It all started with some stairs.

I work on the third floor of an office building but I often have to go to the first floor to drop things off. One day a couple of months ago I walked down and then back up, but I heard this sound that startled me. I happened to be walking past the copier and thought it was having mechanical problems, but it was off. And that’s when I realized — in a fit of horror — what was making the noise.

It was me. And I was wheezing from being out of breath. Like a full-on, Fatty McGee wheeze.

I’ve always been on the heavy side. Three years ago I freaked out when I stepped on the scale and saw I weighed 246 lbs. So I talked to a few of my fat guy friends and we decided to do something about it. We each put down $100 and had ourselves a weight loss challenge. My friend Alex lost 70-some odd pounds and I shed more than 30 myself. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to maintain my weight because Will was born and there just didn’t seem to be enough time to go to the gym when new dad duties were calling.

So it was no surprise to me that I put on weight. I grew out of my large shirts and moved into the “XL” territory. You should know MJ buys all my clothes and therefore I don’t even know what size I am. I noticed my x-large clothes started feeling tight, but suddenly I had new clothes and they fit so much better. I naively thought maybe I had miraculously shed a few pounds without working out or changing my ABYSMAL eating habits. So imagine my shock when I looked at the tag and saw the “XXL” staring me in the face.

I won’t lie, that shook me. And it forced me to find an answer to a question I had been dreading for months and months. How much did I weigh? I hadn’t had the guts to get on a scale, but at this point I was beginning to get concerned for my health. I was in XXL clothes, couldn’t walk up stairs without requiring oxygen and could barely play with my own son for more than a couple minutes at a time. So I sucked it up and stepped on the scale to see…

281 lbs.

If other people hadn’t been around at the time, I probably would’ve cried. Two hundred and eighty-one fucking pounds. I was disgusted, embarrassed and horrified. But more importantly, I was ANGRY. The anger is important because that’s what motivates me. I know I should want to lose weight for myself, for my family, to live longer and be a good role model — but that’s not gonna cut it. Horrible, I know. But it’s the truth.

Anger motivates me. So does competition. Knowing that, I contacted my friends Alex and Dave — two of my heavier friends — to see if they wanted to make some changes. They did. Suddenly emails were flying back and forth as we tried to come up with terms for a bet. This time, instead of money, we borrowed from the popular TV show “How I Met Your Mother” in which the characters on the show settle their friendly bets in a rather unorthodox way — the Slap Bet.

And that’s how FatSlap was born. Here are the rules:

We all weigh in on our own scales. You must use the same scale throughout the duration of the contest. The weight loss is measured by percentage. This is important since I’m actually the lightest guy, so it makes things a little more fair. Alex and I started the competition early at the beginning of January. Dave is going to join in starting Super Bowl weekend.

We have monthly weigh-ins and at each weigh-in, there will be slaps. The guy who has lost the most weight gets to open-hand slap the other two in the face. The second place finisher gets to slap the guy in third. Which means whoever finishes last will get slapped twice. Oh, and did I mention all of it will be on camera for people to enjoy on YouTube?

This will go on until the end of May. At the last weigh-in, slaps will still take place as usual. But as a bonus, the winner will get to have two “anytime” slaps. That means the winner will be able to slap the other two at any point with no restrictions. For example, if Alex wins and decides to wait until Will gets married and I’m making a speech at the wedding to smack me in front of everyone, then so be it.

Like I said, anger motivates me. OK, and fear as well. That’s why the mere thought of losing $100 in a bet won’t get me going. But lemme tell ya, the thought of my two huge friends with brute strength slapping the ever-lovin’ shit out of me multiple times gets my ass out of bed to run at 5 a.m.

And yes, I’ve been running. I was at 281 lbs and now I’m at 263. That’s 18 lbs in three weeks. Not bad. But Alex, who weighed in at 399 lbs, has lost 42 lbs in that time so I’m in some trouble. But I’ve been tracking every single calorie that’s entered my body and I completely changed my eating habits. I run 2.6 miles 3-4 times a week. It’s slow going but I’m doing it.

