COURAGE IN THE FACE OF DEATH

One-In-a-Million Mike Moore, Fighter Pilot

I still see Mike as I last saw him... that moon-lit night in conversation with me, heroic, willing himself to live and love his family until he died. He was imbued with the "fighting spirit" and seemed born to fly. I didn't believe then, nor could I know, how soon the final flight of his would be.

I first met Michael Moore, former Navy Fighter Pilot, one year younger, (30) married man with a son, Mikie, the same age as my son, in the Spring of 1984. Mike was a strong, wiry, tough man, my height, mustache sporting, same age, and married with two children.

We each accepted a request from our church sponsored Boy Scouts to be adult leaders. I had recently trained as a police officer for Simi Valley, California. Mike had just been grounded from flying fighter jets off carriers for the United States Navy. A routine physical exam discovered leukemia.It was hard for me to imagine that this no-nonsense energetic former fighter pilot was suffering from a form of leukemia that required frequent blood transfusions at UCLA Medical with no known cure.

Mike Moore was equal to any task, hard charging, and living an apparent normal healthy life. Leukemia didn’t stop him from enjoying hearty outdoor adventures that year. Devoted to his two children Teresa and Michael, Jr. he loved his wife Marilyn with an uncommon devotion. "I loved her from the first moment my eyes laid sight on her," he once told me on a camping trip, then shared their meeting and romance. It was as if Mike was sorting through every memory in search for "meaning" and purpose in his face off with mortality.

“God and guns” types, we tried to avoid talking finalitys. But the reality was that Mike needed to live like life couldn't end, and yet daily consider what an "end" really meant to not just himself, but in every way to a young wife and kids. I watched him in moments of quiet frustration and struggle; the fighter pilot couldn’t give in to a killer without a weapon to fight back with. Like boxing shadows he balanced anger with humor as he seemed to take swings at the phsyical evil robbing him of youthful love and a bright future. I thought that with prayers, Mike would be the one-in-a-million who beat the odds. I regularly offered friendship and the devil-may-care attitude he enjoyed, as I watched real courage confront one word youth can’t process well; “terminal.”

Mike simply lived fully, laughed as hard as he played, and took life one day at a time, without regrets. Once in-awhile, he hinted to his mortality and I would hint back at his immortality.“You’ll probably outlive me!” I often assured. “Well, maybe so – you’re such a wimp, Pratt,” he’d reply grinning. I was observing a man humbled as he found himself powerless to stop the enemy fighting him from within. I also witnessed a man “really living” that year.

Marilyn and her love meant the world to him. He once told me wistfully, “I never get tired of looking at her.” Mike spent all the time he could with her and the kids as he also taught the boys we led to be men. Mike never surrendered to his enemy, not even the last night we talked.

I called ahead to borrow Mike's truck for a move we were making. At dusk I arrived to his pleasant home amid orange trees. A light out back soon revealed Mike stumbling from growing darkness. “Now I know I’m gonna die!” he grumbled. “I can’t even pull the engine out of my car!” he angrily reacted, holding his grease covered hands and arms up in disgust. I was tempted to say, “You’re not going to die, Mike,” but an inner voice whispered to me, “Yes he will. Let him talk.”

I peeled an orange from a tree. We ate the sweet fruit and talked for a half hour. My heart was heavy. I’d never seen Mike so down. “I want to raise my kids! I don’t want someone else to do it!” he insisted. He looked at his hands again, shook his head, and tossed me the truck keys. “Taking my wife to an air show Saturday with a student pilot,” he said. “Should be fun.”

At a stoplight the next afternoon I heard, “Hey, I like your truck! Ugly driver though!” Mike laughed as he passed by taking the family out to the local Sizzler for dinner. “See you Monday!” I chuckled and waved. Twenty-four hours later he hemorrhaged and bled to death in Marilyn’s arms, a student pilot flying them to an air show in central California. He lived with love and passion up to his last breath, and in that Mike never stopped teaching a lesson to others.

