At the end of WWII, four of General James Doolittle's Tokyo raiders were released from captivity in Japan. In Carroll V. Glines book, Four Came Home, the epilogue is titled 'The Battle Shall Be Won'.
George Barr, Jacob D. DeShazer, Robert L. Hite and Chase J. Nielsen said of their captivity:
"We learned the ultimate meaning of democracy and the freedoms that a democratic government represents. In the hundreds of lonely hours we spent trying to keep our sanity by reviewing the things we had learned in school, often reluctantly, one the documents we recited to ourselves was the Declaration of Independence."
WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT, THAT ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL, THAT THEY ARE ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS, AMONG THESE ARE LIFE, LIBERTY AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. THAT TO SECURE THESE RIGHTS, GOVERNMENTS ARE INSTITUTED AMONG MEN, DERIVING THEIR JUST POWERS FROM THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED......
Monday, May 28, 2007
Monday, May 07, 2007
Rocky Colavito’s Foul Ball
As a youngster, my father introduced my brother Rodger (Red) and me to sports. We were already young fans before most kids knew who the Cleveland Browns were. In those days it didn’t cost an arm and a leg to buy a ticket. Red and I always got the cheap tickets to get in and them moved around to find better, unoccupied seats. And we roamed Cleveland Municipal Stadium at will, learning every nook and cranny.
Sitting in Right Field one day with our friend Jerry Szabo, we watched as Cleveland Indian right fielder Rocky Colavito came up to bat. He swung at the first pitch and we saw it fly upwards behind him and onto the stadium roof. I was immediately inspired.
“Rodge, I know how to get on the stadium roof. Let’s go get the ball!” Red didn’t take much coaxing after he learned I really did know how to get onto the Stadium Roof. I had previously seen the ladders and hatches to the roof in highest echelon of the upper deck seats. Sometimes they were open, sometimes closed. Szabo, citing discretion being the better part of valor, opted to stay where he was. Red and I took off.
In the Right Field upper deck I saw the hatch was open. Climbing up and through the opening we gained access to the roof. Like Marines landing at Iwo Jima, we immediately began to sprint in the direction of home plate. Quickly arriving behind the plate, we spotted the baseball, about a foot from the edge. Red crawled over and picked up the ball. We immediately began our return sprint back to right field.
Red was always the better athlete of the two of us. About halfway there I got a pain in my side from running and yelled that I had to stop. He got upset at me and kept running. When I pleaded, he stopped, looking at me in a disgusted fashion. He must’ve had a vision because as we walked past another open hatch a Cleveland Police Officer stuck his head through it and yelled, “Hey, you two, Come here.” .
We were taken to the Stadium Security Office where we knew we were in deep doo-doo. We let it be known that our father was also a Cleveland Police Officer, figuring we might get a reduced sentence. They called him and I imagine dad’s response, after hearing a description of our antics that day, said something to the effect of, “Send those two idiots home!”
By this time it was late in the game, when the entry gates became unattended. Although we were booted out of the stadium, we went to another gate and re-entered. We found Szabo where we left him in Right Field, wondering if we were ever going to come back.
Hindsight, they say, is 20-20. What we had done was calmly surrender to the policeman. What we should’ve done is run like a bat out of hell. Now, come on, what cop can catch a couple of young teenagers who are running for their lives? And we also should’ve looked for an open hatch that was closer to the home plate area!
I’m sure Dad silently contemplated which head doctor he should send his sons to. When we got home he read us the riot act, of course. But we didn’t suffer any just consequences. And after all we had been through, we didn’t even get to keep the baseball.
As a youngster, my father introduced my brother Rodger (Red) and me to sports. We were already young fans before most kids knew who the Cleveland Browns were. In those days it didn’t cost an arm and a leg to buy a ticket. Red and I always got the cheap tickets to get in and them moved around to find better, unoccupied seats. And we roamed Cleveland Municipal Stadium at will, learning every nook and cranny.
Sitting in Right Field one day with our friend Jerry Szabo, we watched as Cleveland Indian right fielder Rocky Colavito came up to bat. He swung at the first pitch and we saw it fly upwards behind him and onto the stadium roof. I was immediately inspired.