As for Alex, I’ll let him tell you his story in his own words. Be warned, he likes to talk even more than I do:

Well for starters, I’m fat. It may be stating the obvious, but that’s the most salient detail, isn’t it? In this context, that’s what people want to know more about anyway. Who cares about the other stuff?

There aren’t TV shows devoted to people losing weight so that the audience can find out that Fatty McFatterson is an avid reader and movie buff (as I am). The audience wants to know how many X’s are on the tag of his shirt- mine have four of them these days, though there are a few brands where a 3X is better. Fun fact: the size at which no men’s clothing can, under any circumstances, actually be said to “look good on you” is 4XL.

People aren’t interested in the fact that I travel 150-200 days and 125,000+ miles a year for a living. Not yet anyway. They want to know if I need one of those seat belt extensions on the plane- Believe it or not, almost never. However, there are a few planes that haven’t been refurbished since you could smoke on planes, flight attendants were called stewardesses, and many male stewards were called “confirmed bachelors.” On these planes I find one useful, but can get by without if I need to.

Who cares if I’m mid-thirties, single, with no kids? Folks want to know if I’m fat enough to break furniture- I am. Or more honestly, I have. It was patio furniture, sure, but that made it no less embarrassing. Oh, and one dining room chair, which I still maintain was of sub-par quality as it was probably 10 years ago and I was not that fat at the time (I weighed less than Aaron does now).

It’s okay. You can relax. I’m not bitter or angry. This isn’t where I snap and start typing in all caps, DO YOU WANT ME TO DANCE FOR YOU?  YOU WANT FATTY TO DANCE? Um, more to the point I guess it is. Just not seriously. I just figured this is what most everyone would want to know. I’m fat enough to be the baritone in a barbershop quartet in Skokie, IL. I’m talking like orca fat. Told you- movie buff. (As I hope you already know the whole “barber shop/orca” thing is a Usual Suspects reference. If you haven’t seen it, stop reading this right now and go watch it.

As the fattest participant in this competition, I’m either the odds-on favorite or the underdog depending on who you ask. For the record, I should be the favorite. I’ve lost large amounts of weight before. On one of said occasions I whipped my friends in a competition similar to this one (money only, unlike this time around no actual whipping). Aaron was one of them. Dave was not. It can be done.

Here’s hoping I do it again.

Brass Tacks:

Name: TheViking (I like to keep what comes up on a google search professional)

Website: www.mightyviking.com *

Twitter: @themightyviking *

Height: 5’10”

Starting Weight: 399lbs.**

Weight loss method: Healthy low carb. There are lots of diets with lots of different names that all push the same thing. And they’re all corporate money sucking machines that try to sell you chemical-ridden “bars” and the like. So I won’t use brand names. Think eggs for breakfast, salad for lunch, grilled chicken or lean steak and lots of veggies for dinner, with nuts for snacking. And lots of water.

*The domain “themightyviking” was taken, as was the twitter handle “@mightyviking”. It’s a little confusing, but it’s also too late to fix, so there it is.

**This isn’t an asterisk where I explain I had a big meal or my shoes on (true, false). I can hem and haw all I want, at the end of the day I was a four hundred pounder (“was” because, being the procrastinator I am, I’m writing this after the original weigh-in. As of this posting I’m closer to 350 than 400.  If you’re asking yourself “what’s the difference, you’re still huge?” good for you, you’re not fat- but there’s a difference. Also suck it, I’m working on it.) Either way, I’ve come to terms with 400. I own 400, so this isn’t an asterisk for that. This is an asterisk for those people who know me and are surprised to learn I weighed that much. This also goes for anyone who knows someone dieting (especially successfully). DO NOT TELL ME, NOW THAT I’M LOSING WEIGHT, HOW CONCERNED YOU WERE FOR ME (OR MY HEALTH, ETC…) AND HOW GLAD YOU ARE TO SEE ME DOING WELL LOSING WEIGHT. DO NOT REMARK ON HOW SURPRISED YOU WERE TO LEARN THE ACTUAL NUMBER. I plan to write about this in the near future, so I’ll save you the whys and wherefores right now. Just trust me on this. If you have to mention successful weight loss to anyone, tell them they look good (not better, good). I’ll leave it at that for now.

