A Soldier Too

Everyone has already been told that dogs have a strong sense of smell, so don’t anticipate any sort of press release with the following. A dog’s sense of smell is so strong in fact, that many of them have been able to find employment becuase of it. Gone are the days where canines have to stand in the unemployment line. With their noses, dogs are able to locate drugs, explosives, chemicals, people (dead or alive), various forms of cancer and perhaps most important of all, exotic foods. If nobody told you that, then I’m telling you now.

The military will eagerly accept anyone capable of doing what their told, occasionally in addition to those who are not, but so goes a story for another day. Suffice to say, someone with these very talents in both olfaction and listening, are in high demand from the United States military. After all, god forbid a soldier should have difficulty locating an avocado.

Interestingly enough it isn’t the problem of finding exotic fruit that keeps canines employed in the military. More often than not, they are here for the purposes of locating explosives during searches or while at control points. Ultimately they support the mission, save lives and receive monetary compensation (in the form of treats) just the same as any other who serves. Therefore meeting the defining terms of a soldier. There is even a corresponding memorandum to support this notion, along with an acronym. Somewhere I imagine. For those of you who haven’t been told, the Army loves acronyms (ALA).

Earlier today I saw one of these dogs. That isn’t a good thing. He was sleeping with the same coarse eyes that they all have. Fortunately it wasn’t an I.E.D that took him, so he looked good, but instead he had drowned. Well maybe that isn’t any better because from what I understand, that isn’t a desirable choice either.

Typically when a soldier arrives, we inventory their possessions, ice the body and prepare an indefinite number of forms, among other things. I didn’t know we did these things with dogs, but apparently we do. However, I am happy to report that we do in fact treat them just the same as everyone else. By this, I mean a canine even gets his own transfer case with an American flag proudly draped across the top.

Later on tonight, at approximately 0300, I will be standing at attention while several airmen are loading this dog and his flag onto a cargo plane, along with seven other soldiers. This is a ceremonial event and someday I will tell more about it. But for now, it is only important to know that it is an honor to be there. There’s a feeling in the air and sometimes a breeze.

His name was Ray and he never did like avocados.

~Rolligun

nothing to talk about, verse two

second verse similar to the first...

I changed missions and switched companies back in mid-December. My new mission is Mortuary Affairs. Use your imagination.

I kept a semi-journal about the people who died that I personally saw and processed. I stopped updating it. Last count was 38.

That was on January 9.

I finally received my newly repaired Ipod.

Thank you to the fine folks from Apple, you have single handedly improved the security of the free world in the most infinitesimal way possible.

I still can’t speak Spanish, even in the form of functional yammering…so I continue to smile as pretty as I can.

{my new unit is from Puerto Rico}

I received three more magazines from my dad. Still no letter attached, however, at least I now understand the ambiguous nature behind his selections.

I recently watched the movie Spider Man. The last time I saw it, I was with my old girlfriend. I liked this movie. So naturally, I played Spider Man when we got back to my place. She called me “spidey” for the rest our relationship after that. Also, she bought me a pair of Spider man boxers, although I have never wore them. This is the only thing I could think about while I watched the movie.

There is a wonderful lady in the States who I have never met, yet she takes the time to send me things and thank the soldiers for their support. She’s my favorite silent reader, probably because she sends me things.

I started helping one of the guys in my new unit prepare to find a new job when he gets back. He promised his young family that he would get out of the Army when he's done. So I started helping him explore his interests and his skills, conduct research, interview prep and any other needed formalities (i.e. resume).

He shook my hand.

I recently benched 225 lbs ten times. “It’s no big deal.”

But secretly I’m happy about this.

I weigh 165 lbs.

I’ve been stalling on my R&R plans, in part because my original plan was shot in the ass when I transferred companies. Originally I was to travel with some friends from my old unit. I had successfully campaigned among them for these plans long ago, but now I will be traveling solo. This isn’t a problem however.

I was invited via email, to be a “friend,” on the Myspace page, of the former girlfriend, of a good friend of mine. I never really liked her and won’t be joining her site. I do like my friend though.

Sometimes I like to use commas unnecessarily.

