Believe it or not, my Dad sent me this email today. And he's about the biggest Super Bowl fanatic there is. Kind of puts it in perspective.....
Sports Columnist Bryan Burwell SAN DIEGO -
It was just around midnight Tuesday night, and the outdoorcourtyard at Dick's Last Resort was throbbing with the rowdy energy of aspring break bacchanal. There was loud rock music blaring out of the stereospeakers, and the air was filled with the distinct and somewhat revoltingaroma of deep-fried bar food, cigarette smoke and spilled beer.Dick's is the sort of bar-restaurant ideally suited for Super Bowl weekmischief, because it has a down-and-dirty roadhouse feel to it. The waiters,waitresses and bartenders are charmingly rude, and the wood floors arecovered with sand and all sorts of indistinguishable debris. The clienteleon 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 wasnoticeably different from the others. There were six young men at the tableand one young woman, and while they were drinking like everyone else in theroom, there was something all too serious going on at this table that letyou know that their thoughts were a long way from the mindless frivolity ofSuper Bowl week.Maybe it was the close-cropped "barracks haircuts" that gave them away. Allthe 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 newshoe-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 shipdocked along the Southern California coast, then on Wednesday head acrossthe Pacific Ocean, bound for a potential war in Iraq. So this was no SuperBowl party for them. This was their last night out on the town. One Marinewas saying goodbye to his wife. The others were not so lucky. They all justsat around the table, throwing back beers and wrestling with the soberinguncertainty of the rest of their lives."We're going to war and none of us knows if we're ever coming back," saidanother Marine, a 28-year-old from Southern Illinois. They all requestedthat I not use their names. "Just tell 'em we're the men of (Marine AviationLand Support Squad 39)," they said.On Super Bowl Sunday, the men of MALS 29 will be watching the game from themess hall of their ship. "That is, if we're lucky and the weather is goodand it doesn't interfere with the satellite signal," said the Marine withthe bald head and burnt-orange shirt. "But I gotta tell you, I'm not thatbig a sports fan anymore. It's going to be the first pro football game I'vewatched in . . . I can't even remember."Why is that?"Well, here's my problem with pro sports today," he said. "I don't carewhether it's football, basketball or baseball. Guys are complaining aboutmaking $6 million instead of $7 million, and what is their job? Playing adamned 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 abullet."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. Iam paid to write about sports and tell stories on radio and television aboutthe games people play. But sometimes, even in the midst of a grand sportingevent, something happens to put the frivolity of sports into its properperspective, 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 windowand I see a Navy battleship cutting through the San Diego Bay, heading outto sea. I can see the sailors standing on the deck as the ship sails pastCoronado Island, the San Diego Marina and the downtown Seaport Village, andI 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 fromSouthern Illinois who sat to my right pointed to the bald Marine in theorange shirt who was seated to my left. "You know, I don't even know thisguy, can you believe that? We just met a few hours ago when we came intoDick's. Oh, I've seen him on the base, but I've never met him beforetonight. But here's what's so special about that man, and why I love thatman. He's my brother. Semper Fi. I know a guy back home, and he is my bestfriend. I'm 28 years old and we've known each other all our lives. Buttoday, that friend is more of a stranger to me than that Marine sitting overthere, who I've never met before tonight. That's why they call it a Band ofBrothers."The little Marine in the orange shirt lifted his glass toward the Marinefrom Southern Illinois and nodded his head. "That's right," he said. "That'smy 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, butchilling, pride in his words.All around them, people were drinking, shouting and laughing. The collegekids and the conventioneers and NFL high-rollers were living the good,carefree life. Across the street, a storefront that was vacant two weeks agowas now filled with $30 caps, $400 leather jackets, $40 mugs and $27T-shirts with the fancy blue and yellow Super Bowl XXXVII logo embroideredon it.From every end of the streets of downtown San Diego's fabled GaslampQuarter, Super Bowl revelers toasted the Raiders and the Bucanneers withgrog-sized mugs filled with beers and rums. But just around midnight in themiddle of the courtyard of Dick's Last Resort, a far more deserving toastwas going up to the men of MALS 39. We clicked our glasses together, and afew minutes later, they quietly slipped out the