A bumper sticker I saw last week read “I was a Vietnam Vet before it was cool.” I was just a little kid during that era, and frankly, there’s a lot about war that a kid doesn’t understand. The Vietnam war became real for me in 1982, when I was an assistant manager at a restaurant in Lawrence, Kan. I had hired a veteran named Bob, who was honest enough to tell me he needed a helping hand. Bob was a solid employee. He didn’t have the people skills to work the register or be around customers, but he was ideal with the crew and helpful at every turn. When he first started, Bob hardly said a word to anyone unless he had a question. His face was usually the picture of quiet contentment, and when engaged he had a quick smile that belied the perceived shyness. I took it upon myself to get to know Bob a little bit, and one day I sat down with him on his break and began to talk about the Kansas City Royals. (arguably, my favorite subject at the time). Bob grinned and told me he grew up a Kansas City A’s fan, and how it frustrated him to see them trade the best players to the Yankees for prospects. He used a lot of swear words, and created a few new ones, to describe A’s owner Charlie Finley and the dastardly deed of moving the team to Oakland just before those players matured and made the playoffs, winning three straight World Series titles. He told me he was “overseas” when the Royals came into existence in 1968, and hadn’t made it home in time for the first game in ‘69. I suggested we go to a game sometime, knowing the way so many of those suggestions never come to pass, and he smiled and said he’d have to think about it. From that day forward, whenever he and I worked together, baseball was at the top of the small-talk list. Of course, there were plenty of other baseball fans on the crew, and the game was a way for Bob to connect with everyone on a much more personal level. Bob’s mom, also a fan, would come in for lunch late in the afternoon and talk baseball with us. One day, out of the blue, someone washing dishes dropped a stainless steel pan, and the loud crash startled everyone. It was much worse than that for Bob, who ran screaming out the back door. I never saw him again. A half hour or so later, the police called asking if I might know the guy in the company shirt. He was found sobbing uncontrollably between shrubs in a nearby apartment complex, unable to communicate with anyone. I gave them Bob’s name and important information. After a few days, I called to check on Bob, and his mom told me he was in the hospital, and wouldn’t be back to work ever. She requested we not contact him anymore, and I mailed his last check with a note not to worry about returning what we called a uniform. One of the great things about sports is it enhances a sense of home when everything around a soldier is anything but normal. It allows troops to connect with one another, and stay connected with home. Sports can and often does unite us even when we don’t cheer for the same teams. In 1982, Postramatic Stress Disorder was something we didn’t talk about; I’m not sure I’d even heard of it. But the first time I heard PTSD on the news, I remembered Bob. Whether or not we should, as a country, participate in armed conflicts is a debate that rages on in places other than a sports section of a local newspaper. Thanking a veteran shouldn’t be about the politics of war. Instead, it’s about respect, appreciation and yes, love. I’m glad there’s a day set aside for thanking veterans, and thankful many choose to show that appreciation more than once a year. If you see a vet (or someone on active duty or in the reserves) with his favorite team’s logo on a hat or shirt, strike up a sports conversation if you’re so inclined. And remember the significance of the sacrifice that makes the conversation meaningful. Let me take the lead and say, Bob, wherever you are, thanks. I hope you enjoyed the Royals this year as much as I did.
