My father was an officer in the Marine Corps, so I played in Little Leagues from Maine to Hawaii, and they were all pretty much the same. Somebody's dad was the coach, and everyone else's father hollered encouragement from behind the backstop or in the bleachers. Mothers cheered politely, while younger brothers ran around, and sisters, bored with it all, played with dolls.
It was exciting to play on a real diamond with a scoreboard. You got to wear a uniform, rubber cleats and a jock. The basic elements are as American as hamburgers, Saturday morning cartoons, and the Fourth of July.
One league I played in was a bit different. It was 1965; I was nine years old and the right fielder for the Red Sox at the Marine Corps Air Station in Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii. When the brigade left for Vietnam, all our fathers left with it. A lance corporal who was a military policeman became our coach, but there were only brothers, mothers, and sisters left around the bleachers.
Most of our games were played in the afternoon. When "Retreat" sounded for evening colors, the games would stop. We faced the direction of the music and stood at attention with our caps held over our hearts. We were proud to be the sons of Marines who were now in a faraway place we had never before heard of. I never looked, but I always heard mothers crying when the flag went down.
That season ended prematurely. A general told the wives that the brigade would not be coming back, that more Marines and their families would be coming to Kaneohe Bay, and that we would all have to move out of our quarters on base. But before the first chartered jets began flying dependents off the island to Travis Air Force Base in California, the first planes carrying the dead and wounded returned to Hawaii.
The shortstop's father came to one of the last games with both of his arms in casts. When one of us would come to bat, I remember him yelling, "Swing that big stick! Big stick now! You got the big stick!" The second baseman's father was one of the first to be killed.
Three days before I left Hawaii, I stepped on a broken beer bottle and cut my right foot. I got seven stitches at the naval hospital. The corpsman who sewed me up complained about being in Hawaii instead of Vietnam, where he could do what he had been trained to do. I had to hop everywhere for the next ten days because there were no crutches left in the hospital to give me.
About five years later, my father was assigned to the military advisory group in Caracas, Venezuela, and along with several hundred other Americans, our family stood in the embassy parking lot waiting to begin the day of games, contests, cakewalks, hamburgers, and other typically American, Independence Day events. My father wore his khaki summer service uniform, and when a scratchy recording of the "Star Spangled Banner" played over the public address system while Marine security guards raised the flag, he saluted. I put my had over my heart and remembered those afternoon games in Hawaii.
While the ambassador announced the beginning of the free throw shooting contest, a man carrying a baby walked over to us. He spoke to my father. "I know you don't remember me, sir, but I was in your battalion in Vietnam."
My father said that it was good to see him, and the two of them talked about the things that had happened since then. The man left the Marines, went to college, became an engineer, married, and had a daughter. As I listened to them talk, I was proud to be the son of a Marine who had gone to that faraway place I had since heard so much about.
More than seventeen years after I played right field for the Red Sox, I stood in cold, soggy grass in front of the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial with my wife, our eight-month-old daughter and 150,000 others. Immediately before the official dedication ceremony began, the Marine Band played a medley of service songs. When they stood and played "The Marines' Hymn," my heels came together, my back stiffened, and my thumbs found the seams of my trousers. Tears welled up in my eyes as a cheer rose from the crowd, and I remembered those fathers in the bleachers at Kaneohe Bay.
After the band finished, I took a deep breath and looked around at the faces surrounding me. A man in a tan corduroy sport coat and a woman were looking at me and talking. The man noticed me watching them, and he walked over to me and spoke. "Excuse me, Lieutenant, but my wife was wondering why you didn't have any stripes on your sleeve. She's never seen any Marine uniforms besides mine. I was a corporal."
"No biggie," I grinned. "Who were you with?"
"Second Battalion, Fourth Marines in '65 and '66, sir."
"One of the 'Magnificent Bastards,' huh? My father was in Two-Four those same years."
He asked my father's name. We talked about that time and some things that had happened since. As we talked, I was proud to be the son of a Marine who had gone to that faraway place my daughter had yet to hear about.