“Rodge, I know how to get on the stadium roof. Let’s go get the ball!” Red didn’t take much coaxing after he learned I really did know how to get onto the Stadium Roof. I had previously seen the ladders and hatches to the roof in highest echelon of the upper deck seats. Sometimes they were open, sometimes closed. Szabo, citing discretion being the better part of valor, opted to stay where he was. Red and I took off.
In the Right Field upper deck I saw the hatch was open. Climbing up and through the opening we gained access to the roof. Like Marines landing at Iwo Jima, we immediately began to sprint in the direction of home plate. Quickly arriving behind the plate, we spotted the baseball, about a foot from the edge. Red crawled over and picked up the ball. We immediately began our return sprint back to right field.
Red was always the better athlete of the two of us. About halfway there I got a pain in my side from running and yelled that I had to stop. He got upset at me and kept running. When I pleaded, he stopped, looking at me in a disgusted fashion. He must’ve had a vision because as we walked past another open hatch a Cleveland Police Officer stuck his head through it and yelled, “Hey, you two, Come here.” .
We were taken to the Stadium Security Office where we knew we were in deep doo-doo. We let it be known that our father was also a Cleveland Police Officer, figuring we might get a reduced sentence. They called him and I imagine dad’s response, after hearing a description of our antics that day, said something to the effect of, “Send those two idiots home!”
By this time it was late in the game, when the entry gates became unattended. Although we were booted out of the stadium, we went to another gate and re-entered. We found Szabo where we left him in Right Field, wondering if we were ever going to come back.
Hindsight, they say, is 20-20. What we had done was calmly surrender to the policeman. What we should’ve done is run like a bat out of hell. Now, come on, what cop can catch a couple of young teenagers who are running for their lives? And we also should’ve looked for an open hatch that was closer to the home plate area!
I’m sure Dad silently contemplated which head doctor he should send his sons to. When we got home he read us the riot act, of course. But we didn’t suffer any just consequences. And after all we had been through, we didn’t even get to keep the baseball.
Friday, December 22, 2006
TAX THE SAINTS
Sinners Unite!
You have been maligned, trashed and have had your pockets picked by government goody-two shoes for too long now. Anytime a rising politician or millionaire wannabe gets an idea in their head they look for other peoples money. In their latest quest for funding construction of a Summit County, Ohio new soccer stadium, they are mouthing the ole sure-bet way - TAX THE SINNERS!
I think it's time they got creative and announced alternative plans - TAX THE SAINTS! Now I have absolutely no idea which saints they should go after. Perhaps my readers could offer some. Tax those who go to church on Sundays? Perhaps roadblocks could be set up and drivers and passengers asked, "Do you smoke?" If they proudly announce they don't, "aha, we got another saint boys."
What about volunteer organizations as alternative sources of tax revenue for a new soccer stadium? How about the Salvation Army? We know where to find their volunteers at Christmastime. Empty their pockets, those darn saints.
Let's see, oh yeah, why not the Saint Vincent de Paul Society? Why, every can of food or piece of clothing donated and distributed could be counted with a percentage of the value given to build that new stadium. Coats for Kids? Toys for Tots? Why, the limitless possibilities are just beginning to fire my imagination.
Maybe my readers can offer insight and inspire politicos with other ways to take money from saints. Well, at least those saints who are left with a job these days.
Editors note - the writer is a non-smoker.
You have been maligned, trashed and have had your pockets picked by government goody-two shoes for too long now. Anytime a rising politician or millionaire wannabe gets an idea in their head they look for other peoples money. In their latest quest for funding construction of a Summit County, Ohio new soccer stadium, they are mouthing the ole sure-bet way - TAX THE SINNERS!
I think it's time they got creative and announced alternative plans - TAX THE SAINTS! Now I have absolutely no idea which saints they should go after. Perhaps my readers could offer some. Tax those who go to church on Sundays? Perhaps roadblocks could be set up and drivers and passengers asked, "Do you smoke?" If they proudly announce they don't, "aha, we got another saint boys."
What about volunteer organizations as alternative sources of tax revenue for a new soccer stadium? How about the Salvation Army? We know where to find their volunteers at Christmastime. Empty their pockets, those darn saints.
Let's see, oh yeah, why not the Saint Vincent de Paul Society? Why, every can of food or piece of clothing donated and distributed could be counted with a percentage of the value given to build that new stadium. Coats for Kids? Toys for Tots? Why, the limitless possibilities are just beginning to fire my imagination.
