In less than three weeks, I will leave my wife, my son, my home and my job as I will ship to Basic Combat Training. This is by far the most ambitious undertaking in my life. At any age, it cannot be taken with a grain of salt. I feel it even more challenging based on my age, and the fact that years of not keeping in shape may come back to haunt me. On the other hand, I was told by a friend of mine that I’m sort of like our grandparents car. It may be older, but it has less miles than the new cars. My body is not beat up from wear and tear so this is what I’m counting on.
My goal is to successfully graduate from BCT. People fail it everyday and I’m not immune from it. I intend to push myself harder than ever before. If I fail it, I’ll not only fail myself, but my family as well. It is my hopes that BCT will help me develop into a stronger person, mentally as well as physically. I also hope that if I have a struggling battle buddy, I can help him overcome his obstacles as I have overcome my own.
I want to thank all of those at the Santa Rosa Sheriff’s Office who have not only been supportive, their words have given me the confidence to go as far as I can go. The phone calls, emails and visits to my office have been invaluable. Detective ST, I have that Bible you presented me, and I know that M16’s, 249 SAWS and M1A2 Abrams Tanks have nothing over God’s Sword.
I extend my thanks to Colonel Danny McKnight, US Army Retired. He commanded the 75th Ranger Regiment during Operation Gothic Serpent, in Somalia in 1993. The Battle of the Black Sea on October 3-3 in 1993 would eventually inspire a movie entitled “Black Hawk Down” (Col. McKnight’s role was portrayed by Tom Sizemore). Col. McKnight share his opinions with me about men my age with the desire to enlist. In an email he said “hell no! I was 42 years old when I commanded the Rangers in Somalia.” He encouraged me to enlist despite my disposition at that time. Guys like him are my heroes.
And finally, I want to thank my wife, Amanda. In the three and one half years of our marriage, she has taught me the better points of myself, even through my own errors. Without her support, I could have undertaken this on my own but it would have been for the wrong reasons. Having support from one’s spouse makes the difference, and her support has been well above what I expected. My son Steven, for giving me the hugs and telling me that he is going to miss me when I am gone, and for making me laugh. I don’t condone children using profanity, but I have to share this. I asked Steven if he had a problem with me leaving for a few months. He said “hell no!” But then when he realized he put his foot in his mouth, the expression on his face was priceless. My wife and son mean everthing to me. And yes, our blond Lab "Shane," Chug Puppy "Tiki" and that fat, orange obnoxious cat "Tony." They are like kids to me too.
This is my last entry of this blog until I return home. I will detail my experiences at that time in hopes that no matter who you are, where you are from or what obstacles stand before you, go after your dreams even if it takes a nightmare to start the process.
Oh, I almost forgot. The Army has not yet lowered its max age for enlistment. It did, however, close the Army Reserve Enlistment for the remainder of the fiscal year. Several people have told me that they went to the recruiter's office but got turned away. If I had sat that and "waited" for the time to be right, it would have never happened. Enlistment is not a right, and everything is done according to the Army's needs. It is what it is.
May God Bless all of you and this great nation we live in.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
From Road Blocks to Super Highways
I love my wife more than anything, and the adage is true that people the closest to you hurt you the most. The have the ammunition because they know your likes and dislikes; you strengths and weaknesses and what buttons to push.
My wife is one of those that tell it like it is, even if she is totally wrong. Perhaps we are all that way.On Sunday I had mowed the lawn and done some work around the house. I didn’t say much to Amanda or Steven that whole weekend. I wasn’t mad at them; it’s just that I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t slept very much since I came home but I wasn’t tired.
That evening Amanda went into our home office and I could hear her typing on the keyboard. She was playing around with the calculator and looking up stuff on the internet. She came back into the living room. “September will work. Call your recruiter. He’s going to take you back up to MEPS on Tuesday he has reserved the job you wanted.” I think I was more stunned than when the MEPS CMO told me I was medically qualified. I asked her if I really did fail the hearing test, because I wasn’t sure if I heard her correctly. “Robert, this maybe your last chance and for you to pass the physical when you couldn’t pass the hearing test nineteen years ago, that means this was meant to be.”
I almost cried. Part of me wanted to kick her in the butt for putting me through this. But, on the other hand, the Aviation Inn had some really good food and the people there aren’t half bad.
I had talked with my Lieutenant about altering my schedule so I could go back and he wholeheartedly agreed, even though he could have said “No, you are behind on your work.” He would have been correct. I had told him in the past about the possibility of joining the Reserves and he has been not only supportive of this endeavor, but very encouraging. I rode with my recruiter, along with his partner and we went back to MEPS the following Tuesday. We were supposed to get me singed in and be back around 1300 hours. I wore a shirt and tie because as soon as I came back I wanted to go into work and work on a hot case. We arrived at 0900. While one of the other recruiters went before a “Recruiter’s Board” I would wait upstairs on the second floor. Occasionally I would get up to stretch my legs or get something to drink.
I did notice that the folks that had not been “sociable” the following week were walking up to me, shaking my hand and shooting the breeze. Last week I was wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans while the others were wearing baggie clothes and shorts. They were professional last week but were very strict and talked to people like they were kids, including me. On this day, I wore slacks and a tie because as soon as I got back home I was going to work. I sat there for two hours before MSGT Calderon called me in. He said the main system was down and as soon as it came up he would call me back in. However, if it came up passed 1300 hours I would have to stay over that night. That wasn’t happening. I was not going to ask my lieutenant for another day off when I had already asked for two and he gave me three. I had work to do and didn’t have the time to waste because someone made a critical error and crashed the Adjutant General’s primary enlistment computer network. In his Puerto Rican accent, I heard a phrase that I had only heard once by one of our prosecutors “We are at the mercy of computer geeks.” At 1200 we went to the Aviation Inn. This time I got a salad and a wrap with un-sweet tea. I ate with one of the MEPS enlisted staff members, a 1st class Petty Officer who somewhat reminded me of Capt Byron Hadley from the Shawshank Redemption. Except this time he was treating me like Andy Dufresne after Andy helped him keep an inheritance without contributing to the IRS. He was not a bad guy; he had his job to do just like we all do: babysitting grown adults. I respected him for that. It is not an easy job to do. At 1230 I went back to MEPS and checked in early with MSGT Calderon. The system had come back online right after I went to lunch and he had all of my paperwork ready. I had to electronically sign my name, go downstairs, go back upstairs, back down, back up, and this went on until 1500 hours. There was a slight glitch in my processing that was corrected and that was why I had the trips up and down the stairs. The date for me to report back to MEPS was 8/4/09. I would take a bus (van) up there on the 3rd, stay overnight, weigh in and finish my processing on the 4th. From there I will ship to Fort Knox, Kentucky and begin BCT on or about the 14th. In October I ship to Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri for AIT. Nine weeks of BCT and seven weeks of AIT. I am projected to return home by 12/19/09. It wasn’t September but not July either. It was now or never. I signed the contract. At 1530 I was called into the briefing room, along with 4 other applicants, for my swearing in ceremony. The Army Officer was a 1st Lieutenant. We sat down at some desks and were called one by one to verify our contracts. The two first applicants responded “yea, and aight (alright).” Both were told to sit down, but with a voice of authority. He skipped the next two guys and called me up. I know I have not ever been in the military but I kind of thought at this was probably be the time to address a Military Officer as “Sir.” I also got a tip from a Sgt. 1st Class whom just completed a tour at Ft. Benning, Ga. He showed me how to stand at attention and how to properly salute an officer. I went before the Army officer and stood at attention. He asked me questions about my contract and I replied, with enthusiasm, “Yes sir!” or “No sir!” He took my photo and said “fall out.” I sat back down. He said “That is how you present yourself before an officer! The next one of you that replies “yea or aight” all of you will drop and give me twenty!” They all complied. We went into the ceremony room. We all stood at attention and gave the oath. He congratulated us. He looked at me and said “Private Holster, order the men to fall out.” I ordered the guys to stand at attention. We all saluted the Lt and after he returned the salute, I ordered “Fall out!”
After the festivities petered out, my recruiter was ready to go. We left Montgomery and came back home. It was a long day, but this time, I felt a sense of accomplishment. But this is no time to rest. I still have a lot of work to do so I can get into shape for Basic. The majority of those that failed basic could not keep up with the physical rigors, but the majority of that was because they were not mentally prepared. Even though I am now under 220 pounds, and I can run over a mile in eight minutes, I’m still not where I need to be. But I’ll get there, one day at a time.
My wife has grown more excited by the day, and my son has too. They are going to Disney when I’m gone, and to my wife’s hometown of Syracuse, New York and they are gong to party like it’s 1999. I can’t blame them. They have put up with me for this long they have earned it. In retrospect, my wife was right. To make sure this was something we could do. I mean, there is a difference between nice to have and need to have, but for me, the Army is both.
She was ticked off that I go in August instead of September, but she conceded that had she let me go….lol. I actually worked out better this way. I will return home before Christmas!
I hope to come back a better and stronger person, mentally and physically. I hope to share my experiences with my family and co-workers. After all, I didn’t do this just for me; I’m doing it for all of them. I’m doing this for those who have dreams of doing something and it gets laid out in front of them and obstacles seem to get in the way. I’m doing this for guys and gals my age who think they are too old or too out of shape. I’m also doing for the guys that already serve: after all, it’s about the soldier next to you. I’m not a soldier, yet. I haven’t earned it, but I will.
I know this has been a lot of reading. I did try to proof this stuff, but even spell check will miss a word or two. I hope to add to this blog when I return from Basic Training and AIT. I’m just a simple guy, living a simple life who wants to do the right thing for his family, his community and his country. In no way, shape or form am I trying to make myself out to be anything other than an ordinary guy. I just hope people read this and realize their dreams may be a nightmare away. For me, the weight loss was too easy, and although there was a slight “hiccup” there were no problems with the physical or enlistment. It was a matter of having a passionate desire for it. Make your dreams a reality so you never regret what could have been, or should have been, even if its for short while. I am not only alive, but I feel like for the first time in a long time I feel like I’m actually living.
And finally, how could I have passed the hearing test after failing it nineteen years prior? Or how did I do so well on the ASVAB when, even after high school when my grades were good I did horrible? Or why was enlisting such a painless process for me when back then, I was at the mercy of others? Again, if I offend, sorry but Jesus Christ is the reason. I wasn’t saved when I tried to enlist the first time and had I died in battle, I would have died lost. That is the only explanation I can give, and perhaps the only one necessary.
Forsaking
All
I
Trust
Him
My wife is one of those that tell it like it is, even if she is totally wrong. Perhaps we are all that way.On Sunday I had mowed the lawn and done some work around the house. I didn’t say much to Amanda or Steven that whole weekend. I wasn’t mad at them; it’s just that I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t slept very much since I came home but I wasn’t tired.
That evening Amanda went into our home office and I could hear her typing on the keyboard. She was playing around with the calculator and looking up stuff on the internet. She came back into the living room. “September will work. Call your recruiter. He’s going to take you back up to MEPS on Tuesday he has reserved the job you wanted.” I think I was more stunned than when the MEPS CMO told me I was medically qualified. I asked her if I really did fail the hearing test, because I wasn’t sure if I heard her correctly. “Robert, this maybe your last chance and for you to pass the physical when you couldn’t pass the hearing test nineteen years ago, that means this was meant to be.”
I almost cried. Part of me wanted to kick her in the butt for putting me through this. But, on the other hand, the Aviation Inn had some really good food and the people there aren’t half bad.
I had talked with my Lieutenant about altering my schedule so I could go back and he wholeheartedly agreed, even though he could have said “No, you are behind on your work.” He would have been correct. I had told him in the past about the possibility of joining the Reserves and he has been not only supportive of this endeavor, but very encouraging. I rode with my recruiter, along with his partner and we went back to MEPS the following Tuesday. We were supposed to get me singed in and be back around 1300 hours. I wore a shirt and tie because as soon as I came back I wanted to go into work and work on a hot case. We arrived at 0900. While one of the other recruiters went before a “Recruiter’s Board” I would wait upstairs on the second floor. Occasionally I would get up to stretch my legs or get something to drink.
I did notice that the folks that had not been “sociable” the following week were walking up to me, shaking my hand and shooting the breeze. Last week I was wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans while the others were wearing baggie clothes and shorts. They were professional last week but were very strict and talked to people like they were kids, including me. On this day, I wore slacks and a tie because as soon as I got back home I was going to work. I sat there for two hours before MSGT Calderon called me in. He said the main system was down and as soon as it came up he would call me back in. However, if it came up passed 1300 hours I would have to stay over that night. That wasn’t happening. I was not going to ask my lieutenant for another day off when I had already asked for two and he gave me three. I had work to do and didn’t have the time to waste because someone made a critical error and crashed the Adjutant General’s primary enlistment computer network. In his Puerto Rican accent, I heard a phrase that I had only heard once by one of our prosecutors “We are at the mercy of computer geeks.” At 1200 we went to the Aviation Inn. This time I got a salad and a wrap with un-sweet tea. I ate with one of the MEPS enlisted staff members, a 1st class Petty Officer who somewhat reminded me of Capt Byron Hadley from the Shawshank Redemption. Except this time he was treating me like Andy Dufresne after Andy helped him keep an inheritance without contributing to the IRS. He was not a bad guy; he had his job to do just like we all do: babysitting grown adults. I respected him for that. It is not an easy job to do. At 1230 I went back to MEPS and checked in early with MSGT Calderon. The system had come back online right after I went to lunch and he had all of my paperwork ready. I had to electronically sign my name, go downstairs, go back upstairs, back down, back up, and this went on until 1500 hours. There was a slight glitch in my processing that was corrected and that was why I had the trips up and down the stairs. The date for me to report back to MEPS was 8/4/09. I would take a bus (van) up there on the 3rd, stay overnight, weigh in and finish my processing on the 4th. From there I will ship to Fort Knox, Kentucky and begin BCT on or about the 14th. In October I ship to Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri for AIT. Nine weeks of BCT and seven weeks of AIT. I am projected to return home by 12/19/09. It wasn’t September but not July either. It was now or never. I signed the contract. At 1530 I was called into the briefing room, along with 4 other applicants, for my swearing in ceremony. The Army Officer was a 1st Lieutenant. We sat down at some desks and were called one by one to verify our contracts. The two first applicants responded “yea, and aight (alright).” Both were told to sit down, but with a voice of authority. He skipped the next two guys and called me up. I know I have not ever been in the military but I kind of thought at this was probably be the time to address a Military Officer as “Sir.” I also got a tip from a Sgt. 1st Class whom just completed a tour at Ft. Benning, Ga. He showed me how to stand at attention and how to properly salute an officer. I went before the Army officer and stood at attention. He asked me questions about my contract and I replied, with enthusiasm, “Yes sir!” or “No sir!” He took my photo and said “fall out.” I sat back down. He said “That is how you present yourself before an officer! The next one of you that replies “yea or aight” all of you will drop and give me twenty!” They all complied. We went into the ceremony room. We all stood at attention and gave the oath. He congratulated us. He looked at me and said “Private Holster, order the men to fall out.” I ordered the guys to stand at attention. We all saluted the Lt and after he returned the salute, I ordered “Fall out!”
After the festivities petered out, my recruiter was ready to go. We left Montgomery and came back home. It was a long day, but this time, I felt a sense of accomplishment. But this is no time to rest. I still have a lot of work to do so I can get into shape for Basic. The majority of those that failed basic could not keep up with the physical rigors, but the majority of that was because they were not mentally prepared. Even though I am now under 220 pounds, and I can run over a mile in eight minutes, I’m still not where I need to be. But I’ll get there, one day at a time.
My wife has grown more excited by the day, and my son has too. They are going to Disney when I’m gone, and to my wife’s hometown of Syracuse, New York and they are gong to party like it’s 1999. I can’t blame them. They have put up with me for this long they have earned it. In retrospect, my wife was right. To make sure this was something we could do. I mean, there is a difference between nice to have and need to have, but for me, the Army is both.
She was ticked off that I go in August instead of September, but she conceded that had she let me go….lol. I actually worked out better this way. I will return home before Christmas!
I hope to come back a better and stronger person, mentally and physically. I hope to share my experiences with my family and co-workers. After all, I didn’t do this just for me; I’m doing it for all of them. I’m doing this for those who have dreams of doing something and it gets laid out in front of them and obstacles seem to get in the way. I’m doing this for guys and gals my age who think they are too old or too out of shape. I’m also doing for the guys that already serve: after all, it’s about the soldier next to you. I’m not a soldier, yet. I haven’t earned it, but I will.
I know this has been a lot of reading. I did try to proof this stuff, but even spell check will miss a word or two. I hope to add to this blog when I return from Basic Training and AIT. I’m just a simple guy, living a simple life who wants to do the right thing for his family, his community and his country. In no way, shape or form am I trying to make myself out to be anything other than an ordinary guy. I just hope people read this and realize their dreams may be a nightmare away. For me, the weight loss was too easy, and although there was a slight “hiccup” there were no problems with the physical or enlistment. It was a matter of having a passionate desire for it. Make your dreams a reality so you never regret what could have been, or should have been, even if its for short while. I am not only alive, but I feel like for the first time in a long time I feel like I’m actually living.
