I must apologize if my behavior seems a bit erratic lately. It must seem an odd sight, me and my modest (and growing) afro bouncing around town with fist pumping jubilantly at regular intervals and mouth uttering indecipherable gibberish.

But it’s that time of year again and I’m once more swept into the fervor that is this most excellent season of competitive athletics. I’m referring neither to the baseball playoffs which happily saw the failure of Steinbrenner’s mercenaries, nor the football season which is now well under way. And I’m definitely not talking about any of the fraudulent sports like NASCAR racing or golf.

No, this time of year there’s only one sport on my mind: Rock Paper Scissors.

With the World Rock Paper Scissors Championships a mere month away (Nov. 11 in Toronto), my extensive training regimen is starting to ramp up. When I’m not using my hands to earn a living or pound the world around me into submission, my time is dedicated to perfecting the fine art of RPS.

What on earth about RPS could require training, you might ask. After all, you might say, it’s just a game of random chance with each person having an equal likelihood of winning, losing or drawing. Rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper and paper beats rock, simple as that.

If I wasn’t in training, I’d backhand the ignorant fools who believe such malarkey.

RPS is just a crapshoot to the average unwashed heathen, but is a test of mind, body and spirit for those few who passionately pursue the perfection demanded of champions. It requires the immense physical prowess of a tiger on the hunt, the razor-sharp intellect of humanity’s greatest philosophers and an otherworldly understanding of self and one’s fellow human beings.

You must know what your opponent will throw before they know and must possess the strength to do whatever it takes when everything is on the line.

As this is my fourth year of competitive international play, I’m looking to bring home more than just a story; I’ll settle for nothing less than absolute victory.

Last year I only just began to appreciate the many subtleties of the sport and took my skills to the round of 64, where only 63 out of a starting pool of more than 500 stood between me and my rightful place on the throne.

However, I faltered, letting a moment of weakness and doubt seep in when I most needed to focus. That won’t happen again.

And so, I train. The added significance of my every movement is not lost on me as I contemplate the path I will take to victory and the tournament’s $5,000 purse. The flip of a pancake reveals a limpness of wrist that is unacceptable. The fumbling manipulation of a shoelace displays a glaring lack of necessary dexterity. And on and on it goes until all imperfections are eliminated and my hands become the absolute instruments of my will.

Make no mistake about it: this is not a noble quest and my squad of 10 will not be the heroes of this tale.