There are people whose mouths write checks their bodies can’t cash, whose bravado is bigger than their brawn. Who can be guaranteed to bristle at the slightest confrontation.

You know ‘em. People for whom the competition is a bigger deal than the actual feat, whose entire psyche is one, big button waiting to be pushed.

You might think this is something with which I’ve gained familiarity by virtue of being surrounded by adolescent boys. Nope. If anyone around here is prone to chest-thumping smack talk, it’s me. I’m a big talker, and without anything in particular to back it up.

There’s something about suggesting I sit something out, or wondering if I have the chops for anything in particular that will inspire my most irrational behavior.

I have two years of high school cross-country as evidence. I slogged my way through the first year, hating every step, to prove my dad wrong when he called me out for volunteering as team manager in order to earn a letter without doing any actual, athletic-ish work. I signed up for the second year to prove I don’t ever do anything to prove anything to anyone.

Then there were two seasons where I umpired my kid’s little league team even though I’d never actually even played baseball, or probably even watched a whole game. That particular behavior brought about by a team manager who shot off his big, dumb man mouth:

“I dunno, I guess a mom could do it.”