About 10 years ago, my wife and I pulled into a busy Wal-Mart parking lot to grab a few things for the casa. That's Spanish for house or light chicken gravy. I'm not sure which one.
As I got out of my car, I heard a woman crying for help. I looked around and, at the far end of the parking lot, spotted a man standing over a woman. He was holding her shirt with one hand and slapping her in the face with the other.
I had to figure out what to do, and quickly. So I started walking toward the couple, tentatively at first. As I did, I was relieved to see several other men behind me begin to move toward the assailant. Like an impromptu League of Justice, we began to run towards the damsel in distress, with me leading the way.
As I got closer, the man turned his attention to me. He was a decent sized guy, but I was bigger and, of course, my Robins, Tontos, and other side-kicks were right behind me! And so in the heat of the moment, I said the only thing I could remember from movies when a hero stops a man from hitting a lady: "Why don't you try that on someone your own size?!"
He turned and ran. I didn't take chase. My sprint across the parking lot was about all I could handle. Besides, if I ran any farther, I would have needed a Gatorade and a doughnut.
So with victory secured, I turned to high-five my fellow action heroes, but they were not there. They had never been there. My wife said that the other guys took a step or two, but when they saw me start to run, they just stopped to watch the show.
Lucky for me, the assailant bought the tough guy vibe. In no time, a few people who knew the lady ran over to help her and explained that the man was her husband. My wife and I went into the store to shop. As my adrenaline surge faded, I began ...