I know a hero

by Tim Pappa
THE POST

I know a hero.

I've sat beside him as he drove countless miles, on countless nights, on countless numbers of away games, myself plastered with moist skin and a musty odor after a game, exuding admiration as the passing headlights climbed his face.

I've peeked in the mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of the honor and courage emitted from this man, who has spent nights huddled in a trash bag, thousands of miles from his home, under pouring rain while missiles soared over his men like free birds, sailing to a nest nearby.

I found it rummaging through forgotten treasures in my room, looking for trash, but instead finding a peach-skinned letter, folded and stuffed away, written eight years ago by him in the Persian Gulf, leaving a question behind I have never answered.

"You never answered who you think is the 'greatest' Marine that you know? I bet mommy could help you with that one."

Excuse my cliché, but maybe God works in mysterious ways. I can see so many hockey games, so many passing country-sides, all blur before what was created all those years - an opportunity to talk with my father.

It took place in a second-hand, rugged Jeep we drove around for years to different hockey arenas, serving as a kiosk or private cubicle to our relationship. Sometimes laughter filled our ears. Sometimes topics of conversation flew around so fast that the post game fast food fries and burger paled and the ice disappeared with our hungry stomachs. And sometimes, plain silence pervaded. We left for each trip together. We would both return together.

We mapped each other along each road. I, feeling through his words and meanings; Him, through my glares ahead in gentle thought. One minute we could be scouring through the depths of American society, ping-ponging our ideals in the meager space of a two-door vehicle; and the next, launching ice out the window at passing cars, just because it was funny.

I was born to this man, and since that day, his stories have rivaled my daydreams. He cocooned from a distant father, one who couldn't hold the title. So my father made himself.

I've placed an ironic plight on myself as I've grown, always thinking, as his son, I would never inherit the genes that composed his character. He served his country as a grunt to the fullest for 21 years and ended up with a desk job. It wasn't the way he wanted to go out, but he knows his pride. Pride is standing as straight as the pole that holds a tapering American flag, and saluting it for the rest of your life, while other passer-bys shrug it off, keeping their hats on, and walking by with their eyes closed to what they will never possess.

He, along with my mother, have taken us through Europe and the rest of the world from being in the military, enriching us with a life most kids can't accredit to, and love that most kids can only hope for. He has served his family since we all came into this world. It is something he will never retire from; something he will never take a desk job to.

Still, I have never told him that I loved him to his face. Nor have I really ever said thanks.

What else can I say, but, Dad, you are the greatest Marine I'll ever know.

-Send Pappa an e-mail at tp154900.