And finally, how could I have passed the hearing test after failing it nineteen years prior? Or how did I do so well on the ASVAB when, even after high school when my grades were good I did horrible? Or why was enlisting such a painless process for me when back then, I was at the mercy of others? Again, if I offend, sorry but Jesus Christ is the reason. I wasn’t saved when I tried to enlist the first time and had I died in battle, I would have died lost. That is the only explanation I can give, and perhaps the only one necessary.
Forsaking
All
I
Trust
Him
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly MEPS visit.
The week after taking the ASVAB had gone very quickly. The last time I was this excited was when I started the Law Enforcement Academy in 1999. My wife, however, was not as excited as me. In fact, she seemed downright gloomy.
She told me she didn’t want me to go off for months in that she couldn’t talk to me on a daily basis or send text messages or emails. What I tried to convey was we have the rest of our lives together, so what was four months? Other than sending me text messages, we didn’t verbally communicate. I was beginning to get the feeling that she was having second thoughts about me leaving for the Army. Part of me couldn’t blame her, but another part of me said this: I only have one life to live and this may be my last shot. She told me to go, but no girls are allowed in my room. She doesn’t have to tell me that. She’s all I want and need.
The following week I went to Montgomery. The “bus” I rode in was actually a van. The driver, a nice guy in his early sixties, talked with me exclusively. I guess it made sense, being closer to his age group than the others. Now remember when I drive, I practically have nerves of steel having experienced pursuits and emergency high speed . I’ve had trainees that made me nervous, even when one of my buddies got into a serious crash and we drove at very high speed to get to him. The trainee drove well and even though I got nervous, but never scared, that deputy trainee was the best driver (besides me lol) to drive that car that well.
The old man driving the van nearly caused all of us to be medically disqualified when, during a rain storm, a semi-truck parked on the shoulder of I-65 activated his left turn signal. Our driver slammed on the brakes and the van started to slide sideways. We were facing west bound while the van was traveling north bound. The driver let go of the brake pedal just as we were crossing into the inside lane and he regained control of the van. The semi truck never moved an inch until we passed by. The driver asked if he could get a ticket for slamming on his brakes like that. I said in a polite way “yes, I would definitely write you a ticket for that. It’s called DWHUA.” He asked what that meant. I told him it was technical acronym for careless driving. LOL. (It means Driving With Head Up Ass). The night before the physical, we stayed at a fairly decent motel. I was in the company of kids young enough to be my children. I met a couple of guys my age and older, but they were prior servicemen who were starting their second military career. The younger guys and gals were jamming out with their I-pods, “be-bopping” around the motel. I met a young Marine applicant who had to loose five or six pounds in less than twelve hours. Like the Marine shipper from 19 years ago, he waited a little too late to stop eating the junk food. He hadn’t eaten in three days and was on the verge of dehydration. Several of us had to convince him to stop or he would get disqualified or sent home for a med waiver. The poor Navy applicant that shared a room with him suffered as the Marine Applicant had the heater on that night.
For me, I shared a room with an Army shipper who was about to complete his final processing before going to Fort Jackson for Basic Training. He liked the a/c on high, as did I but it got so cold I thought about sleeping between the mattresses.
The next morning I got up at 0400, showered and shaved, and went down stairs for chow and at 0500 we boarded a bus. Another old guy, this time in his seventies, drove us to MEPS. He wore out a set of brakes before we got there. He had one foot on the accelerator and the other brake pedal the whole way up to MEPS.
I was told, prior to going up there, that Dr. Screwes was still working there but I found out he passed away at a “very old age” in 2002 or 2003. I didn’t think the old guy was still around, he was 90 years old when I had my physical 19 years ago. The physicals from yester-year were moot since many of the enlistment standards had changed. My earlier medical disqualification didn’t count so this was a second chance at joining the military. Other than the torture of the power point during the medical briefing, the physical went well. They took my blood, checked my eyes, blood pressure (I had to take it three times due to the tech not writing down my b.p.) and there was a battery of other examinations.
The whole time I was dreading the hearing test. I heard some say “press the button when the others are pressing the button.” I didn’t like that idea one bit. If I did have a hearing problem, and quite frankly I didn’t believe I had one, it would not be fair to the others or the Army. No, I wanted to know for myself. I went into a room and got into the booth with two other applicants, including the one who had his I-pod blaring in his ears the night before. I put on the ear phones as instructed by the tech and he shut the door. All I heard was the sound of my own breathing. At that moment it dawned on me I needed to breathe through my mouth. If you plug both ears, and breathe through your nose, the sound of your breathing will drown out any outside noise. The test began with a recorded voice providing instructions. The beeps in the test were noticeable but others were very faint. I pressed the button every time I heard a beep, or when I though I heard a beep. Sometimes in a situation like that your mind can play tricks. You may think you are hearing someone else’s “beeps” but you are not. You are hearing your own. Another thing is the fatigue from not getting much sleep the night before and getting a wake up call at 0400. People have been known to doze off in the booth. You have to remain alert and concentrate. If not, you will fail.
Five minutes and 45 seconds of cotton mouth. I was tempted to wet my mouth but I knew the moment I did I would miss the faint beeps and fail the test. When it was over I received my medical chart with the hearing scores. I saw several zeros, fives and tens in both ears. I could not remember the scores from the 1990 test, but I thought that when you see zeros, it was bad. “Well I gave it my best shot,” I said under my breath. At least I could get a drink of water.
We went into a large room with other males. Stripped down to our undies we duck walked, walked on our heels, walked on our toes, one leg stand, walked backward, and walked side to side. Then we stood in line for the weight and height measurements. I weighed in at 230 pounds and measured in at 27% body fat. Anything between 29 and 32% mean that I would have to take the ARMS test, which was an exercise consisting of stepping up an down from a twelve inch platform at a rate of 120 beats per minute and a series of puss ups. Then they check your blood pressure and if your b.p. or pulse rate were too high, they send you home for two months so you can work off the excess. I didn’t have to take the ARMS test since I measured at 27%.
I thought that was great, losing 43 pounds since February even if my hearing test didn’t fly. After the physical agility we went to a private room with a one on one. I will not discuss the particulars but fellows, you know what the doc checks for (the turn your head and cough) He asked me if I had a prostate exam and I said “no, sir.” I thought I was in trouble, because he had very large fingers. He said “ok, just think about it when you turn forty.” He then sent me to the Chief Medical Officer, just outside the room. I was relieved.
At the CMO’s office I was expecting to hear the worse. In fact the only thing I was confident about was that I was going to fail the physical in some way. After all, nineteen years had passed since my last MEPS visit, and the hearing issue that was “progressive, permanent and irreparable” was the only thing I had been sure of, or at least, led to believe. Several people before me walked out visibly upset. One female in particular found out she was pregnant. The two that submitted to the hearing test when I did, including the young guy that had been jamming out with his I-Pod, failed. They both re-tested, but the male’s hearing was “H-4.” H-4 meant this was the end of the road for him. He was ineligible for a medical waiver and he would be “blackballed” from enlistment. The female had “H-3” hearing; her medical assessment was taken before a waiver board for review. If she was granted a waiver she could get in. If not, it would be the end of the road for her, too. Now it was my turn.
In 2001 I remember my interview with the Sheriff’s Office. Before me were three SRSO Administration personal and two civilians. I remembered the cotton mouth, the butterflies in my stomach and knowing that the five people sitting across the table had some influence on my future. It was to be a go-no deal. Nothing about that interview was anything compared to sitting in front of the CMO and another senior physician. The senior doc had to have been as old as Dr. Screwes was in 1990, but not as decrepit. He even smiled, which was something Dr. Screwes never did. The CMO looked at my paperwork. He looked at me, looked down at the paperwork, looked at me again, and then showed my paperwork to the senior doctor sitting next to him, they whispered as the CMO showed the other doctor my chart. After their “side-bar” he cleared his throat and said “Mr. Holster, you are medically qualified to join the Army Reserve.” It was the longest twenty seconds of my life. I was in a state of shock. I actually passed the physical.
Without getting into details, the doctor said I was in fairly reasonable shape for my age and encouraged me to continue so I could be prepared for what is yet to come. No wavier boards, no follow-up consults, and no sitting by the phone waiting for a decision from a government official who could care less if I joined the Army or get killed by some crazy old bus driver.
After all of the medical assessments were completed, we all piled downstairs. We got called to the control desk be each of out own branch of service to get a meal ticket. Three hundred yards away was the Aviation Inn, which was where we went to eat. We walked over there and stood in line for the meal trays. We could eat whatever we wanted, and how much we want and the price was right. It didn’t cost us a dime and we didn’t have to be weighed again. I tried to continue doing what I had been doing and eat healthy stuff such as a salad or grilled chicken. Ok, I did eat something I had not enjoyed for quite some time: a cheeseburger and fries and I washed it down with tea. Just with an average burger and order of fries I was full. My Marine buddy, Cody, got two bacon double cheeseburgers, chili-cheese fries, a hot dog and he went back for a desert. He wasn’t the only one that “went to the trough.” Several others ate as if they had been starving for days.
I walked back to MEPS and went upstairs to the second floor. There I would sit in a waiting area and would be called on a loudspeaker to see my Army Reserve Guidance Counselor, Master Sgt. Jorge Calderon. The others that failed the physical went downstairs and had to wait until 1600 hours for their respective buses to arrive to take them home. I finally got paged to see the Army Reserve GC, and I went into a room with a half dozen Army GC’s, a dozen other applicants, and the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge, Master Sgt. Tom Mitchell. MSGT Calderon and I looked at my qualifications and what I wanted. I could have been a “Chemical, Biological and Nuclear Specialist,” which sounds impressive, a “Petroleum Specialist” or a “Motor Transport Operator.” The MTO is the Army’s designation of a certified driver of large trucks. For those who have known me for long time, I cut my teeth driving big trucks. Fire trucks, tow trucks and motor homes were my mainstay before being commissioned as a deputy. I have always loved to drive and this job was right up my alley.
MSGT Calderon said I would be trained to operate everything from the Humvee to the M1070, which is a very large truck that transports the Bradleys and the M1A2 Abrams Main Battle Tank. That tank is 60-70 tons! I would be assigned to the 309th Transportation Detachment in Panama City, Fl. and could begin drilling there before I ship to Basic Combat Training.
I knew this day had gone too easy and uneventful. I was the oldest non-prior applicant and passed the physical with flying colors to include the dreaded hearing test. I even ate a sensible meal, even if it wasn’t a salad or grilled chicken. But something had to give, and it did. Basic Combat Training starts every week of the year except during the middle of December. But each applicant’s actual start date depends on their Advanced Individual Training (AIT). AIT is where a solider goes to be trained for their Military Occupation Specialty (MOS), and it happens after the completion of Basic Combat Training. With that being said, the date of the next available AIT for my MOS would determine when I ship to basic. In my case, I would ship on July 2, 2009. I would have shipped to Ft. Leonard Wood, Mo for BCT and AIT. And I would have been home well before Christmas, maybe even before Thanksgiving.
This would have been great for others but not in my case. I had been told that my delayed entry would be for six to twelve months, which would give me plenty of time to not only get into shape, but it would help my wife and I prepare for my four to five month absence. It would also assist in making sure my SRSO responsibilities were met. I could live with three months but not two. If I were fresh out of high school with no wife and son, no job, no mortgage and no responsibilities, I would have wanted to go the next day. As a man approaching middle age, with a wife, son and the responsibilities therein, coupled with my current assignment with the SRSO I had to do the sensible thing and weigh the sacrifices versus the benefits. From where I was sitting it was clear. This was not going to work out.
I was told it was a “take it or leave it deal.” I was also told the Army’s quota for the fiscal year was nearly complete and there had been some talk about lowering the maximum age of enlistment for non-priors back to 35 years old as the Army National Guard did in March. MSGT Mitchell called me into his office and asked me to shut the door. I gave him my life story and told him I really wanted to enlist but the date of shipping out was way too soon. He agreed and told me for someone my age and qualifications to set out on an endeavor such as military enlistment, deserves some concessions. He contacted his headquarters and got approved to get my dates pushed back. The downside was that I would have to stay in Montgomery for another night. I left MEPS empty handed but returned the following morning.
The date was September 23, 2009. Now were talking! I was just about to sing on the dotted line when I realized that I needed to call my wife. She said it was still too soon and I should just come home until some things improved and we would look back into it. I couldn’t blame her. She had some well founded concerns and it would not be the same not having me around the house for four to five months. I recalled a line from the movie “White Man Can’t Jump.” Wesley Snipes’ character told Woody Harrelson’s character to “Listen to the woman.” Snipes was right. She was my wife, my best friend and I promised that I would never let her down or make a decision that would hurt our marriage or my career. I went home that day and spend the weekend lamenting on what could have been. I thought about the sign on bonus, which would have paid of some debts and then some, the Montgomery GI Bill, going through BCT and AIT and the though of becoming a United States Soldier. And now it was over. I got my second shot. This time it wasn’t a “hearing problem” or weight or anything physical. I “knew” that I wouldn’t go back up there. It was just not meant to be. I caught hell from my recruiter, but not in a bad way. His job is to recruit and when an applicant passes the physical but doesn’t sign, he has a lot of explaining to do. He mentioned some things that made sense, but then again, I wasn’t a teenager graduating from High School or an unemployed person looking for a career.
So back to the old same old same old. No Army career for me. NOOOOOOOOO!!! I was probably more aggravated than angry. I had a chance to go. I didn’t tell my wife, but in my mind, this was her fault. I would have never went up there had she not tell me to go for it. She was being downright selfish, so I have to give up on my dreams just to make her “feel” better.
I came home Friday afternoon, and not once during weekend did we talk. She wanted to go play bingo with her mom, and shop and do other stuff while I got stuck around the house cleaning and doing chores that should have been done while I was gone.
But I guess that’s the life I chose. I get to sacrifice my own dreams and desires and happiness to make someone else feel better. Hopes, dreams and aspirations are bullsh*t. Or was I just mad because my wife wanted me to do the sensible thing? But then again, what is the right thing or the wrong thing to do? We shall see.
She told me she didn’t want me to go off for months in that she couldn’t talk to me on a daily basis or send text messages or emails. What I tried to convey was we have the rest of our lives together, so what was four months? Other than sending me text messages, we didn’t verbally communicate. I was beginning to get the feeling that she was having second thoughts about me leaving for the Army. Part of me couldn’t blame her, but another part of me said this: I only have one life to live and this may be my last shot. She told me to go, but no girls are allowed in my room. She doesn’t have to tell me that. She’s all I want and need.
The following week I went to Montgomery. The “bus” I rode in was actually a van. The driver, a nice guy in his early sixties, talked with me exclusively. I guess it made sense, being closer to his age group than the others. Now remember when I drive, I practically have nerves of steel having experienced pursuits and emergency high speed . I’ve had trainees that made me nervous, even when one of my buddies got into a serious crash and we drove at very high speed to get to him. The trainee drove well and even though I got nervous, but never scared, that deputy trainee was the best driver (besides me lol) to drive that car that well.
The old man driving the van nearly caused all of us to be medically disqualified when, during a rain storm, a semi-truck parked on the shoulder of I-65 activated his left turn signal. Our driver slammed on the brakes and the van started to slide sideways. We were facing west bound while the van was traveling north bound. The driver let go of the brake pedal just as we were crossing into the inside lane and he regained control of the van. The semi truck never moved an inch until we passed by. The driver asked if he could get a ticket for slamming on his brakes like that. I said in a polite way “yes, I would definitely write you a ticket for that. It’s called DWHUA.” He asked what that meant. I told him it was technical acronym for careless driving. LOL. (It means Driving With Head Up Ass). The night before the physical, we stayed at a fairly decent motel. I was in the company of kids young enough to be my children. I met a couple of guys my age and older, but they were prior servicemen who were starting their second military career. The younger guys and gals were jamming out with their I-pods, “be-bopping” around the motel. I met a young Marine applicant who had to loose five or six pounds in less than twelve hours. Like the Marine shipper from 19 years ago, he waited a little too late to stop eating the junk food. He hadn’t eaten in three days and was on the verge of dehydration. Several of us had to convince him to stop or he would get disqualified or sent home for a med waiver. The poor Navy applicant that shared a room with him suffered as the Marine Applicant had the heater on that night.
For me, I shared a room with an Army shipper who was about to complete his final processing before going to Fort Jackson for Basic Training. He liked the a/c on high, as did I but it got so cold I thought about sleeping between the mattresses.
The next morning I got up at 0400, showered and shaved, and went down stairs for chow and at 0500 we boarded a bus. Another old guy, this time in his seventies, drove us to MEPS. He wore out a set of brakes before we got there. He had one foot on the accelerator and the other brake pedal the whole way up to MEPS.
