I knew two young brothers once, separated only by three years. One dove head first into water, the other was terrified of sand. One gently handed you his teddy bear, the other threw it to you from the top of the stairs. Although they were both my blood, and both my buddies, I had a special connection with the younger one. We shared something no one else in my family understood. If born into an American Indian tribe, neither of us would be chosen as Chief. Nor would we become the wise old feathered man chanting words of wisdom from the dark corner of a smoke filled tepee. The two of us shared the curious look of adventure. Not only the want to climb from the safety of our crib into the darkness of night, but the need to. Not only the will to run, but the desire to sprint. We shared the blood of warriors. And choice had little to do with it.