I have a Myspace account, but don’t bother ever looking at it. It’s a desolate collection of nothingness as I have never done anything with it other than indicate the college I went too. I don’t even know how to find it.

I found out my mom has Lyme’s disease in an email from my sister that read, and I quote “Mom’s Lyme’s disease isn’t improving.” That was all. It was at the bottom of the email.

My initial reaction was “when the hell did this happen?!?” I reiterated that eloquencey in a return email and have yet to get a reply. That was a month ago.

Information flow is not a strength of the Rolligun Family.

It’s a good thing my family is small, otherwise I imagine I would still be learning people’s names.

Every other night I “sleep” on the Army’s version of a cot. By now you would think I should be professional assembler of these “cots”, but in actuality, they have never once failed in their pursuit to make a blundering fool out of me. Further insult is continually found in the added form of one loose, bar like extremity that frequently clangs off something at intolerable decibels while I blunder through the construction process. This pisses me off.

I unsuccessfully tried to send someone flowers on Valentines Day. That didn’t work by any stretch of the imagination.

I am taking the GMAT either during my R&R or instead of taking my four-day pass in Qatar. Either way, I’ll take the test in May. This is a good thing and I'll be happy to get it out of the way.

There is a sweet yet, conservative secretary who works in a professional setting at my old office. She occasionally emails me and had recently complimented me on the entertainment value of my return replies. So I decided to send her one of the absurdities I had written. I thought this was a good idea, mainly because I didn’t have much else to say that was different from the last time, but also because it was applicable. What wasn’t a good idea was the fact that I forgot to edit what I had written. So this sweet, yet conservative secretary who works in a professional setting at my old office, received a story annotated with profanities by me. That wasn’t part of my good idea.

I recently wore my “Navy” shirt. I’m not in the Navy, I’m in the Army. I had bought it earlier in the year to upset my old LT. I knew this would annoy him beyond belief by my wearing a navy shirt and it proved to have sufficiently done so. The first time he saw me in it, he said, again I quote “Rolligun! What is your problem?” To which I replied with my desire to show support for all of our forces. How can you argue with that?

In a related event…

The camp I’m at will invite local merchants to come and sell their crap to the United States military from time to time. One of these merchants was selling glass tobacco pipes, otherwise known as a bongs. As surprising as it was to see such an item available for purchase, I found even greater amusement in actually acquiring it. Not only did I believe in its value as pleasant decorative, but I assumed my LT would also find it’s appearance more than agreeable. Suprisingly, he didn’t see it that way. He responded with another rhetorical question and I was feverishly told to abandon it.

I put my Navy shirt back on instead.

The point of nothing to talk about is to relay relatively current things. Since I'm going back in time with the latter, I can consider this post compete. Also since I didn't pay much attention to conventional rules of grammar or design for that matter, I won't feel the least bit bad about ending this post abruptly.

The...

Nineteen Seconds

When I was eight years old I started wrestling. I was an aggressive little guy and wrestling appealed to me. So I joined. My earliest experience with a kids wrestling tournament was intimidating, even for a little kid’s event. People were everywhere. Mats were everywhere. The entire gym was full of young wrestlers running around. Kids were screaming and kids were crying. People were yelling, and parents were cheering. Whistles were blowing.
It was a lot to take in.

That atmosphere never really changed over the years. It just slowly became more exclusive. Eventually, it was only you and another guy in the middle of mat, in the middle of the gym, in the middle of a lot of people. Everyone in attendance, focused on that one mat. Every whistle meant only for that match. One side of gym cheered for you. The other side didn’t.

Little kids tournaments were structured in four man round robins. Meaning, each kid would wrestle each other for a total of three matches. When I first walked on to the mat, I was nervous. My stomach was sick. The referee was impatient. We each walked to the center and placed are foot on the line. The referee stood between us. He had a whistle. We got ready and the referee dropped his hand and the whistle blew. Everything around you becomes silent. If you’re lucky you can hear a coach or a father, but mainly, you hear only the whistle and your heart.

I won the first time I ever stepped on the mat.