I was told, prior to going up there, that Dr. Screwes was still working there but I found out he passed away at a “very old age” in 2002 or 2003. I didn’t think the old guy was still around, he was 90 years old when I had my physical 19 years ago. The physicals from yester-year were moot since many of the enlistment standards had changed. My earlier medical disqualification didn’t count so this was a second chance at joining the military. Other than the torture of the power point during the medical briefing, the physical went well. They took my blood, checked my eyes, blood pressure (I had to take it three times due to the tech not writing down my b.p.) and there was a battery of other examinations.
The whole time I was dreading the hearing test. I heard some say “press the button when the others are pressing the button.” I didn’t like that idea one bit. If I did have a hearing problem, and quite frankly I didn’t believe I had one, it would not be fair to the others or the Army. No, I wanted to know for myself. I went into a room and got into the booth with two other applicants, including the one who had his I-pod blaring in his ears the night before. I put on the ear phones as instructed by the tech and he shut the door. All I heard was the sound of my own breathing. At that moment it dawned on me I needed to breathe through my mouth. If you plug both ears, and breathe through your nose, the sound of your breathing will drown out any outside noise. The test began with a recorded voice providing instructions. The beeps in the test were noticeable but others were very faint. I pressed the button every time I heard a beep, or when I though I heard a beep. Sometimes in a situation like that your mind can play tricks. You may think you are hearing someone else’s “beeps” but you are not. You are hearing your own. Another thing is the fatigue from not getting much sleep the night before and getting a wake up call at 0400. People have been known to doze off in the booth. You have to remain alert and concentrate. If not, you will fail.
Five minutes and 45 seconds of cotton mouth. I was tempted to wet my mouth but I knew the moment I did I would miss the faint beeps and fail the test. When it was over I received my medical chart with the hearing scores. I saw several zeros, fives and tens in both ears. I could not remember the scores from the 1990 test, but I thought that when you see zeros, it was bad. “Well I gave it my best shot,” I said under my breath. At least I could get a drink of water.
We went into a large room with other males. Stripped down to our undies we duck walked, walked on our heels, walked on our toes, one leg stand, walked backward, and walked side to side. Then we stood in line for the weight and height measurements. I weighed in at 230 pounds and measured in at 27% body fat. Anything between 29 and 32% mean that I would have to take the ARMS test, which was an exercise consisting of stepping up an down from a twelve inch platform at a rate of 120 beats per minute and a series of puss ups. Then they check your blood pressure and if your b.p. or pulse rate were too high, they send you home for two months so you can work off the excess. I didn’t have to take the ARMS test since I measured at 27%.
I thought that was great, losing 43 pounds since February even if my hearing test didn’t fly. After the physical agility we went to a private room with a one on one. I will not discuss the particulars but fellows, you know what the doc checks for (the turn your head and cough) He asked me if I had a prostate exam and I said “no, sir.” I thought I was in trouble, because he had very large fingers. He said “ok, just think about it when you turn forty.” He then sent me to the Chief Medical Officer, just outside the room. I was relieved.
At the CMO’s office I was expecting to hear the worse. In fact the only thing I was confident about was that I was going to fail the physical in some way. After all, nineteen years had passed since my last MEPS visit, and the hearing issue that was “progressive, permanent and irreparable” was the only thing I had been sure of, or at least, led to believe. Several people before me walked out visibly upset. One female in particular found out she was pregnant. The two that submitted to the hearing test when I did, including the young guy that had been jamming out with his I-Pod, failed. They both re-tested, but the male’s hearing was “H-4.” H-4 meant this was the end of the road for him. He was ineligible for a medical waiver and he would be “blackballed” from enlistment. The female had “H-3” hearing; her medical assessment was taken before a waiver board for review. If she was granted a waiver she could get in. If not, it would be the end of the road for her, too. Now it was my turn.
In 2001 I remember my interview with the Sheriff’s Office. Before me were three SRSO Administration personal and two civilians. I remembered the cotton mouth, the butterflies in my stomach and knowing that the five people sitting across the table had some influence on my future. It was to be a go-no deal. Nothing about that interview was anything compared to sitting in front of the CMO and another senior physician. The senior doc had to have been as old as Dr. Screwes was in 1990, but not as decrepit. He even smiled, which was something Dr. Screwes never did. The CMO looked at my paperwork. He looked at me, looked down at the paperwork, looked at me again, and then showed my paperwork to the senior doctor sitting next to him, they whispered as the CMO showed the other doctor my chart. After their “side-bar” he cleared his throat and said “Mr. Holster, you are medically qualified to join the Army Reserve.” It was the longest twenty seconds of my life. I was in a state of shock. I actually passed the physical.
Without getting into details, the doctor said I was in fairly reasonable shape for my age and encouraged me to continue so I could be prepared for what is yet to come. No wavier boards, no follow-up consults, and no sitting by the phone waiting for a decision from a government official who could care less if I joined the Army or get killed by some crazy old bus driver.
After all of the medical assessments were completed, we all piled downstairs. We got called to the control desk be each of out own branch of service to get a meal ticket. Three hundred yards away was the Aviation Inn, which was where we went to eat. We walked over there and stood in line for the meal trays. We could eat whatever we wanted, and how much we want and the price was right. It didn’t cost us a dime and we didn’t have to be weighed again. I tried to continue doing what I had been doing and eat healthy stuff such as a salad or grilled chicken. Ok, I did eat something I had not enjoyed for quite some time: a cheeseburger and fries and I washed it down with tea. Just with an average burger and order of fries I was full. My Marine buddy, Cody, got two bacon double cheeseburgers, chili-cheese fries, a hot dog and he went back for a desert. He wasn’t the only one that “went to the trough.” Several others ate as if they had been starving for days.
I walked back to MEPS and went upstairs to the second floor. There I would sit in a waiting area and would be called on a loudspeaker to see my Army Reserve Guidance Counselor, Master Sgt. Jorge Calderon. The others that failed the physical went downstairs and had to wait until 1600 hours for their respective buses to arrive to take them home. I finally got paged to see the Army Reserve GC, and I went into a room with a half dozen Army GC’s, a dozen other applicants, and the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge, Master Sgt. Tom Mitchell. MSGT Calderon and I looked at my qualifications and what I wanted. I could have been a “Chemical, Biological and Nuclear Specialist,” which sounds impressive, a “Petroleum Specialist” or a “Motor Transport Operator.” The MTO is the Army’s designation of a certified driver of large trucks. For those who have known me for long time, I cut my teeth driving big trucks. Fire trucks, tow trucks and motor homes were my mainstay before being commissioned as a deputy. I have always loved to drive and this job was right up my alley.
MSGT Calderon said I would be trained to operate everything from the Humvee to the M1070, which is a very large truck that transports the Bradleys and the M1A2 Abrams Main Battle Tank. That tank is 60-70 tons! I would be assigned to the 309th Transportation Detachment in Panama City, Fl. and could begin drilling there before I ship to Basic Combat Training.
I knew this day had gone too easy and uneventful. I was the oldest non-prior applicant and passed the physical with flying colors to include the dreaded hearing test. I even ate a sensible meal, even if it wasn’t a salad or grilled chicken. But something had to give, and it did. Basic Combat Training starts every week of the year except during the middle of December. But each applicant’s actual start date depends on their Advanced Individual Training (AIT). AIT is where a solider goes to be trained for their Military Occupation Specialty (MOS), and it happens after the completion of Basic Combat Training. With that being said, the date of the next available AIT for my MOS would determine when I ship to basic. In my case, I would ship on July 2, 2009. I would have shipped to Ft. Leonard Wood, Mo for BCT and AIT. And I would have been home well before Christmas, maybe even before Thanksgiving.
This would have been great for others but not in my case. I had been told that my delayed entry would be for six to twelve months, which would give me plenty of time to not only get into shape, but it would help my wife and I prepare for my four to five month absence. It would also assist in making sure my SRSO responsibilities were met. I could live with three months but not two. If I were fresh out of high school with no wife and son, no job, no mortgage and no responsibilities, I would have wanted to go the next day. As a man approaching middle age, with a wife, son and the responsibilities therein, coupled with my current assignment with the SRSO I had to do the sensible thing and weigh the sacrifices versus the benefits. From where I was sitting it was clear. This was not going to work out.
I was told it was a “take it or leave it deal.” I was also told the Army’s quota for the fiscal year was nearly complete and there had been some talk about lowering the maximum age of enlistment for non-priors back to 35 years old as the Army National Guard did in March. MSGT Mitchell called me into his office and asked me to shut the door. I gave him my life story and told him I really wanted to enlist but the date of shipping out was way too soon. He agreed and told me for someone my age and qualifications to set out on an endeavor such as military enlistment, deserves some concessions. He contacted his headquarters and got approved to get my dates pushed back. The downside was that I would have to stay in Montgomery for another night. I left MEPS empty handed but returned the following morning.
The date was September 23, 2009. Now were talking! I was just about to sing on the dotted line when I realized that I needed to call my wife. She said it was still too soon and I should just come home until some things improved and we would look back into it. I couldn’t blame her. She had some well founded concerns and it would not be the same not having me around the house for four to five months. I recalled a line from the movie “White Man Can’t Jump.” Wesley Snipes’ character told Woody Harrelson’s character to “Listen to the woman.” Snipes was right. She was my wife, my best friend and I promised that I would never let her down or make a decision that would hurt our marriage or my career. I went home that day and spend the weekend lamenting on what could have been. I thought about the sign on bonus, which would have paid of some debts and then some, the Montgomery GI Bill, going through BCT and AIT and the though of becoming a United States Soldier. And now it was over. I got my second shot. This time it wasn’t a “hearing problem” or weight or anything physical. I “knew” that I wouldn’t go back up there. It was just not meant to be. I caught hell from my recruiter, but not in a bad way. His job is to recruit and when an applicant passes the physical but doesn’t sign, he has a lot of explaining to do. He mentioned some things that made sense, but then again, I wasn’t a teenager graduating from High School or an unemployed person looking for a career.
So back to the old same old same old. No Army career for me. NOOOOOOOOO!!! I was probably more aggravated than angry. I had a chance to go. I didn’t tell my wife, but in my mind, this was her fault. I would have never went up there had she not tell me to go for it. She was being downright selfish, so I have to give up on my dreams just to make her “feel” better.
I came home Friday afternoon, and not once during weekend did we talk. She wanted to go play bingo with her mom, and shop and do other stuff while I got stuck around the house cleaning and doing chores that should have been done while I was gone.
But I guess that’s the life I chose. I get to sacrifice my own dreams and desires and happiness to make someone else feel better. Hopes, dreams and aspirations are bullsh*t. Or was I just mad because my wife wanted me to do the sensible thing? But then again, what is the right thing or the wrong thing to do? We shall see.
Dead Ends and Cross Roads
For some reason, I don’t remember turning around. I don’t even remember pulling into the recruiter’s office parking lot. It may have the fatigue from lack of sleep. It could have been because I had not been in my right mind thinking that any moment I could keel over with a heart attack. Maybe it was both.
Until that day, I never though death was upon me. I had a few close calls, but I always had faith that I would pull through. The day after Christmas in 1992, while fighting a house fire, the fire chief and I got tangled up inside of the house. He received third degree burns to his hands and became disabled for life. I received smoke inhalation after I removed my mask to yell for help. The smoke was so dense and my radio didn’t work. After saying a prayer, I could see a patch of light growing from the floor. The chief and I followed it and made our way out. The chief had already used his last breath of air, and the smoke nearly put me to sleep.
Another close call was two years later, when, as a wrecker driver, I was removing a disabled vehicle from the Interstate 10 Bridge over Escambia Bay. That would later be the same three mile bridge that was destroyed by Hurricane Ivan. Although the Florida Highway Patrol was diverting traffic into the inside lane, some driver who thought the highway was a racetrack and he was looking for that “checkered flag,” changed lanes and drove between the wrecker and another motorist as I was exiting the truck. The impact pushed the front door around to the front fender and I threw myself back into the truck. The state trooper ran up to me, nearly crying, because he thought I was a dead man. I was shook up a little, but the truck was serviceable. I managed to hook up to the car and towed it off the bridge. The only thing I lost was my hat. It blew off my head from the door being sprung open. It was a cold, wet and windy December night in 1994.
The driver of the other truck was cited for failure to use due care. Just as a note, I have been driving for twenty-two years, and I have yet to see a checkered flag being waved on any highway. There are no trophies, no purse winnings, no Hooter’s girls and no pit crew to congratulate you. The road is not a race track.
Those were brushes of death, but I never though I would ever die in any of those. Having been a deputy now for nine years, a firefighter from 1990-1998 and working in several jobs considered dangerous, I never thought about death. It have always instilled it in my mind that I will return home with all of the holes I was born with. But this time, it’s different. A heart attack, stroke, or whatever it was on the horizon, I had to find a way to fix it or it was inevitable.
So there I was, sitting in a parking space in front of the recruiter’s office. I was a familiar with the plaza; my office used to be in that plaza until we moved into a new facility at the new Pace Fire Department. But still, I felt out of place. I collected my thoughts and sad to myself “I’m not here to enlist and I’m only trying to get some things in order.” Somewhere in the back of my mind was the forty-two was the age limit, and I still have a few years left. No, I’m NOT going to do that, even though, a big part of me wanted to serve my country.
Recruiters are always a good source of information. Their job is not that dissimilar to my own. They have tons of paperwork, chasing down prospects and conducting background investigations. They also have to maintain good numbers in enlistments as I have to clear cases. Many of those who walk into a recruiters office are overweight, and think that the Army is going to turn them into a “lean, mean fighting machine.” Although that is somewhat true, the reality is that to meet the minimum standards one has to be at a certain weight or below to pass the physical, or the maximum allowable body fat if they are overweight. Recruiters help may people reach their goal weight or body fat before they can even go to MEPS.
Many people who have been working out their entire lives will tell you “running is the best way to lose weight.” Maybe so for some, but lards like me wouldn’t stand the pounding. Legs and backs do have limitations, and they get even more limited in age and weight. My back was already sore from my huge belly, and my 273 pound frame would have added twice that amount to my back and legs during a run. The recruiter could give me information on how to drop the weight and slowly work into a running routine. I mean, I needed to run to lose weight, and I had to lose weight so that I could run.
I walked in, wearing my badge and gun on my trouser belt. I was still “on-duty” as I was in my county vehicle. There were recruiters talking on the phone, typing away on computers, and several bystanders talking and mingling. And when they say me, everything got quiet. “I would like to talk to a recruiter,” I said. One of the guys spoke up and asked “Ok, who are you after or do you have a trouble maker wanting to enlist?” I told the young staff sergeant “No, I’m here for me.” He looked at me funny and said, “uh, Ok.” Then he handed me off to a Sgt. First Class.
The SFC was a man in his early thirties. He seemed quiet and mellow. He looked like he could be the brother of one of the sgts at my work, with same face and salt and pepper hair. But he had the demeanor of another sgt I respect; he had this quietness about him and spoke with a slow, monotone voice and stellar appearance.
I told the SFC as to why I was there. I told him I had thought abut reserve enlistment but then I gave him the reason why I never enlisted in 1990. He told me I obviously had to lose a ton of weight, but I really just needed to lose some body fat for enlistment purposes. I asked him if he had a PT guide so I could get started on a wellness program so that I could progressively get into shape. He handed me a handbook and said “Follow the instructions and you’ll be ok. You might even want to consider enlisting.”
We went into the back room, where I shed the weight of my sidearm, radio, handcuffs, badge, cell phones and shoes. The scales told me something I didn’t want to see or hear: 276 pounds, minus three for my clothing. 273 pounds. The recruiter then measured my neck and waist: 40% body fat.
When my hair is cut short, what few grays I have above the side-burn area aren’t even noticeable. I don’t have wrinkles or anything that would suggest I am “old.” The recruiter then asked me how old I was. “Thirty-six,” told him.
At that time, he began to walk me to the front door. He was blunt and totally honest. He said “Look, Robert, I appreciate the fact you want to start a wellness program. To come to this realization is no different than an alcoholic taking it upon himself to quit drinking. But between your age and build, you’ll be thirty-eight years old before you are ready to enlist, and by then, the Army will probably reduce the maximum age limit down to thirty-five.” I asked him if I should at least take the ASVAB to see where I am academically and he simply said “No.”
I called my wife and told her about the dream and about me stopping by the recruiter’s office and what I was told by the recruiter. She asked me “do you want to enlist?” I told her I was too old for that stuff and t would take me year to get into shape. She said “I know you want to enlist, and it could be a big help to us for you to have a second career.” Hmmm, I thought. She actually seems to like this idea. But I didn’t. No matter what I wanted, I had to do the sensible thing. I mean, I’m approaching middle-age, I have a wife and son, a career that I worked hard to get and now, at this point in my life want to even consider enlistment? No way. I’ve already been told no before and was just been told by the front door of the military, a recruiter who’s job it is to enlist people. And he told me NO!
