Burbank, California, Golden Harvest Studios.

Stage 4th September 27th, 1972 Wednesday Afternoon, 2:17 p.m.

the sound of a clapperboard echoes through the cavernous film stage.

Take 47, the same fight sequence they’ve been shooting since 10 a.m.

the same choreography, the same movements over and over.

The director calls cut for the 47th time, and the tension in the air is thick enough to taste.

137 people occupy this space.

Cast members in costume.

Camera operators.

Adjusting angles.

Lighting technicians.

Repositioning reflectors.

Makeup artists standing by with powder and sweat towels.

Producers watching from behind monitors.

And somewhere in the organized chaos, Bruce Lee stands perfectly still.

Sweat barely visible on his forehead despite the brutal stage lights that have been cooking everyone for four hours.

But Bruce isn’t the problem.

He never is.

The problem is the stuntman, the one who keeps missing his mark, the one who’s supposed to react to Bruce’s strikes with perfect timing but keeps flinching too early, too late to obviously fake the one whose ego is writing checks his body can’t cash.

His name doesn’t matter anymore.

History forgot it, but everyone on that set remembers what happened next.

Everyone who was there spent the rest of their lives telling the story.

Some with or some with disbelief.

All of them changed by what they witnessed in the next eight seconds, because in eight seconds, everything they thought they knew about speed, about human capability, about the difference between movie fighting and real fighting would be shattered like glass under a hammer.

This is not legend.

This is not exaggeration.

This is exactly what happened when a professional Hollywood stuntman made the worst mistake of his career.

When he looked at Bruce Lee, the man who had been pulling his punches for the cameras all day and said five words that would become infamous.

Show me your real speed.

Four hours earlier, 10 a.

m.

the same stage.

The morning energy is different.

Fresh, optimistic.

The film is three weeks into production, a medium budget martial arts picture that Golden Harvest is betting will break through to American audiences.

Bruce Lee is already known The Green Hornet.

Guest appearances.

Demonstrations that left audiences speechless.

But this film, this is supposed to be different.

This is supposed to prove that a Chinese actor can carry an American martial arts film.

But kung fu isn’t just tricks and wire work.

The pressure is enormous.

The studio executives are watching.

The American distributors are skeptical.

The critics are waiting to dismiss it as another cheap chop socky export.

Everything has to be perfect.

Every punch has to look devastating.

Every kick has to defy physics.

Every fight sequence has to make audiences forget they’re watching choreography.

And Bruce knows this.

He feels it in every muscle.

Every movement is calculated.

Every strike is controlled.

He’s not just acting.

He’s representing an entire philosophy, an entire culture.

The weight of expectation sits on his shoulders like a physical thing.

The stunt man arrives at 9:45 a.

m.

.

Let’s call him David.

Not his real name.

But it doesn’t matter.

David is six feet, one inch, 195 pounds.

Built like someone who’s spent serious time in a gym.

He’s worked on 23 films, westerns, crime dramas, action pictures.

He knows how to take a fall.

He knows how to make a punch look good.

He’s competent, professional, and he’s heard about Bruce Lee.

Everyone’s heard about Bruce Lee.

The stories circulate through Hollywood stunt communities like folklore.

Bruce can punch six times in one second.

Bruce can kick before you see him move.

Bruce broke a heavy bag with a sidekick and sent it flying 15ft.

Bruce sparred with professional boxers and made them look slow.

David has heard all of it.

And like most professional stuntmen who’ve spent years learning their craft, who’ve taken real hits and real fools who’ve bled for their paychecks.

He’s skeptical.

Very skeptical.

Stunt work is about illusion.

Camera angles, timing, selling the impact without real contact.

You learn to make it look real without anyone actually getting hurt.

That’s the job.

That’s the craft.

And in David’s experience, these martial arts guys, especially the ones from Hong Kong, they’re good at demonstrations.

Good at breaking boards and doing forms.

But real fighting, real speed.

That’s different.

That’s always different.

The morning rehearsal begins.

The scene is straightforward.

Bruce’s character confronts three opponents in a warehouse.

Quick.

Brutal.

Efficient.

The fight is supposed to last 42 seconds on screen, but to film it properly, they’ll shoot it in segments.

Master shot.

Close ups, reaction shots.

Insert shot.

Two fists connecting the usual construction of a movie fight.

