Columnist Scott Dickensheets: Best friends; best enemies; best -- period

SCOTT DICKENSHEETS' column appears Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Reach him at 259-4082 or [email protected].

LIKE MOST best friends, Steve and I want to wipe each other out. Annihilate each other. Shake our fists over the other's body form.

Did I mention we're friends?

There are many dynamics to our 15-year friendship. One of the most salient is an intense, thoroughly male and therefore quite childish competitiveness. "Anything you can do, I can do better," he sings frequently. It rarely ceases. I employ my superior wit and much larger brain to make him feel foolish; he uses his superior athletic skills and handy mechanical know-how to make me look foolish. Aside from card games, most of our one-upsmanship takes place during silly recreational activities.

We started on the water. Years ago at Lake Mead, we took turns being dragged behind his speedboat on innertubes, seeing who could hang on the longest and at the highest speeds. Here, Steve was well served by his natural physicality. I made up for that with an iron grip born of sheer terror, as well as a reckless disregard for such minor considerations as bones and tendons. Call it a draw. The score so far: Steve 1, Scott 1.

In water-skiing, let's just say I lost face-down. Steve 2, Scott 1.

Then, for a few exhilarating years, Steve and I engaged in lakeside cliff-jumping. Perched on some tiny shelf of rock, the boat like a bathtub floatie down there, trying not to think about the speed of impact, I prided myself on this: Any cliff he was stupid enough to jump from, I was stupid enough to jump from. Another draw. Steve 3, Scott 2.

As we aged -- me more gracefully than him, I must say -- our competitions sometimes moved indoors. On the racquetball court, my grit, keen eye and thumping service game were no match at all for Steve's skill, guile and kill shot. The last time we played, he whipped me so thoroughly I should have refunded his half of the court fee. Steve 4, Scott 2.

If it appears Steve has the edge, it's only because I haven't mentioned his stunning defeat in that ultimate arena of male rivalry, propane-bottle shooting. And because it occurred in Steve's area of singular expertise -- firearms -- I earned valuable triple bonus points.

The circumstances are unimportant; somewhere, on a desolate wilderness shooting range, we stood a few yards from a propane bottle. Challenging me to shoot the tiny cap from its top, Steve handed me his .357 Magnum, unaware that he was really handing me the key to his final disgrace.

I must have gone Zen for an instant because I simply fired toward the can and, pling, off came the lid. Steve was aghast; I seem to recall foul language. As for me, there was a giddy, transcendent moment in which I really rubbed it in. However, that was quickly followed by a moment in which I rubbed it in even more. Steve 4, Scott 5.

I rarely fail to remind him of this whenever necessary, which, because I'm his best friend, is only every other day or so. And ... oops ... it seems I've just revealed his secret shame TO THE ENTIRE WORLD, or at least that Sun-reading portion of it, letting thousands of people share Steve's SHATTERING, ANGUISHING, NIGHTMARISH HUMILIATION AT MY HANDS!

Make that Steve 4, Scott 6. Anything he can do, I can do better. Although I can already imagine his response: "Let's play racquetball!"

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