The Shawn Ryan Show: John “Shrek” McPhee – The Sheriff of Baghdad | SRS #133
Loved this podcast with McPhee. I have so much to learn from this guy’s experiences. I don’t care that some of the stories sound exaggerated, which they obviously are just based on common sense and also some accounts from similar operators who tell their stories online. However, there’s more than enough in that mix of madness to learn some interesting perspectives for overcoming challenges in daily life. I learn from everyone. I don’t care who they are. Anyway, here’s a little Shrek review below.
John “Shrek” McPhee’s trek from South Chicago’s idilic and sleepy back streets to Delta Force’s most elite teams reveals a career built on tactical innovation, unconventional leadership, and brutally violent efficiency. Even now in retirement, Shrek is still the canonical Special Forces operator. This former Sergeant Major didn’t just survive decades of special operations in warfare. No way. He thrived in in. He loved those decades and regrets nothing. He actually revolutionized how teams approach combat, killing, mental health, and training. His story offers lessons that transcend military service and apply to anyone who faces extreme challenges in any field.
Early Life: Learning Self-Reliance
McPhee grew up in South Chicago near the steel mills that eventually shut down and devastated the local economy. Ah, yes, the benefits of so-called “free trade” implemented by our colonial globalists. His parents were young and drank heavily, so he didn’t have any solid family role models. His mother grew bitter after divorce and argued with everyone in her life — her sister, her parents, her children. By age 12, McPhee and his older brother recognized they were more mature than their parents so they left home. They survived through petty theft, stealing food to eat, and eventually they left home and lived in a brothel run by a family friend who took them in. That move itself would be too much for most kids to manage. But despite the chaos, McPhee attended school daily and walked miles through snow to ensure he got an education that might offer escape. He didn’t seem to complain about this time in his life, though. Instead, he just made the best of what he had. That’s lesson number one.
He started working at age eight, fixing semi-trucks for his stepdad — greasing rigs, adjusting brakes, changing tires, and just doing regular maintenance. By age ten he could service a semi-truck completely, which is quite a skill to acquire at such a young age. Kids just don’t learn anything practical in modern America, so he was lucky in that respect even though his general circumstances were horrible. He also pumped gas and became a welder and rebuilt gravel truck frames and beds that had flipped over. He made such good money as a welder that joining the Army at 21 meant taking a pay cut. He didn’t even find the Army difficult initially, so he was obviously one tough kid. And he wouldn’t make more than his civilian welding salary until he reached E-7 as a Sergeant First Class. But he loved the Army and saw the opportunity for combat. That’s really what he wanted.
Although high school generally sucks for many people (I certainly hated the entire experience), for him it meant daily violence. As the only white student at a disciplinary school for kids who had fought at other schools, he faced constant attacks on the bus. Kids would jump him every day. His survival strategy in fighting became foundational to his later tactical thinking — accept that you can’t win every fight, but make the attackers pay such a heavy price that tomorrow you’ll face fewer enemies. In other words, send a message. If two guys had to go to the hospital for a couple weeks, that’s great. That’s two less people tomorrow, ten or twelve fewer within weeks. Eventually, things got so bad that the school district paid for a private cab because police had to pull the bus over every morning for broken seats, broken windows, broken arms, and broken noses. It must have been a mess. Most kids don’t survive this experience well. But within that environment McPhee was developing the skills of the ultimate warrior.
This childhood taught McPhee something critical — control. Some kids who have been abused at school learn to control adrenaline better than most because they also know they’re getting beaten when mom or dad comes home drunk later that night. It’s always about control. You need that because you are usually too small to win those battles. Being able to master the skill of control would save his life later at Taliban checkpoints when he went out on missions alone and had to improvise to save his life.