Maybe my readers can offer insight and inspire politicos with other ways to take money from saints. Well, at least those saints who are left with a job these days.
Editors note - the writer is a non-smoker.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Job I Didn't Get
Driving through Cleveland's "Collinwood" this week, a door to a 1960 memory was suddenly opened.
Just out of high school at the age of 17, wheeless and jobless, I enrolled with the Ohio Bureau of Employment Services in the hopes of finding some work. A position was open at a company on Saranac Rd. I informed my dad of this opportunity, asking him what was the best way to get there by bus. He told me to go ahead and make the appointment; he would see that I got there.
I made an appointment to fill out an application, interview and take their written test. Dad, indeed, was helpful getting me there. I rode over in the backseat of his powder blue Cleveland Police detective car. It had black tires and a shotgun fastened upright, just beneath the rear view mirror. His detective partner rode along with us.
On time for my interview, I was deposited at the door and went inside to go through the routine. All the while I was inside, company employees inside the office were going to the window, peering out to the parking lot, and remarking, "What are they doing out there?" and "Who do you think they're looking for?" Even though Dad and his partnerhad "Detective" written all over them, the shotgun was definitely agiveaway!
Focusing on the written test, the word was unspoken about my transportation arrangement. After finishing the test and interview, I left, got into the back seat of the vehicle and we drove off.
I never heard back from that prospective employer......they probably presumed I was being returned to a juvenile detention facility!
Just out of high school at the age of 17, wheeless and jobless, I enrolled with the Ohio Bureau of Employment Services in the hopes of finding some work. A position was open at a company on Saranac Rd. I informed my dad of this opportunity, asking him what was the best way to get there by bus. He told me to go ahead and make the appointment; he would see that I got there.
I made an appointment to fill out an application, interview and take their written test. Dad, indeed, was helpful getting me there. I rode over in the backseat of his powder blue Cleveland Police detective car. It had black tires and a shotgun fastened upright, just beneath the rear view mirror. His detective partner rode along with us.
On time for my interview, I was deposited at the door and went inside to go through the routine. All the while I was inside, company employees inside the office were going to the window, peering out to the parking lot, and remarking, "What are they doing out there?" and "Who do you think they're looking for?" Even though Dad and his partnerhad "Detective" written all over them, the shotgun was definitely agiveaway!
Focusing on the written test, the word was unspoken about my transportation arrangement. After finishing the test and interview, I left, got into the back seat of the vehicle and we drove off.
I never heard back from that prospective employer......they probably presumed I was being returned to a juvenile detention facility!
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Multi-Culturalism, A Double-Edged Sword
MULTI-CULTURALISM -A DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD by J.C. Sullivan (576 words)
Checking in at The Cloisters, Sea Island, Georgia, I learned my roommate was a peer from our Birmingham, Alabama office. Possessing a life-long curiosity about people, names and places, I eventually asked him about his background. “American,” he replied. Well, so was I.
Pursuing that question regarding his particular ethnic background, I was surprised to learn that he didn’t know. Having grown up in Cleveland, Ohio, a town sometimes called EthniCity, I was always mixed in with various nationalities that were closer to their roots than the gentleman from Birmingham. My friends were first and second generation Polish, Hungarian, Irish….you name it.
I fondly remember the first time I was exposed to the wonderful aroma of John Amato’s sisters baking Italian bread in their West 127th Street home. Eating it fresh from the oven with a slice of tomato on it was a pleasure I remember clearly to this day. From John I learned of the existence of a Sicilian volcano, Mount Etna. Later in school, when I named it as a volcano my teacher did not know, she incorrectly perceived me as a genius (or so my Aunt Marge said).
During those formative years, in school and at home, we were not taught any prejudices against other nationalities. We were, and remain, American first. Oh yes, we were closely allied with our ethnic background, but we were American. Cleveland had its Polish, Czech, Irish, etc, social organizations for sure, and our families, for the most part, had fun and support belonging to them.
We lived in a wealthier nation then. The post-World War II American economy was the world’s model. Jobs were plentiful for those who sought work. And, our families had paid their “dues.” Today, however, things are different.