The final match that day, I lost. I was defeated and had failed. My young manhood humiliated. All from with in and all in the presence of my dad. It was very common for the kid who lost to break down in tears afterwards. It’s a hard thing to explain, how a simple loss could bring so many young kids to such unmerciful tears. The best I can do, is that for many, it’s the first time you ever put your pride on the line. This isn’t done quietly. That pride is put on the line at younger age than most and in front of so many people, both relation and strange. Despite losing a match, I didn’t cry that day. Instead I loved it. I found competition. Challenge.

I wrestled for the next ten years.

My senior year I walked onto the mat for my “sectional final.” Eight guys, who all had placed in the top four at different regionals, would move on to the “sectional” tournament. The top two from this tournament would go to “State,” the final tournament of the year. The wrestler, who eventually won the state tournament in my weight class that year, had already won the sectional tourney that day. He was the first of two, to go back to state. There was one spot left and it was between me and my opponent. He had been to state the last two years, and I had lost to him earlier in the year by a score of 4-2.

I was having a pretty good year, but my senior season was harder than most…in part because I didn’t get along with my coach (imagine that) but mainly because of “cutting” weight. At the beginning of the year I had originally weighed 146 lbs. I was lean, strong and in good shape, I’ve always been. I wrestled at 125 lbs.

I cut 21 lbs, by far, more than anyone else on the team, to specifically wrestle in that weight class. To make weight, I use to run in the hallways before school. I didn’t run to burn fat, I ran to sweat. After practice, I use to come back at night and jump rope in the pool room. Always with layers of sweat clothes. Sometimes, on days when there was a meet, I would have to work out during lunch or right before a weigh-in. I would drain every last bit of water and energy I had leading up to a meet in order to make weight. I ate nothing. Drank nothing.

That same year over Christmas break, four days before a tournament, our coach had us all line up to get weighed after practice.

“Everyone should be within five pounds by now…”

As I stood in line I started laughing. The guy next to me asked what was so funny.

“Just wait.”

I stepped on the scale and was fifteen pounds over. Four days to go. Coach wasn’t pleased and I didn’t wrestle that weekend. He didn’t want me to cut that much in four days, but it wasn’t even a big deal for me. I was always way over. I would be ten pounds heavier the day after a meet.

I spent the whole year making weight. But I loved wrestling.

I had been wrestling for ten years.

The season was exhausting, a four month roller coaster. I fought my coach, I fought my weight. I would get tired. My body would sometimes break down in the final period. It would get to heavy for me. My mind too slow.

The last match of the day for the 125 lbs sectional is about to begin.

I listen to headphones as I wait. I’m on deck, I wrestle next and I’m slowly jumping rope as I watch the 119 lbs final. I break a light sweat as I prepare. My heart is beating steady, but slow. My mind is visualizing every step of the upcoming match. It moves much quicker than my heart.

I watch the match, but I think about my own. The clock ticks. The buzzer sounds. Half the gym cheers. The other half doesn’t. One guy jumps and throws his arms into the air. The other guy stays down. He pauses on one knee and curls his head into his arms. He stays that way, only for a moment, but was probably more of an eternity. They shake hands and the ref raises one of the arms into the air. The 119 lbs match is over.

I set down my rope and shed my clothes. Cool air surfaces my body and my heart finally starts moving faster than my mind. My opponent rushes to the middle of the mat. He stares at me. I run to the center, in the same cocky way I always did. Chin up, and shaking my arms out as I move, nonchalant, but my eyes never leave his. My face is stone and my mind is clear. I’m confident. My whole body is rushing and I have a light layer of sweat. I felt stronger than I ever have. This was my match and I can hear my heart.

We place our feet on the line and the whistle blows.

We went right after each other. It was one of the more intense beginnings of match I can remember. We work back and forth, offensively and defensively. Each of us seeing and feeling how the other reacts.

I see something. His hips are open, and I hit it. I take him down with a fireman’s carry. He goes straight to his back.

“Two, Takedown, Red”

Thirty seconds into this match I have him on his back, and a five point lead (I’ll get 3 pts for him on his back). I don’t want the points I want to finish it. Now. I slide in a deep half-nelson, and I squeeze as hard as I can. I want to pop his head off, create so much pain that he stops fighting me. He continues to fight and the clock continues to tick. He spends ninety seconds on his back, fighting for his life and struggling to breathe, but I don’t pin him. The clock ticks and the period ends.