Military Foundation: Rangers to Delta
McPhee joined the Army at 21. Everyone in his family had served, so it felt inevitable. After basic training and Airborne school (which he considered an easy joke), Ranger Indoctrination Program (RIP) transformed everything. RIP’s brutality and professionalism showed him what the military could be and where he wanted to be. The cadre showed up at his Airborne graduation, ripped the beret off his head, and he never saw it again. They loaded duffel bags on a truck and drove off. If it wasn’t for stop signs and traffic, the students would have lost them. They had to run across post chasing everything the Army had given them. Sounds like an exciting graduation.
RIP was where McPhee realized the Army might be a joke but the guys on that team weren’t playing around. He loved every minute. People did what they said they’d do. He finally fit in somewhere. And it was extreme. During his 1991 Iraq combat jump, 30-knot winds scattered the Rangers all over the place. As he landed, McPhee’s backpack caught on rebar in a bombed out building, which caused a compound fracture in his lower leg. With his bone sticking out, he dumped water on it, pushed the bone back in, pinched the skin closed, and did a double pressure dressing. It probably hurt like hell but that didn’t seem to matter at the time. Then he walked through the minefield outside the airfield, jumped the fence, and linked up with his team. When the medic finally looked at McPhee’s leg, he asked who did the dressings. McPhee said he did. The medic gave him more supplies and told him to put the bandages back on.
The injury plagued him because his squad leader wouldn’t let him seek further medical attention, saying “Quit being a bitch!” Sounds like the incompetent and dangerous coaches I had in high school. By the time McPhee got real treatment, it was too late to cast properly. He had to suck it up for months until it healed enough to run again. The Ranger doctor told him he might get medically discharged, which didn’t go over well with McPhee. He wasn’t there to get out just over this. He just wanted to know how to get back to running with less pain. That mindset (refuse to quit, adapt, and overcome) defined his life. That probably counts as lesson number two. There will be many more so there’s no need to keep track.
Five years in Rangers led to Special Forces, but Seventh Group disappointed him after the intensity of Ranger Battalion. Too slow, too conventional, barely any shooting. Then a Mogadishu veteran code-named Elvis sat next to him in the Q-course. At first McPhee thought, who is this random E-7 who’s not good at demolitions and not good at anything he was doing? It turned out that out Elvis was a Delta operator crossing over from 11B to 18-series to get promoted faster on the Special Forces track and then return to the unit. You take whatever path you can fine, I guess. You innovate. You move. Another lesson.
At 1 AM, Elvis handed McPhee a piece of paper with a location and told him to take the PT test at 6 AM. McPhee was already hammered and drinking and smoking cigars at Elvis’s house. He said “fuck no!” But curiosity got the best of him and he showed up anyway. What the hell, right? Elvis said that all he had to do was pass Army standard to get into the selection. McPhee passed even though he was hungover with no sleep. He even lapped his former Ranger team leaders on the run just to prove a point. He enjoyed that part especially.
Delta Selection: Autonomy and Excellence
Selection in Delta was the best experience of McPhee’s life. The premise of the team was simple — leave me alone, point me in the right direction, I’ll handle it. No encouragement, no discouragement. Just “be at the truck at 0800” written on a board. Figure out the rest yourself. Don’t be late, light, or out of uniform. Bring your shit, make sure it weighs right, let’s go. How’s that for a management scheme? I’d take it. Micromanagers need not apply. Good. They are a waste.
But McPhee realized that he was actually on the worst team in selection history with guys bitching up and not pulling their weight. During the log PT he said that instead of twelve people actually lifting, half the team quit mentally and made the log impossibly heavy for those who tried. Sounds familiar. That’s true on many teams I’ve worked on. But McPhee started yelling “zero” instead of counting off. A cadre threatened to kick him out if he yelled zero again. McPhee: “Roger that, Sergeant. 1-2-3-4 … ZERO!” He didn’t care. He had an unreal level of confidence in himself. The cadre pulled him out, gave him a six-foot log to carry alone as punishment. McPhee crushed it, yelling zero the entire time. “You’re welcome, you bitches.” Love it.