The State of Georgia recently passed legislation banning illegal immigrants. The government reported their state had the fastest-growing illegal immigrant population in the nation. In Stillmore, a poultry plant was raided and 120 illegals were rounded up and bussed to immigration courts in Atlanta. According to an AOL on-line poll, 77% of Americans support the action. Broadcast television recently covered pro-immigration rallies in American cities. Many Americans, like me, perceive the people who, for example, hoist Mexican flags at these rallies, as a people wanting to be Mexicans in America. We perceive this to be very different than being an American of Mexican descent. Internet images of the American flag flying upside-down on a California high school only served to fuel anti-immigrant anger. Oops, did I say anti-immigrant? I meant to say anti-illegal immigrant anger.
We are witnessing the “polarize the issue” game. And anyone with a camera and microphone is supporting the immigration agenda without regard to the difference. Americans are NOT anti-immigrant. We all come from immigrant backgrounds. We are, however, anti-ILLEGAL immigrant. We now have in this nation hundreds of thousands of unknown people who we know nothing about. They are unschooled, unvaccinated and come with the only clothes on their back, like many of our ancestors. Today, however, they carry half-gallon plastic bottles of water, which later double as urine containers on freight trains. Some of these illegals are criminals and murderers.
Differentiating the two issues would clearly set a path for us to follow. The message to immigrants and our government is this – get in line and come in the front door!
Sullivan is a freelance writer residing in northeast Ohio.
Checking in at The Cloisters, Sea Island, Georgia, I learned my roommate was a peer from our Birmingham, Alabama office. Possessing a life-long curiosity about people, names and places, I eventually asked him about his background. “American,” he replied. Well, so was I.
Pursuing that question regarding his particular ethnic background, I was surprised to learn that he didn’t know. Having grown up in Cleveland, Ohio, a town sometimes called EthniCity, I was always mixed in with various nationalities that were closer to their roots than the gentleman from Birmingham. My friends were first and second generation Polish, Hungarian, Irish….you name it.
I fondly remember the first time I was exposed to the wonderful aroma of John Amato’s sisters baking Italian bread in their West 127th Street home. Eating it fresh from the oven with a slice of tomato on it was a pleasure I remember clearly to this day. From John I learned of the existence of a Sicilian volcano, Mount Etna. Later in school, when I named it as a volcano my teacher did not know, she incorrectly perceived me as a genius (or so my Aunt Marge said).
During those formative years, in school and at home, we were not taught any prejudices against other nationalities. We were, and remain, American first. Oh yes, we were closely allied with our ethnic background, but we were American. Cleveland had its Polish, Czech, Irish, etc, social organizations for sure, and our families, for the most part, had fun and support belonging to them.
We lived in a wealthier nation then. The post-World War II American economy was the world’s model. Jobs were plentiful for those who sought work. And, our families had paid their “dues.” Today, however, things are different.
The State of Georgia recently passed legislation banning illegal immigrants. The government reported their state had the fastest-growing illegal immigrant population in the nation. In Stillmore, a poultry plant was raided and 120 illegals were rounded up and bussed to immigration courts in Atlanta. According to an AOL on-line poll, 77% of Americans support the action. Broadcast television recently covered pro-immigration rallies in American cities. Many Americans, like me, perceive the people who, for example, hoist Mexican flags at these rallies, as a people wanting to be Mexicans in America. We perceive this to be very different than being an American of Mexican descent. Internet images of the American flag flying upside-down on a California high school only served to fuel anti-immigrant anger. Oops, did I say anti-immigrant? I meant to say anti-illegal immigrant anger.
We are witnessing the “polarize the issue” game. And anyone with a camera and microphone is supporting the immigration agenda without regard to the difference. Americans are NOT anti-immigrant. We all come from immigrant backgrounds. We are, however, anti-ILLEGAL immigrant. We now have in this nation hundreds of thousands of unknown people who we know nothing about. They are unschooled, unvaccinated and come with the only clothes on their back, like many of our ancestors. Today, however, they carry half-gallon plastic bottles of water, which later double as urine containers on freight trains. Some of these illegals are criminals and murderers.
Differentiating the two issues would clearly set a path for us to follow. The message to immigrants and our government is this – get in line and come in the front door!
Sullivan is a freelance writer residing in northeast Ohio.
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