Frank Zimkas
Supporting Actor
- Joined
- Mar 10, 2002
- Messages
- 888
A friend of my Dad sent this to him and he forwarded it to me.
As a former Marine this means a great deal to me, I hope you take the time to read it and let it soak in a bit.
Semper Fi
Here's to the Marines of MALS 39 and ALL Servicemen
> everywhere............... Please read on.
>
>
>
> Subject:
> Not Playing for the Super Bowl -
>
>
>
> Super Bowl battle is dwarfed by what band of brothers faces San
> Diego
> Post-Dispatch 01/22/2003 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 39 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.
>
>
>
>
As a former Marine this means a great deal to me, I hope you take the time to read it and let it soak in a bit.
Semper Fi
Here's to the Marines of MALS 39 and ALL Servicemen
> everywhere............... Please read on.
>
>
>
> Subject:
> Not Playing for the Super Bowl -
>
>
>
> Super Bowl battle is dwarfed by what band of brothers faces San
> Diego
> Post-Dispatch 01/22/2003 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 39 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.
>
>
>
>