I appreciated his honesty and it shored up my belief that age limits or not, I was, in fact too old. I felt relieved, in a way. I gave it a shot even if it was just a silly idea for a man my age to enlist, considering my health was going down the latrine. I still accomplished what I needed to do in getting something to help me get started. And I did just that.
That very day I stopped drinking sodas like there was no tomorrow. In fact I stopped drinking them period. I drank water, and lots of it. Although not a regular smoker, I did smoke from time to time. Not anymore. Gone were the snack cakes and super-sized value meals. That documentary, “Supersize Me,” had some truth to it, as far as I was concerned. My former shift partner, whom I’ll call “BA”, is a “muscular freak.” He showed me the video a couple of years ago after I couldn’t keep up on a K-9 track for a dangerous suspect. I wish I could have gotten the message back then. I think he was trying to help me without telling me. He is one of those “tell it like it is” kind of guys. Had he told me, I would have got the message. Stupid as stupid does, and I was quite stupid because I just didn’t get it. BA, if you do read this, thank you for trying and being a good friend. I’m sorry I wasn’t a good friend to you for not recognizing it.
Eating large meals went to eating 4-6 smaller meals a day. When I first started I tried to keep my calories down to a 1,000 a day until I got heavy into a workout regimen. I just moderated what I ate, and I began to chew food more thoroughly rather than gulped it down with one big bite. I stopped eating past 1800 hours because my bedtime was around 2100-2200 hours. I never starved myself with eating nothing. My wife thought “food is bad.” No too much food or too much bad food is bad, but food is good. She disagrees, to this day, but I tell her “too much gasoline is bad and too much bad gasoline is bad, but if you don’t fill the tank, you’ll be stranded somewhere you don’t want to be.” AAA does not have “meals on wheels” as a regular service, and I should know this from my years as a wrecker driver.
I began to take walks around the block, which was 1.3 mile area in my neighborhood. At first I could only walk halfway and I would be taxed. My legs would hurt and my lungs felt like they were going to burst.
My first attempt at push-ups ended in dismal failure. Two was all I could muster. Sit-ups? Ha! Not even one sit-up. It was only my first day, and by day two, I was too sore to do anything. At least I could work on my nutrition.
Diets do not work, at least for me. Diets are a temporary solution for a long term problem. I compare diets with using a band-aid on an open heart surgery patient. Diets may help lose a few pounds to fit into that dress or pair of pants that haven’t been worn in a while, but I learned that true wellness is a lifestyle change. I never used diet pills, 24 hour miracle diets, Jenny Craig or Nutri-System, Besides, that stuff is expensive and some of it is bad for you. No, this was going to be a long road.
My wife jumped on the proverbial “wagon” with me. She wanted to lose a few and she joined a local gym for females. We had different needs, so I didn’t have a problem working out at a different location with me. Besides, the Sheriff’s Office does have a small but adequate gym with most of what one would find in a commercial facility, except there is not enough equipment to go around.
I eventfully started using the elliptical. It was a low impact way to simulate “running” even if the truth was it was not real running. At least I could build my legs up to it and lose a pound or two. My first attempt I only went a half of a mile. I was gassed, of course. But then I progressed to one mile, one and a half and so on. I moved over to the treadmill, and again one half mile, and so on.
From one day to the next, I felt better and stronger than the day before. I slept better at night, despite having some hunger for not eating past 1800 hours. I woke up in the mornings refreshed, energetic and ready to start my days.
I only weighed myself once a week, and that was usually a Sunday morning. I got on the scale and saw I was 260 pounds. I thought “I know I lost more than that.” I stepped off and nearly stepped on my fat, orange cat “Tony.” I made sure the scale was zeroed and I stepped on it again. 262 pounds was the reading. I just didn’t get it. Maybe it would take a year. I looked behind me and saw that the cat was stepping on the scales with me. I thought it was his tail brushing against me. I carried him out of the bathroom, shut the door and got on it again. I was 240 pounds.
My clothes were getting larger and I had to punch holes in my belt to keep my pants up. A couple of days after the cat and the scales incident, I got a “wild hair” and stopped in at the recruiter’s station. Gone was the recruiter I spoke with. He transferred back to his home state. But the young SSG was there and he remembered my visit from February. He and the other Sgt gave my “high fives” for dropping the pounds. I told the SSG I wanted to thank the other recruiter for helping me get on the right path, but since he was gone, I was not going to take up anyone’s time. The SSG found my old chart left by the other recruiter. The SSG asked if I wanted to get on the scales, and I did. 240 pounds was the reading, and that was with my clothes on. He then measured my neck and waist.
While the recruiter was talking calculating my body fat, there was a young applicant who had bombed the ASVAB a few months ago. He told me about his problem areas and I tried to encourage him along. He said he was done with trying to get into the Army. I made a deal with him that if he went to take his ASVAB I would go with him. He agreed. The recruiter said “Mr. Holster, you are down to a whopping 28% body fat.” At 28%, I was eligible for enlistment. The max was 32%.
We took the ASVAB that night and did very well on it, considering I had not even prepared for it. I made a 56. The other guy made a 55, which isn’t officer stuff but it was a heck of a lot better than the 22 he had previously scored. The minimum Armed Forces Qualification Test Score (AFQT) for the Army is 31, which means you might be an Army cook or something along the lines of “latrine orderly” (lol).
I texted the recruiter with my AFQT score and called my wife. I told her I was on my way home and I told her what my score was and about the young guy who wanted to be soldier. She was excited that I did well on the test but she was really tired, so there was no real conversation about a possible enlistment. Between my weight loss and lower body fat in a short period of time, coupled with the good ASVAB score, I felt more confidant than I did in a long time.
The next morning I got to work, opened some case files and was working the final stretch of closing some cases. Later that morning, I got a call from the recruiter. He said there was a mistake on my AFQT and he needed to see me. I went to his office and sat down with him. He told me the proctor made an error and it was a significant one. He told that 56 was not my AFQT score.
The ASBAB Test is comprised of ten subtests, each one for a different subject matter. Out of those ten, four are calculated to determine the AFQT: Word Knowledge, Paragraph Comprehension, Arithmetic Reasoning and Mathematics Knowledge.
My math has always stunk, even in school, but reading and knowing words were my strengths due to working in a job that requires hours of reading and writing. I figured that my math areas were really bad, and it brought my AFQT score down. After all, the proctor had over fifty people present during the test and she had to calculate the scores herself. Human error is always a constant, and I of all people should know this.
The recruiter’s phone rang, and he talked on the phone for a few minutes. He got off the phone and told me that the mother of the “kid” that tested with me the night before wanted to take me to lunch. The recruiter said she was single and very attractive. I told him thanks, but I had to decline out of respect for my wife. I know she would not appreciate even the thought of me having lunch with another woman and I don’t like to be put into a position where anything can be misinterpreted. Besides, I don’t want to piss her off. (lol)
The recruiter said, “Ok your score. There was a mistake. You didn’t make a 56.” He sat there and looked at me. I was about to get up and walk out, because it didn’t really matter what I made on the test, I was done with this. I wouldn’t have even tested had it not been for that young kid who wanted a career as a soldier. I already had a career and I like it.
“You scored a 66,” he said as he showed me the printout. I thought, “hmmm.” He then looked at several jobs I had qualified for and asked me as to what I would like to do if I joined the Army Reserve. I told him I like to drive trucks, and the Army has a lot of them.
He then read “Ok, 88M, Motor Transport Operator. The United States Armed forces own and operate over 50,000 heavy trucks and transport vehicles, which include water/fuel tank trucks, semi-tractor trailers, troop transports, heavy equipment transports, and passenger buses. Motor Transport Operators are primarily responsible for supervising or operating wheel vehicles to transport personnel and cargo.
Duties performed by Soldiers in this MOS include:
Operates all wheel vehicles and equipment over varied terrain and roadways for support of combat operations. Manages entrucking and detrucking of personnel being transported. Oversees and checks proper loading and unloading of cargo on vehicles and trailers. Secures cargo against inclement weather, pilferage, and damage. Operates vehicle component material handling equipment (MHE), as required. Employs land navigation techniques. Must be knowledgeable with the operation of radios and weapons when they are mounted on the vehicle. Performs vehicle self-recovery and field expedients to include towing vehicles. Corrects or reports all vehicle deficiencies; supports mechanics where necessary. Prepares vehicles for movement/shipment by air, rail, or vessel.
Provides guidance to subordinates in accomplishing their duties. Organizes and participates in convoys. Dispatches vehicles; verifies vehicle logbooks. Receives and fills requests from authorized persons for motor transport. Compiles time, mileage and load data. Operates the Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Transport (HEMETT), Heavy Equipment Transporter (HET), and Palletized Loading System (PLS) vehicles to include performing self-recovery operations.”
After he read the job description, he told me about the sign on bonus’s, The Montgomery GI Bill and other benefits for Reservists. He said that from enlistment to shipping off to basic was anywhere between six-twelve months. I told him this sounded really good, but I needed to call my wife. He said “I’m confident she’ll agree to this.” So I called her and gave her the news and she said “Go for it, you’ve been wanting this. I just want you to be sure this is what you REALLY want to do.”
I went back inside and told the recruiter, ok, let’s get the ball rolling. The next week, I would go for first MEPS visit. However, when things go perfect, things have a tednecy in going bad.
Will I get to enlist or come home empty handed?
Until that day, I never though death was upon me. I had a few close calls, but I always had faith that I would pull through. The day after Christmas in 1992, while fighting a house fire, the fire chief and I got tangled up inside of the house. He received third degree burns to his hands and became disabled for life. I received smoke inhalation after I removed my mask to yell for help. The smoke was so dense and my radio didn’t work. After saying a prayer, I could see a patch of light growing from the floor. The chief and I followed it and made our way out. The chief had already used his last breath of air, and the smoke nearly put me to sleep.
Another close call was two years later, when, as a wrecker driver, I was removing a disabled vehicle from the Interstate 10 Bridge over Escambia Bay. That would later be the same three mile bridge that was destroyed by Hurricane Ivan. Although the Florida Highway Patrol was diverting traffic into the inside lane, some driver who thought the highway was a racetrack and he was looking for that “checkered flag,” changed lanes and drove between the wrecker and another motorist as I was exiting the truck. The impact pushed the front door around to the front fender and I threw myself back into the truck. The state trooper ran up to me, nearly crying, because he thought I was a dead man. I was shook up a little, but the truck was serviceable. I managed to hook up to the car and towed it off the bridge. The only thing I lost was my hat. It blew off my head from the door being sprung open. It was a cold, wet and windy December night in 1994.
The driver of the other truck was cited for failure to use due care. Just as a note, I have been driving for twenty-two years, and I have yet to see a checkered flag being waved on any highway. There are no trophies, no purse winnings, no Hooter’s girls and no pit crew to congratulate you. The road is not a race track.
Those were brushes of death, but I never though I would ever die in any of those. Having been a deputy now for nine years, a firefighter from 1990-1998 and working in several jobs considered dangerous, I never thought about death. It have always instilled it in my mind that I will return home with all of the holes I was born with. But this time, it’s different. A heart attack, stroke, or whatever it was on the horizon, I had to find a way to fix it or it was inevitable.
So there I was, sitting in a parking space in front of the recruiter’s office. I was a familiar with the plaza; my office used to be in that plaza until we moved into a new facility at the new Pace Fire Department. But still, I felt out of place. I collected my thoughts and sad to myself “I’m not here to enlist and I’m only trying to get some things in order.” Somewhere in the back of my mind was the forty-two was the age limit, and I still have a few years left. No, I’m NOT going to do that, even though, a big part of me wanted to serve my country.
Recruiters are always a good source of information. Their job is not that dissimilar to my own. They have tons of paperwork, chasing down prospects and conducting background investigations. They also have to maintain good numbers in enlistments as I have to clear cases. Many of those who walk into a recruiters office are overweight, and think that the Army is going to turn them into a “lean, mean fighting machine.” Although that is somewhat true, the reality is that to meet the minimum standards one has to be at a certain weight or below to pass the physical, or the maximum allowable body fat if they are overweight. Recruiters help may people reach their goal weight or body fat before they can even go to MEPS.
Many people who have been working out their entire lives will tell you “running is the best way to lose weight.” Maybe so for some, but lards like me wouldn’t stand the pounding. Legs and backs do have limitations, and they get even more limited in age and weight. My back was already sore from my huge belly, and my 273 pound frame would have added twice that amount to my back and legs during a run. The recruiter could give me information on how to drop the weight and slowly work into a running routine. I mean, I needed to run to lose weight, and I had to lose weight so that I could run.
I walked in, wearing my badge and gun on my trouser belt. I was still “on-duty” as I was in my county vehicle. There were recruiters talking on the phone, typing away on computers, and several bystanders talking and mingling. And when they say me, everything got quiet. “I would like to talk to a recruiter,” I said. One of the guys spoke up and asked “Ok, who are you after or do you have a trouble maker wanting to enlist?” I told the young staff sergeant “No, I’m here for me.” He looked at me funny and said, “uh, Ok.” Then he handed me off to a Sgt. First Class.
The SFC was a man in his early thirties. He seemed quiet and mellow. He looked like he could be the brother of one of the sgts at my work, with same face and salt and pepper hair. But he had the demeanor of another sgt I respect; he had this quietness about him and spoke with a slow, monotone voice and stellar appearance.
I told the SFC as to why I was there. I told him I had thought abut reserve enlistment but then I gave him the reason why I never enlisted in 1990. He told me I obviously had to lose a ton of weight, but I really just needed to lose some body fat for enlistment purposes. I asked him if he had a PT guide so I could get started on a wellness program so that I could progressively get into shape. He handed me a handbook and said “Follow the instructions and you’ll be ok. You might even want to consider enlisting.”
We went into the back room, where I shed the weight of my sidearm, radio, handcuffs, badge, cell phones and shoes. The scales told me something I didn’t want to see or hear: 276 pounds, minus three for my clothing. 273 pounds. The recruiter then measured my neck and waist: 40% body fat.
When my hair is cut short, what few grays I have above the side-burn area aren’t even noticeable. I don’t have wrinkles or anything that would suggest I am “old.” The recruiter then asked me how old I was. “Thirty-six,” told him.
At that time, he began to walk me to the front door. He was blunt and totally honest. He said “Look, Robert, I appreciate the fact you want to start a wellness program. To come to this realization is no different than an alcoholic taking it upon himself to quit drinking. But between your age and build, you’ll be thirty-eight years old before you are ready to enlist, and by then, the Army will probably reduce the maximum age limit down to thirty-five.” I asked him if I should at least take the ASVAB to see where I am academically and he simply said “No.”
I called my wife and told her about the dream and about me stopping by the recruiter’s office and what I was told by the recruiter. She asked me “do you want to enlist?” I told her I was too old for that stuff and t would take me year to get into shape. She said “I know you want to enlist, and it could be a big help to us for you to have a second career.” Hmmm, I thought. She actually seems to like this idea. But I didn’t. No matter what I wanted, I had to do the sensible thing. I mean, I’m approaching middle-age, I have a wife and son, a career that I worked hard to get and now, at this point in my life want to even consider enlistment? No way. I’ve already been told no before and was just been told by the front door of the military, a recruiter who’s job it is to enlist people. And he told me NO!
I appreciated his honesty and it shored up my belief that age limits or not, I was, in fact too old. I felt relieved, in a way. I gave it a shot even if it was just a silly idea for a man my age to enlist, considering my health was going down the latrine. I still accomplished what I needed to do in getting something to help me get started. And I did just that.
That very day I stopped drinking sodas like there was no tomorrow. In fact I stopped drinking them period. I drank water, and lots of it. Although not a regular smoker, I did smoke from time to time. Not anymore. Gone were the snack cakes and super-sized value meals. That documentary, “Supersize Me,” had some truth to it, as far as I was concerned. My former shift partner, whom I’ll call “BA”, is a “muscular freak.” He showed me the video a couple of years ago after I couldn’t keep up on a K-9 track for a dangerous suspect. I wish I could have gotten the message back then. I think he was trying to help me without telling me. He is one of those “tell it like it is” kind of guys. Had he told me, I would have got the message. Stupid as stupid does, and I was quite stupid because I just didn’t get it. BA, if you do read this, thank you for trying and being a good friend. I’m sorry I wasn’t a good friend to you for not recognizing it.
Eating large meals went to eating 4-6 smaller meals a day. When I first started I tried to keep my calories down to a 1,000 a day until I got heavy into a workout regimen. I just moderated what I ate, and I began to chew food more thoroughly rather than gulped it down with one big bite. I stopped eating past 1800 hours because my bedtime was around 2100-2200 hours. I never starved myself with eating nothing. My wife thought “food is bad.” No too much food or too much bad food is bad, but food is good. She disagrees, to this day, but I tell her “too much gasoline is bad and too much bad gasoline is bad, but if you don’t fill the tank, you’ll be stranded somewhere you don’t want to be.” AAA does not have “meals on wheels” as a regular service, and I should know this from my years as a wrecker driver.