courtyard gates.Suddenly, the Super Bowl didn't seem so important anymore.Sports Columnist Bryan Burwell SAN DIEGO - It was just around midnight Tuesday night, and the outdoorcourtyard at Dick's Last Resort was throbbing with the rowdy energy of aspring break bacchanal. There was loud rock music blaring out of the stereospeakers, and the air was filled with the distinct and somewhat revoltingaroma of deep-fried bar food, cigarette smoke and spilled beer.Dick's is the sort of bar-restaurant ideally suited for Super Bowl weekmischief, because it has a down-and-dirty roadhouse feel to it. The waiters,waitresses and bartenders are charmingly rude, and the wood floors arecovered with sand and all sorts of indistinguishable debris. The clienteleon 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 wasnoticeably different from the others. There were six young men at the tableand one young woman, and while they were drinking like everyone else in theroom, there was something all too serious going on at this table that letyou know that their thoughts were a long way from the mindless frivolity ofSuper Bowl week.Maybe it was the close-cropped "barracks haircuts" that gave them away. Allthe 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 newshoe-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 shipdocked along the Southern California coast, then on Wednesday head acrossthe Pacific Ocean, bound for a potential war in Iraq. So this was no SuperBowl party for them. This was their last night out on the town. One Marinewas saying goodbye to his wife. The others were not so lucky. They all justsat around the table, throwing back beers and wrestling with the soberinguncertainty of the rest of their lives."We're going to war and none of us knows if we're ever coming back," saidanother Marine, a 28-year-old from Southern Illinois. They all requestedthat I not use their names. "Just tell 'em we're the men of (Marine AviationLand Support Squad 39)," they said.On Super Bowl Sunday, the men of MALS 29 will be watching the game from themess hall of their ship. "That is, if we're lucky and the weather is goodand it doesn't interfere with the satellite signal," said the Marine withthe bald head and burnt-orange shirt. "But I gotta tell you, I'm not thatbig a sports fan anymore. It's going to be the first pro football game I'vewatched in . . . I can't even remember."Why is that?"Well, here's my problem with pro sports today," he said. "I don't carewhether it's football, basketball or baseball. Guys are complaining aboutmaking $6 million instead of $7 million, and what is their job? Playing adamned 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 abullet."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. Iam paid to write about sports and tell stories on radio and television aboutthe games people play. But sometimes, even in the midst of a grand sportingevent, something happens to put the frivolity of sports into its properperspective, 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 windowand I see a Navy battleship cutting through the San Diego Bay, heading outto sea. I can see the sailors standing on the deck as the ship sails pastCoronado Island, the San Diego Marina and the downtown Seaport Village, andI 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 fromSouthern Illinois who sat to my right pointed to the bald Marine in theorange shirt who was seated to my left. "You know, I don't even know thisguy, can you believe that? We just met a few hours ago when we came intoDick's. Oh, I've seen him on the base, but I've never met him beforetonight. But here's what's so special about that man, and why I love thatman. He's my brother. Semper Fi. I know a guy back home, and he is my bestfriend. I'm 28 years old and we've known each other all our lives. Buttoday, that friend is more of a stranger to me than that Marine sitting overthere, who I've never met before tonight. That's why they call it a Band ofBrothers."The little Marine in the orange shirt lifted his glass toward the Marinefrom Southern Illinois and nodded his head. "That's right," he said. "That'smy 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, butchilling, pride in his words.All around them, people were drinking, shouting and laughing. The collegekids and the conventioneers and NFL high-rollers were living the good,carefree life. Across the street, a storefront that was vacant two weeks agowas now filled with $30 caps, $400 leather jackets, $40 mugs and $27T-shirts with the fancy blue and yellow Super Bowl XXXVII logo embroideredon it.From every end of the streets of downtown San Diego's fabled GaslampQuarter, Super Bowl revelers toasted the Raiders and the Bucanneers withgrog-sized mugs filled with beers and rums. But just around midnight in themiddle of the courtyard of Dick's Last Resort, a far more deserving toastwas going up to the men of MALS 39. We clicked our glasses together, and afew minutes later, they quietly slipped out the courtyard gates.Suddenly, the Super Bowl didn't seem so important anymore.