Recently, diving back into the Reloaded remaster of the original Gears of War has stirred up a storm of memories. The gritty camaraderie of Delta Squad, the relentless battles against the Locust horde—it's all about that unbreakable bond of brothers in arms, fighting through the chaos. It reminded me of my own squad from back in the day, the friends who'd log on for epic multiplayer sessions. But it also pulled me back to a pivotal moment in April 2014, when life imitated art in the most terrifying way. This is the story of how a simple drive to MMA training nearly ended everything, and how the themes of survival and loss from Gears echoed through my mind as I stood on the side of the interstate.

It was a crisp spring evening, and I was pumped. I'd just signed off from a session replaying the original Gears of War trilogy with my buddies, warming up for those classic multiplayer nights. Chainsawing through enemies with that satisfying rumble of the Lancer, we relived the post-apocalyptic vibes—ruined cities, sudden ambushes, the constant threat of emergence holes swallowing you whole. Little did I know, my own "emergence" was about to hit.

I hopped into my trusty truck, El Lobo, for the two-hour trek to the gym. That night promised an awesome mix of Jiu Jitsu rolls and Muay Thai pad sessions, the kind of training that built not just skills, but bonds with fellow fighters. About 20 miles down the interstate, though, something felt off. A weird wobble in the steering wheel. Instinct kicked in—I started easing off the gas, slowing down just half a mile before disaster struck.

Boom. The front right tire exploded like a grenade. Rubber shreds flew, and El Lobo lurched violently. Had I been at full speed, I would've careened off a steep ledge into who-knows-what below. It was deep. It would've been ugly, a real-life game over. As it was, I managed to pull over safely, heart pounding, adrenaline surging.

Cars zipped past in the fading light, their drivers oblivious or uncaring. No one stopped. I stood there on the shoulder, the wind from passing semis whipping around me, and my mind raced back to Gears. Those aftermath scenes—the squad picking up the pieces after a brutal encounter, the quiet moments amid the wreckage. That's what played in my head: What if this was it? What if I didn't make it back to the fight?

Eventually, my wife arrived like a reinforcements drop, and we drove up the rode in her car to get a new tire for El Lobo and put it on right there. The truck didn't suffer much damage—just a battered rim and that shredded tire. We replaced the set and got back on the program, but the memory stuck like your first headshot.

I didn't make it to training that night, but I did live to fight another day.

Over a decade later, in 2025, I'm still here, still chasing those dreams in one form or another. That blowout could've struck me down while pursuing the thrill of MMA—the sweat-soaked mats, the clinch work in Muay Thai, the intricate submissions in Jiu Jitsu. It would've been worth it, in a way; dying on the path to something you love. But I'm grateful it didn't. Life's squads change—friends move on, some pass away, and one day the online lobby is empty. If you want to revisit the glory days, it's up to you.

Playing the remaster now, I feel that pull of brotherhood stronger than ever. The original Gears wasn't just a game; it was a reminder of resilience, of sticking together through the worst. I miss those days, but I'm glad to be alive to remember them. El Lobo's long gone, but the lessons remain: Slow down when you feel the wobble, cherish the squad while you've got it, and keep fighting until you can't or don't have to anymore.

If this chapter resonates, maybe it's time to boot up an old favorite and reflect on your own near-misses. Life's too short not to.