I began to take walks around the block, which was 1.3 mile area in my neighborhood. At first I could only walk halfway and I would be taxed. My legs would hurt and my lungs felt like they were going to burst.
My first attempt at push-ups ended in dismal failure. Two was all I could muster. Sit-ups? Ha! Not even one sit-up. It was only my first day, and by day two, I was too sore to do anything. At least I could work on my nutrition.
Diets do not work, at least for me. Diets are a temporary solution for a long term problem. I compare diets with using a band-aid on an open heart surgery patient. Diets may help lose a few pounds to fit into that dress or pair of pants that haven’t been worn in a while, but I learned that true wellness is a lifestyle change. I never used diet pills, 24 hour miracle diets, Jenny Craig or Nutri-System, Besides, that stuff is expensive and some of it is bad for you. No, this was going to be a long road.
My wife jumped on the proverbial “wagon” with me. She wanted to lose a few and she joined a local gym for females. We had different needs, so I didn’t have a problem working out at a different location with me. Besides, the Sheriff’s Office does have a small but adequate gym with most of what one would find in a commercial facility, except there is not enough equipment to go around.
I eventfully started using the elliptical. It was a low impact way to simulate “running” even if the truth was it was not real running. At least I could build my legs up to it and lose a pound or two. My first attempt I only went a half of a mile. I was gassed, of course. But then I progressed to one mile, one and a half and so on. I moved over to the treadmill, and again one half mile, and so on.
From one day to the next, I felt better and stronger than the day before. I slept better at night, despite having some hunger for not eating past 1800 hours. I woke up in the mornings refreshed, energetic and ready to start my days.
I only weighed myself once a week, and that was usually a Sunday morning. I got on the scale and saw I was 260 pounds. I thought “I know I lost more than that.” I stepped off and nearly stepped on my fat, orange cat “Tony.” I made sure the scale was zeroed and I stepped on it again. 262 pounds was the reading. I just didn’t get it. Maybe it would take a year. I looked behind me and saw that the cat was stepping on the scales with me. I thought it was his tail brushing against me. I carried him out of the bathroom, shut the door and got on it again. I was 240 pounds.
My clothes were getting larger and I had to punch holes in my belt to keep my pants up. A couple of days after the cat and the scales incident, I got a “wild hair” and stopped in at the recruiter’s station. Gone was the recruiter I spoke with. He transferred back to his home state. But the young SSG was there and he remembered my visit from February. He and the other Sgt gave my “high fives” for dropping the pounds. I told the SSG I wanted to thank the other recruiter for helping me get on the right path, but since he was gone, I was not going to take up anyone’s time. The SSG found my old chart left by the other recruiter. The SSG asked if I wanted to get on the scales, and I did. 240 pounds was the reading, and that was with my clothes on. He then measured my neck and waist.
While the recruiter was talking calculating my body fat, there was a young applicant who had bombed the ASVAB a few months ago. He told me about his problem areas and I tried to encourage him along. He said he was done with trying to get into the Army. I made a deal with him that if he went to take his ASVAB I would go with him. He agreed. The recruiter said “Mr. Holster, you are down to a whopping 28% body fat.” At 28%, I was eligible for enlistment. The max was 32%.
We took the ASVAB that night and did very well on it, considering I had not even prepared for it. I made a 56. The other guy made a 55, which isn’t officer stuff but it was a heck of a lot better than the 22 he had previously scored. The minimum Armed Forces Qualification Test Score (AFQT) for the Army is 31, which means you might be an Army cook or something along the lines of “latrine orderly” (lol).
I texted the recruiter with my AFQT score and called my wife. I told her I was on my way home and I told her what my score was and about the young guy who wanted to be soldier. She was excited that I did well on the test but she was really tired, so there was no real conversation about a possible enlistment. Between my weight loss and lower body fat in a short period of time, coupled with the good ASVAB score, I felt more confidant than I did in a long time.
The next morning I got to work, opened some case files and was working the final stretch of closing some cases. Later that morning, I got a call from the recruiter. He said there was a mistake on my AFQT and he needed to see me. I went to his office and sat down with him. He told me the proctor made an error and it was a significant one. He told that 56 was not my AFQT score.
The ASBAB Test is comprised of ten subtests, each one for a different subject matter. Out of those ten, four are calculated to determine the AFQT: Word Knowledge, Paragraph Comprehension, Arithmetic Reasoning and Mathematics Knowledge.
My math has always stunk, even in school, but reading and knowing words were my strengths due to working in a job that requires hours of reading and writing. I figured that my math areas were really bad, and it brought my AFQT score down. After all, the proctor had over fifty people present during the test and she had to calculate the scores herself. Human error is always a constant, and I of all people should know this.
The recruiter’s phone rang, and he talked on the phone for a few minutes. He got off the phone and told me that the mother of the “kid” that tested with me the night before wanted to take me to lunch. The recruiter said she was single and very attractive. I told him thanks, but I had to decline out of respect for my wife. I know she would not appreciate even the thought of me having lunch with another woman and I don’t like to be put into a position where anything can be misinterpreted. Besides, I don’t want to piss her off. (lol)
The recruiter said, “Ok your score. There was a mistake. You didn’t make a 56.” He sat there and looked at me. I was about to get up and walk out, because it didn’t really matter what I made on the test, I was done with this. I wouldn’t have even tested had it not been for that young kid who wanted a career as a soldier. I already had a career and I like it.
“You scored a 66,” he said as he showed me the printout. I thought, “hmmm.” He then looked at several jobs I had qualified for and asked me as to what I would like to do if I joined the Army Reserve. I told him I like to drive trucks, and the Army has a lot of them.
He then read “Ok, 88M, Motor Transport Operator. The United States Armed forces own and operate over 50,000 heavy trucks and transport vehicles, which include water/fuel tank trucks, semi-tractor trailers, troop transports, heavy equipment transports, and passenger buses. Motor Transport Operators are primarily responsible for supervising or operating wheel vehicles to transport personnel and cargo.
Duties performed by Soldiers in this MOS include:
Operates all wheel vehicles and equipment over varied terrain and roadways for support of combat operations. Manages entrucking and detrucking of personnel being transported. Oversees and checks proper loading and unloading of cargo on vehicles and trailers. Secures cargo against inclement weather, pilferage, and damage. Operates vehicle component material handling equipment (MHE), as required. Employs land navigation techniques. Must be knowledgeable with the operation of radios and weapons when they are mounted on the vehicle. Performs vehicle self-recovery and field expedients to include towing vehicles. Corrects or reports all vehicle deficiencies; supports mechanics where necessary. Prepares vehicles for movement/shipment by air, rail, or vessel.
Provides guidance to subordinates in accomplishing their duties. Organizes and participates in convoys. Dispatches vehicles; verifies vehicle logbooks. Receives and fills requests from authorized persons for motor transport. Compiles time, mileage and load data. Operates the Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Transport (HEMETT), Heavy Equipment Transporter (HET), and Palletized Loading System (PLS) vehicles to include performing self-recovery operations.”
After he read the job description, he told me about the sign on bonus’s, The Montgomery GI Bill and other benefits for Reservists. He said that from enlistment to shipping off to basic was anywhere between six-twelve months. I told him this sounded really good, but I needed to call my wife. He said “I’m confident she’ll agree to this.” So I called her and gave her the news and she said “Go for it, you’ve been wanting this. I just want you to be sure this is what you REALLY want to do.”
I went back inside and told the recruiter, ok, let’s get the ball rolling. The next week, I would go for first MEPS visit. However, when things go perfect, things have a tednecy in going bad.
Will I get to enlist or come home empty handed?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Death to Life
In 2008 Sheriff Hall won the election for his third term in office. As with each new sheriff, or the incumbent sheriff, we all had to get new ID cards every four years. They took my picture in December of 2008, but I didn’t see it until January when Sheriff Hall swore us all I under his tenure. When I saw the picture, I didn’t realize how fatter I became. Oh well, the coffee and doughnuts were good. I didn’t eat them often, but like drinking, when I did, it was ugly.
I had told Amanda several times that I was probably going to have a heart attack if I didn’t change my ways. She agreed. She said that all of the snacking I did at night, eating large meals during the day and no exercise, I was bound for it. Thirty six was not too young for a heart attack.
Several members of my mother’s side of the family had heart attacks, and even my dad’s biological father died from a massive heart attack. In my 19 years of public service, it wasn’t the “heart attacks” that troubled me. It was the myocardial infarction that scared me. That was heart attack that usually proved fatal. The myths brought upon by movies were that CPR “revived” the victims. It only helps to circulate oxygenated blood throughout the body to prevent brain damage. In all my years of performing CPR or assisting with it, only one person actually survived but she died a few days later in the hospital.
One February night, we had ordered pizza, soda and some other “bad for you food.” As usual, I ate way more than I should have. I went to bed with an overfull belly, as usual. Around 0300, for some reason I went into my son’s room. The light was on but all I could see was red. I felt this sharp pain in my chest and in my left shoulder. I fell over and the next thing I knew, I could see my wife and son standing in the hallway crying. I looked down and saw the emergency workers I knew and one of my fellow deputies pushing down on my chest. I remember one of the guys shook his head and said “he’s gone.” It seemed like an eternity. They moved away and could see my huge gut being totally distended, which was common for CPR, but in my case it loked far worse. I also saw that my chest was caved in from the CPR and my ribs were broken.
My wife and son cried even more hysterically as the paramedic, one of Amanda’s former co-workers, said “I’m sorry, Robert is gone.”
At that moment I woke up. The room was dark. Our yellow Lab, Shane, was sleeping in his usual spot between Amanda and I. He was snoring like a hog. Amanda was sleeping peacefully. I laid there for a few minutes and when I couldn’t fall back asleep, I got up. At first I went to check on Steven, but then I said to myself “no, I better not.” I went into the kitchen and went to pour me a glass of soda. But then I grabbed a bottle of water.
I sat on the couch for a few minutes. I reached up to “bum” a cigarette from Amanda’s pack that she left next to the couch. I grabbed the lighter and ash tray. Just as I was about to light it up, I placed it back into the pack. Although not healthy, I elected to grab my can of snuff and got me a big, fat chaw.
I didn’t turn on the tv or even surf the web. I sat there in the darkness. The only noise was the cat meowing in the den. I reflected on not my looks, but my health. How has this affected me? How will it affect Steven? My wife? Our home? My job?
Our love life is very private, but in reality, it was non-existent. In two minutes I would be gassed. I didn’t have the energy to play with Steven. I felt too lazy to cut the grass, and when I did, I would be too worn out for anything else. At work, I had been on foot chases and K-9 tracks in which I thought I was going to pass out. But all of that aside, what good am I doing my family if I wind up in a grave?
I know where I’m going when I die, and if offends anybody, then so be it, I’ll be with the Lord Jesus Christ. He saved my soul on May 18, 1992. I was tickled to later find out that the same day I was saved was George Strait’s birthday. It occurred to me something I read in high school years ago. It was a quote made from a death row inmate who was about to be executed for rape and murder. Hours before being strapped into the electric chair, he said “as long as there is life, there is hope.” I wasn’t dead yet, my heart is still beating, I’m still breathing, but I didn’t feel that I was living.
I went to work that morning after not having any sleep. My job as a detective had its pros and cons. The pros were having a normal family life and weekends off. The cons were when you don’t get much sleep, and you sit in the office, you are going to be tired. Well, it was a Friday and just about everybody was off. My detective partner, a 61 year old retired Master Chief, had a leather lung and wrote the book on profanity. Serious with his work, great sense of humor and the etiquette of cursing made him a staple. He kept me and the lieutenant going since our offices were close by and we seldom closed the doors. Fridays were his regular days off. We worked four, ten hour shifts. He works Monday-Thursday and I worked Tuesday-Friday. With him off and the lieutenant working a half day I couldn’t get into a rhythm.
My phone only rang when my wife would call me. I was fatigued but not sleepy. I really had no business being at work. I didn’t have any hot cases, and I had cleared a few earlier in the week. I reluctantly asked him to take off the rest of the day and he had no problem with it.
When I leave the office, I usually go a certain way, but this time, I took a different route. As I headed east on Highway 90, I passed the Army Recruiting Station. I don’t even remember turning around, but within a couple of minutes of passing it I found myself pulling into a parking space at the recruiter’s.
The same day I “suffered” a fatal heart attack, it became the first day I had begun to live.
I had told Amanda several times that I was probably going to have a heart attack if I didn’t change my ways. She agreed. She said that all of the snacking I did at night, eating large meals during the day and no exercise, I was bound for it. Thirty six was not too young for a heart attack.
Several members of my mother’s side of the family had heart attacks, and even my dad’s biological father died from a massive heart attack. In my 19 years of public service, it wasn’t the “heart attacks” that troubled me. It was the myocardial infarction that scared me. That was heart attack that usually proved fatal. The myths brought upon by movies were that CPR “revived” the victims. It only helps to circulate oxygenated blood throughout the body to prevent brain damage. In all my years of performing CPR or assisting with it, only one person actually survived but she died a few days later in the hospital.
One February night, we had ordered pizza, soda and some other “bad for you food.” As usual, I ate way more than I should have. I went to bed with an overfull belly, as usual. Around 0300, for some reason I went into my son’s room. The light was on but all I could see was red. I felt this sharp pain in my chest and in my left shoulder. I fell over and the next thing I knew, I could see my wife and son standing in the hallway crying. I looked down and saw the emergency workers I knew and one of my fellow deputies pushing down on my chest. I remember one of the guys shook his head and said “he’s gone.” It seemed like an eternity. They moved away and could see my huge gut being totally distended, which was common for CPR, but in my case it loked far worse. I also saw that my chest was caved in from the CPR and my ribs were broken.
My wife and son cried even more hysterically as the paramedic, one of Amanda’s former co-workers, said “I’m sorry, Robert is gone.”
At that moment I woke up. The room was dark. Our yellow Lab, Shane, was sleeping in his usual spot between Amanda and I. He was snoring like a hog. Amanda was sleeping peacefully. I laid there for a few minutes and when I couldn’t fall back asleep, I got up. At first I went to check on Steven, but then I said to myself “no, I better not.” I went into the kitchen and went to pour me a glass of soda. But then I grabbed a bottle of water.
I sat on the couch for a few minutes. I reached up to “bum” a cigarette from Amanda’s pack that she left next to the couch. I grabbed the lighter and ash tray. Just as I was about to light it up, I placed it back into the pack. Although not healthy, I elected to grab my can of snuff and got me a big, fat chaw.
I didn’t turn on the tv or even surf the web. I sat there in the darkness. The only noise was the cat meowing in the den. I reflected on not my looks, but my health. How has this affected me? How will it affect Steven? My wife? Our home? My job?
Our love life is very private, but in reality, it was non-existent. In two minutes I would be gassed. I didn’t have the energy to play with Steven. I felt too lazy to cut the grass, and when I did, I would be too worn out for anything else. At work, I had been on foot chases and K-9 tracks in which I thought I was going to pass out. But all of that aside, what good am I doing my family if I wind up in a grave?
I know where I’m going when I die, and if offends anybody, then so be it, I’ll be with the Lord Jesus Christ. He saved my soul on May 18, 1992. I was tickled to later find out that the same day I was saved was George Strait’s birthday. It occurred to me something I read in high school years ago. It was a quote made from a death row inmate who was about to be executed for rape and murder. Hours before being strapped into the electric chair, he said “as long as there is life, there is hope.” I wasn’t dead yet, my heart is still beating, I’m still breathing, but I didn’t feel that I was living.
I went to work that morning after not having any sleep. My job as a detective had its pros and cons. The pros were having a normal family life and weekends off. The cons were when you don’t get much sleep, and you sit in the office, you are going to be tired. Well, it was a Friday and just about everybody was off. My detective partner, a 61 year old retired Master Chief, had a leather lung and wrote the book on profanity. Serious with his work, great sense of humor and the etiquette of cursing made him a staple. He kept me and the lieutenant going since our offices were close by and we seldom closed the doors. Fridays were his regular days off. We worked four, ten hour shifts. He works Monday-Thursday and I worked Tuesday-Friday. With him off and the lieutenant working a half day I couldn’t get into a rhythm.
My phone only rang when my wife would call me. I was fatigued but not sleepy. I really had no business being at work. I didn’t have any hot cases, and I had cleared a few earlier in the week. I reluctantly asked him to take off the rest of the day and he had no problem with it.
When I leave the office, I usually go a certain way, but this time, I took a different route. As I headed east on Highway 90, I passed the Army Recruiting Station. I don’t even remember turning around, but within a couple of minutes of passing it I found myself pulling into a parking space at the recruiter’s.
The same day I “suffered” a fatal heart attack, it became the first day I had begun to live.
