Still Shitting Academy Food

You're brand new, have no idea what you're doing, or what this new culture is like.

Your first road days aren’t about proving how well you remember the academy. You’re riding with an FTO, sitting front row in briefing because that’s where boots sit. Salts are in the back. Mid-timers fill the middle. The sergeant’s at the podium holding some sort of power totem — usually a coffee mug — as if to signal, I’m so in control of my surroundings I can do this one-handed.

“Nothing new in the briefing book.”

You get a scenario question — it’s only been rewritten thrice by two areas and the low guy in the reviewing unit. The smart move is to answer short and clean, then shut up. Every now and then, you get a boot who tries to turn it into a conversation. It’s never impressive — keep your head down, shut the f*ck up, nobody cares what you used to do or how good you did it.

The Bag

First week, your war bag is stuffed with everything the academy convinced you was essential. Laminated cheat sheets, extra ticket books, CPR mask, three pens, two legal codes, maybe one of those red rocket attachments for your flashlight. You’ll find out fast lugging around that 50-pounder gets old quick. Look at those around you and what they carry.

The Ledger

Your FTO picks your beat. You’re driving, but you don’t know where the hell you are, so it feels like you’re the passenger. The senior guys keep a quiet ledger on you from day one:

Whether you move without being told.

Whether you help even when it’s “not your call.”

Whether you’re still learning, or pretending you already know.

Whether you own mistakes or blame maps, dispatch, or “how you were trained.”

Holy fuck — the “that’s how they taught us at the academy” line. It’s the Death Star of rookie statements — massive, slow, and the second you roll it out, the whole room is lining up their shot to blow it apart. Don’t give them the target, even if you think it’s only two meters wide. The senior guys have been bulls-eying that womp rat off the push bumpers of their Crown Victorias longer than you’ve been alive, kid. Don’t say this shit.

The Lesson

Find work. It doesn’t speak to confidence, maturity, or life experience when the rest of the officers on scene see you holding your FTO’s pocket. It’s not that difficult — is it your call? No? Then find the officer whose call it is and ask, “What can I do?”

No call? Find work. Stop something. You can’t get into anything if you don’t take the first step, and if you keep driving like you’re going to get groceries, you’re probably not gonna see much. Get after it. Learn to be aggressive - you're not looking for anything, you're looking for everything.

What Gets Remembered

No one’s keeping score on how squared away your boots are. They remember:

First on scene, already working.

Jumping in on the arrest you didn’t make.

Knowing your stretch of road without GPS after a couple months.

Saying “I got it” — and meaning it.

Cleaning the windshield without being told.

Taking the jokes in stride, and learning to take the lower-case "L".

What to Look Out For

As the boot, you’re always on a path — whether you realize it or not.

The good path: The senior guys start fucking with you on a more personal level. They toss you barbs, rib you about your driving, hide your war bag, or make you grab coffee. It’s not hazing — it’s trust. It means you’ve moved from “unknown” to “one of us enough to mess with.”

The bad path: Nobody talks to you. Conversations stop when you walk in. You get the polite nod, but they steer clear of working with you. That’s not shyness — that’s lack of trust. And once you’re on this path, it’s a long crawl back to the other one.

Show up early. Move without being told. Listen to the radio. Keep your head down. Soon enough, another newbie shows up. - Soon enough, they curl that star back. Welcome to the tribe.

NG FOUNDER'S TEE

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