From Micheal Moore, I learned to “really live” and love that year. I also learned how a "real man" dies. There are different kinds of courage. Michael Moore would have rather gone down in combat against a fighting opponent, but then he did, didn’t he? Yes, real men can fight, but Mike showed that real men can also love deeply and fully. His wife knew that, so did his now grown kids.

I've been to the children's weddings. I see Marilyn now and then, and realize Mike would still be saying, "I never get tired of looking at her." And once in awhile I wonder if Mike Moore isn't really assigned to missions after all, whether trying to get through to a young fighter pilot today, or whispering in his loved one's ear -- "I'm here. It will be okay. Be strong. Love, laugh, and believe. God is there, and so am I."

I miss Mike. I don't understand why God takes men of courage, skill, and love -- the kind the world really needs when it's in a tough pinch as we are today. All I know is that we haven't seen the last of him. His influence lives. And my faith teaches me he'll be back to hold Marilyn in his arms again, and be the father to his children again, and be once again, the friend every man can count on.

Because Mike isn't with us, let me offer this written memorial: “HOORAH! Mike --your one-in-a-million story of courage and love lives! This last hoorah is for you -- LT. Michael Moore, fighter pilot!*

*When I wrote The Last Valentine in 1997 I dedicated the story to Mike Moore and the love of his life Marilyn. It is a story of a WWII Navy Fighter pilot and the wife he left behind. See http://www.jmpratt.com/ go to "Published Works" and click The Last Valentine.

FOOTBALL, LIFE, AND "HEART"

In Football and Life, It Takes "Heart"

The "Slight Edge" for Individual Success

ELEVATOR VERSION

I love football. I love how a little guy gets away with clobbering a bigger guy and no offense is taken. If it is, I love how teammates flood a zone to help you out in the legal brawl. I love the strategy of moves and counter moves where 11 men do their job anticipating 11 other trained players doing their job to stop them. The grace under pressure of a QB or running-back making it look so simple...the connection of ball to man to end zone -- though hundreds of hours of practice have gotten ball to man to end zone... I love the camaraderie, the execution of plays, and in the end I love the "heart" it takes to be your best, and win. In it resides what might be called "the slight edge" for individual success.

It's "pre-season" again. It has me thinking about all that football taught me. I have to say that it may have been the three years in Simi Valley's High School football program that set the course for the rest of my life of achievements where excellence is a factor. Any former player reading this knows what I'm talking about. Similar to a Soldier or Marine who learns discipline as a team player to get the job done, and has too much honor to "quit" ... well, you'll have to read the rest of the story to know where I'm going.

It was 1970 and I desperately wanted to “start” as running back for the Varsity football team, my final season at Simi Valley High School. I had worked hard the previous three years, had a couple of “lucky breaks” where I scored, but I was not the biggest, nor fastest runner on our team. I was as determined as anyone, willing to take the hits, but besides loving the game, that was about the extent of my talents.

The “heir-apparent” to Joe Gonzalez, the all league standout from the previous years was a tough, stocky, but even shorter than I was, Bobby Hernandez. The thing I liked about Bobby is that fullbacks “open” up holes for the less bulky half-backs to run through. Bobby wouldn’t let me or another starter running-back down. He would launch into a well placed block on any one any size without hesitation. I watched him during the August “two-a-days” when I knew we were all being judged for the “starting roster.” Eleven men on offense, eleven on defense, and the same for “specialty teams,” I came in second team to the fastest kid in Ventura County, Eddie Martinez, a junior. Bobby had two things: determination and "heart..."

STAIRCASE VERSION

There was a big difference between Bobby and Eddie, and it became apparent when Eddie would show up late, be found out about his drinking, and generally display an attitude that really fast guys sometimes have – it is a, “you need me coach” mentality that causes them to push the limits of a coach’s patience where rule breaking is concerned. Bobby Hernandez, on the other hand taught me a big lesson on how I could work on “catching up” with a more nimble, quick half-back, the open field speedster Eddie.