So there we are. Your first two participants. We’ll have Dave’s info when he joins us in a couple weeks. In the meantime, Alex and I are posting our “before” pictures even though it makes us physically ill to do so. Feel free to leave us comments (we appreciate the positive and we’ll feed off the negative) and we’ll post all the updates (and especially the slap videos) as they happen.

Alex & I in the dreaded “Before” pics:

So I guess it’s only natural for him to wonder how they come out too.

It started Saturday when I told him Jordan was born and showed him a picture. He was ecstatic and wanted to hold her, because he recently held Amy and loved it. It was so cute because of how focused he was. He took his responsibilities as a baby-holder ULTRA seriously and was all business. It took major coaxing just to get him to loosen up and smile. But I digress…

So long story short, Will asked me how baby Jordan came out of Kelly’s stomach. I wasn’t sure how to answer, so I bought myself more time by asking him how he thinks babies are born.

“Baby Jordan came out of Auntie Kelly’s bellybutton,” he said.

We all have different parenting styles. For instance, some parents would be tempted to concur with Will’s explanation of childbirth and leave it at that. Others opt to make up a story that loosely resembles the truth but skips all the uncomfortable parts. I don’t fault the parents who go these routes. I get it. But ultimately, when faced with these situations, I’ve chosen a vastly different path.

Honesty. Brutal honesty.

“Not quite buddy,” I began gingerly. “Babies don’t come out of a bellybutton. Actually, they come out of a woman’s vagina.”

“WHAT?!? ‘Baginas??’ Stop it dad. You’re kidding.”

“Nope, I’m serious,” I said. “The mom pushes the baby out through her vagina. That’s how it happens.”

But apparently the mere notion of natural childbirth was decidedly unnatural to my son. He really didn’t believe me. So, faced with his continued curiosity and the fact that he doesn’t believe me, I did what all modern parents do when facing a quandary.

I asked for advice on Twitter.

I got some well-intentioned, run-of-the-mill advice at first but then someone suggested something very simple and brilliant. He said there are many videos of natural childbirth on YouTube, so why not show Will what I was talking about instead of inadequately attempting to describe it?

I know what some of you are thinking. You’re screaming “Are you crazy??? You’re going to show your 3.5-year-old a video of a partially nude woman giving birth?! That’s so inappropriate!” And that’s fine, you’re welcome to your opinions. I know my sister-in-law Melissa had the same reaction, and she’s a medical doctor. But I see absolutely nothing pornographic or inappropriate about childbirth, and therefore I see no reason not to show Will. It’s pretty much akin to breastfeeding. Yes Will sees a glimpse of a woman’s breast at times when she’s feeding a newborn, but so what? We tell him that’s how babies eat. And he accepts it, realizes it’s no big deal and moves on.

I want to be honest with my son and give him straight answers whenever possible. And this was one of those times when it made total sense. So, I showed him.

The video was of a woman engaged in a homebirth. She was pushing and grunting, and Will watched with a look that conveyed interest mixed with confusion. Then the woman got on her knees with her back to the camera, gave one final push and suddenly the baby’s head was visible. Will’s jaw dropped and he smiled, pointing to the baby. And for a moment, I was very proud of my son for being so adult, and for my parenting techniques and decision to show him.

“Do you have any questions bud?” I asked.

“Yeah dada. Why does the baby come out of the mama’s bum?”

Ruh-roh Shaggy.

“No no no, the baby didn’t come out of her bum. It came out of her vagina.”

“Um Dad, ACTUALLY it came out of her bum. Look.”

“Will, I know it kinda looks like the baby came out of her bum, but trust me. It didn’t. Babies come out of vaginas.”