David is opponent number two.

His job is simple throw a punch at Bruce.

React when Bruce blocks.

Take the counter.

Strike full convincingly.

Standard stunt work routine.

He’s done this 100 times.

The choreographer walks them through it step by step.

Bruce demonstrates his blocking technique.

Soft controlled, pulling every movement.

This is rehearsal.

This is safety.

The actual filming will add speed.

Add intensity, but never real contact, never real force.

David nods.

Understands.

They run through it twice.

Three times.

It looks good.

The choreographer approves.

The director approves.

They’re ready to shoot.

10:47 a.

m.

.

First, take the cameras roll.

The scene begins.

David throws his punch.

Bruce blocks the counter.

Comes.

David reacts.

Falls.

Cut! Perfect.

The director is happy.

The camera operator confirms.

Focus.

They reset.

Take two.

Same sequence.

Smooth.

Professional cut.

Good.

Reset.

Take three.

Same sequence.

But this time something’s off.

David’s timing is early.

He flinches before Bruce’s counter even comes on camera.

It looks fake.

Two obviously choreographed.

Cut.

The director isn’t happy.

Reset.

Try again.

Take four.

David.

Overcompensate.

Now he’s late.

The reaction looks delayed.

Unnatural.

Cut.

Reset.

Take five.

Early again.

Cut.

Reset.

Take six.

Late.

Cut.

Reset by.

Take 12.

Frustration is setting in.

The director’s voice has an edge.

The other actors are getting restless.

Bruce remains patient, calm.

He adjust his timing to help David go slower.

More obviously telegraphed.

Anything to help the stunt man find the rhythm.

Take 15.

Still not right.

Take 20.

Getting worse.

Take 25.

The producers are muttering behind the monitors.

By noon, they break for lunch.

28 takes one sequence.

Nothing usable.

The tension is palpable.

David sits alone, eating quickly, his jaw tight.

He knows he’s the problem.

He knows.

Everyone knows.

The pressure is building.

His professional pride is taking a beating with every failed take.

And somewhere in that pressure, in that mounting frustration, something starts to twist in David’s mind.

1 p.

m.

they resume the afternoon heat on the soundstage is oppressive.

The lights are hotter.

Everyone’s patience is thinner.

Take 29.

Cut, reset.

Take 35.

Cut.

Reset.

Take 40.

Cut.

Reset.

Bruce pulls the director aside, speaks quietly.

Let me work with him.

One on one, just for a few minutes.

Off camera.

The director, desperate, agrees.

Anything to get this sequence in the can.

Bruce and David step to the side of the stage, away from the crew, away from the cameras.

Just the two of them.

Bruce’s voice is gentle, not condescending.

Not impatient.

You’re anticipating.

Don’t think about the block.

Don’t think about the counter.

Just throw your punch and let your body react naturally to what happens.

David nods.

I know, I know.

I just I can’t see it coming.

Your movement.

It’s too controlled.

Too perfect.

It doesn’t feel real.

So my body doesn’t know when to react.

Bruce pauses, considers this.

You want it to feel more real? I need to see the actual speed.

Then I can time it right.

And there it is.

The seed of what’s coming.

1:23 p.

m.

the conversation continues.

Bruce understands the problem.

He’s been here before.

Not just on this film, but on every film.

Every demonstration.

Every time he’s had to work with someone trained in traditional methods.

There’s a gap, a disconnect between what people expect fighting to look like and what real speed actually is.

In movies, everything is slowed down, telegraphed, extended.

You wind up before you punch.

So the camera catches it.

You freeze at the moment of impact.

So the editor has frames to work with.

You react in slow motion so the audience can process what happened.

It’s all illusion, all construction, but real speed.

Real martial art.

Speed.

It doesn’t look like the movies.

It doesn’t wind up.

It doesn’t telegraph it doesn’t give you time to process.

It just happens.

And then it’s over.

And your brain is still trying to understand what your eyes just saw.

David has never experienced that.

Not really.

He’s worked with action stars who were fast, coordinated, athletic, but movie fast.

Camera fast.

The kind of speed that looks good on film but would never work in an actual confrontation.

Bruce makes a decision, one he’ll later say he regretted, one that will cause problems with the producers.

