way most of us did, by first listening to The Joe Rogan Experience, and by proxy, the Jocko Podcast. So I was a fan, had been for a while, but had I read Extreme Ownership I would have been in a better, more ready, position than the one in which I’d found myself. 

I would have had the tools to cope. 

I would have had a Plan (which we learn how to devise in chapter 9) 

I would have Prioritised and Executed (as outlined in chapter7) maybe my Belief (chapter 3) in my mission wasn’t as solid as it could have been?

… I don’t know, all that would come later. 

Because before any of this, the first lesson one encounters and that which is hammered home again and again and again like the bombardment of mortar fire is that you are the only one who is 100% responsible for everything in your life. 

And that’s pretty much it … I had to own these fuckin pink shorts.

Ownership, sure it can be taken as possessing a thing – but let’s think of possession in the sense of being possessed, of being consumed and driven. One must have this kind of overwhelming claim to their attitudes and behaviours and way of living so you learn to lead by taking the reins and driving forward - and that’s the essence of what you’re doing when you read this book, you’re becoming a leader. Maybe not for a platoon, or even a leader in your workplace, but a leader of yourself.

You have to be the shot caller of your own existence.

The line snaked forward a little more. I was shoulder to shoulder with young business dudes: Gordon Gecko looking wannabe fat-cats in their cheap/flashy suits the fabric of which didn’t quite girdle the full way around the overhang of their bellies.

Shoulder to shoulder with gaudy looking entrapanuers (see my upper lip curl as I mouth that word) wearing their baller-cocked, flat-brimmed baseball caps that shadowed manicured facial hair, and too-tight t-shirts with motivational gym quotes emblazoned across the chest, while they chewed gum obnoxiously and refreshed their Instagram feeds every 15sec to fool themselves into feeling as though they were keeping pace with Gary Vee.

Shoulder to shoulder with military personnel and first responders in full fatigues standing perfectly and patiently erect, shoulders back, chin up, at ease, surveying the room before checking their G-Shock watches; always on top of everything, ever vigilant. 

And this book is for them, as much as it is for me, as it is for you. The layout is simple. And I say this as a good thing. Simple is one of the lessons (chapter 6) and the necessity of this virtue, this skill of simplifying plans so that even the most junior of your team (or most juvenile voice in your head) can comprehend how this mission is vital to overall success; to leading properly and winning. 

You’re fat? You’re broke? You’re unhappy? maybe they’re not all your fault (likely are) but It’s your responsibility and your job to fix it. 

Simple.

Once you accept this, things begin to get a whole lot easier.

Extreme Ownership is very straightforward and it overlaps; the lessons play together and mesh with one another and repeat and repeat and repeat because everything is a muscle that needs to be trained and the only way to get strong is reps, reps, reps. 

It’s kind of like (what I imagine) military training would be because it utilises these maxims of 2 = 1 and 1 = 0 showing example after example and more case studies than you care to read, so it’s affixed in your mind. 

Do it. Do it again. Do it better. 

The book, in its execution, uses the very tools it preaches to show that (once you read it and understand it) it all works. 

But damn, at the time I hadn’t read any of this shit, so the presence of the Army dudes and Firemen and Cops and had me questioning my place in the line, like, yo, I’m just a fucking squeezer, I shouldn’t be here, and these dudes are like proper guardians. 

Watching Jocko greet them compared to him greeting civilians was obvious; there was an understanding shared with the service guys that was missing with anyone else – so what of me and my fucking pink flamingo shorts? (did I mention they had flamingos on them).

Jesus, he was gonna kill me … I’m still scared he’s gonna read this and come choke me out. 

I know you’re probably wondering why I keep freaking out about my pants, but it’s these little things that all add up over time. If you’re listening to Jocko, you’re probably listening to Jordan Peterson and Tim Ferris and the rest, so you know they all espouse the virtues of small victories. Cleaning your room, setting one achievable goal for the day, getting up early. 

Discipline. 

And the catch-cry of Jocko is Discipline Equals Freedom. 

It’s this strictness of self, coupled with consistency that makes for a great person, and lays the foundation for a great leader. 

It’s that (overused but still brilliant) war poem Invictus: I am the captain of my fate, the master of my soul. 

But damn, I wish I knew all this before I rocked-up half prepped. 

I was next in line, this was it, the deciding moment, how would I react? Would I rise to meet this challenge? 

Would I employ Extreme Ownership of the situation? 

Jocko looked up at me, gave me the nod.

I smiled and threw him a chakas.

Stand by … bust em!

Feb 16 2018