In 1982, I returned to Groton, Connecticut, home of the United States Submarine Force. This time I was reporting to my first submarine. In the interim, I had been to Virginia Beach, Virginia, then on to San Diego, California for sonar school. San Diego — Balboa Park, San Diego Zoo, The Del, and magic lessons (this one is a story for another time), many of my classmates insisted I go to Black’s Beach, but I never made it. The next time I would go to San Diego, I would pass the test to join MENSA, but joined the United States Chess Federation instead. I enjoyed San Diego, but in my mind, Groton was where I belonged. I could feel the presence of my submarine forefathers everywhere I went. I would learn many things in Groton.
One of the earliest things I learned in Groton was how to drive in snow. This time in Groton, I had my own wheels, a 1978 Ford F-150 pickup truck. In the early 1980’s trucks were still work vehicles, and you could get a truck for half the price of a car. So, there I was, a Florida boy with my pickup and Florida plates. driving in snow in Groton, Connecticut.
I would see a green light at the intersection a block ahead of me, and I would start slowing down, the light would be red by the time I got to the intersection. On Sundays, little old ladies on their way to church would pass me. Of course, it did not take long before a Groton police officer pulled me over. He never asked for my driver’s license, insurance, or registration.
“Are you in the navy?” asked the officer.
“Yes sir.”
“Are you actually from Florida?”
“Yes sir.”
“Have you ever driven in snow before?”
“No sir.”
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to me.
“That shopping center over there closes at 9 PM tonight. I want you to go to the far end of the parking where there are no light posts. I want you to drive in the snow and lose control of your truck, then regain control of it again. I want you to keep doing this until you are comfortable driving in snow. If anyone stops you, I want you to hand them my card, and tell them I told you to do it, that you are learning to drive in snow.”
He did not chastise me, write me a ticket, or even give me a warning. In a calm and soft voice, he gave me the guidance I needed, steered me in the right direction, and allowed me to venture out to face my fear on my own. I was all over that parking lot. Long after I felt comfortable driving in snow I was still sliding all around that parking lot, and having one hell of a good time doing it.
I do not have the card any more, but I am a good driver in snow, and I am not the only one who says that. I sometimes wonder how many car accidents that police officer prevented. No matter how much snow is coming down, or how much snow is on the road, I am calm, confident, and steady behind the wheel.
We all do that in life. When we first venture out we are timid, then we go a little crazy. But, if we are lucky, we have someone who puts that hand on our shoulder, and in a calm voice, gives us the guidance we need. Then they stand back, and let us find our own way. The stepping back part is just as important as the non-judgmental advice and the hand on the shoulder. It lets us know that someone has confidence in us, confidence that we may not feel at the time. But, that confidence rubs off on us, and as we find our way we become calm, confident, and steady. After all, life is just driving in the snow.
This is another of those pieces I wrote long ago. I wrote this after John died. I never thought of myself as a writer so I never kept anything.
John and I both came from Camelot, not the kingdom of so many centuries ago, or from the one thousand days of an American Presidency. But, from a surreal place, a place that was never meant to be surreal. A place that was always meant to be real and tangible, but never was, nor ever will be. This was a Camelot that was intended to expand — encompassing the whole world with its perfection.
John left Camelot suddenly, after a birthday party. My expulsion was slow. I never knew I had left, until one day I looked around me, realizing I was lost in an imperfect world.
I never knew John, but I would have liked to have shared a cup of coffee with him … just once. Maybe on a forgotten dock, where sandpipers played in the surf, their cries carried on an ocean breeze that caresses you ever so gently, both body and soul. We could have sat like long lost friends, and talked about nothing at all. Comforted by the fact that though we had little in common, we were both sons of Camelot.
The Last Defender of Camelot (2002 book) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Joe Louis (left) poses with Max Schmeling (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
First, let me give my disclaimer. In this column, I will use the masculine form of the personal pronoun. This is a literary device, not politics; this column applies to everyone, men, women, and children.
There is an expression, “Behind every great man, you will find a great woman.” A book could be written on the many great truths of that simple sentence. In the United States, we call the generation who fought World War 2 “The Great Generation.” However, greatness does not happen in a vacuum. Among writers, the standing joke is it takes twenty years of hard work to be an overnight success.
In the case of The Great Generation, it was 14 years of hard work from 1929 to 1943. The 1930’s is my favorite time in America. Those 14 years of hard work is “the woman behind the great man.” It was the depths of the depression. President Franklin Roosevelt was in the White House, and together with congress, they were creating programs to put America back to work. But, it was slow going. It was during that time the foundations of greatness were implanted in men. Government, families, and friends can give a hand up, but greatness, true greatness only comes from within.
Greatness cannot be given to a man, or implanted in him. Greatness only comes when a man faces a challenge so great, he feels his failure is guaranteed. It is at that moment when a man stays average or rises to the greatness that is within him. A greatness that is within all of us, but few ever achieve. You look into the abyss of certain defeat, and you accept the challenge. If you succeed, you can go on to greater things. If you fail, you have a choice to make. “Do I pick up and persevere, or do I take my place in the crowd.” Those men we think of as great from world history, failed many times; but they always picked up and persevered. Henry Ford had several failed car companies before he succeeded; Thomas Edison failed 1,000 times before he made the incandescent light bulb.