The lesson came on a day when a lot of us lacked the “hustle” that Coaches Meinke, Paris, and Cratty knew we would need to be competitive. I was exhausted; we all were. During drills Coach Paris stopped the practice with his whistle and chewed us out, and then added, “Bobby Hernandez seems to be the only player on this field who will do what I ask, not mouth off, slack off, or make excuses for himself. Bobby is steady. Bobby has heart. If the rest of you sorry excuses for offensive players were like Bobby, you’d be guaranteed the starting line-up and probably win every game! Now let’s get some wind sprints done!” Coach Cratty added, “Not only does this boy have heart, but he gives 150%. Time for wind sprints!” Bobby was not exempted from the group punishment.

The coaches ran us until we all dropped, but I kept my eye on Bobby. I finally had the key to winning my starting position. I would whittle away at speedster Eddie’s heels by being not only on time, but first to show hustle, keep the rules with exactness, never slacking off, saying “yes sir” with no excuses, and doing 150%. From that moment on (and I never told Bobby this) fullback Bobby Hernandez was my example. Bobby wasn’t faster than Eddie or me; but he was “steady” and he had “heart.”

It wasn’t long in to the season when Eddie showed up late for practice, having gotten drunk the night before. The coaches knew they were going to hurt their chances of getting those glorious touchdowns that simply come from faster foot work by a field-and-track sprinting star like Eddie. Eddie got "luckier" at scoring than I did, and more often because of "speed," but lacked the "red-hot" desire; the heart, to be number #1.

It took a lot for them to need “number 21 Pratt.” The reward for my efforts finally came in the third game of that season. For the next four games I started. I played with all my heart, but couldn’t match the speed of former running back Martinez and everyone knew it. Yet, with each carry I gained confidence. Bobby and I were a pair of running-backs on the same train going from one end-zone to another. He'd blow open a "hole" and I'd follow him through. Two hearts willing their way to the common goal beats one "lucky" primadonna anyday.

See--There is no "luck" involved with heart power. The “will to win" is more than a mental attitude; it is desire actualized. When "internalized" deep enough, this desire to suceed turns into a "white-hot imperative" helping the determined soul to perform feats that a weaker-willed, but talented person, will not do. Many have called this "the slight edge."

I was going to grow into the position and not let my team mates down. Maybe even play college ball! The night of the biggest game of my life, against number #1 ranked Newbury Park High School where one of my best friends was team captain, came. It was big for me because this good friend, Michael Carlisle, bragged about how they knew I was good at the "27 and 28 Sweep" and were going to “nail me” as he put it. It was also big because it was "Father and Son Night," and my Dad would be lined up on the field with the other Dads and then sit in the stand with Number 21 pinned to his shirt to let everyone known who his son was.

Long story short, it had rained, the field was a mud bowl, and I was playing my heart out. I recall hearing my name announced and cheers from the crowd as often as I ran with the ball, and was making good on my promise to make the "28 Sweep" work. I wanted my Dad to be proud. I knew it would take all the heart and soul in me to win ground against a superior ranked team. I took a lot of guff from my friend Mike Carlisle* team captain for Newbury Park High, and it now was “put up or shut up time.” We met several times on the muddy field that night. In fact, I was laughing my way to the end zone the last time he took a crack at me.

I couldn't know it, but it would be my final game, and the last time I wore pads when the final moment of glory came. Near the end of the first half, I could see pure “end zone” through my laser focused eye-sight, encased in home school maroon and gold helmet, but couldn’t see one of Mike Carlisle’s team mates about to cream me – blindside left. With full extension, my left knee was hit. I sailed for a few more yards, and then tried to stand up, yards away from the goal. Two things happened that stand out in my mind. My opponent eagerly offered a generous, “Come on man. Stand up. Stand up.” Then two teammates rushed to help me off the field; Mike Myers and Bobby Hernandez, both 150% “heart” players.

