It was 1976.

Bear in mind please, that I was seventeen years old.

My wife Kathy is embarrassed by this story, though it happened years before we actually met. She was a hundred miles away and, well, she was eleven years old at the time. 

My sister Colleen and I--then living in Burbank, California--joined the throng standing in line for hours to see the latest Hollywood blockbuster, "Rocky." No, not the one about Bullwinkle and his buddy the squirrel; no, the inspirational one about the struggling, wannabe boxer who regains his self-respect by going the distance with the heavyweight champ--a bruiser by the name of Apollo Creed.

Colleen and I were packed into a large movie theater with well over a thousand others. I don't remember too much about the movie. Sure, I can recall Rocky's mumbled, syllabic greeting to his wife, "Yo, Adrian," and his triumphant flight up the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art to the music of "Gonna Fly Now." Not much else.

But, oh, I remember the fight scene.

The tension in the theater during the fight was palpable. He's down; he's up. Everyone in the theater was still. No one was traipsing the aisles toward the concession stands. The moviegoers were breathless, quiet. Their hands gripped the arms of their chairs. The only sound came from the screen. The sound of the punches bruising, breaking, tearing. The sound of the pugilists breathing, grunting, groaning. And the sound of the crowd, on their feet, pushed against the ropes of the ring, yelling, chanting, "Rocky, Rocky, Rocky!"

I've never worked so hard at a movie.

But, you know, sometimes you can't worry about what others might think. Just give into the encouraging impulse. It just might catch on. 

What would it look like--what would it take--were you to choose to become an impulsive, intuitive, encourager?