Hurricanes, Wedding Bells and a Heart Attack
In September of 2004, Hurricane Ivan was on its way to my area, and with it, destruction was to be in its wake. I was sheltered with the same fire department I used to serve in years back, and that’s when I met the woman who would one day be my wife. She worked for EMS as an Emergency Medical Technician. At the height of the storm Amanda and I sat in one of the leeward bays and watched trees coming down, transformers blowing and we were even making bets on which tree would go down next. Other times we would talk about life. I wasn’t interested in starting a relationship. That was one area where I had the least success, but I really liked her. She was, on the other hand, a married woman. What she didn’t tell me that night was that her marriage was on the rocks.
Ivan made landfall at the Florida-Alabama state line, but it was such a large storm with category thee to fur winds. Forty-five to fifty miles to the east was us. And it got nasty. About 0300, the pressure inside the building changed and that ominous sound of a freight train racked some nerves. We all knew there would be no trains moving during the hurricane. It had to be a tornado and it was to the east of us. Then the fire chief and assistant chief brought it to my attention that the roof of the building was buckling. The sounds of the rafters creaked and it made the hairs on my neck stand up.
I called a lieutenant on the radio to let him know were going to break into the school two blocks away. He said the Sheriff’s Office main building, completed in 1998, had suffered severe damage from losing the roof. The interior would later be gutted.
The fire chief and assistant chief loaded into my patrol car. We battled 100 plus mile an hour wind. That car drove smooth at 100 miles per hour. But even at 20 miles per hour, the car shook and shuttered the entire way. We broke into the school and set up shop in the cafeteria. It was the same elementary school I attended many years ago.
We went back to the fire house, and gave everyone the plan. Amanda, driving the ambulance would lead the convoy, and she would be followed by at least a dozen personally owned vehicles. My car would be the last to leave, in case one of other vehicles got into trouble. Then I had to take some of the guys back to the firehouse to get the trucks. One of the bay doors had blown in, but it was held up by one of the truck behind it. The first truck pulled out and went on its way. The second truck had to back as far as it could and the driver showed some expertise as he drove it out of the other bay at an angle and with his foot to the floor. He missed the sides by only inches.
I fought the wind and rain to my car. That was actually the scariest part for me. I was alone at this point, and realized I violated my own rule that no one goes out without a buddy. I took only two guys, so they bugged out that left me alone. Also, my radio was UHF and the fire department had VHF radios. No, cell phones were out so I couldn’t use them.
I got into my car, which was already running, and turned around to pull out. I made the left turn onto Ward Basin Road when a huge gust of wind caught my car and turned me sideways. The road was littered with debris of tree limbs, leaves and pine needles, so my rear tires were spinning. I eased off the gas and as I looked through my windshield I could see very large tree coming down, large enough to crush the car. It narrowly missed the back of my patrol car and I felt the road shake when it hit.
When the sun came up, the damage was far worse than I expected. Entire neighborhoods were destroyed and lives were lost. My own parents yard had flooded from storm surge that backed the Blackwater River for miles. The house was undamaged, exceot for some shingles. A large tree had went down in the back yard, and my dad’s boat was floating above the trailer. My son’s “Powerwheels Jeep” was floating around. I had to wade in waist deep water to retrieve it and put it in a better place. I didn’t go inside, fearing the worse.
The water receded later that day. To my parents’ amazement, the inside of the house wasn’t wet. Power was out, naturally, put somewhere above my parent’s home a water main had severed. They had no water. That night, I came home from work. My dad had a stress related attitude, and it wasn’t totally unwarranted. We lived through other hurricanes but this one brought us back to the stone-age. I told my dad to come outside. We leaned up against my patrol car and I told him to look up. With no power, no street lights and the area being under a curfew, there were more stars visible and they were much brighter than I have ever seen. My dad said it reminded him when he was an arrestor gear/catapult technician aboard the USS Ranger CV61 during the Vietnam War. He just stood there, looking up at the stars, and even managed to smile.
For weeks we were without power. Some places were without water. A lot of people lived on military meals ready to eat for weeks. I was no exception and I learned why the put the chewing gum in them.
As the weeks went by and things returned to normal, I didn’t see Amanda again. Oh well, wishful thinking. I had returned to patrol from the traffic unit, and I was assigned to the Pace area. I was dispatched to assist EMS on a medical call, and standing in the back of the Ambulance was Amanda. Our eyes met and we both smiled at the same time.
Amanda hailed from upstate New York. A huge baseball fan, particularly the New York Yankees, she could tell you what kind of pitches David Cone threw in his perfect game. She could tell you the batting average of just about every New Yankee batter, which Yankee pitcher’s had the best ERA’s and which of the opposing players were known as “Yankee Killers.”
At the time I met Amanda, I was a NACAR Fan. She new this and asked me, from time to time, if I were to ever drive a race car, which track I would love to drive. I told her that it would have to be Atlanta Motor Speedway. The NASCAR guys could get up 200 miles an hour on the front stretch, and that was one of my favorite races.
In late 2005, we would get hit by another hurricane. Dennis was a powerful hurricane, but it’s forward speed was much faster than Ivan. Ivan, which lumbered at a snail’s pace, obliterated the area. Dennis did do some serious damage, but it wasn’t as bad. Again, Amanda and I would be sheltered in the same location, this time it was a school.
When the storm cleared I got a call that my parent’s house, which was surprisingly spared during Ivan, took a direct hit from Dennis. The remaining water oak tree that actually leaned away from the house snapped 1/3 of the way up and slammed into the room of the house. I got there, took off my duty belt and uniform shirt, and began to clear some of the debris from the house
Amanda had called the fire department and they responded with chain saws and fresh bodies to help remove the tree from the house. After that one of my parents’ neighbors brought over some plywood to patch the large hole in the roof, and we used a red tarp to keep the moister out. The rest of the house faired well. Other than losing a few shingles Ivan left the house undamaged. Other homes in the neighborhood had flood damage. Dennis didn’t bring the floods, but the winds brought the damage. Along with the house, my dad’s boat shelter was a mangled wreck. My parents’ house was the only residence to sustain any damage from Dennis. Guess they had it coming.
Amanda and I had started dating earlier in the year. When I introduced her to my son, they hit it off great! In September, Amanda, Steven and I moved into a house together that she had purchased after her divorce.
I figured out why she kept asking me about what track I would love to drive. She got me the Richard Petty Driving Experience, in which I would get to drive a race-quality car (not at 200 miles an hour, though) around the track for eight laps with no one else in the car. It was my 2005 Christmas present and it was expensive. My Christmas present was even more so; an engagement ring. She I had already proposed to her and of course, she said “yes” but with the expenses of moving, her buying a Nissan Titan, etc etc we had to save up. On Christmas Eve, we went to the mall and when we walked up to Zales, I simply told her “choose!” She picked out her ring and had to show it to everybody.
The following March we were married and in April we went to Hampton Georgia to the Atlanta Motor Speedway. My son Steven couldn’t ride in the cars but he did get to ride in a van full of other kids at 80 miles per hour. That kid is fearless. I was the fifth driver. I got to number 5 Kellogs car. It was based on the Nationwide Series Car but it had a fiberglass body. The HANS device was mandatory since the death of Dale Earnhart Sr in 2001, and that included these cars. Top speed was only around 150, but most drivers would top out at around 130. This was fine with me, since my patrol car has gone even faster. I got in the car, got strapped in, and fired the engine. When the instructor car ahead of me pulled out, I was given the signal to go. Of course, I was the only fool to stall the engine. I re-fired the car and away I went. I went through the gears from pit road to the track bottom, and then moved up against the wall as I dropped her into fourth gear.
The turns are banked at 24 degrees, an the object was to lift off of the accelerator to let the front tires bite as we went into the turns, and accelerated as we reached the apex. At first I did that but I was falling way behind the instructor. I then got confident that the car would stick, so I pushed it harder. I came off of the turns against the wall. We ran high, low and middle. On the last lap, the instructor signaled for me to put the car into neutral and coast the rest of the way in. My top speed was 156 miles per hour, but came in even slower than some other guys.
After we left the speedway we went to Six Flags for a few hours and then headed home. We were pooped.
I looked at the picture of me standing next to the racecar, and the video my wife’s friends had made. I didn’t realize how fat I was. Oh well, things will never change.
But then, nearly four years later, it happened. My fear had come true. I had suffered a heart attack.
Ivan made landfall at the Florida-Alabama state line, but it was such a large storm with category thee to fur winds. Forty-five to fifty miles to the east was us. And it got nasty. About 0300, the pressure inside the building changed and that ominous sound of a freight train racked some nerves. We all knew there would be no trains moving during the hurricane. It had to be a tornado and it was to the east of us. Then the fire chief and assistant chief brought it to my attention that the roof of the building was buckling. The sounds of the rafters creaked and it made the hairs on my neck stand up.
I called a lieutenant on the radio to let him know were going to break into the school two blocks away. He said the Sheriff’s Office main building, completed in 1998, had suffered severe damage from losing the roof. The interior would later be gutted.
The fire chief and assistant chief loaded into my patrol car. We battled 100 plus mile an hour wind. That car drove smooth at 100 miles per hour. But even at 20 miles per hour, the car shook and shuttered the entire way. We broke into the school and set up shop in the cafeteria. It was the same elementary school I attended many years ago.
We went back to the fire house, and gave everyone the plan. Amanda, driving the ambulance would lead the convoy, and she would be followed by at least a dozen personally owned vehicles. My car would be the last to leave, in case one of other vehicles got into trouble. Then I had to take some of the guys back to the firehouse to get the trucks. One of the bay doors had blown in, but it was held up by one of the truck behind it. The first truck pulled out and went on its way. The second truck had to back as far as it could and the driver showed some expertise as he drove it out of the other bay at an angle and with his foot to the floor. He missed the sides by only inches.
I fought the wind and rain to my car. That was actually the scariest part for me. I was alone at this point, and realized I violated my own rule that no one goes out without a buddy. I took only two guys, so they bugged out that left me alone. Also, my radio was UHF and the fire department had VHF radios. No, cell phones were out so I couldn’t use them.
I got into my car, which was already running, and turned around to pull out. I made the left turn onto Ward Basin Road when a huge gust of wind caught my car and turned me sideways. The road was littered with debris of tree limbs, leaves and pine needles, so my rear tires were spinning. I eased off the gas and as I looked through my windshield I could see very large tree coming down, large enough to crush the car. It narrowly missed the back of my patrol car and I felt the road shake when it hit.
When the sun came up, the damage was far worse than I expected. Entire neighborhoods were destroyed and lives were lost. My own parents yard had flooded from storm surge that backed the Blackwater River for miles. The house was undamaged, exceot for some shingles. A large tree had went down in the back yard, and my dad’s boat was floating above the trailer. My son’s “Powerwheels Jeep” was floating around. I had to wade in waist deep water to retrieve it and put it in a better place. I didn’t go inside, fearing the worse.
The water receded later that day. To my parents’ amazement, the inside of the house wasn’t wet. Power was out, naturally, put somewhere above my parent’s home a water main had severed. They had no water. That night, I came home from work. My dad had a stress related attitude, and it wasn’t totally unwarranted. We lived through other hurricanes but this one brought us back to the stone-age. I told my dad to come outside. We leaned up against my patrol car and I told him to look up. With no power, no street lights and the area being under a curfew, there were more stars visible and they were much brighter than I have ever seen. My dad said it reminded him when he was an arrestor gear/catapult technician aboard the USS Ranger CV61 during the Vietnam War. He just stood there, looking up at the stars, and even managed to smile.
For weeks we were without power. Some places were without water. A lot of people lived on military meals ready to eat for weeks. I was no exception and I learned why the put the chewing gum in them.
As the weeks went by and things returned to normal, I didn’t see Amanda again. Oh well, wishful thinking. I had returned to patrol from the traffic unit, and I was assigned to the Pace area. I was dispatched to assist EMS on a medical call, and standing in the back of the Ambulance was Amanda. Our eyes met and we both smiled at the same time.
Amanda hailed from upstate New York. A huge baseball fan, particularly the New York Yankees, she could tell you what kind of pitches David Cone threw in his perfect game. She could tell you the batting average of just about every New Yankee batter, which Yankee pitcher’s had the best ERA’s and which of the opposing players were known as “Yankee Killers.”
At the time I met Amanda, I was a NACAR Fan. She new this and asked me, from time to time, if I were to ever drive a race car, which track I would love to drive. I told her that it would have to be Atlanta Motor Speedway. The NASCAR guys could get up 200 miles an hour on the front stretch, and that was one of my favorite races.
In late 2005, we would get hit by another hurricane. Dennis was a powerful hurricane, but it’s forward speed was much faster than Ivan. Ivan, which lumbered at a snail’s pace, obliterated the area. Dennis did do some serious damage, but it wasn’t as bad. Again, Amanda and I would be sheltered in the same location, this time it was a school.
When the storm cleared I got a call that my parent’s house, which was surprisingly spared during Ivan, took a direct hit from Dennis. The remaining water oak tree that actually leaned away from the house snapped 1/3 of the way up and slammed into the room of the house. I got there, took off my duty belt and uniform shirt, and began to clear some of the debris from the house
Amanda had called the fire department and they responded with chain saws and fresh bodies to help remove the tree from the house. After that one of my parents’ neighbors brought over some plywood to patch the large hole in the roof, and we used a red tarp to keep the moister out. The rest of the house faired well. Other than losing a few shingles Ivan left the house undamaged. Other homes in the neighborhood had flood damage. Dennis didn’t bring the floods, but the winds brought the damage. Along with the house, my dad’s boat shelter was a mangled wreck. My parents’ house was the only residence to sustain any damage from Dennis. Guess they had it coming.
Amanda and I had started dating earlier in the year. When I introduced her to my son, they hit it off great! In September, Amanda, Steven and I moved into a house together that she had purchased after her divorce.
I figured out why she kept asking me about what track I would love to drive. She got me the Richard Petty Driving Experience, in which I would get to drive a race-quality car (not at 200 miles an hour, though) around the track for eight laps with no one else in the car. It was my 2005 Christmas present and it was expensive. My Christmas present was even more so; an engagement ring. She I had already proposed to her and of course, she said “yes” but with the expenses of moving, her buying a Nissan Titan, etc etc we had to save up. On Christmas Eve, we went to the mall and when we walked up to Zales, I simply told her “choose!” She picked out her ring and had to show it to everybody.
The following March we were married and in April we went to Hampton Georgia to the Atlanta Motor Speedway. My son Steven couldn’t ride in the cars but he did get to ride in a van full of other kids at 80 miles per hour. That kid is fearless. I was the fifth driver. I got to number 5 Kellogs car. It was based on the Nationwide Series Car but it had a fiberglass body. The HANS device was mandatory since the death of Dale Earnhart Sr in 2001, and that included these cars. Top speed was only around 150, but most drivers would top out at around 130. This was fine with me, since my patrol car has gone even faster. I got in the car, got strapped in, and fired the engine. When the instructor car ahead of me pulled out, I was given the signal to go. Of course, I was the only fool to stall the engine. I re-fired the car and away I went. I went through the gears from pit road to the track bottom, and then moved up against the wall as I dropped her into fourth gear.
The turns are banked at 24 degrees, an the object was to lift off of the accelerator to let the front tires bite as we went into the turns, and accelerated as we reached the apex. At first I did that but I was falling way behind the instructor. I then got confident that the car would stick, so I pushed it harder. I came off of the turns against the wall. We ran high, low and middle. On the last lap, the instructor signaled for me to put the car into neutral and coast the rest of the way in. My top speed was 156 miles per hour, but came in even slower than some other guys.
After we left the speedway we went to Six Flags for a few hours and then headed home. We were pooped.
I looked at the picture of me standing next to the racecar, and the video my wife’s friends had made. I didn’t realize how fat I was. Oh well, things will never change.
But then, nearly four years later, it happened. My fear had come true. I had suffered a heart attack.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Failure Was an Option
Even though I never got into the military, I still had a fascination with aircraft carriers, Abrams tanks and even old deuce and a half trucks. I knew the name and hull number of every United States Aircraft Carrier, from birth to their respective fates and I had never stepped foot on one. My learning curve was based on books that I read or hours watching the Discover Channel.
I know Abrams Tanks, F-15’s and a United States Marine are bad to the bone, nothing in this world comes close to the power of a 100,000 Nimitz Class Aircraft Carrier. Over four acres of sovereign US Territory that roams the world’s oceans and can reach speeds of over 30 knots. They can outrun just about any ship on the high seas and are the home of the best and brightest superstar aviators that the military can offer. Try putting a 50,000 pound aircraft at 120 miles per hour onto the deck of a ship, pitching and rolling at 30 miles per hour. Do that and catch one of four cables (three on the two newest Nimitz Class ships) and to add a little more spice to it, do at night! I would like to thing I could have done that, but in reality, I never had the brains for all that an aviator has to know in milliseconds. Those guys are the best of the best, the elite. I salute them all.