“How do you know, Dad?”

“Because I watched when you were born and I would’ve remembered you coming out of Mom’s bum. Trust me, you came out the vagina.”

“But Dada, there’s pee in baginas. Did mom pee on me?”

At that point, far off in the distance, I thought I heard the distinct sound of a train derailing, crashing into a building and then careening over a cliff landing with a fiery explosion. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, I went from teaching my son a valuable life lesson to discussing ass play and golden showers. And the worst part is he’s obsessed with babies right now and he talks to anyone who will listen about babies falling out of bums and how mom peed on him.

Needless to say I’m dreading the inevitable call from his preschool teacher, and having to explain to her that my son and I were watching YouTube videos together and talking about vaginas and assholes.

That stupid stork is looking more and more appealing.

A lot changes when you have a kid. Many of those changes are absolutely wonderful and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But others are sad. Namely, as a guy, there’s a stark realization that when one of your friends has a kid, there’s a definite chance you’ll essentially lose him as a friend.

There are several factors at work. First of all, having a kid is the ultimate time-suck (and I mean that in the best way possible). Getting into a routine, diaper changes, midnight feedings…it’s exhausting and takes maximum effort. Then they become mobile and require even more looking after, then toddlerhood and finally onto youth sports, drama club, music lessons, etc. It is truly all-consuming. But there are other reasons too.

Some wives use a baby’s arrival as an opportunity to cut “undesirable” friends out of her husband’s life.

Protest all you want, but it’s true. I’ve seen it happen. She makes him feel guilty the minute he says he wants a night out with his friends. She tells him he’s a father now, he shouldn’t be going out, he’s irresponsible, etc. All of his friends call him and invite him out at every turn, but he never comes. Then he stops returning calls. Then the friends stop bothering to invite him. In the blink of an eye everyone has lost a good buddy, and that’s not right.

Much is being made of “dadchelor parties” for men but it’s much more than that douchey name implies. I probably shouldn’t let you behind the Man Curtain, but I’m going to because I think this is important.

I love my friends. They’re extremely important to me. Before I got married and had kids I spent every single weekend with them. We’d gather at someone’s house, drink, eat, talk and have fun. Sometimes we got a little nuts and it turned into a mini bachelor party (no strippers, just booze and girls and fun), but for the most part we just hung out.

And despite what all the sitcoms would have you think, we didn’t just have farting and belching contests. We talked. A lot. We talked about our girlfriends, our jobs, our successes, our failures and where we were headed. I’ve had more meaningful drunk 3 a.m. front porch conversations with my friends than I can count. And sure, while we might spend the majority of our time hurling finely crafted insults at one another, there was some important stuff mixed in there too.

It was so important to me that when MJ and I started talking about marriage, I told her I’d still need a decent amount of time with the guys. Thankfully she understands completely and has no problem with me going out from time to time. Not a lot, but enough. But some guys have far less understanding wives and aren’t so lucky. And that’s too bad.

Men won’t often admit they need their friends. That sounds weak, or even “gay.” And when we get married or have a kid, there is a genuine fear we’ll lose our friends. And therefore a little bit of ourselves. And that’s a valid worry because it happens all the time, made worse when a wife decides it’s irresponsible or disrespectful for him to spend any time at all away from his family.

But for guys like me, there’s no line between good friends and family. And there’s no doubt I’m a happier man—a better father and husband even—when I can carve out a little time with the people I love without being made to feel guilty about it. And yes, sometimes that time could include going on a bender and getting juvenile and stupid. But so what? As long as I’m giving my wife the opportunity to do whatever makes her happy on her own, and as long as I’m not consistently shirking my duties as husband and father, the occasional party binge with friends is just fine.

But ladies, rest assured that what appears to be a regression back to our college frat days has deeper meaning. Sure we’re drinking and carrying on, but we’re also reconnecting and renewing our male friendships. Like any relationship, it takes effort to maintain them. We wouldn’t deny you “Girls Night Out,” so stop getting all bent out of shape about our guy excursions.

