There was no yelling or shouting, only disbelief.

The first and only fight me and my OG best mate ever found ourselves in. Well, a fight by the loose definition of the word, we didn’t throw hands and the whole scenario involved little more than an exacerbated discussion.

Oh, and me spitting the dummy and refusing a lift home from the gym.

The situation blew up following a sweat inducing gym session where it was likely a tie between who looked at themselves in the mirror more. I turned to ask him for a lift to my car which I’d left 40 minutes away. I’d been a responsible drunk the night before ubering home, leaving my car at the party.

To my shock, he refused to give me a ride.

You may be thinking I’m a sensitive bastard if this is all it takes for me to go off my rocker. For a long time that’s how it likely appeared to him (sorry mate).

However, twelve months later the real reason was unearthed in a coaching session.

It wasn’t the fact that he refused to give me a lift. It was the reason (or the lack of). As the 20 year olds we were, we were highly never busy. Our days revolved around partying, girls and recovering. If he said he was seeing a girl or partying, fair enough, duty calls. However, today was a recovery day and my mate was going home to watch TV.

I felt betrayed. I’m the type of person who would do anything for a friend if circumstances allowed it. I’d drive to the Blue Mountains if he told me he was too hungover but he needed to go because he’d heard the bacon and egg McMuffins from Maccas tasted better out there.