Keeping the Super Bowl in Perspective
>
> "Super Bowl battle is dwarfed by what band of brothers faces"
> by Bryan Burwell
> St. Louis Post Dispatch
> 1/22/2003
>
> SAN DIEGO - It was just around midnight Tuesday night, and the outdoor
> courtyard at ******'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.
>
> ******'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 ******'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
> ******'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 ******'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.
>
