The Days Forward

West Point Class of 1969

By Pete Grimm

Duty, Honor, Country – Coach K – 1975-2021

     By Pete Grimm

As a class we were all proud to see Mike tapped to coach Army and, for what seems now only a moment, sorry to see him go to Duke. I recall one classmate saying if our dear Alma Mater had paid and quartered Mike like the great basketball coach he was instead of like a captain in the army, he might have stayed at West Point.

     My family was the ACC Basketball “house divided.” My father-in-law graduated from NC State. My mother-in-law graduated from Duke, and my wife graduated from UNC. ACC basketball was and is a BIG thing at home. I was proud to have Mike coaching Duke, representing all that is good about the leadership lessons taught at West Point, and I joined right into the interfamily rivalry on the side of Duke. 

House Divided by ACC Basketball

     Here we are 42 years later, and the ride has been magnificent. The joy and heartbreak, learning about wonderful new young men on both teams each year, watching them play their hearts out and losing, but mostly winning, has been uplifting. Through it all, Mike’s steady guiding hand on the tiller, steering Duke with the values of his religion, his family and our alma mater was inspiring. His lessons spawned the success of many of his players in the NBA and as coaches of big time college programs, living good lives and inspiring other in turn.

     He didn’t do it for us. He did it for his kids. He did it because, as a leader, it was his responsibility. He did it because he had to. It was and is who he is. Nevertheless, we and West Point basked in a reflection of his success, an important connection.

     It is a tribute to how much he influenced us that my dyed-in-the-wool, rabid UNC supporting wife rooted for Duke in the final minutes of the NCAA semifinal against Carolina last week. There are no losers when the players and coaches leave it all on the court. for 42 years, Mike left it all on the court. I know he will miss it dearly. We will miss him in that role almost as much.

by Suzanne Rice for Bill Rice

     I had no connection to Duke, but I do love basketball. My high school has been the winningest high school basketball in the country, so it is in my blood. Bill was a basketball star (he would challenge that saying he was just a “clean-up player” scoring most of his points with rebounds.) so it was also in his blood. For many years the only way to watch Coach K was to hope the Blue Devils would be named on March Madness Bracket Sunday. In 2004, the regional finals were in Atlanta, so we met Dale and Colleen Smith there to cheer Mike and his team on to victory in both games. What a thrill. Most of the time, however, it had to be at home in front of the television. We would spread a tablecloth on the floor, make a bunch of snacks and enjoy them picnic-style – all of us munching, watching and cheering. One year, Chick-fil-A had a promotional: little stuffed animal Chick-fil-A cows of favorite teams; ours was the Duke cow. After the picnic on the floor was over, Bill would go to his favorite chair with the Duke cow nearby. Whenever the game got close, the kids would say, “Dad, where is the cow?” He would grab it and place the cow on his head – that seemed to do the trick – Duke usually won the game!

Lucky Duke Cow

     Why was this time special to us? I think it was because Mike brought his West Point leadership lessons to the game; his focus was his Duke players, but his love for them as people showcased the values he learned at home in Chicago and at West Point.  Bill was proud to be his classmate and we were glad to be a part of that extended family.

Twelfth Man – 1984

Back in 1984 I was in my fourth year of what eventually became a twenty-five-year career as a Lincoln Mercury dealer in Seattle, Washington.

Pete’s Dealership

     The Seahawks were an expansion franchise owned by the Nordstrom’s and, despite a respectable won-loss record with Jim Zorn at quarterback and Steve Largent pulling down his passes, they were having trouble filling the old Kingdome. Ten thousand or more tickets went unsold at each home game.

Seattle Kingdome

I had signed on as a radio and TV advertiser for Seahawks games from the moment I bought my dealership in 1980. KIRO had the contract to broadcast all things Seahawk and my sales manager’s brother was the GM at KIRO. I was a fan and an easy sell and willing buyer. My dealership and KIRO both had a vested interest in the Seahawk’s success. KIRO and Seahawk management worked hand-in-glove on promotions to boost fan interest in the team.

Seattle Seahawks Logo
Seattle Television Station

     One Monday morning my KIRO advertising rep and I met to discuss media buys for the upcoming season. During our meeting he solicited my advice on what promotions might win over more Seattleites, get them more involved in supporting the team. He said there was going to be a big meeting with Seahawk management the next week to decide what promotions to adopt and he was trying to get ideas from advertisers. Asking for advice is the sort of thing a good sales representative does to keep a client involved. Nevertheless, I took him seriously.

     In 1984 Seattle was definitely a different place than many cities in America. Some say it still is. Seattleites viewed themselves as civilized. To a fault they drove, acted and spoke courteously, but many looked down their noses at professional sports. Support for the University of Washington Huskies was rabid but playing sports professionally was viewed as a bit crass.