The final road march separated the professionals from the pretenders. Everyone sprinted off the start line like idiots. McPhee walked, knowing that you don’t start a 20-25 mile ruck with a sprint. Two miles in, a creek crossing stopped everyone. They were putting garbage bags over their boots to stay dry. McPhee just walked straight through and gained a massive lead. He finished first or second, turned in his star clusters to an empty box. He asked the cadre how many were done. “Just one other guy. Hit the showers.” Job well done.
Once he was in, Delta’s culture shocked him. When he passed selection and moved to the next room for gear fitting, they had ten kit bags perfectly sized with his name on everything. All he had to do was throw them on his shelves and start training. He’d never seen that level of preparation and professionalism. When he put on the GSG9 assault boots (which he’d only heard rumors about), he realized that the regular Army doesn’t do this. This is different.
And unlike Selection, the Operator Training Course (OTC) tested him, particularly the obstacle course. His first run was embarrassingly slow. His counselor said that “we’ve never failed anybody out of the unit for the O-course, but you could definitely be the first person.” But McPhee came in early, stayed after hours, and worked weekends with guys who were Olympic-level athletes. He studied technique obsessively. On the final O-course run (a rainy day when guys were busting their asses), McPhee came in second or third because his technique was so tight that the poor conditions didn’t matter. He simply decided to master whatever need to be learned to succeed.
The shooting standards were no joke too. McPhee sucked with a pistol initially but probably won the shooting program for most of OTC until one bad string dropped him ten points into third place. The competition was so tight he couldn’t recover. But the key insight he realized was that Delta wanted every person to succeed. No hazing, no games. This isn’t college. If you needed help, someone would show you. First-name basis. Professional instruction from the world’s best teachers to insure that you would be the world’s best. In any organization, that would indeed be unique. I’ve certainly never experienced that at any company I’ve worked for.
The Psychology and Reality of Killing
McPhee’s first kills came at Tora Bora in November 2001. He controlled every asset in the eastern hemisphere for ten days — every bomb, every pound of ordnance dropped by him and a couple other guys. The first day he said he killed so many people he stopped counting. Hundreds. Too many to track. Fun. He loved it. I can see why, too.
His philosophy on killing was clinical and uncompromising. He called it “State Department by Shrek.” He made the decisions, and he was the authority. Kill everyone. If you shoot at us, we level your entire position. Move up. You shoot at us again, we level that. Move up. Simple, efficient, effective. And fun! He never lost sight of having a blast while killing the enemy. There were also many 50-cal sniper shots at 2,500 meters, which is pretty far. So, McPhee is careful not to claim confirmed kills like these because “you can’t get there from here.” But the guys never shot again so make your own conclusions, he says. And besides, why count one here and there when you are already in the hundreds. No matter.
It’s critical to understand that McPhee loved killing in combat. Not in a psychopathic way, but because it was the purest expression of his skills and purpose. And since this is war and the situation is kill or be killed, there’s just no need to feel anything else but excitement. He describes himself as having had “a great time” under mortar fire at Tora Bora. A teammate later told him that “those were incoming rounds, but you had such a smile on your face I didn’t want to ruin it for you.” The local Afghan commander told McPhee’s boss, “Your men are very brave.” Others thought McPhee was insane for standing in the open during mortar attacks.
The difference between McPhee’s experience and stories like Lone Survivor puzzled him: “Bring 400 of your friends, tell them to bring their trucks and machine guns. We would just kill all comers. I don’t understand how those things happened compared to my experience. We killed so many people you can’t even count.”
His team had one simple advantage because they didn’t just kill everyone immediately. That’s how you fail. You pull threads, exploit intelligence, climb networks. Killing everyone is casualty production, not warfare. The goal is winning, and you can’t kill enough people to win a war. The Nazis tried that. It doesn’t work. Instead, you kill what you need to kill and move on. Don’t waste your time or energy.
Singleton Missions: Operating Alone
McPhee’s singleton missions demonstrated tactical genius he learned from necessity. After Tora Bora, intelligence indicated a man and his sons had escorted Bin Laden from the mountains into Pakistan. McPhee had to find him and he had to do it alone.
