I can’t go any further than to tell you that one of my greatest influences, besides Jesus and my Dad (also a Marine-but I’ll get to him in just a minute or two) was my College football coach, Charlie Bradshaw. He was also a Marine, a drill instructor and psychology major. I’ll describe him the same way some of his players from “The Thin Thirty” a book written by one Shannon Ragland recalling his days at Kentucky. He was insane. One of his former players said and I quote: ” pre-season practices were a daily version of the Bataan Death March” Bradshaw trimming a down a roster of willing players from 88 to 30 and brutalizing young men beyond most human’s physical and mental ability to endure. When I read of the brutality the Kentucky players endured, I was swept back to my five years of playing under the man. It was five of the most formative years of my life and for good reason. I guess the funniest thing I can recall out of the five years of playing and practicing under Coach Bradshaw, was him making me and two other players run for five hours straight, in full gear, for “smiling in a practice”. He stood up on a high hill and watched over practice like a shepherd might watch his flock, except the shepherd liked his sheep and knew their value. Myself and a few players were commenting on Bradshaw insulting one player concerning the weight of his girlfriend and why the same player’s mother had not killed him at childbirth he was so useless. His dislike for all things human was amazing, but his influence was great. He and I didn’t see eye to eye on anything including the sun being the center of our solar system, but he respected the player I was and we both understood the game of football. I loved the game until I played it under my former head coach, surviving the effort with a college diploma, a fitting reminder that I was through with the game before it was through with me. I had after all, played a kid’s game and walked out the other end with an education that went beyond the “Finance/Marketing” clearly printed across the top of my Troy University issued Sheepskin. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t consider Coach Bradshaw’s influence on my life and not dwelling on it as a negative thing. I choose to focus on the positive aspects any growth experience can bring if a man is mature enough and has his head screwed on straight.
Lastly there is my dad, my personal hero, and Marine. He was a Marine of the same generation as Chap Chandler and Charlie Bradshaw. He excelled in every aspect of his life, a dual scholarship recipient in both academics and sports, eventually becoming a Postal Executive in his long career and an M.I.T. Graduate of the exclusive Sloan school of management, attending with many CEO’s of fortune fifty companies. Not “Fortune 500″ but “Fortune 50″ meaning the top fifty companies in the USA and the world. He is and has been my greatest friend and confidante I have had in my life. His wisdom and kindness distilled in unselfish batches all my life have made me a better man, father, husband and friend to those who love me and call me the same in return. I do recall one incident when I decided my dad was an idiot and I might challenge his authority and Marine training and it bares sharing.
This is from my book “The Train Ride” :
Let me share with you that I was not one of the smart fellows that passed on challenging my dad to his rightful throne. It happened one Saturday morning after a long lengthy night out with my hometown buddies. I had come home from Troy in my sophomore year (the term sophisticated moron comes to mind) and was in the best shape of my life. I was benching over 400 pounds and could squat 700 pounds easily. I could also run like a deer and all day if necessary. On one memorable Friday, my Dad gave me the order to be “high and tight, 6:00 am cutting grass.” My Dad was not a military junkie as far as his dealings with me or our family. He was never a Great Santini dad, ever. The Marine Corps had such a strong effect on him, as it does most men who have been in the Corps. He never let go of the military way and its influence on his personal and business life. I recognized it as a very positive thing for him.
After my long day’s night that ultimately led to an early morning arrival to my bed, I was awakened by the sound of the lawn mower running. This was not good. I had a great relationship with my dad, but he had his rules and I lived in his home. I had dang well intended to cut that grass and I flew into my shorts, shoes and shirt in seconds and down the steps I went out into the yard where my father was making quick work of the task at hand. I waited at the edge of the driveway for my father to make a pass at the end of the neat straight rows he was painting with the lawn mower. It was a beautiful day and I remember it so vividly because of the lesson I learned that day. Don’t mess with Marines regardless of their age, height, weight or perceived intelligence. I stood a good foot taller than my Dad and outweighed him by a better 75 pounds. I asked him to hand the lawn mower over to me and I would finish the grass cutting duties. He glanced up, did a perfect military style 180 degree turn and headed back in the direction he had just come from, ignoring my request with a curt smile and a passing glance. Not a mutinous glance mind you, but a glance that said,
“Go back to bed you dingle berry.”
I was instantly pissed off by his calm nature. My body language went from friendly and inviting to an “I can take you old man” stance. I was twenty and knew better. I had considered it a time or two when I was 14 and maybe once when I was 18 but thought the better of it.
When my dad passed by me again I was standing kinda-sorta in the yard as to get him to have to decide where to maneuver the mower around me and not foul up his neat pattern. I am sure he learned the technique and many others as punishment in the Marines. When he got close enough and hesitated, I grabbed the mower by one hand and sternly told dad to let me finish the damn yard. He looked at me and calmly told me it was OK, he’d finish the task and I could go back to bed and sleep it off, which further pissed me off. He had both hands on the mower handle. I took my right hand and placed it on the outside of his right hand and with my left hand I slid his hand so I had full grip on the mower. I gave him the one and only mutinous glance I have ever given him saying:
“I am up, I am pissed, and you are gonna let me finish cutting the frigging yard!”
And then it happened. In a blur, I was down on my back in a pretzel hold with my legs bent over myself with my knees basically on my ears and what appeared to a be a nut sack hanging in my face. I was going to bite them out of anger but I realized quickly they were mine. My 190 pound Marine father had just felled a 270 pound freight train, dropped him like a used prophylactic, and humbled him to the point of hollering for mercy. He never let go of the lawn mower. Oh, and he could twist my pinky finger and every part of my dumb-assed body racked in pain. I had been introduced to what the inside of a can of whoop ass must have looked like. He smiled and let me up. I was sore as the underdog in a prize-fight after that particular lesson, never forgetting to ever mess with a Marine again.
You have just read a true account of the greatest learning experience in my life complements of The United States Marine Corps and my dad. These boys don’t play, as a matter of fact, they all quit school because of recess. And my dad was one of the few, the proud, The baddest Hombre’s to ever walk a watch with a gun. I’m convinced they can all recognize each other somehow. My dad, my brother and I went to see one of the greatest war movies ever made, “Full Metal Jacket” by Stanley Kubrick of “2001: A Space Oddesy” fame. This particular movie was as much about the Tet Offensive as it was the boot camp training each Marine must endure before becoming a certified bad ass in the service of the United States of America. It’s a movie that is funny and tragic at the same time, describing in full visual detail how each man handled the same tyranny doled out in spades and the resulting outcome. When we watched the boot camp portion of the movie, basically the first hour, I noticed how my dad never took his eyes off the man playing the drill instructor, Gunnery Sargent Hartman, played by the one and only R. Lee Ermey to perfection. This was before the internet existed so information was found out the old-fashioned way, you either read it in a book or a Magazine. My point here is this; my Dad told me and my brother after the movie: “I bet if you check out the guy who played the drill instructor, you’d find he was actually a real drill instructor. The cadence he used and the lacing together of profanity was like the poetry my drill instructor used on me and my fellow Marines. You just can’t fake that and it would take years to learn that skill even if you were the best actor on the planet”. Sure enough, he was right. Stanley Kubrick hired Mr. Ermey to consult with the actor who was to play the driven and partially insane drill instructor. When the actor just couldn’t get it right, Kubrick brilliantly asked R.Lee to take the part and a great actor was born and a movie career was launched. R.Lee Ermey was indeed a drill instructor with the Marine Corps and the movie gives you a realistic view as to the tough standards the Marines set forth for its recruits.
Which leads me to the very best part of this particular short story.
C'mon back Friday!
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