But in this moment with the clock ticking, with the production falling behind schedule, with this stunt man’s confidence crumbling and taking the whole shoot down with it, Bruce decides to show him.

Okay, Bruce says quietly, but not here.

Not with everyone watching.

Let’s go to the backlot.

Just you, me, and maybe a couple of people who understand what they’re looking at.

David agrees immediately.

He needs this, needs to feel like he’s not completely incompetent.

Needs to understand what he’s supposed to be reacting to.

They inform the director he’s not happy about the delay, but he’s even less happy about burning film stock on unusable takes.

Fine.

15 minutes.

That’s all.

We’re already behind schedule.

Bruce nods.

15 minutes.

That’s all this will take.

1:35 p.

m.

.

The backlot behind stage four.

There’s an open area, concrete floor, 30ft by 30ft, surrounded by equipment crates and old set pieces.

It’s where stunt coordinator sometimes work out fight sequences away from the main production, where actors practice between takes.

Private, quiet, perfect.

Word spreads fast on a film set, especially when Bruce Lee is involved.

Especially when something unusual is happening.

By the time Bruce and David reach the backlot, they’re not alone.

17 people have followed.

Not the whole crew.

Just the ones who matter.

The stunt coordinator.

Three other stunt men who’ve been watching David struggle all morning.

Two camera operators on their lunch break.

The assistant director, a lighting technician who studied martial arts in college.

The script supervisor, a production assistant, and others.

Curious.

Skeptical, some hoping to see something remarkable.

Others hoping to see Bruce exposed as just another movie martial artist.

No cameras.

No recording equipment.

This is not for the film.

This is not for publicity.

This is just for David.

Just to help him understand.

That’s what Bruce thinks anyway.

David doesn’t realize he’s about to become part of a story that will be told for the next 50 years.

Doesn’t realize that every person watching is about to witness something they’ll describe over and over for the rest of their lives, something they’ll tell their children, their grandchildren, something they’ll be asked about in interviews decades later.

All he knows is that he needs to see Bruce’s real speed so he can do his job properly.

Bruce removes his jacket.

He’s wearing a simple black t shirt underneath his arms, a lean, not bulky, not the exaggerated muscles of bodybuilders or the thick mass of heavyweight boxers.

Just efficient.

Every muscle visible.

Every tendon defined the body of someone who spent 10,000 hours refining movement.

David is bigger, taller, heavier, more conventionally powerful looking in a street fight between two random people.

Most observers would bet on David.

Size.

Reach.

Mass.

The advantages are obvious, but this isn’t a street fight, and these aren’t random people.

Here’s what we’ll do, Bruce says, his voice calm and clear so everyone can hear.

You’re going to stand exactly where you need to stand for the scene.

I’m going to stand where I’ll be on camera.

You’ll throw your punch exactly how you’ve been throwing it all morning.

Full speed.

Full extension.

Don’t hold back.

David nods.

This makes sense.

This is what they’ve been doing.

But this time, Bruce continues.

I’m not going to pull my counter.

I’m going to move at the speed I would use in an actual confrontation.

Not full power.

I’m not going to hurt you, but real speed.

Real technique.

No camera tricks.

No slow motion.

Just what it actually looks like.

David feels a flutter of nervousness, but also excitement.

This is what he wanted.

What should I do? When you counter nothing.

Bruce says don’t try to react.

Don’t try to block.

Don’t try to move.

Just throw your punch and see what happens.

Your job is to observe, to feel it.

Then you’ll understand what you’re supposed to be reacting to on camera.

The crowd forms a loose circle.

Everyone’s quiet now.

The usual film set chatter has stopped.

There’s something about Bruce’s energy, his focus, the way he’s completely present in this moment.

It commands attention.

Silence.

David takes his position.

He’s standing square, shoulders facing Bruce, his right hand cocked back, ready to throw a straight punch.

A standard stump fighting stance.

Not a boxer’s stance.

Not a martial artist stance.

Movie stance.

Bruce stands seven feet away, relaxed hands at his sides.

Weight centered.

He looks almost casual, like he’s waiting for a bus.

Not like someone about to demonstrate anything significant.

One of the stunt men in the crowd whispers to his colleague.

This is going to be disappointing.

There’s no way he’s as fast as the story.

Say no one is.

His colleague whispers back.

I trained with some fast guys.

Golden gloves boxers.