He left a safe house in Jalalabad in a cab, a coordinated asset that dropped him at a junction. From there he found targets of opportunity. He hitchhiked in jingly trucks, rode with locals, sat with goats and strangers in his lap on any vehicle he could find or steal. At checkpoints with AK-47s to his chest, he couldn’t speak English or he’d get killed immediately. So he screamed and acted completely insane, which wasn’t hard for him. He wasn’t acting. It came naturally. And it worked. Guards waved him through thinking he was crazy, which he certainly was.
The mission took seven to ten days with zero communication back to his team. He slept in trucks and taxis, strangers sitting on his lap, drivers shifting gears into his crotch. When they passed the target house, McPhee filmed it with a Super 8 camera hidden in a cigarette bag along with a satphone.
Later he stopped at a house at the end of the valley. Men gave him black tea and also opium tea that puts you to sleep for days. McPhee knew the difference (they drank clear tea), drank it anyway, then took speed when the lights went out to stay awake. In the middle of the night, he dragged the truck driver to the vehicle at gunpoint and drove out.
Why the urgency? Simple. It’s efficiency. He’d already achieved mission success. He got the video. Every additional second risked compromise, failure, or death. The goal wasn’t adventure. It was completing the objective and getting out alive. His ability to see things that clearly and precisely was a result of his training but also his early life of being abused. You do what you can with what you have in any given moment and get out to live another day.
When he returned to Jalalabad, he drew the assault plan on a napkin — stick figures, trucks, helicopters, house, exfil. A general later called him “Picasso,” but McPhee’s response was pure Chicago: “You didn’t send me with a proper reporting format. What did you expect?”
The real lesson McAfee learned from singleton missions was that operating alone increases the learning curve 100-to-1. You can only count on yourself, so you learn faster and deeper and more immediately than any practice session or team operation could teach. That experience changed how McPhee thought about everything. It’s also a lesson for anyone doing anything. Strip things down to their core, figure it out, do it, and get out.
Iraq: The Sheriff of Baghdad and Network Dismantling
Iraq operations ran 10-20 hits nightly at peak tempo. McPhee’s Squadron didn’t want guys sitting around getting drunk and breaking stuff, so they went out every night. The operational philosophy was simple. There’s always another target. Keep moving, keep hitting, keep exploiting intelligence.
McPhee systematically dismantled Saddam Hussein’s inner circle, and he discovered a critical pattern: everyone who physically touched Saddam (tailors, bath attendants, food handlers, barbers) was Christian. The logic was brutal but sound: Christian martyrs go to hell, Muslim martyrs go to heaven. Saddam surrounded himself with people who had zero incentive to kill him. Smart.
McPhee captured Saddam’s tailor and took his clothes. He still owns Saddam’s fox fur hat from the famous video where Saddam fires a Mauser in the air while captured on cameras. He wears an Italian sweater from Saddam’s wardrobe on Christmas Eve. It’s too small now, though. His beer belly hangs out the bottom. “I look like a fat man in a little coat.”
McPhee’s team captured Saddam’s favorite mistress’s husband using pure street theater. Intelligence reports said the mistress might know Saddam’s location. McPhee made the husband call out the tailor’s shop. He then positioned two trusted Iraqi Mohawk allies to start a fist fight in the street to prompt everyone to came outside to watch. The assault team grabbed the target from behind while he was distracted. McPhee’s boss asked afterward: “Who were the guys fighting?” McPhee: “Those were our guys.” Boss: “You should have told me.” McPhee: “Things happened fast.”
One of the deck of cards targets (Saddam’s inner circle) got snatched after McPhee held the family hostage. They took his sisters, grandma, mom, and told them to contact him. Three days later, the guy turned himself in at Mosul. Simple, effective, brutal.
