It was not easy for him, the uniform, the commitment, the discipline, but his father had encouraged him to join the military to help pay for an education. Stone survived his education and relished the five years he spent as an officer in the military.

Leadership is an innate quality, one Stone did not possess. Fortunately, the military was one of the few places where respect was created, followed, simply because of a title, a rank. Stone had always been attracted to big organizations because of the fact they worked on the power of position premise, but Stone learned the military was something special. The military became his domain of fantasy.

It was peacetime, and all of Stone's friends were doing well in a booming economy. When his commitment to the military was served, he moved on the real world to participate in the bounty, without uniform.

On the coarse, hot asphalt, teams were selected. Two kids remained. Stone was usually the last chosen and was resigned to that position again, but this time he was taken before the little kid. It was his best friend, Julian, picking a team.

"Don't let me down," Julian shouted after picking his friend.

Stone just smiled, grinning ear-to-ear. He had been given a chance to prove he was not the goofy uncoordinated buffoon his teenage fears described. "It was only basketball," he told himself. He could pull it off for one game, just a few minutes. He knew it was his day.

Half-court games are quick, and Stone was all over the court. He went for every ball like he was chasing a prized butterfly. He moved to the open spot every time his team took possession. He knew he was playing the game of his life, and was jubilant when his team won.

"Yeah!" Stone shouted.

Julian smiled. "What was wrong with you today? That was the worst game I've ever seen you play. Did you touch the ball once?

"Don't worry, you'll do better next time. We'll work on your game," his friend offered, patting him on the back.

The queasy feeling Stone felt from game exertion now started to tumble as his heart sank. He did everything he could, even forcing a smile, but it did not work. To everyone's surprise and disgust, Stone began to vomit on the hot asphalt.

"See, I told you something was wrong with him," he heard Julian tell another teammate in defense of his play.

Stone knew the only thing wrong was that he had played the best. Athletically, he knew he could not compete with his peers, but it was not a surprise, just another disappointment. He had tried to be the funny man, but his mind worked too slowly for a battle of wits. He tried to be a campus politician, but the other kids would not take him seriously. He tried.

There was no avenue not pursued. Stone wanted to be the alpha male, but nothing seemed to work. He could not be the wildest, coolest frat-boy in college. He was not a thug. The list of "not's" grew at every opportunity, but he kept trying.

The necessity of the military took him where he belonged. Stone could follow orders, and there was no better booth licker in any service. Though it was a time of peace, he learned the words, the phrases of the military that allowed society to recognize a hero in waiting.

Through years of training, Stone looked like a strong man. He spoke like a forceful man. He carried himself like a leader, a man who respected himself and commanded the respect of others. He exited the military proud. The pride he found in uniform allowed him to obtain a good job and an attractive wife. They were his new uniform.

Time is the assassin of all mirages. After ten years in civilian life, the authentic Stone returned. He could not produce at work, so danced like a virgin before the gods, jumping from one job to another to avoid the sharp blade of the termination axe. His wife, his children, all worked hard to believe, but only time ceased could withhold the truth.

Peace is a double-edged sword, and pride was cut. His country was attacked, so Stone stood tall, gut now bulging. He knew the words, the call to battle, and he knew where to go to sign the papers to enlist again. Worried about what lay ahead, they took the older, experienced officer back into the fold of a powerful force.

Something began to return. Pride again grew. Stone knew his place. He did as told. He told and they did. He had come home again, where he could be the man he dreamed. Words of strength, of war, of purpose flowed from his uniformed figure.

Training ended. The target determined. War was set and the troops began to ship off to a battle Stone had thought was just talk, just tense peace and posturing, not real life and death where words carried less weight than explosiveness of action. The mirage of war through words was to be vanquished.

Frozen by fear, Stone began to oppose the war, to oppose everything about the military. He wanted out. He wanted to hide. He had to be who he was, not a hero, not a leader. He had to make an exit at all costs.

His fellow soldiers went to battle. Stone faked injury to buy a bit of time. He tried to resign, but the act of cowardice was not allowed. He pleaded. He begged. He tried to shoot himself in the leg, but was unable to pull the trigger. He was the desperate boy playing basketball, the worst game of his life.

Others went, some died. Stone stayed, suffering the most tragic death of all, becoming a ghost of his former weakness. All knew, all saw, but everyone pretended nothing had changed, and really nothing had. The true Stone was bare, sans postured purpose, ideals, and dreams.

Heroes do not send cowards into battle, as they bring harm. Stone served his tour behind a desk, shuffling unnecessary paper, disappearing as a ghost in plan view of his peers. He hated the military. He hated the military with passion. He hated himself, and it was their fault.

The young boy puking on the asphalt basketball court was now a middle-aged man who every morning and every evening wanted to vomit on the world that ensconced him, for turning him into such a vile creature, not allowing him to be something he was not, not letting him enjoy the pose.

"If I had just gone," he would allow his mind to whisper, knowing he no longer looked anyone who knew him directly in the eyes. They knew the emptiness that lay within his soul. He was most terrified of mirrors, where he caught glimpse of his soul, a ghost taunting what could have been.

Strangers now brought the mirage of hope. Stone lit up when he met strangers. They did not know him, and he could fake it, be the man others expected, but it never took long for strangers to see the pain, the ghost of self-loathing carrying his soul, and his moment of happiness and possibility ended.

If he had only pushed past his fear of self that once, how different he would be to him, how different he would become. If only he had done the impossible.

Another week, another hundred years, it made no difference. Stone knew who he was, what decisions he would make, and so did everyone else - family, friends, co-workers. Stone died every time he froze in fear and failed, but he had forever crushed the hope of dreams, of possibility.

Stone came to accept fear would always be the victor. If he liked, respected, trusted himself to take the smallest risk, who knows what might have been, but he is safe, and surpassing "if" is the step of giants.

If he had learned to like himself a bit, trusted his ability to overcome just a tad, he could have been something, something simple: A full, erect, man who others could trust, depend upon, admire, a man who could look his wife and children in the eyes and himself in the mirror. That was not him. That was not Stone. That was not possible.

Stone is safe.