My season over, Dad came into the locker room at half-time, having seen his son for the first time play varsity ball, and my football glory days came to an abrupt end – or did they? I had made my Dad proud – and had wanted that. I had earned “first team” and had wanted that. I learned more than a little about playing life with “all your heart.” How could the 17 year-old ever know what Coach Paris word's about Bobby Hernandez’s example and hustle would mean? Those words still serve me each and every day of my life. When life knocks me down, "Bobby has heart" rings in my ears and I see myself getting up once more, having self-respect, doing my best, and having the heart to live up to any task.

Whereever I have been in life since, and whatever tough life circumstance I have been asked to deal with, I recall those glory days knowing having a lot of “heart” worked for Bobby, and worked for me – Having heart makes all the difference in personal success and will take you through to the "end zone."*

* Mike Carlisle would lose his life in San Salvador on May 29, 1973 serving others as a Mormon Missionary. Others who played on Simi's field served with honor giving their lives for country. The "end zone" just came for my quarterback one month ago. SEE July 11th post,"RETURN TO INNOCENCE."

YOUR LEGACY MATTERS

A Social Commentary

Your life matters. Who you are matters. And as each day goes by we add one more block to the building called “legacy.” A man or woman cannot live without offering some sort of legacy to his or her family, friends, and society. We live and affect for good or ill every life we touch. We give or take, and in all that is called life we pass on to others something of who and what we are. What will my legacy be; what will yours be?

I keep it simple as I seek to gaze beyond my mortal probation. I imagine little children, grandchildren, asking my son and daughter what grandpa was like. “Oh he was a fine man. He loved other people and they loved him,” they will say. Then they may add things such as he was a builder, a speaker, an author, a businessman, a father, and a husband.

As I ponder on the singular vision into the future I realize that I will have no power to come to the little ones and influence them directly except for legacy; those thoughts spoken of me, and the good name I bequeath to them. But just maybe if I do it right, now while I live and breathe, I will yet live in their hearts. So I concentrate my energies, thoughts, and power on writing to influence those around me to take a fresh look at love. It is there where that true legacy I wish to leave behind, resides.

Why consider thinking about legacy? I believe the answer is found in a basic human need to “matter.” What matters most to us is signaled for all to see in the kinds of activities we participate in one day at a time. Building a legacy that matters is found in enjoying both the present moment in a state of gratitude, and finding confidence in having our name linked to a legacy we may be proud of after we are gone. Rabbi Harold K. Kushner, author of Living a Life That Matters put it this way:

“In my forty years as a rabbi, I have tended to many people in the last moment of their lives. Most of them were not afraid of dying… The people who had the most trouble with death were those who felt that they had never done anything worthwhile in their lives, and if God would only give them another two or three years, maybe they would finally get it right. It was not death that frightened them; it was insignificance, the fear that they would die and leave no mark on the world.” (Page 6, Living a Life That Matters, Kushner)

Building a “legacy” is happening even now for me as I write these words, and for you as you read them. Why not consider what can be done today? Perhaps what you can do is simply cheer someone up, give an unexpected kiss or hug. Do the unexpected for the neighbor next door. Mend a broken relationship. In time, these kinds of actions will add up to thousands of days of goodness, and you will have mattered beyond your wildest dreams!

Just as “…the brain is for getting, and the heart is for giving” as Pastor Caine in my novel The Good Heart said, use the heart to motivate you and in the end you will look back with joy knowing yours is a legacy of love and a life that really mattered.

BARBER ANSWER for GITMO

NATIONAL SECURITY UPDATE

Gitmo Al-Qaeda & Taliban Either Talk or They See Gary

ELEVATOR VERSION

It’s come to my attention that the Guantanamo Military Prison for terrorists is probably going to shut down and ship off the prisoners to foreign jails. On inmate is suing to stay IN prison for fear of what will happen to him if sent to his home country, Algeria. There has been some whining about the unfair treatment of the Caribbean located Taliban and Al Qaeda suspects; and the complaining has to do with possible American “torture” tactics.