The Northern Iraqi campaign later demonstrated McPhee’s strategic flexibility. They worked under B Squadron when Navy SEALs tried to put his SF team on boats for river assaults. This after McPhee’s team had worked their way up through the entire SEAL target deck to the number one guy. The Task Force Commander intervened: “Let me get this straight. You’re the premier SEALs in the world and you’re putting Special Forces guys on boats? These guys worked from the bottom of your target deck to make you successful.” McPhee got reassigned to B Squadron, then A Squadron. His team was with B Squadron when they killed Zarqawi. In the famous photo of who killed Zarqawi, McPhee’s team is the guys wearing DCUs (Desert Combat Uniforms) in the back.
The hide above bore for killing doesn’t matter. McPhee says it’s 2.5 inches. If you’re supposed to shoot center mass and hit 2.5 inches off, no one will ever know when you cut the shirt off. What matters is immediate action, adaptation, and moving to the next target. It’s close enough.
Strategic Insights: Why Wars Fail
McPhee offers brutal assessments of the wars he fought. On Afghanistan: “If you didn’t read the fine print when you went in, which said we were going to fuck this up on the way out, not shocked.” He knew it would end poorly his first day in combat. Everyone in the team room knew. They read the Russian book The Bear Went Over the Mountain and saw the same patterns. The only thing America did better than the Soviets was cleanliness. Disease killed the Russians, not Afghans.
On the Taliban and Bin Laden, McPhee mentions that Mullah Omar claimed years later that if given the full 48 hours Bush promised, he would have surrendered Bin Laden, but America invaded at hour 40. However, this specific claim about a 48-hour ultimatum and invasion at hour 40 appears to be either misremembered or lacks historical verification. What is documented is that pre-9/11 discussions occurred where the Taliban offered trials, and post-9/11 negotiations were weak and conditional. Bush’s September 20 speech demanded Taliban hand over Al-Qaeda leaders, and bombing began October 7, approximately 17 days later.
Iraq was worse strategically. Saddam should have been left in power and pumped full of resources to fight Iran. Removing him destabilized everything without strategic benefit. McPhee says: “I’d have pumped him full of all kinds of shit to fuck Iran up. However, we gave it all away. It’s a clusterfuck just like Afghanistan. But the reality is this is how it goes. Don’t get upset. It’s the fine print. Should have read it.”
The core insight: you can’t kill enough people to win wars. Not today, not ever. The Nazis tried total war and it failed. Preservation of life (yours and those who matter to the mission) is how you win. McPhee learned this through solo missions where being smart mattered more than simply being lethal.
Leadership Philosophy: Managing Elite Operators
McPhee’s approach to leadership emerged from hard experience. When Tim Kennedy joined his team fresh from the Q-course, Kennedy’s talent was obvious but his maturity wasn’t. He was probably the baddest guy in the Q-course, then arrived at a place where he automatically fell to the bottom. That’s hard for high-confidence people.
Kennedy complained about staying back when helicopters got shot down, talked about kicking everyone’s ass, and created friction with officers. The commanders told McPhee to get him under control or we’ll make sure he’s out of Special Forces forever.
The problem was fixable. Kennedy simply hadn’t learned what the Army should have taught him. He went straight from civilian life to working under Delta Force. He didn’t understand the gravity. When one helicopter is down and you can only take 24 guys instead of 36, somebody stays home. Don’t take it personally. That’s just math.
McPhee’s corrective lesson came at midnight in the unit dojo. He told Kennedy: “Meet me at the dojo at midnight. You’re going to kick all of our asses? All of our asses?” What Kennedy didn’t know was that while he was pouting, other guys were telling McPhee that they’d be at the dojo. “I want a piece of this action,” each one said
They fought in order of rank. Kennedy did well for two, three, maybe four guys. One senior guy was a Golden Gloves boxer who just threw combinations. McPhee went second to last (the captain went last). McPhee bloodied Kennedy up, put him down, and whispered: “I hope we don’t have to have this talk again.” Then he and the guys walked out, leaving Kennedy bleeding and broken on the ground.