Men need friends too.

The pageantry that night was second to none. Soldiers from all branches of our armed forces were present and accounted for, hundreds of them lining the field. Distinguished veterans were honored and threw out pitches. A soldier with a prosthetic leg running the bases was a particularly poignant moment.

And then came the piece de resistance:

Fenway’s fabled Green Monster—which stands 37-1/2 feet tall in left field—was draped in an enormous American flag while the Star Spangled Banner was performed. And as you can see, our seats provided prime viewing.

It was a powerful moment. But it’s what happened afterwards that moved me most.

My friend—my tough as nails, macho, 6’5″ mountain of a friend—had tears in his eyes. And I realized in that moment how much I take for granted. I donated some money once to a non-profit organization that helps veterans and I take my hat off when the national anthem is played. Aside from that, I haven’t served my country in any tangible way.

But my friend (and countless others just like him) have done so. And then some. They’ve left their families for months and even years at a time, often missing huge milestones such as birthdays, anniversaries and even the births of their kids. They’ve dodged bullets in the desert, and sometimes those bullets didn’t miss. They’ve watched their friends die and they’ve had to defend themselves. Often by lethal means.

Some don’t come back, but even the ones who do don’t always come back whole. The missing parts aren’t as obvious as an absence of limbs either. It’s insidious PTSD, nightmares and memories that never seem to fade. It’s not being able to enter a city block without worrying about snipers, or being uncomfortable every time you’re around a large group of people. It’s being petrified about assimilating back into a society after witnessing the unspeakable.

Is it any wonder the song that encompasses all those things brings tears to the eyes of the people who have taken it upon themselves to experience the unimaginable horror of war so we don’t have to be burdened with it?

I’ve been around veterans when people from the general public come up to them and ask/say stupid things. “How many people did you kill?” “Were you shot at?” “Did anyone in your unit die?” I’m not sure what it is about that uniform that seems to give people the right to think it’s OK to ask ridiculously insensitive questions, but it does happen. And I want to punch them in the face.

I don’t know the best way to honor veterans. But personally, if I see a veteran I offer a handshake and a simple “thank you for your service.” And for my friends who served, I’m just there. There if they want to talk about what happened, and there when they want to talk about everything else instead.

When it comes to Will, all I can do is instill in him an appreciation for the monumental sacrifice our veterans make for us. And lucky for us both, I happen to have a handful of friends I can show him who illustrate that point perfectly.

Happy Memorial Day. And thank you—all of you who put your lives on the line for this country—for your service.

Then one day she starts complaining about headaches, dizziness and a little nausea. It’s slightly unusual, but nothing to get in a tizzy about. Until a visit to the pediatrician reveals she’s having trouble with basic motor skills. So the doctor schedules an MRI.

Medulloblastoma.

You can barely pronounce it, nevermind comprehend its devastating awfulness. But the bottom line is it’s cancer, and your little girl has it. The tumor is removed and found to be malignant. But because she is young, strong and full of life, she fights back. She recovers quickly, even to the point she can leave the hospital and finally go home.

But the celebrating and happiness is short-lived.

The vomiting returns. Then the dizziness and headaches. So it’s back to the hospital less than three weeks after the first surgery, only to discover even more unimaginable news. The tumor has already grown back. And it’s back with a vengeance. Once again it spread and multiplied. It’s also putting pressure on the brain stem—which regulates breathing— meaning she can’t even draw sufficient breath from her hospital bed.

Surgery is no longer an option. And as if that news isn’t bad enough, it forces her parents to make a heart-wrenching choice. You see, before the return of the tumor it was possible (and favorable) to treat the cancer with slightly lower doses of radiation to prevent harm to the girl’s still-developing brain. But when faced with a cancerous tumor more aggressive than many doctors at a renowned Boston hospital have ever seen, the stakes—and circumstances—change dramatically.

Imagine being the parent who has to decide to move forward with higher amounts of radiation, knowing full well the chemo has the potential to cause severe developmental delays to the child’s brain. But you do it, because it’s what you have to do.