We start the second period in the referee’s position, one guy has top and the other bottom. I have a 5-0 lead. My mind is clear and my heart is beating. This was my match. Red has the choice and I choose top in the referee’s position. The whistle blows. We continue to work back and forth. Grabbing ankles and grabbing wrists. Fighting for position. Everything is silent. My opponent breaks free from me. I hear my heart.

“One, Escape, Green”

The period continues and now we’re back on our feet in the neutral position. We work back and forth and cover the entire mat. Working for position. Fighting for a takedown. Everything is silent. He shoots in and I counter his move. We work for position. I shoot and he counters. We go out of bounds and start again. The whistle blows. We fight for position. He shoots. Everything is silent. I give up a takedown and the period ends.

“Two, Takedown, Green”

The third period starts. This period hasn’t been good to me this year. I’m tired and I’m weak. I have a 5-3 lead and my opponent chooses the bottom position. My heart is beating, but my mind isn’t clear. I don’t want to lose. I can’t lose. Everything else is silent.

The whistle blows.

We work back and forth. Grabbing ankles and grabbing wrists. We fight for position.

I don’t want to lose.

“One, Escape, Green”

We’re back on our feet, and immediately start working for position and fighting for the next takedown. We cover the whole mat and things are moving faster than my mind.

The score is 5-4. I am still ahead, but I’m losing. I’m losing my body. It’s getting to heavy and I can’t hear anything. I look at the clock, it’s just under a minute to go.

Everything is silent.

He shoots in and I counter his move. We work for position. He shoots in again and I almost give up a takedown, but we go out of bounds.

I don’t want to lose. My body. I can’t lose.

I get back up and look at the clock. The clock says 00:19. I almost lost it, but this is it. I can’t lose. I have 19 seconds left. The score is 5-4 and I’m still ahead. The winner moves on. I hold my head up and tell myself that it’s time now, it’s time to finish this match. Time to get control of my body. My mind. I run back in my cocky way and my mind is clear. I’m confident and I can hear my heart again. This is it for me. My foot is on the line and there is 19 seconds left.

The whistles blows.

We fight for position. I see something and I shoot in. I take a hold of his leg and work to pull it out and drive through him. I get stuck and I’m unable to drive. I can’t lose. Everything is silent. We fight for position. The clock ticks and he grabs my ankle, frees his leg and gets behind me. I look at the clock, it says 00:01. The buzzer sounds.

“Two, Takedown, Green”

I look at the scoreboard. It reads 05-06. The time is 00:00

I lost with one second left.

I had 19.

Everything is silent. My whole fucking world is silent.

My coach wasn’t there and my father wasn’t there.

I got up and shook hands. The ref raised the other arm and I left the mat.

I left quietly, but quickly. I kept my head up, but that meant nothing. I couldn’t hear my heart.

I shouldered my way threw the crowd, went straight to the locker room and lost it. I lost it first with rage and then quietly with tears. I could probably count the number, in my lifetime, on one hand. I never cry.

I flushed ten years of my life out of my eyes.

I had lost the very last time I ever stepped on the mat.

~Rolligun


Moral of Story~~~I lost this match because I was afraid to lose. Instead of wrestling to win, I wrestled to not lose. There’s a difference, successful people approach life to achieve, not to avoid.

Afterthought~~~I’ll never forget this. Sometimes I’ll talk sports with friends. We'd drink and they’d speak of their “glory days” in athletics. But I never say anything. I have my success stories too, but I don’t deserve to speak of them. I try not to regret anything, but I can’t help regretting this match and that season. I didn’t do everything the way I should have. And that last match, I wrestled to not lose. Instead of wrestling to win, I wrestled not to lose. That’s the way it should be. You do something to win, not to avoid. I had nineteen seconds left. Nineteen seconds to regain my posture and my mind, my body. Nineteen seconds, not to hold on, but to win.

You do things to achieve, not to avoid.