“Contrariness;” continued Tweedledum, “if it was so, it might be; and, if it were so, it must be; but, if it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.”  —  Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

Out of boot camp, I was ordered to Marine Base Hawaii, Kaneohe Bay, on the Island of Oahu. I was assigned to a rifle squad; we’d hike around the jungles of Hawaii in mock warfare exercises. It was 1966, and most of my boot camp platoon was in the real warfare of Vietnam.

I was not disappointed to be in Hawaii. There were beaches, and hula girls, and Primo beer, and no one was shooting at us. I would have been glad to have stayed right there.

It was announced that the base was forming a tennis team. Those interested in trying out were to report one Saturday to the courts. I’d played some in high school. In my freshman year at GVSC, the coach of the tennis team insisted on short haircuts. I knew that was silly, and walked away from the tryouts.

The next year I was in the Marine Corps. I hadn’t had a racquet in my hand since my very undistinguished high school tennis days, but the Kanohe Bay MCAS team must have been desperate for someone that at least knew the rudiments of the game. I made the team. I was the sixth man on a six-man team, the bottom of the totem pole.

I enjoyed myself, practicing and playing, and being free of the typical life of the 0311/0351. I was transferred from the infantry barracks to another barracks, sort of a general barracks with people doing different sorts of jobs. I turned my M-14 in to the armory. I was provided a tennis racquet. Tennis  apparel was provided – my uniforms remained in my foot locker.

We would practice, and occasionally play, some other military team, or perhaps a community college. My career in the Marine Corps seemed to be going in a nice direction.

Our coach was a lieutenant. The team was composed of enlisted men. One day a captain showed up. “I want to be on the tennis team,” he said.

The coach looked at me.  There were six guys, and I was at the bottom of the heap. “Go back to 1/27,” he told me, “and re-join your rifle squad.” That was it.

I thought there should have at least been a challenge match. But I was the last guy on the team, so I was gone. I turned in my racquet. I drew another M-14.

Some months later, 1/27 was re-deployed into replacement troops for Vietnam. I thought about the guy that had been the fifth best player on the team. He stayed in Hawaii while I went to Vietnam. I wished I’d been a better player, even perhaps just a little, but enough that when that officer showed up, that other guy – the guy that had been one spot above me — would have gone to 1/27, and then Vietnam, and I would have stayed on the team. And in Hawaii.

I may be thinking more about old memories as I look forward to a surgery in May related to wounds incurred in combat in 1967. Maybe I should say “anticipate” rather than “look forward.” I expect the procedure will go as planned, and the recovery will be complete, though I’m told to expect it to be both lengthy and “uncomfortable.”

Fortunately, I love to read, and there will be a fresh baseball season under way. I have the love and support of my lovely and talented wife. We will celebrate our 45th wedding anniversary during the time when I’ll be less than 100%. I’ll have her tender mercies to help me along as I heal. She’ll spoil me, I know. I’m a very fortunate man.