Speed is speed.

There’s a limit to human reaction time.

Physics doesn’t care how much kung fu you know.

They’re about to be proven wrong about everything.

Bruce looks at David.

Ready? David nods.

Ready? Remember full speed, full commitment.

Don’t hold back your punch.

I need you to really try to hit me, otherwise this won’t work.

David nods again.

His competitive pride kicks in.

Part of him wants to land this punch.

Wants to prove that the stunt man can tag.

The martial arts master wants to show that all these legends are just stories.

He sets his feet, focuses.

Bruce is seven feet away.

That’s two steps and an arm extension.

Maybe 1.

5 seconds to cover the distance.

Fast, but not impossibly fast.

David has done this a thousand times.

Different opponents, different scenes, different films.

This is just another punch.

Except it isn’t.

Whenever you’re ready, Bruce says softly.

The backlot is silent.

17 people hold their breath.

Some of them don’t know why.

They just feel it.

Something is about to happen.

Something significant.

David exhales.

Muscles coil.

His weight shifts to his back foot.

The tell of someone about to explode.

Forward.

Anyone who’s ever trained to fight can read the preparation.

The loading of the spring before it releases.

Then he moves fast.

Genuinely fast.

Not movie fast.

David is a professional athlete.

Six one, 195 pounds of train muscle.

When he commits to a punch, there’s real speed behind it.

Real power.

His front foot drives forward.

His hips rotate.

His right hand launches like a piston.

A straight punch aimed at Bruce’s face.

Full extension.

Full speed.

Exactly what Bruce asked for.

In the world of normal human reaction time.

In the world of ordinary martial artists.

In the world of conventional fighting.

This punch should land.

Or at the very least, force Bruce to step back.

We’ve, Bob, do something defensive.

But Bruce Lee doesn’t live in the world of ordinary martial artists.

What happens next takes eight seconds.

But those eight seconds contain more movement, more technique, more pure demonstration of martial arts mastery than most fighters display in their entire careers.

David’s punch launches forward.

His fist is traveling fast, maybe 15mph, maybe 20.

Hard to judge in real time, but fast enough that most people would have to move to avoid it.

Bruce doesn’t move.

Not yet.

He waits.

Not out of arrogance.

Not out of showmanship.

Out of precision.

Timing isn’t about being fast.

It’s about being exact.

Moving too early is just as wrong as moving too late.

David’s fist crosses the seven foot gap.

Six feet, five feet, four feet.

Close enough now that most defensive reactions would have already started.

Most fighters would have flinched, shifted, done something.

Bruce remains perfectly still.

Three feet.

The fist is committed now.

David can’t pull back.

Can’t redirect.

All his weight is moving forward.

All his momentum is in that punch.

Two feet.

David’s brain registers that Bruce hasn’t moved.

A flicker of excitement.

Maybe he’s actually going to land this.

Maybe the legends are exaggerated after all.

18in so close.

Now that David can see Bruce’s eyes.

Completely calm, completely focused.

Watching the fist approach like he’s observing something mildly interesting.

Like he’s studying it.

12in.

Any normal person would be in panic mode.

Would be desperately trying to get out of the way.

Bruce moves.

What happens in the next fraction of a second will be described 17 different ways by 17 different witnesses.

Some will say Bruce moves so fast he blurred.

Others will say he seemed to teleport.

One camera operator will insist.

He blinked and missed it entirely.

Another will swear he watched the whole thing and still couldn’t explain what he saw.

But they all agree on one thing.

David’s punch never had a chance.

Bruce’s lead hand, his left snaps upward.

Not a big movement.

Maybe six inches of travel, but the speed is unlike anything anyone present has ever witnessed.

His hand intercepts David’s incoming fist with a sharp pack sail, a slapping parry from Wing Chun.

The sound cracks through the silent back lot like a gunshot crack.

David’s punch is deflected violently.

His fist is knocked off course, sent wide to Bruce’s right.

David’s arm is now overextended.

His body is still moving forward from momentum.

His balance is compromised.

His centerline is completely exposed.

This all happens in less than half a second.

But Bruce isn’t finished.

Not even close.

As David’s punch is parried away.

Bruce’s right hand is already moving.

A straight punch thrown from the centerline, traveling down the shortest distance between two points.

No wind up.

No chambering at the hip like traditional karate.