I also salute the guys who spilled their guts in the battlefields. They want themselves, and the guys next to them, to return home to their families. The reality, however, is that many do not. And the battlefield itself may not be on the scale of a Normandy Invasion. It could be a city block. In 1993, it was a city turned sewer known as Mogadishu, Somalia.
Mogadishu was the stage for one of longest and most intense firefight since the Vietnam War. A task force comprising of Army Rangers, Special Forces Operators and the 160th Special Operation Aviation Regiment (SOAR), complemented by Navy Seals and Air Force Combat Controller, was sent to Mogadishu to capture the Somali warlord Mohamed Farrih Aidid. Under Aidid’s rule, hundreds of thousands of Somalis died of starvation. His militia hijacked food shipments to feed his own. Task Force Ranger was the best and the baddest fighting force ever assembled in modern day history.
On October 3, 1993, the task force was sent out on a mission that was to take no more than one hour. Several minutes into the firefights, one of the Rangers, Todd Blackburn took a seventy foot fall while fast roping from a UH 60 Blackhawk Helicopter. Loaded with extra ammo, coupled with Blackburn’s helicopter hovering much higher than the other’s Blackburn was critically wounded and had to be evacuated from the area. But then, another Blackhawk went down. Super Six-One, Piloted by CWO Cliff Wolcott, was struck in the tail boom by a rocket propelled grenade. His bird went down, struck a house, and the impact killed Chief Wolcott and his co-pilot.
The task force could have pulled out, but instead, they refused to leave anyone behind. In doing so, many servicemen were killed. A second helicopter, Super Six-Four, piloted by CWO Mike Durant, also went down. Durant’s bird went down south of the action, and well south of the city. Two Delta Snipers, MSG Gary Gordon and SFC Randy Shughart made repeated requests to set up a perimeter around Durant’s bird until other forces could arrive. After being denied several times, command relented and granted their request. They got Durant out of the dead helicopter and then began to fight of the mobs of angry and armed Somalis. Both men fought until the ran out of ammo. They both went down like heroes. Posthumously they both received the Medal of Honor. They didn’t do what they did to earn any medals; they did it to save at least one man. CWO is still alive today, thanks to the selfless service of those two men. I salute them.
The firefight went on for seventeen hours. The last few men still standing could not even get into the armored vehicles used in the rescue force. They had to run out of the city on foot in a run known as the “Mogadishu Mile.” Those guys didn’t ask to be heroes. They took the ball and ran with it. There are men who didn’t make it home. Some made it home in a box, others made it with life changing injuries. Even Todd Blackburn managed to make it home. He would eventually become a police officer in Pensacola, Florida.
I watched the movie and read several books about the incident known as “Battle Of Mogadishu” and the “Battle of the Black Sea.” I can read those book a hundred times and still learn something new.
My goal in 1990 was to become a Ranger. I wanted to go Infantry and eventually become a Ranger. Had I became a Ranger, I would probably have been part of that battle. Even if it meant not going over there.
The Blackhawk Down story led me to the internet to do some research for a job related class I was taking. One of the assignments was to conduct a 15-30 minute presentation on leadership. My subject was about the battle and the decisions made that affected the outcome. While doing the research, I had discovered that the Army had raised it maximum age of enlistment to forty-two. At that moment, though to myself, “just maybe I could…no, I’m too overweight.
As of today, older folks are enlisting into the Military. When I say “old,” I do not mean elderly. In 2006 Congress passed a law that permitted all branches of the armed forced to increase their maximum age of enlistment. Originally the Army, Army Reserve and Arm National Guard set their maximum age, for non-prior service to forty; but this was later changed to forty-two. After all, there are some qualified applicants out there that meet the physical requirements to join the Army but until now, were considered “too old” for being over thirty-five.
I trust there are pro’s and cons. The obvious cons are that people over thirty-five are not excacly “spring chickens anymore: a lot of us have wear and tear that the younger folks haven’t experienced. Just the though of training with people half your age, literally young enough to be your own children can not only be intimidating, but down right nerve racking. “How can I keep up with these kids?”
I’m no exception Years of driving big trucks before becoming a deputy sheriff, and after becoming a deputy sheriff, wearing twenty extra pounds of gear around the waist wreaks havoc on the back. Couple that with being overweight, out of shape and a lifestyle consisting of bad food can equate to someone feeling old. After all, you are only as old, or young, as you feel. In February of 2009, I didn’t just feel old, I felt decrepit.
The pros, on the other hand, are what I look upon to calm my nerves and it provides me with a sense of confidence. Older recruits seem to have the maturity, life experience and problem solvers. Don’t take my word for it. I haven’t gone to basic combat training. Everything I know is what I’ve either read, or what I was told from those who were actually there. In a brief conversation I had with a former Army Drill Sergeant turned recruiter, the older guys are looked upon by the Drill Sgts as the “go to guys.” I translate that as more responsibility that better get done or else it’s your butt on the line.
In my case, I’m used to it, being the “go to guy” for several shift sergeants. In my current assignment as a Property Crimes Detective, I work under the direct supervision of a Lieutenant. Out of respect for him and his position I will not mention his name. I can say he was one hell of an investigator in his time and proved this when he took the lead in a high profile case of one of our local pain management doctors. He has the tools for his trade and is just as an effective District Lieutenant as he was a detective. As a supervisor he is fair but very firm. When he says he wants it done, it needs to be done yesterday. Not to say he isn’t patient; if he needs something done quickly he likes to turn to someone who will see to it will be done. That’s where I come in. I’m not bragging, I just enjoy what I do. But I’m no different that he is. When I need something done, I don’t like to wait on it. I think he’s more patient than I am.
I would not care to say how many non-prior over thirty have enlisted or how many that seem to have some success. In fact, I really don’t want to know. It is my preference to find out for myself if I have the tools to serve in the military. I mean, it’s what I’ve always wanted to do, but am I cut out for it? Can I handle the rigors of basic training, the mental strain of being away from my wife and son or the structured environment? Personally, I believe it’s irrelevant. I don’t like failure and if I think I will fail, I probably will.
Back in 1990, I was devastated about my medical disqualification. I had failed my parents, my country and myself. I didn’t care what happened next. I did get a job in a rubber molding factory in East Milton, and made some decent money. I had already joined a volunteer fire department, but I didn’t have a car. I lived just a few blocks from the firehouse so I rode my bicycle to get a truck. It was funny because I beat others to the firehouse.
I also rode with the Sheriff’s Office. They had a civilian ride along program in which you could ride and observe. This included everything to include pursuits. It was fun! I know this was what I wanted to do.
Unfortunately, my priorities consisted of staying up all night, sleeping all day, and eating out whenever I could. I put on weight from inactivity, and by the age of twenty-one, I was at least 220 pounds and growing by the day.
Also in my twenties I threw down the chewing tobaccos and picked up a new habit cigarettes. I loved to smoke, especially after a meal, and I was eating more than I could chew, literally. I seldom ever consumed, but when I did, it usually resulted in me bowing before the porcelain throne. I’ll never eat shrimp with Jim Beam again!
By the time I was 27, I had worked numerous “dead-end” jobs, which I define as high work load, low pay and no benefits. My favorite of those had to be driving a wrecker. I work long hours for low pay, and hated getting up in the middle of the night. One night at about 0300, I got a call for a jumpstart. I got up, got dressed and went to the call. I thought, “well, somebody is going to work early.” I got there and jump started the car. Then I was amazed! This woman, in her infinite wisdom, move drove the car in to the garage, shut it off and closed the garage. She said she didn’t want cats on it and that’s why she needed it jumpstarted. At 0300, I had to jump start a var because she wanted it moved a full car length. I hated AAA!! Lol.
I had grown tired of the dead end jobs. My earlier aspirations of becoming a deputy sheriff had never materialized because I never took it seriously. I though one day it would just “come around.” Well, it didn’t. One of my sisters called me one day and said “you have got get you *expletive* together. Go become a cop like you wanted.” I figured tat failure was always an option. I knew I didn’t have the money to go, so it would be another excuses. But then she brought over the grant forms and showed me this particular academy that accepted these grants.
The following week I went to the school, took a Test of Adult Basic Education, and was accepted that day. In April of 1999, I started the academy. I knew more about the job than what I thought I did, except how to shoot. I realized I had maybe fired two or three rounds from a gun before. So there was my weakness. I did well on all of the written tests, the driving, the defensive tactics; but the shooting was going to kick my butt. I eventually did well enough to qualify and passed the course.
After the academy and upon successfully taking the state certification, I applied with the Santa Rosa Sheriff’s Office as a Reserve Deputy Sheriff. On March 29, 2000, twelve days after the birth of my son, Steven, I was sworn in.
Being sworn in, however, was not without its challenges. First I had to qualify with a .40 caliber Glock. Had it been without the deputy who would later become the Range Master, and the deputy that trained him, I would have never made it. Over the years, the training from both of those men have helped me hone my skills with a pistol as well as a 12 gauge shotgun and an AR-15 rifle.
The next challenge was the physical agilities test. Again, being a lard and a smoker, I passed the it, but I thought I was going to die. I was 27 years old when I took it and I thought death was upon. I wanted to address this and get into shape. But, I didn’t.
The following year we had a new sheriff in town. Sheriff Hall won the election by a respectable margin, and one of the first things he sought was to build the Sheriff’s Office. We already had a new building, but deputies were scarce. He wanted to build a stronger and more professional agency. He worked at a neighboring jurisdiction that consisted of 300-400 deputies. We all knew we would never have that many, Sheriff Hall worked hard to get as many as he could. In March of 2001, I was one of the applicants that came from the reserve pool. I, along with two other reserve deputies that went through the academy, was hired together. I thought “I made it!” But then, what challenges I had before were nothing. The worst, and the best, was yet to come.
All deputies had to go through a Field Training Program. This not only trained new deputies the aspects of actually applying what they learned, it was also a perod to determine whether or not the trainees can actually perform their duties in accordance to agency standards. I got great scores for officer safety, uniform appearance, driving, and overall knowledge and radio skills. But, like shooting during the academy, my report writing skills, or lack thereof, nearly ended my career before it began. I was going through an ugly divorce and was in a fight for custody of my son. When I went to see the sheriff, it was my intention to resign. Coming from similar circumstances of being a single parent for many years, Sheriff Hall reassigned me to the courthouse. My job was saved, but it meant I would not get to patrol, which was what I wanted to do. His only condition was to return to field training prior to the end of my probation period.
I went back through the FTO program, and had a higher degree of success. From my training officers, all have since been promoted to sergeant, and out of those one was promoted to lieutenant. Those men were the best and brightest of their crafts and they taught me well. My reports, which was serious weakness, is now one of my strengths. I would later serve three years as an FTO and train new deputies on the “tricks of the trade.”
I was still a lard. I couldn’t keep up with the foot chases before wanting to die. I had to struggle just to get in and out of the car. It this continued on for the next three years. I didn't care. I just loved to eat food and lots of it.
I know Abrams Tanks, F-15’s and a United States Marine are bad to the bone, nothing in this world comes close to the power of a 100,000 Nimitz Class Aircraft Carrier. Over four acres of sovereign US Territory that roams the world’s oceans and can reach speeds of over 30 knots. They can outrun just about any ship on the high seas and are the home of the best and brightest superstar aviators that the military can offer. Try putting a 50,000 pound aircraft at 120 miles per hour onto the deck of a ship, pitching and rolling at 30 miles per hour. Do that and catch one of four cables (three on the two newest Nimitz Class ships) and to add a little more spice to it, do at night! I would like to thing I could have done that, but in reality, I never had the brains for all that an aviator has to know in milliseconds. Those guys are the best of the best, the elite. I salute them all.
I also salute the guys who spilled their guts in the battlefields. They want themselves, and the guys next to them, to return home to their families. The reality, however, is that many do not. And the battlefield itself may not be on the scale of a Normandy Invasion. It could be a city block. In 1993, it was a city turned sewer known as Mogadishu, Somalia.
Mogadishu was the stage for one of longest and most intense firefight since the Vietnam War. A task force comprising of Army Rangers, Special Forces Operators and the 160th Special Operation Aviation Regiment (SOAR), complemented by Navy Seals and Air Force Combat Controller, was sent to Mogadishu to capture the Somali warlord Mohamed Farrih Aidid. Under Aidid’s rule, hundreds of thousands of Somalis died of starvation. His militia hijacked food shipments to feed his own. Task Force Ranger was the best and the baddest fighting force ever assembled in modern day history.
On October 3, 1993, the task force was sent out on a mission that was to take no more than one hour. Several minutes into the firefights, one of the Rangers, Todd Blackburn took a seventy foot fall while fast roping from a UH 60 Blackhawk Helicopter. Loaded with extra ammo, coupled with Blackburn’s helicopter hovering much higher than the other’s Blackburn was critically wounded and had to be evacuated from the area. But then, another Blackhawk went down. Super Six-One, Piloted by CWO Cliff Wolcott, was struck in the tail boom by a rocket propelled grenade. His bird went down, struck a house, and the impact killed Chief Wolcott and his co-pilot.
The task force could have pulled out, but instead, they refused to leave anyone behind. In doing so, many servicemen were killed. A second helicopter, Super Six-Four, piloted by CWO Mike Durant, also went down. Durant’s bird went down south of the action, and well south of the city. Two Delta Snipers, MSG Gary Gordon and SFC Randy Shughart made repeated requests to set up a perimeter around Durant’s bird until other forces could arrive. After being denied several times, command relented and granted their request. They got Durant out of the dead helicopter and then began to fight of the mobs of angry and armed Somalis. Both men fought until the ran out of ammo. They both went down like heroes. Posthumously they both received the Medal of Honor. They didn’t do what they did to earn any medals; they did it to save at least one man. CWO is still alive today, thanks to the selfless service of those two men. I salute them.
The firefight went on for seventeen hours. The last few men still standing could not even get into the armored vehicles used in the rescue force. They had to run out of the city on foot in a run known as the “Mogadishu Mile.” Those guys didn’t ask to be heroes. They took the ball and ran with it. There are men who didn’t make it home. Some made it home in a box, others made it with life changing injuries. Even Todd Blackburn managed to make it home. He would eventually become a police officer in Pensacola, Florida.
I watched the movie and read several books about the incident known as “Battle Of Mogadishu” and the “Battle of the Black Sea.” I can read those book a hundred times and still learn something new.
My goal in 1990 was to become a Ranger. I wanted to go Infantry and eventually become a Ranger. Had I became a Ranger, I would probably have been part of that battle. Even if it meant not going over there.
The Blackhawk Down story led me to the internet to do some research for a job related class I was taking. One of the assignments was to conduct a 15-30 minute presentation on leadership. My subject was about the battle and the decisions made that affected the outcome. While doing the research, I had discovered that the Army had raised it maximum age of enlistment to forty-two. At that moment, though to myself, “just maybe I could…no, I’m too overweight.
As of today, older folks are enlisting into the Military. When I say “old,” I do not mean elderly. In 2006 Congress passed a law that permitted all branches of the armed forced to increase their maximum age of enlistment. Originally the Army, Army Reserve and Arm National Guard set their maximum age, for non-prior service to forty; but this was later changed to forty-two. After all, there are some qualified applicants out there that meet the physical requirements to join the Army but until now, were considered “too old” for being over thirty-five.
I trust there are pro’s and cons. The obvious cons are that people over thirty-five are not excacly “spring chickens anymore: a lot of us have wear and tear that the younger folks haven’t experienced. Just the though of training with people half your age, literally young enough to be your own children can not only be intimidating, but down right nerve racking. “How can I keep up with these kids?”
I’m no exception Years of driving big trucks before becoming a deputy sheriff, and after becoming a deputy sheriff, wearing twenty extra pounds of gear around the waist wreaks havoc on the back. Couple that with being overweight, out of shape and a lifestyle consisting of bad food can equate to someone feeling old. After all, you are only as old, or young, as you feel. In February of 2009, I didn’t just feel old, I felt decrepit.
The pros, on the other hand, are what I look upon to calm my nerves and it provides me with a sense of confidence. Older recruits seem to have the maturity, life experience and problem solvers. Don’t take my word for it. I haven’t gone to basic combat training. Everything I know is what I’ve either read, or what I was told from those who were actually there. In a brief conversation I had with a former Army Drill Sergeant turned recruiter, the older guys are looked upon by the Drill Sgts as the “go to guys.” I translate that as more responsibility that better get done or else it’s your butt on the line.
In my case, I’m used to it, being the “go to guy” for several shift sergeants. In my current assignment as a Property Crimes Detective, I work under the direct supervision of a Lieutenant. Out of respect for him and his position I will not mention his name. I can say he was one hell of an investigator in his time and proved this when he took the lead in a high profile case of one of our local pain management doctors. He has the tools for his trade and is just as an effective District Lieutenant as he was a detective. As a supervisor he is fair but very firm. When he says he wants it done, it needs to be done yesterday. Not to say he isn’t patient; if he needs something done quickly he likes to turn to someone who will see to it will be done. That’s where I come in. I’m not bragging, I just enjoy what I do. But I’m no different that he is. When I need something done, I don’t like to wait on it. I think he’s more patient than I am.