     As my rep and I discussed the issue, I told him the Seahawks needed a more collegiate connection with the fans, more rah-rah like the Huskies had. My thoughts went back to Army football. I told him how the entire Corps of Cadets attended every game and stood in support throughout; how we were the 12th man, the rocket*, the roar that might just spur the Army Team on to victory. I told him how, in the Navy game of 1968 on a signal from the rabble rousers (West Point cheerleaders), we all stripped off our dress grey tunics to expose 12th man sweatshirts we wore underneath; how at the Penn State game of that same year the 300 of us who attended carried two air horns each and on a signal from the rabble rousers blasted them in unison completely silencing 50,000 Penn State fans. I encouraged him to find some way to instill a kind of collegiate connection between the Seahawks and fans that the Corps had as the 12th man.

Corps of Cadets as the 12th Man**

     My KIRO rep left my office that day pumped up on the idea of a promotion centered around the concept of fans as the 12th man on the field. Two weeks later he came back and said the team’s management had decided to adopt the 12th Man concept and they were trying to decide just how to implement it. Later that year the Seahawks retired the number 12 and made the 12th Man a centerpiece of their marketing. The rest is history.

     In a Seattle Times story, the Seahawks credited a woman named Karen Ford with calling and suggesting the 12th Man jersey for the fans. In fact, there may have been many people who suggested the same or similar ideas. But I will always believe my sales rep got the ball rolling with the enthusiasm he got from my stories about Army football and the BOTL.

      Imagine my frustration years later when Texas A&M sued the Seahawks for using “the 12th Man” promotion. It was supposedly THEIR long-standing tradition, one which they had registered as a trademark. The Seahawks caved and since 2006 have paid Texas A&M to use the expression “the 12s” to describe their fans, renegotiating usage rights every five years.

     The Seahawks have gone on to appear in two Super Bowls and win one. Their new stadium, Century Link Field, is filled to capacity at every home game and the 12s are the noisiest, most disciplined fans in the NFL. So, I guess the Seahawks can afford it, but it still irks me.

Seattle’s Century Link Field

     A little web research revealed that idea of the fan as the 12th man on the field did not begin at West Point and Texas A&M’s claim that it began there in 1922 is questionable at best. Through the years the expression “12th man” used to describe fans (or even a referee) appeared in countless newspaper stories about many different college teams of many different sports. However, the 12th Man traditions at Texas A&M and West Point are so similar, I believe they migrated from West Point to Texas A&M, brought there by tactical staff who were West Point grads. Texas A&M did not register their trademark until 1990.

     Here is a link to a video summary of that Penn State game in 1968. It is amazing what you can find on the web: November 2, 1968 – Penn State 28, Army 24 (10 Minutes or Less) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHPHXR29T_c 

*A traditional West Point football cheer led by the cadets that goes like this:

(Whistle) –

BOOM! – Ahhh

U – S – M – A, Rah! Rah!

U – S – M – A,  Rah! Rah!

Hoo-Rah! Hoo-Rah!

AR-MAY! Rah!

Team! Team! Team!

** Editor’s Note: This photo shows the Corps of Cadets at the Army-Navy game, November 30, 1968. The Army football team, energized by the unexpected show of support, went on to beat Navy 21-14!

The Medevac Flight – 1970

 The Medevac Flight

by Pete Grimm

He hadn’t imagined going home this way. The cargo plane had two rows of bunks to accommodate the wounded, stacked side by side down its center and bolted to the floor. Racks of double bunks also lined the port and starboard bulkheads. Every bunk had a wounded soldier, or sailor or airman strapped into it on takeoff.

Nurses and corpsmen dressed in BDU’s moved from bunk to bunk administering medication, passing out bottles of water and sandwiches and offering words of encouragement. “You’ll be home soon.”

It was a long, long flight to Washington, DC. The plane would stop only once for refueling in Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska on the journey. Many bed pans and colostomy bags would need empting.

Nurse Holding Hand

He was a twenty-two year old second lieutenant and among the lucky ones assigned to the upper bunks because they could climb up and down on their own. Some in upper bunks lacked an arm or hand. He was among the especially lucky who were still whole.

With barely more than a month in country, an explosion had ended his tour. He hadn’t been wearing body armor, none of them had. My fault. I was in charge. It was so damn hot. Even so, I should have insisted.

No one else blamed him. They gave him a frigging medal, a purple heart, his wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time medal. Guilt was a constant companion.

Sufficiently far from the blast to survive, he sustained wounds from many pieces of shrapnel. Two punctured his left lung, two tore meat from his right shoulder, another tore meat from his left, another collapsed veins in his groin, smaller pieces peppered his body. His wounds had to be minor compared to those of his men who were closer.