And then, in the middle of this tornado of misery and seemingly just for sick kicks, the family dog dies. I shit you not, I couldn’t make it up if I tried.

Last month, this twisted nightmare became a reality for Leah Fernandes and her family.

Leah is the 5-year-old daughter of Rhiannon, one of my friends from high school. Rhiannon and her husband Peter have two kids, and they’re well known in my hometown of Norton. Peter owns and operates Chartley Country Store, an infamous little convenience/grocery with a kickass butcher shop. My son Will knows it as “The Cow Building” because of the picture of a cow on the side of the shop. And not to be outdone, Rhiannon is a rockstar who plays in a cover band called Kunochi, which plays all over southeastern Mass.

I haven’t talked to Rhiannon in years and I’ve never met Leah or their other son Lukas. But Rhiannon is one of the sweetest, most down to Earth people I’ve ever known. She’s always been kind and considerate, yet tough and fiesty. And I imagine the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

As I read their accounts of the ordeal I was overcome. In all respects. As a parent, I cannot imagine going through this. I just can’t. I’ve tried to put myself in Rhiannon and Peter’s shoes, but it’s impossible. My mind literally cannot fathom something this fucked up happening to Will. I think I’d fall to pieces, and rightly so. But Rhiannon and Peter have remained so strong. Both for Leah and their son Lukas. And their bravery in the face of incomprehensible woe is truly the stuff of legends.

However, they are outdone only by their daughter Leah.

She’s smiling in every picture they’ve taken over the last month. After two brain surgeries and more bad news than any kid should ever have to handle, Rhiannon said she’s doing arts & crafts and enjoying the bounty brought to her by the Easter Bunny. And amazingly, Leah has never complained. Not even a little. Not even once.

If there’s a silver lining here, it’s been the community’s response to “Leah Bear,” as she is lovingly called by friends and relatives.

To date, more than $10,000 has been raised for the Fernandes family to make the long commute to and from Boston, as well as meet expenses that occur when parents have to take that much time off work. And that’s without a lick of media attention. While I wish I could donate more money, I’m trying to contribute by reaching out to every local media contact I have to get them to do a story. A few media outlets are in the process of working something up, but I wanted to put it on the blog as well.

There are motorcycle charity rides, comedy shows, Texas Hold Em tournaments, bracelets and a handful of other events set up to help Leah. You can check them all out and get more info by clicking here or here. They had a PayPal account, but I’ve been told it’s frozen. So I know times are tough, but if you can spare even a little bit, all donations can be mailed to:

Leah Fernandes Donations

c/o North Easton Savings Bank

P.O. Box 495

25 W. Main Street

Norton, MA 02766

I can’t imagine having to go through this and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But I know when MJ and I were going through our ordeal last year (which does not even come CLOSE to what the Fernandes’ are enduring), I was comforted by the humanity displayed by friends and strangers alike. I can’t tell you what it meant to get cards, emails, donations and even comments from people—some of whom didn’t even know us—telling us we were in their thoughts. And while raising awareness for Leah is miniscule in the “Pay It Forward” department, it’s a start.

I think about what’s happening to Leah and I cry. I can’t help it, it breaks my heart. But she can’t cry. Neither can her parents. They can’t afford to because they are literally in the fight of their lives. We can’t possibly know their pain or erase it. But we can help to ease it, even if it is just ever so slightly.

So please, if you can, donate. And if you can’t, that’s OK. I invite you to leave a comment here or on Leah’s Facebook, supporting her and her amazing family.

Leah, I follow your progress every day. And while you don’t know me, I hope you know there are people just like me who you’ve never met, thinking about you each and everyday and trying to do whatever they can to help you. Same goes for Rhiannon, Peter and Lukas, and all of your close friends and family members.

Keep fighting Leah. If you’re anything like your mom, you have enough class, dignity and strength just in your pinky finger to beat this thing. Because you WILL beat it!