Shots fired! Shots fired! I would yell out these words every time Mike Essa came diving into the long sweeper in his superbeast turbo bimmer and it would backfire like it was gang banging in Oakland. I’d then pause to pick stray bits of rubber off of my Lifeblasters tshirt, clean the front element of my 70-200, and then wait to pan on whoever would be next, wearing a grin so eager, it could only be described as blissful.