We think of the 1930’s as the time of the great depression, a time when people were desperate and down on their luck. There were people in Kentucky who were eating weeds to stay alive, and people in the great dust bowl of the plains who wished they had weeds. When we think of the great works of the 1930’s, most people think of the projects the government designed to put men back to work, like the Hoover dam. They miss the very foundations that created the victory in World War 2. Look at the heroes of Americans in the 1930’s and you will see what I mean.
Joe Louis defeated Max Schmeling in a boxing match that Hitler declared would demonstrate the superiority of the Arian race over all other Peoples of the world, so much for racial superiority. What most people do not know is this was not the first time Joe and Max fought; Max had already beaten Joe before, knocking him out in the 12th round. Americans from coast-to-coast celebrated Louis’ victory, particularly those Americans who were chaffing at the bit of a segregation that though separate, was decidedly not equal.
Then there was a little horse that captured America’s respect and admiration. A horse that inspired all who were down on their luck, to “give it another try.” He was literally little, much smaller than the horses he competed against. When ran he was easy to spot, he threw his legs out in what looked like an awkward gait. By the time he was three years old, the peak age for racehorses, he was an experienced loser. He was not alone though, he was surrounded by losers. First, there was the trainer, a displaced cowboy, many saw as old and tired. There was the jockey who was blind in one eye, and too tall to be a jockey. Last, there was the owner, a man mired in the grief of losing a child, a loss that led to the breakup of his first marriage.
When he began racing for his new owner he was laughed at and ridiculed, “The horse is too small, the jockey too big, the trainer too old, and the owner is too dumb to know the difference.” He didn’t just look bad running, standing still he looked like nothing as well. You see, when he started winning, it wasn’t because of great stamina or strong legs, he had none of that.
When our little pony was younger, abuse was heaped upon him. He was beaten repeatedly as trainers attempted to conform him to the accepted mold of a racehorse. When he did not conform, he was used to train other horses. He was forced to lose to the horses he trained to build their self-confidence. Finally, he was sold to others who raced him. But, he did not race at Churchill Downs and Pimlico, he raced in the lowest of all horse races, the claim stakes. Competing in two races a week he did what they taught him to do, he lost. He was then sold one final time. It was for this new owner that he finally began to win.
His best race, in my opinion, was against a monster of a horse. His nemesis, War Admiral, stood 18 hands tall, bigger than all other horses, and he dwarfed our little pony. A millionaire who had previously owned Man of War, the greatest racehorse in the history of horseracing, owned War Admiral. War Admiral had the best trainer, best jockey, and best stables money could buy. War Admiral won the Triple Crown, America’s three premiere horse races, and easily defeated every horse he went up against by a wide margin.
But, Seabiscuit, an enigma to science, triumphed. Why is Seabiscuit an enigma to science? Because, by everything measurable by science, Seabiscuit should never have beaten War Admiral, or any of the other horses he beat. So, how did Seabiscuit become one of history’s greatest horses? How did this horse win against better horses, with better training, better riders, and better support? He had heart, and three losers who had heart; and saw the heart within the breast of that little pony. You can see the greatness within him in his races. He would look those other horses in the eye, and it was almost as if he said, “Not today, you will not beat me today.” The racetrack operators didn’t “level the playing field” by giving him a head start. No, he had to go head-to-head with horses that looked like racehorses, horses that had star trainers, star jockeys, and owners who knew horseracing and had the money to win. If the races had been made fair for Seabiscuit, he would never have become the great horse that was deep inside of him, he would never have beaten War Admiral. Seabiscuit did not just beat War Admiral, he beat War Admiral on War Admiral’s home track using the starting bell War Admiral was used too and was unfamiliar to Seabiscuit. He beat War Admiral by four furlongs an unbelievable feat.
Seabiscuit’s new team did not attempt to conform him to the accepted mold of what a racehorse should be. They did not demand a just and fair field of competition. They saw the greatness in Seabiscuit, and encouraged that great will power and heart deep within the breast of that little pony.
We all have that kind of greatness within us, the harder the battle, the greater the victory. When my youngest brother was three years old, he asked me to teach him chess. He pestered me until I taught him how to play chess. For more than a dozen years, I beat him every time we played. I could see in his face the pain of defeat, many times, I was tempted to let him win a game, but I did not. If I let him win, he would know I let him win. Maybe not immediately after his victory, but eventually he would know, and this would be as bad as not winning. I knew if he persisted one day, he would win. I never removed one of my pieces or gave any other advantage to him, we always played as equals, even though we were not. I was older by 10 years and 11 months, I had played in sanctioned chess tournaments and had a rating from the United States Chess Federation, there was nothing fair about our games.
I always encouraged him, but never leveled the playing field. Then one day, while I was home from the navy, he beat me. I cannot remember what we said to each other, but I will never forget the look in his eyes. There was a calmness in his eyes, a self-confidence I had never seen before. He had risen to the challenge; he had accomplished this victory by never giving up. I stood there understanding for the first time, the joy Pete Lamoreaux must have felt the first time I beat him. I knew now that no matter where Jason would go in life, he would succeed. Like Joe Louis and Seabiscuit, Jason had found his own greatness within himself.
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