Just pure, direct explosive force generated from his entire body.

Moving as one connected unit.

The fist stops one inch from David’s face.

One inch close enough that David can feel the displacement of air.

Close enough that his eyes cross, trying to focus on the knuckles that have materialized in front of his nose.

Close enough that if Bruce had wanted to follow through, David would be unconscious before his brain registered the impact.

But the demonstration isn’t over.

Bruce’s fist retracts, snaps back to chamber, and fires again.

Same trajectory, same target, same stopping point.

One inch from David’s face.

A second strike delivered before David’s nervous system has even processed the first one.

Then a third snap.

Retract.

Fire.

One inch fourth.

Fifth.

Sixth.

Six punches, one inch from David’s face.

In the time it took David to throw one punch.

The stunt coordinator, watching from the side, will later tell people I counted six, but I think I missed some.

I think there might have been more.

It happened so fast my eyes couldn’t keep up.

David is frozen.

His body is still in the forward momentum of his original punch.

His arm is still extended where it was deflected.

His brain is trying to process what’s happening, but the processing speed of human consciousness is slow, painfully slow compared to what’s happening in front of him.

He’s experiencing something neurologists will later call temporal distortion.

When the brain is overwhelmed with information it can’t process in real time.

Time seems to fragment.

Some moments stretch out, others compressed into nothing.

David feels like he’s watching this happen to someone else.

Like his body as a passenger and someone else is driving.

Bruce’s hands are still moving.

After the sixth straight punches, his right hand transitions.

No pause.

No reset.

The hand that was punching morphs into a palm strike.

The heel of Bruce’s palm shoots forward, stops one inch from David’s solar plexus.

A strike that, if delivered with full power, would collapse the diaphragm.

Stop breathing, potentially stop the heart one inch away.

Then Bruce’s left hand enters a vertical chop toward the side of David’s neck, stops one inch from the carotid artery, a strike that could render someone unconscious in seconds by disrupting blood flow to the brain.

One inch away.

Right hand again.

This time, lower a finger.

Strike toward the floating ribs, a target that would induce massive pain.

Possible organ damage.

One inch away.

Left hand rising.

Strike under the chin.

A technique that could snap the head back cause whiplash.

Potentially break the jaw.

One inch away.

Every strike is delivered with full speed, but controlled power.

Every strike stops at exactly one inch.

Not two inches, not half an inch.

Exactly one inch.

The precision is inhuman.

The control is absolute.

David’s mind is screaming at his body to move, to defend, to do something.

But his body won’t respond.

Can’t respond.

The speed of the assault has overwhelmed his nervous system, his ODI loop.

Observe.

Orient.

Decide.

Act is stuck on.

Observe.

He can’t get past.

Observe.

By the time his brain orients to one strike, three more have already happened.

This is what Bruce tried to explain earlier.

This is what words can’t convey.

This is the difference between movie fighting and real martial arts in movies.

You see the punch coming.

You have time to react.

The choreography gives you space to respond, but in reality, in actual combat against someone who’s trained, they’re nervous system to operate at this level.

There is no time.

There is no space.

There is only the overwhelming realization that you are completely, utterly helpless.

The strikes keep coming.

Combinations now high.

Low.

Left.

Right.

Straight.

Circular.

Hand.

Elbow.

Shoulder.

Every tool in Bruce’s arsenal demonstrated at full speed, each one stopping precisely one inch from impact.

A rich hand to the temple.

One inch a hammer.

Fist to the collarbone.

One inch an elbow.

Strike rotating toward the jaw.

One inch a back fist spinning toward the opposite temple one inch.

The witnesses are experiencing their own version of temporal distortion.

Some of them will swear this lasted 30s.

Others will insist it was only three.

The actual elapsed time from the moment David threw his punch to the moment Bruce steps back is eight seconds.

Eight seconds that feel like an eternity.

Eight seconds that feel like an instant.

Eight seconds that will be burned into the memory of everyone present for the rest of their lives.

Bruce’s final movement is a sidekick.

He pivots chambers his leg, extends it in a perfect line toward David’s lead knee, a kick that, if delivered with force, would hyper extend the joint.

Tear ligaments potentially end a fighting career.

The kick stops with Bruce’s foot touching David’s kneecap, not pressing, just touching the lightest possible contact, a reminder that he could have destroyed the leg but chose not to.