Let’s see… they are gaining weight at an average of 25 pounds per year, eat three square meals a day. They get prayer rites, worship books, exercise… year round good weather… They are alive and before they got there they wanted to die trying to kill Americans… Hmmm. They have clean running water and flushing toilets, unlike their caves in Afghanistan, and the tactics said to cause them to break? They have included daily vanilla ice cream servings in portions to choke a horse and being subjected to listening to the rock music enjoyed by their US Marine guards.

I admit, the music would get to me too. But then, they'd probably lose their minds if I was their guard. They'd be listening to Barry Manilow. So I can sort of see why the ACLU and international groups scream "torture." So... I have the answer to the flap about US involvement in “questionable” interrogation of Al Qaeda, Taliban, et al. I’m certain it will work. Besides it could save their lives – they wouldn’t have to be sent back to their home countries!

I’ve tested the system myself hundreds of times over the years. We don’t need to torture them we just need to send them to a friend of mine.

The answer is in “Gary’s Chair of Truth.”

STAIRCASE VERSION

Gary is now retired, but might be persuaded to get “back in the game” for the right amount of money. Gary, like all good barbers, does two things well. He cuts your hair, makes you feel comfortable while he is doing it, and extracts information you wouldn’t give at a polygraph test.

Essentially, Gary, the capable manipulator of the scalp sculpturing tools, has had forty years of this asking questions stuff and has heard it all. He can detect the truth, and knows how to reframe a question if you give him an answer that seems to fudge a bit. In fact, you might have a hard time getting out of his chair if he doesn’t hear what he wants to hear. He uses tactics like scalp massage, the rapid clipper snap, the “little more off the top?” question, that makes you feel he really is in control for those fifteen minutes.

See… Just like millions of other men, I like going to someone who will shave my balding head with skill, and is time-tested trustworthy. I go to Gary’s shop because he is courteous and always makes me feel like I’m the only person who he cares about when the clippers or razor are in his skilled hands.

I have been going off and on to Gary since I was 19 years old (1972.) He has never hurt me, nor let my gradually thinning head down. But, when I’m in his chair I lose control. He’s got the scissors, razors, and clippers, and I am at his mercy. The risk of bloodshed isn't far away, yet somehow I know Gary will not let it happen to me.

GARY’S CHAIR OF TRUTH: And here’s the rub – why I know Gary can get information from anyone. I’ve raised my hand three times to defend the Constitution, worked right out of High School with a high level security clearance at a federal job, and have never “broken down” on sworn to secrecy with anyone else, but Gary.

I never mean to “spill the beans” when I go there. In fact, I always remind myself to force Gary to wonder about what I’m doing in my life, how my kids are, what they are doing, what my wife thinks about something, how my business is going, if I still believe in God, and what I think about upcoming elections, football games, or the military situation from Vietnam to the present day. Each time I go there, I recall the prior visit and how uncomfortable I felt about myself running off at the mouth, as if Gary had some control over my mind as he runs the electric clippers close to my ears.

Not that I don’t like Gary, just that I like to keep my secrets, “secret.” So is it the “Chair of Truth” or Gary that “makes me talk?”

He has a way about getting information, and I suppose he learned it in Barber School, (or maybe it is how he holds the shaving razor in his hand and uses a leather strap to sharpen it before he trims the neck hair.) I swear that I will never speak, after the last session. I mean, I ask myself as I walked to my car after the last haircut, “Who does Gary think he is? A shrink? A psychologist? An analyst? Why should I tell my entire life story to a barber?” Well, the truth is, I shouldn’t… But I do.

So… If we are going to surrender to the ACLU types, or whiners who ring their hands over the mistreated weight-gaining enemy sworn to our destruction down in the Caribbean, we give the prisoners at Gitmo one of two options:

Option 1:

They can go to a prison in their country of origin (any Arab country will do) where the notorious prison interrogators apply different methods of “extracting” information than three square meals a day, ice cream, the sun, sea, and US rock music... OR…

Option 2:

They get haircuts from Gary everyday for the rest of their lives until they talk. Then they get the ice cream.