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Sports Columnist Bryan Burwell
SAN DIEGO - It was just around midnight Tuesday night, and the outdoor
courtyard at Dick's Last Resort was throbbing with the rowdy energy of a
spring break bacchanal. There was loud rock music blaring out of the
stereo
speakers, and the air was filled with the distinct and somewhat
revolting
aroma of deep-fried bar food, cigarette smoke and spilled beer.
Dick's is the sort of bar-restaurant ideally suited for Super Bowl week
mischief, because it has a down-and-dirty roadhouse feel to it. The
waiters,
waitresses and bartenders are charmingly rude, and the wood floors are
covered with sand and all sorts of indistinguishable debris. The
clientele
on this evening is a fascinating mix of twenty-something college kids,
thirty-something conventioneers and 40-something Super Bowl
high-rollers.
Yet there was one table in Dick's courtyard Tuesday night that was
noticeably different from the others. There were six young men at the
table and one young woman, and while they were drinking like everyone
else
in
the room, there was something all too serious going on at this table
that
let
you know that their thoughts were a long way from the mindless frivolity
of Super Bowl week.
Maybe it was the close-cropped "barracks haircuts" that gave them away.
All the men's heads were cut in that familiar look of a professional
soldier,
skin-close on the sides, and on top a tight shock of hair that resembled
new shoe-brush bristles.
"We're Marines," one man told me. "And tomorrow we're boarding a ship
for...well...I really can't tell you where, but you know."
Of course we knew. In less than an hour, they would report back to a
ship
docked along the Southern California coast, then on Wednesday head
across
the Pacific Ocean, bound for a potential war in Iraq. So this was no
Super
Bowl party for them. This was their last night out on the town. One
Marine
was saying goodbye to his wife. The others were not so lucky. They all
just sat around the table, throwing back beers and wrestling with the
sobering
uncertainty of the rest of their lives.
"We're going to war and none of us knows if we're ever coming back,"
said
another Marine, a 28-year-old from Southern Illinois. They all requested
that I not use their names. "Just tell 'em we're the men of (Marine
Aviation Land Support Squad 39)," they said.
On Super Bowl Sunday, the men of MALS 29 will be watching the game from
the mess hall of their ship. "That is, if we're lucky and the weather is
good
and it doesn't interfere with the satellite signal," said the Marine
with
the bald head and burnt-orange shirt. "But I gotta tell you, I'm not
that
big a sports fan anymore. It's going to be the first pro football game
I've watched in . . . I can't even remember."
Why is that?
"Well, here's my problem with pro sports today," he said. "I don't care
whether it's football, basketball or baseball. Guys are complaining
about
making $6 million instead of $7 million, and what is their job? Playing
a
damned game. You know what I made last year? I made $14,000. They pay me
$14,000, and you know what my job description is? I'm paid to take a
bullet."
When he said those words, it positively staggered me.
Fourteen thousand dollars to take a bullet.
Not a day goes by that I am not reminded of what a wonderful life I
lead.
I am paid to write about sports and tell stories on radio and television
about the games people play. But sometimes, even in the midst of a grand
sporting event, something happens to put the frivolity of sports into
its
proper
perspective, and this was it.
Fourteen thousand dollars to take a bullet.
As I sit here writing from my hotel room, I can look out my balcony
window
and I see a Navy battleship cutting through the San Diego Bay, heading
out
to sea. I can see the sailors standing on the deck as the ship sails
past
Coronado Island, the San Diego Marina and the downtown Seaport Village,
and I wonder if any of the men from MALS 39 are aboard.
It was only 12 hours ago that I was sitting at the table with my guys,
buying them beers, and listening to their soldier stories. The Marine
from
Southern Illinois who sat to my right pointed to the bald Marine in the
orange shirt who was seated to my left. "You know, I don't even know
this
guy, can you believe that? We just met a few hours ago when we came into
Dick's. Oh, I've seen him on the base, but I've never met him before
tonight. But here's what's so special about that man, and why I love
that
man. He's my brother. Semper Fi. I know a guy back home, and he is my
best
friend. I'm 28 years old and we've known each other all our lives. But
today, that friend is more of a stranger to me than that Marine sitting
over there, who I've never met before tonight. That's why they call it a
Band
of Brothers."
>>
The little Marine in the orange shirt lifted his glass toward the Marine
from Southern Illinois and nodded his head. "That's right," he said.
"That's my brother over there, and I'm gonna take a bullet for him if I
have to."
He said it with a calm and jolting certainty. There was a moving, but
chilling, pride in his words.
All around them, people were drinking, shouting and laughing. The
college
kids and the conventioneers and NFL high-rollers were living the good,
carefree life. Across the street, a storefront that was vacant two weeks
ago was now filled with $30 caps, $400 leather jackets, $40 mugs and $27
T-shirts with the fancy blue and yellow Super Bowl XXXVII logo
embroidered
on it.
>From every end of the streets of downtown San Diego's fabled Gaslamp
Quarter, Super Bowl revelers toasted the Raiders and the Bucanneers with
grog-sized mugs filled with beers and rums. But just around midnight in
the middle of the courtyard of Dick's Last Resort, a far more deserving
toast
was going up to the men of MALS 39. We clicked our glasses together, and
a
few minutes later, they quietly slipped out the courtyard gates.
Suddenly, the Super Bowl didn't seem so important anymore.
God bless our troops and protect the men and women who are facing
uncertainty to protect our freedom and way of life.
Amen
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Now whenever I visit my dad I have a better bond with him even though I never saw the terrors or the horrors he saw and was involved in, those days there are always etched into my mind. And I awlways thank those other vets like the old guys who sit in front of wal mart on veterans day who fought the most terrible wars unlike our newer high tech armies they had to REALLY fight, so when you see those old guys tell them thanks cause one day I'll be one of those Old men selling that little cheesy red flower trying to help other vets! Thank all of you guys who support us!! and for those Of you who dont....... Heres what I have to say " I VOLUNTEER to fight what you fear!! nuff said