Durham: remembering Veteran’s Day
When he first arrived at our school in the tenth grade, none of us thought much of him, a poor, skinny black kid with a contagious laugh.
Robbie Durham, or Ol’ Roberto as he was known on the baseball field, because he had an arm like Clemente, is a name we should never forget.
In those days, he would drive a certain car-less teammate home from practice everyday, never accepting gas money. I’ll always remember his advice one Saturday afternoon when I told him how I choked with nervousness during game, something like: “Just swing through it, Shreve, and roll with the punches.”
When I heard in July of 2003 that he was killed in a roadside bomb somewhere east of Baghdad, the times in which we find ourselves began to sink in with unimagined despair.
He was 22 years old.
Roll with the punches.
As much as we try to make sense of the events of the last few years, it always ends in puddles of tears and confusion, and yes, there is reason to be furious.
Robbie died with utmost honor, but what a tragic world where the poor pay the ultimate price for the incompetence of our wealthiest.
Those who still hold Shakespearean notions of battle-”Once more into the breach, dear friends” those whose fathers will always get them out of fighting, who probably wouldn’t have even shared a table with Robbie, did not think twice about sending him to die. Maybe if they would’ve heard him laugh. If only they saw him smiling as he ran around those bases that summer full of life, perhaps they wouldn’t sleep at night. A man of his caliber would forgive them.
Someday, I hope I will too.
Decades ago, Vietnam veterans returned home to countrymen who all but spat on them. Prior generations saw them as the only American soldiers ever defeated in battle; others believed the war served no purpose.
No matter where public opinion polls steer during and after this war, this generation should remember not to make the same mistake. Whether they’re storming the beaches of Normandy or fighting a controversial war in cities most of us can’t pronounce, our veterans are equally heroic, the personifications of our pride, if but for one simple reason: Someone has to go, and it wasn’t us. They bleed, and their families weep while the rest of us sip cocktails and write silly columns.
None of us thought much of him, a skinny black kid with a contagious laugh. The circumstances of the world forever changed that.
Ol’ Roberto will never see kids wearing jerseys with his name across the back. Hollywood will never glamorize his life story. Yet, he silently represents the truest of American heroes. He will forever be mine anyway.
Sleep well, my friend, and happy Veteran’s Day.
Brian Shreve
Columnist
Posted by Colonnade Archives
on Nov 11 2005. Filed under Opinion.
You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0.
You can leave a response or trackback to this entry