The lesson wasn’t about dominance. It was about teams. You can’t beat us all. This is a team sport. We’re a pack. We should be a dozen lone wolves, but when those wolves come together as a pack, you have a dozen alpha wolves working together. That’s better than one lead dog and a bunch of followers.
McPhee protected Kennedy by sending him to Ranger School when commanders wanted him gone. Kennedy hated it, complained bitterly (almost getting himself kicked out for that), but learned what he needed to know. Years later, as a team sergeant himself at age 40 (the age McPhee was when managing him at 34), Kennedy called to say he finally understood and appreciated what McPhee had done.
McPhee’s core leadership principles:
Shut Your Mouth: New guys must earn their place. The only thing you’re given that can’t be changed is your name. Don’t fuck it up.
Technical Proficiency: Master every skill. On solo missions, you’re your own medic, comms specialist, weapons expert, explosives handler. No one’s coming to help.
Value Life Over Killing: Preserve the lives that matter. You can’t kill your way to victory.
Immediate Accountability and the Hall Pass: After kills, McPhee cut shirts off targets to examine shot placement. He praised shooters on the spot: “This is exactly what I expected you to do. You did a great job. End of discussion.” Then he’d buy drinks and make sure everyone shook hands. This “hall pass” (immediate validation and closure) reduced PTSD by addressing moral injury in real-time rather than letting it fester for years.
McPhee checked bullet holes constantly, not to criticize shooters but because marksmanship was his problem as the leader, not theirs. If shots were off, they’d fix training immediately. But McPhee says he never saw bad shots. All his guys shot perfect center mass. The truth is that leadership validation matters more than millimeter precision.
Overcoming PTSD: The Hall Pass and Biological Fixes
McPhee experienced every symptom of PTSD and traumatic brain injury but scored zero on VA assessments. His method combined immediate psychological intervention with biological optimization:
The Hall Pass: On mission nights when someone made a kill, McPhee debriefed immediately. Cut the shirt, examine shot placement, praise the work, have drinks, facilitate team recognition. Handle moral injury in real-time. Don’t give guys a five-year-old hall pass they have to unfuck later through alcohol and therapy. Give them closure immediately.
Let It Go: Literally say “let it go” repeatedly. Your book isn’t over. This is one chapter. More chapters are coming, possibly better ones. Get over yourself and move on.
Fix Biology: Forgetfulness wasn’t TBI. It was cognitive function. McPhee bought a TomTom GPS because he didn’t need to remember directions; the device would handle it. Then he discovered MCT oil and proper protein intake fixed his brain function. The “PTSD symptom” was actually nutritional deficiency.
Moderate Vices: Heavy drinkers needed to cut from five bottles to two and a half. The reason you’re mean in the morning isn’t PTSD. It’s being hungover and used to it. Use alcohol wisely, not as self-medication.
None of McPhee’s direct reports carry significant PTSD, he says. The contrast with conventional military units is stark. McPhee believes PTSD isn’t a war thing. It’s a humanity thing. A kid watching his cousin get hit by a train can be fucked up forever. Combat without proper leadership intervention causes the same damage.
Lessons Learned: Universal Principles for Any Profession
McPhee’s career offers lessons well beyond military service. Here are a few bits below.
Autonomy Requires Competence: McPhee thrived when given autonomy because he had developed technical proficiency first. You can’t demand independence without proving capability first. Master your craft, then earn freedom.
Control What You Can Control: From an abused childhood to Taliban checkpoints, McPhee’s survival depended on emotional control. You can’t control incoming mortars, but you can control your response. This applies to business crises, personal setbacks, and any high-stress situation.
Teams Beat Individuals: Even the most talented individual can’t beat a coordinated team of competent people. The lone wolf mythology is bullshit. A dozen alpha wolves working as a pack crushes any solo operator.
Immediate Feedback Prevents Long-Term Damage: Whether it’s combat trauma or workplace mistakes, address issues immediately. McPhee’s hall pass worked because he didn’t let moral injury fester. In business, don’t let small problems become cultural cancers. Cut the shirt, examine the damage, validate what worked, fix what didn’t, move on.