I would not care to say how many non-prior over thirty have enlisted or how many that seem to have some success. In fact, I really don’t want to know. It is my preference to find out for myself if I have the tools to serve in the military. I mean, it’s what I’ve always wanted to do, but am I cut out for it? Can I handle the rigors of basic training, the mental strain of being away from my wife and son or the structured environment? Personally, I believe it’s irrelevant. I don’t like failure and if I think I will fail, I probably will.
Back in 1990, I was devastated about my medical disqualification. I had failed my parents, my country and myself. I didn’t care what happened next. I did get a job in a rubber molding factory in East Milton, and made some decent money. I had already joined a volunteer fire department, but I didn’t have a car. I lived just a few blocks from the firehouse so I rode my bicycle to get a truck. It was funny because I beat others to the firehouse.
I also rode with the Sheriff’s Office. They had a civilian ride along program in which you could ride and observe. This included everything to include pursuits. It was fun! I know this was what I wanted to do.
Unfortunately, my priorities consisted of staying up all night, sleeping all day, and eating out whenever I could. I put on weight from inactivity, and by the age of twenty-one, I was at least 220 pounds and growing by the day.
Also in my twenties I threw down the chewing tobaccos and picked up a new habit cigarettes. I loved to smoke, especially after a meal, and I was eating more than I could chew, literally. I seldom ever consumed, but when I did, it usually resulted in me bowing before the porcelain throne. I’ll never eat shrimp with Jim Beam again!
By the time I was 27, I had worked numerous “dead-end” jobs, which I define as high work load, low pay and no benefits. My favorite of those had to be driving a wrecker. I work long hours for low pay, and hated getting up in the middle of the night. One night at about 0300, I got a call for a jumpstart. I got up, got dressed and went to the call. I thought, “well, somebody is going to work early.” I got there and jump started the car. Then I was amazed! This woman, in her infinite wisdom, move drove the car in to the garage, shut it off and closed the garage. She said she didn’t want cats on it and that’s why she needed it jumpstarted. At 0300, I had to jump start a var because she wanted it moved a full car length. I hated AAA!! Lol.
I had grown tired of the dead end jobs. My earlier aspirations of becoming a deputy sheriff had never materialized because I never took it seriously. I though one day it would just “come around.” Well, it didn’t. One of my sisters called me one day and said “you have got get you *expletive* together. Go become a cop like you wanted.” I figured tat failure was always an option. I knew I didn’t have the money to go, so it would be another excuses. But then she brought over the grant forms and showed me this particular academy that accepted these grants.
The following week I went to the school, took a Test of Adult Basic Education, and was accepted that day. In April of 1999, I started the academy. I knew more about the job than what I thought I did, except how to shoot. I realized I had maybe fired two or three rounds from a gun before. So there was my weakness. I did well on all of the written tests, the driving, the defensive tactics; but the shooting was going to kick my butt. I eventually did well enough to qualify and passed the course.
After the academy and upon successfully taking the state certification, I applied with the Santa Rosa Sheriff’s Office as a Reserve Deputy Sheriff. On March 29, 2000, twelve days after the birth of my son, Steven, I was sworn in.
Being sworn in, however, was not without its challenges. First I had to qualify with a .40 caliber Glock. Had it been without the deputy who would later become the Range Master, and the deputy that trained him, I would have never made it. Over the years, the training from both of those men have helped me hone my skills with a pistol as well as a 12 gauge shotgun and an AR-15 rifle.
The next challenge was the physical agilities test. Again, being a lard and a smoker, I passed the it, but I thought I was going to die. I was 27 years old when I took it and I thought death was upon. I wanted to address this and get into shape. But, I didn’t.
The following year we had a new sheriff in town. Sheriff Hall won the election by a respectable margin, and one of the first things he sought was to build the Sheriff’s Office. We already had a new building, but deputies were scarce. He wanted to build a stronger and more professional agency. He worked at a neighboring jurisdiction that consisted of 300-400 deputies. We all knew we would never have that many, Sheriff Hall worked hard to get as many as he could. In March of 2001, I was one of the applicants that came from the reserve pool. I, along with two other reserve deputies that went through the academy, was hired together. I thought “I made it!” But then, what challenges I had before were nothing. The worst, and the best, was yet to come.
All deputies had to go through a Field Training Program. This not only trained new deputies the aspects of actually applying what they learned, it was also a perod to determine whether or not the trainees can actually perform their duties in accordance to agency standards. I got great scores for officer safety, uniform appearance, driving, and overall knowledge and radio skills. But, like shooting during the academy, my report writing skills, or lack thereof, nearly ended my career before it began. I was going through an ugly divorce and was in a fight for custody of my son. When I went to see the sheriff, it was my intention to resign. Coming from similar circumstances of being a single parent for many years, Sheriff Hall reassigned me to the courthouse. My job was saved, but it meant I would not get to patrol, which was what I wanted to do. His only condition was to return to field training prior to the end of my probation period.
I went back through the FTO program, and had a higher degree of success. From my training officers, all have since been promoted to sergeant, and out of those one was promoted to lieutenant. Those men were the best and brightest of their crafts and they taught me well. My reports, which was serious weakness, is now one of my strengths. I would later serve three years as an FTO and train new deputies on the “tricks of the trade.”
I was still a lard. I couldn’t keep up with the foot chases before wanting to die. I had to struggle just to get in and out of the car. It this continued on for the next three years. I didn't care. I just loved to eat food and lots of it.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
1990
Let me begin my making this clear: this blog is in no way, any attempt that would glorify myself on my accomplishments. In fact, I’ve had more failures than successes in the past. I could say something good about myself and there are millions of others that did it better.
On the contrary, I hope this blog serves as a motivational and inspirational reminder of what we are capable of doing, even when we are told we are not, or if we feel for ourselves we are not. I really don’t want recognition for doing something I should do, and I don’t want to be “praised” for finally realizing I am not as old as I had led myself to believe.
Jimmy Morris, the former school teacher turned Major League Baseball Pitcher, said it best “you have to have dreams, hope and aspirations.” Jimmy’s story became a best selling book, “The Oldest Rookie,” and his story was transferred to the big screen in the blockbuster “The Rookie,” starring Dennis Quaid. The book chronicles the life of a small town boy who had the dreams of being a major league baseball player. By his mid twenties, after his elbow had been repaired and two shoulder surgeries, he called it quits. The third arm surgery ended his chances of ever pitching again.
He went back to school, got his degree, and became a baseball coach and physics teacher. By virtue of a challenge to him by his own ball player, he had to try out for a major league team if his ball club made it to state championship. Well, they did, and he tried out for the Tampa Bay Rays (then known as the Devil Rays). He pitched faster, harder and better than he did ten years and three arm surgeries prior. He threw 98 mph! Only a handful of lefties pitched that hard, and he was one of them. He signed on with the Rays, and in his first major league appearance three months later, he struck out his first batter in only four pitches. He was 35 years old. His story inspired my own.
When I was 35, I was inspired to play softball again. My wife bought me a new glove, several balls to practice with and a bat. My wife had to teach me how to throw, and she would take me to the batting cage to help improve my swings. I felt confident. When I got to the field, it was a different story. Between the extra pounds and the cigarettes, I stunk so bad that I was seldom on the active roster. The team captain, one of the shift sgts, would make sure there were at least ten people on present to play or we would forfeit the game. If there were only ten, and I was there, he would say “anybody want to play ball?” I didn’t blame him. I loved the game. Besides, I enjoyed watching the team play from the sides as a coach and as Bill’s assistant. Every so often, I would get to swing the bat in a pinch hit situation. Sometimes I did poorly, but one night, in a very close game, I slapped one to the opposite field and drive in two runs. Had I not been so out of shape, it could have been a double. When I reached fist base, only sixty feet away, somebody had to pinch run for me.
To understand where I came from, where I am going, and how I am going to get there, I have to go back to 1990, the year I graduated from high school. I was 18 and just joined one of the local volunteer fire departments. I didn’t have a steady job, although I did work at a local supermarket after school when I turned 16. I quit that job when my grades started to fall.
There were five of us that had known each other since we were small kids. We all wanted to enlist in the Army together. We went down to the local recruiter and after taking the ASVAB test, he sent us up to the Military Enlistment Processing Station (MEPS) in Montgomery, Alabama. We all rode together on a Greyhound Bus and stayed a local motel contracted to handle MEPS applicants. We ate a good buffet style meal that night. We all had to share rooms with other applicants. My roommate was a Marine shipper. He had already enlisted but he was there to finish his processing and then ship to Paris Island. No problem, right? Wrong. He was 3-4 pounds overweight and would have gone to the dreaded “pork chop platoon” until his weight came down. Instead spending the four months he had preparing himself for the Marine Basic Recruit Training, he chose to gobble down food and as a result, put on the extra weight. I was 185 pounds back then, so I wasn’t worried about my weight. In fact, I had no worries at all. But this guy had the bright idea of turning on the heater: In June!
The following morning we got up at 0400 and got into the chow line I want hungry, but I drank orange juice. We had enough time to sit down before the Marine Staff Sgt yelled at us to fall out to the assembly area outside. We then loaded onto a bus and we took a ride to MEPS. I felt less than perfect. I remember having a sore throat and my sinuses were clogging up. My ears were popping and I felt a fever coming. Of all days to get sick!
When we got to MEPS There, took our physicals which consisted of everything one could imagine. The hearing test was the worst of it. For several minutes we sat in a sound proof booth with other applicants. The object of the test was that every time we heard a beep, we pressed a button. Easy, right? The guy next to me literally fell asleep. Somebody in there passed gas (yes, a rotten egg stinker) and with all of the giggling going on, it was amazing that anybody passed it. Then I saw the doctor.
Dr. Screwes was a name mentioned to me by others that had been to MEPS many years before me. He was known to be an “old geezer” who made elderly people look like juveniles. He had to be anywhere from 80-90 years old. He wore thick glasses and hearing aids in both ears. He performed the usual checks for guys: the hernia check and he would conduct an anal exam by making you spread your buttocks. He used a lamp with an incandescent light bulb to look at my hind in. At first I though he gave me a shot in the butt because I felt something poke me on my right side. He had burned my right butt cheek with the bulb. It blistered by the next day.
The doctor knew I wasn’t feeling 100% but he wasn’t concerned. He was concerned with doing his job, and his job was to weed out people that physically did not meet the standards. Out of the five that went, I was the one that didn’t make it. Dr. Screwes said in spite of the fact was very healthy, I had high frequency hearing loss in my right ear. He instructed me to take the hearing test again. This time, I was in the booth by myself. Nobody else in there snoring or farting, no giggling or anything else. When it was over, I took the results back t Dr. Screwes. As a jerk he may have been to others in the past, he said this in simple terms: “I’m sorry, you have been medically disqualified.”
With a waiver I had a chance. I went to see my doctor, who in turn sent me to an audiologist. The audiologist looked at the scores and shook his head. He said the numbers look bad, but he gave me another test. It was worse than the one at MEPS. He said my hearing loss was permanent and progressive. He said there is nothing he can do to help someone with class H-4 hearing get into the military. It was the end of the road for my dreams. I really wanted to serve my country. I still do.
On the contrary, I hope this blog serves as a motivational and inspirational reminder of what we are capable of doing, even when we are told we are not, or if we feel for ourselves we are not. I really don’t want recognition for doing something I should do, and I don’t want to be “praised” for finally realizing I am not as old as I had led myself to believe.
Jimmy Morris, the former school teacher turned Major League Baseball Pitcher, said it best “you have to have dreams, hope and aspirations.” Jimmy’s story became a best selling book, “The Oldest Rookie,” and his story was transferred to the big screen in the blockbuster “The Rookie,” starring Dennis Quaid. The book chronicles the life of a small town boy who had the dreams of being a major league baseball player. By his mid twenties, after his elbow had been repaired and two shoulder surgeries, he called it quits. The third arm surgery ended his chances of ever pitching again.
He went back to school, got his degree, and became a baseball coach and physics teacher. By virtue of a challenge to him by his own ball player, he had to try out for a major league team if his ball club made it to state championship. Well, they did, and he tried out for the Tampa Bay Rays (then known as the Devil Rays). He pitched faster, harder and better than he did ten years and three arm surgeries prior. He threw 98 mph! Only a handful of lefties pitched that hard, and he was one of them. He signed on with the Rays, and in his first major league appearance three months later, he struck out his first batter in only four pitches. He was 35 years old. His story inspired my own.
When I was 35, I was inspired to play softball again. My wife bought me a new glove, several balls to practice with and a bat. My wife had to teach me how to throw, and she would take me to the batting cage to help improve my swings. I felt confident. When I got to the field, it was a different story. Between the extra pounds and the cigarettes, I stunk so bad that I was seldom on the active roster. The team captain, one of the shift sgts, would make sure there were at least ten people on present to play or we would forfeit the game. If there were only ten, and I was there, he would say “anybody want to play ball?” I didn’t blame him. I loved the game. Besides, I enjoyed watching the team play from the sides as a coach and as Bill’s assistant. Every so often, I would get to swing the bat in a pinch hit situation. Sometimes I did poorly, but one night, in a very close game, I slapped one to the opposite field and drive in two runs. Had I not been so out of shape, it could have been a double. When I reached fist base, only sixty feet away, somebody had to pinch run for me.
To understand where I came from, where I am going, and how I am going to get there, I have to go back to 1990, the year I graduated from high school. I was 18 and just joined one of the local volunteer fire departments. I didn’t have a steady job, although I did work at a local supermarket after school when I turned 16. I quit that job when my grades started to fall.
There were five of us that had known each other since we were small kids. We all wanted to enlist in the Army together. We went down to the local recruiter and after taking the ASVAB test, he sent us up to the Military Enlistment Processing Station (MEPS) in Montgomery, Alabama. We all rode together on a Greyhound Bus and stayed a local motel contracted to handle MEPS applicants. We ate a good buffet style meal that night. We all had to share rooms with other applicants. My roommate was a Marine shipper. He had already enlisted but he was there to finish his processing and then ship to Paris Island. No problem, right? Wrong. He was 3-4 pounds overweight and would have gone to the dreaded “pork chop platoon” until his weight came down. Instead spending the four months he had preparing himself for the Marine Basic Recruit Training, he chose to gobble down food and as a result, put on the extra weight. I was 185 pounds back then, so I wasn’t worried about my weight. In fact, I had no worries at all. But this guy had the bright idea of turning on the heater: In June!
The following morning we got up at 0400 and got into the chow line I want hungry, but I drank orange juice. We had enough time to sit down before the Marine Staff Sgt yelled at us to fall out to the assembly area outside. We then loaded onto a bus and we took a ride to MEPS. I felt less than perfect. I remember having a sore throat and my sinuses were clogging up. My ears were popping and I felt a fever coming. Of all days to get sick!
When we got to MEPS There, took our physicals which consisted of everything one could imagine. The hearing test was the worst of it. For several minutes we sat in a sound proof booth with other applicants. The object of the test was that every time we heard a beep, we pressed a button. Easy, right? The guy next to me literally fell asleep. Somebody in there passed gas (yes, a rotten egg stinker) and with all of the giggling going on, it was amazing that anybody passed it. Then I saw the doctor.
Dr. Screwes was a name mentioned to me by others that had been to MEPS many years before me. He was known to be an “old geezer” who made elderly people look like juveniles. He had to be anywhere from 80-90 years old. He wore thick glasses and hearing aids in both ears. He performed the usual checks for guys: the hernia check and he would conduct an anal exam by making you spread your buttocks. He used a lamp with an incandescent light bulb to look at my hind in. At first I though he gave me a shot in the butt because I felt something poke me on my right side. He had burned my right butt cheek with the bulb. It blistered by the next day.
The doctor knew I wasn’t feeling 100% but he wasn’t concerned. He was concerned with doing his job, and his job was to weed out people that physically did not meet the standards. Out of the five that went, I was the one that didn’t make it. Dr. Screwes said in spite of the fact was very healthy, I had high frequency hearing loss in my right ear. He instructed me to take the hearing test again. This time, I was in the booth by myself. Nobody else in there snoring or farting, no giggling or anything else. When it was over, I took the results back t Dr. Screwes. As a jerk he may have been to others in the past, he said this in simple terms: “I’m sorry, you have been medically disqualified.”
With a waiver I had a chance. I went to see my doctor, who in turn sent me to an audiologist. The audiologist looked at the scores and shook his head. He said the numbers look bad, but he gave me another test. It was worse than the one at MEPS. He said my hearing loss was permanent and progressive. He said there is nothing he can do to help someone with class H-4 hearing get into the military. It was the end of the road for my dreams. I really wanted to serve my country. I still do.
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