Then Bruce steps back, returns to his original position, hands at his sides, weight centered breathing normally, not even slightly winded like he’d just demonstrated.

A simple technique, not a combination of strikes that would have hospitalized someone if delivered with intent.

The silence that follows is profound.

David is still standing in his original attacking position.

His arm is still extended from the punch that was deflected eight seconds ago.

His eyes are wide.

His mouth is slightly open.

His entire body is trembling.

Not from physical exhaustion, from the neurological shock of what just happened.

Slowly, like a statue coming to life, David lowers his arm, takes a breath, then another.

His legs feel unstable.

He takes a small step back to steady himself.

His hand rises unconsciously to his face, touching his cheek, his nose, his jaw checking that everything is still there, still intact.

Intellectually, he knows Bruce didn’t hit him, but his nervous system is convinced he just survived a vicious assault.

That, Bruce says quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade through silk, is real speed.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

The 17 witnesses stand frozen.

Their minds struggling to reconcile what their eyes just recorded.

The stunt coordinator breaks the silence first.

His voice is barely a whisper.

How many strikes was that? One of the camera operators shakes his head slowly.

I don’t know.

I lost count after 12, maybe 20, maybe more.

Eight seconds.

The script supervisor says, staring at her stopwatch.

That entire sequence was eight seconds.

David finally finds his voice.

It comes out rough.

Shaken.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t even.

He stops.

Starts again.

I threw one punch one.

And before it even reached you, you’d already.

He trails off.

There are no words, no adequate description.

Bruce places a hand on David’s shoulder.

Gentle, respectful.

Now you understand what you’re reacting to.

Not the speed you just saw.

I’ll never move that fast on camera.

It wouldn’t read it wouldn’t look real.

But now you know what’s behind it.

Now you can sell the illusion with confidence.

David nods slowly.

His professional pride so damaged this morning, is somehow intact, maybe even restored.

He’s not incompetent.

He was just trying to react to something he’d never experienced.

Something most people will never experience.

Can we? Can we go back and try the scene again? David asks.

Bruce smiles.

That’s why we came out here.

2:03 p.

m.

.

Back on stage four, the crew notices immediately.

Something has changed.

David moves differently, carries himself differently.

When they reset for take 48, there’s a certainty in his positioning that wasn’t there before.

The cameras roll.

David throws his punch.

Bruce blocks the counter, comes, and this time David’s reaction is perfect.

Not because he’s faster, not because he’s more skilled, but because he’s felt what real speed is.

He knows what he’s selling.

He knows the danger his character would be facing.

His body remembers those eight seconds.

His nervous system remembers the helplessness, the overwhelming nature of it.

And that memory translates through the camera into something authentic.

Cut! The director yells.

Then, after a pause, that’s a print.

Moving on.

Take 48.

After 47 failures, they got it in one.

The crew exhales collectively, the tension that’s been building all day releases like a pressure valve opening.

They’re back on schedule.

The scene is done.

Production continues.

But for the 17 people who followed Bruce and David to the backlot, production will never quite be the same.

Every fight scene they watch being filmed, every choreographed sequence, every pulled punch and staged reaction.

They’ll see it differently now because they know what real looks like.

Three weeks later, the film wraps.

David goes on to work 20 more years as a stuntman.

He becomes one of the most reliable professionals in the industry, and whenever young stuntmen ask him for advice, he tells them the same thing.

Never assume movie fighting is real fighting.

Never assume you understand speed until you felt it.

And if Bruce Lee ever offers to show you his real technique, say yes.

Then prepare to have everything you thought you knew.

Completely destroyed the footage that doesn’t exist.

No cameras recorded those eight seconds.

No film captured it.

No video evidence exists.

Just 17 witnesses who spent the rest of their lives trying to describe what they saw.

Some wrote about it.

Some gave interviews.

Some just told the story.

At parties, at reunions, at film schools.

The descriptions vary.

The details shift.

Memory is imperfect, but the core truth remains consistent across every telling.

For eight seconds on a backlot in Burbank, Bruce Lee demonstrated something that transcended movie magic, something that proved the legends weren’t exaggerated.

If anything, they were understated.

One stuntman asked to see real speed.

Bruce Lee showed him, and nothing was ever quite the same.