Biology Affects Performance: McPhee’s “PTSD symptoms” were partly nutritional deficiency and hangovers. In any high-performance field, optimize sleep, nutrition, and substance use. Your brain is hardware. Maintain it properly.
Strategic Patience, Tactical Aggression: McPhee didn’t sprint the 25-mile ruck march. He didn’t kill everyone immediately and destroy intelligence value. He was patient strategically but aggressive tactically. Walk through the creek while others waste time messing with garbage bags, exploit networks methodically before taking down leadership.
Preparation Compounds: McPhee turned his worst O-course run into a top-three finish through relentless extra work with experts. He turned pistol weakness into program dominance the same way. Consistent preparation in off-hours creates performance advantages when it matters.
Protect Your People Even When They Hate You: Sending Kennedy to Ranger School made Kennedy hate McPhee temporarily but saved his career later on. Good leaders make unpopular decisions that serve long-term interests. If you need everyone to like you, you can’t lead effectively. Earn respect.
Efficiency Is Speed and Accuracy Applied Simultaneously with Perfect Technique: This is McPhee’s mantra for shooting, but it applies universally as well. Doing things fast and wrong creates a mess. Doing things slow and perfect misses critical deadlines. It’s the combination (efficient technique executed quickly and accurately) that wins.
Your Past Doesn’t Define Your Future: McPhee went from homeless at 12, living in a brothel with his brother, to the pinnacle of military special operations in war. Keep going. Keep improving. Keep learning. You’ll get your break.
SOB Tactical: Teaching Through Diagnostic Precision
After retiring in 2011 following a messy divorce (Delta doesn’t like messy divorces), McPhee founded SOB Tactical. He runs 60-100 classes annually and limits enrollment to 10 or fewer students. He’s trained about 15,000 people since 2011: housewives, professional shooters, SWAT teams, Special Forces, anyone.
The diagnostic method to his training is revolutionary in its simplicity: video everything. First thing in the morning, shoot three rounds. McPhee analyzes the video and explains exactly where bullets go, why they go there, how to fix it. In 43 rounds during a one-day pistol class, he gets anyone into a three-inch group at 3-5 yards. Anyone. Bring your lame, crippled, and crazy. Shaky hands, blind old guys, doesn’t matter. He loves the challenge, but he also has supreme confidence in his skills and experience.
The training isn’t about techniques. It’s about teaching people how to think so they can solve problems themselves. The model that improves pistol shooting improves anything you do. It’s all mindset.
McPhee calls SOB Tactical “the undertow of the gun world.” Flashy competitors rise and fall on top of the industry. McPhee stays underneath, consistent, and pulls students in year after year. He’s been crushing it since 2011 and fills all his classes, while other big names come and go.
Current Mission and Legacy
On a personal level, McPhee trains for Masters Worlds in jiu-jitsu and plans to compete against guys his age. If it goes well, he might enter the open division next year. He’s rolling every day and he treats training camps like extended hotel stays. Might as well hit a dojo and get a day of rolls in. What else would you do?
His philosophy remains unchanged today. He’s emphatic that the past doesn’t ruin his present, he approaches death without fear, and he believes everyone dies doing what they choose. Combat deaths are among the most honorable. He’s already outlived his father, who died at 50. Both parents are dead, in fact. He has no family except his brother. Everyone dies early in his family, so he’s making the most of the time he has.
The lesson from McPhee’s entire life is simple. You can come from nothing, face the worst humanity offers, see the darkest parts of war, and still build something meaningful. The key is never quitting, never letting one chapter define the book, and always maintaining the discipline to be technically proficient at whatever you do. That much you can control.
Whether you’re in special operations, corporate leadership, entrepreneurship, or any challenging field, McPhee’s principles apply: control what you can control, master your craft, value your team over individual glory, address problems immediately, optimize your biology, and never stop building the next chapter.
Works for me.