He wondered what had happened to Swartz and Mendoza. It had been over a month and a half and no one had been able to tell him what had happened. Maybe they don’t want me to know. He felt guilty that he did not know, that he was going home without knowing, that he was going home at all. His body still needed rehabilitation, but he wasn’t like these others, truly disabled.

The novel propped on his chest was a gift from a helicopter pilot who had left on an earlier flight. The pilot had lost a hand and was worried how the loss would affect his wife, and how he would provide for his family, now that flying helicopters was out of the question. The pilot wasn’t whole and he still was. It was a simple as that. So why did he feel guilty even being grateful that he was whole? Did his gratitude suggest that the pilot, and all these men who had lost limbs, were something less? He really didn’t want to see it that way.

Flight nurse attending to patien
Flight nurse attending to patient

The nurse in his section of the plane was a first lieutenant, which meant she was probably older than he. She cropped her wavy blond hair above shoulder length, and wore no makeup. Baggy BDU’s cloaked what looked to be a great figure. The way she moved, her strength and grace and balance, suggested it was. He wanted it to be. Her mane framed a high forehead, wide cheekbones and bright blue eyes. A too-wide mouth, square jaw and a scattering of freckles made her more girl-next-door than model-beautiful, but more attractive for it.

Moving from bunk to bunk in his line of sight, the nurse distracted him from reading. With a touch here and word there, she gave solace to men who hadn’t seen a woman like her in quite some time. He hadn’t seen a woman like her in a long time. Those who were well enough hung on her words and basked in her smiles. Those who were not demanded most of her time.

When she passed, sometimes she would smile and ask how he was. Her name tag read M. Sommerville. He kept the exchanges short, even though he desperately wanted her attention too. The others needed her much more. M might stand for Mary. His mother’s name was Mary.

Walter Reed Army Hospital waited for him. He was healthy enough that he would probably complete his rehab as an outpatient. That meant time with his family, and a chance to connect with old friends before going back on duty. Will the wounds affect my next assignment? At least I can count on having a next assignment. The ceaseless drone of the engines lulled him to sleep.

He woke needing to pee. Climbing down from the bunk made his chest ache where the doctor had done emergency surgery under a local anesthetic to slip a vacuum tube between his ribs, drain the blood and reinflate his lung. He walked along the steel floor to join a line waiting to use the head. Bags of urine hanging off the sides of bunks of catheterized troops made him doubly grateful to be ambulatory. On the way back, he met her.

“I see you are up. How are you feeling?” she said.

“Good.” He lowered his voice. “Next to the rest of these guys, I’m doing great. You’re wonderful with them.”

Her smile lit the dark interior of the plane like a ray of sunshine. “Where are you from?” she asked.

Is she flirting with me?

“I’m from Alexandia, Virginia. When we hit the ground, I’m almost home. Where are you from?”

She’s even prettier when she smiles.

“I grew up an army brat, but right now, I’m from San Diego.”

“I’m an army brat too.”

Just then, one of the more seriously wounded men down the aisle moaned and asked for more medication. “I’ve got to go,” she said.

He went back to his bunk, climbed in and finally got into the novel the pilot had given him. When she would pass, she smiled and sometimes pause to chat.

We had a moment there. Didn’t we?

He let his mind drift over the events of the past year. Graduation leave, Officer’s Basic School at Ft. Sill, Jump School, Ranger School. Ft. Sill hadn’t been all studies. There had been wild parties, weekend football games in Dallas and U of O, dances at the O’ Club and beautiful women. Time at Ft. Benning managed to produce its own series of escapades. Life had been a blur. He had lit the candle at both ends and didn’t care. He lived like there might not be a tomorrow. As it turned out, there damn near hadn’t been.

He watched the nurse, ministering to the troops, smiling and sharing words as she passed. He soaked in the essence of the woman. Generous. Giving.

There’s no chance, but I’m losing a piece of my heart here.

Dragging a notepad from his duffel, he scribbled down what he was feeling.

On the ground, after the plane had taxied to the terminal, while preparing to disembark, he had a chance to speak with her one last time. “What does M stand for?”

She looked confused. “M?”

“Your name tag says your first initial is M. I wondered what M stood for?”

“Oh. It’s not my name tag. My uniforms weren’t clean and I borrowed this from a friend. My name is Nancy.”

He quickly scribbled something on the notepad, tore out a page and gave it to her. “I’d like you to have this.”

He shouldered his duffel and moved down the corridor towards the exit. He glanced back and waved. She held the paper in one hand and waved goodbye with her other, and turned to read.

 Poem on Notepad

An Actual Event in Fictional Form