When I was in high school, I was on the newspaper staff. It was a tiny little newspaper, powered entirely by its student members. We designed the layouts, wrote the cheesy headlines, took the grainy pictures, cropped them to fit, spent hours searching for just the right piece of appropriate and amusing ClipArt... and yes, we wrote the articles.
In my first year as a member, my junior year, we were made aware of a significant event. A previous alum, a Marine, had been given the Bronze Star after seeing combat in Afghanistan.
It just so happened that I knew The Marine, not through high school, but rather through church. I had known him for years in that our-parents-run-in-the-same-circles way.
I could remember being over at their house when the boys (The Marine and his twin brother) were still in high school. I can't remember why we were there or what I was doing. But I do remember that the twin was on the computer, listening to The Marine, who was talking even then about his plans to join the military. He even showed me how to do a real push-up.
Because of that connection, hearing about this high honor being conferred upon him made me ridiculously proud.
The time came to decide which of us would write the article, and although part of me really wanted to write it, the other part of me was scared to death of screwing it up. But no one else felt up to the task, either; this was the most serious, most important news article we had ever written. Eventually, I bit the bullet, and volunteered.
Other than an installment of the fictional story I was writing with PurpleFriend for the issue, the article about The Marine was my only other writing responsibility.
I won't lie. I procrastinated. Which is something I am very good at.
But I knew I had to write it. I wanted to write it, and write it well. So I got my mom involved.
My Superhero Mom got me The Marine's phone number by way of His Awesome Mom. I sat next to the phone for two hours writing and re-writing my questions for him. I was less-than-thrilled about talking on the phone, but for this purpose it seemed not only necessary, but also worthwhile. I picked up the phone and dialed.
For the next 45 minutes or so, The Marine patiently answered my questions and explained the events leading up to his award. I was overwhelmed. The situation he was describing was far too intense for me to imagine, but you can bet my imagination did its best. I was scared for my friend, so much so that my mouth went dry, and the pencil I used to record his words shook in my hand.
"I could feel the prayers," he told me near the end of the interview. "There was no way I could have survived that without God... I was convinced those prayers were saving me."
Only a few minutes later, I hung up the phone, and cried.
The next day, I set about composing the article. It began with The Marine's childhood dreams, and what followed was gunfire. The story I wrote then was unique to my repertoire, being the only such story I'd ever set to paper that wasn't fictional. The Marine, brave in a way I would never fully understand, put his own life in danger, while his fellow soldiers fell back to cover, to call in the coordinates for air support. His efforts led to victory.
That ridiculous pride only grew stronger as I put the finishing touches on the article and cropped the picture of the ceremony provided by His Awesome Mom. That article remains one of the best things I have ever written, merely because of the subject -- the character and courage of the subject.
A few weeks later, The Marine was actually in town. He came to church with His Awesome Mom, who wanted to put the two of us face-to-face after our phone conversation and the article. I just remember being nervous as all get-out, standing there in front of this person. I'd known him for years, sure, but now he was a Marine, and a hero to boot! I couldn't speak. I just smiled like an idiot.
He held out his hand for a handshake.
It is pertinent to tell you at this juncture in the story, that The Marine was not very tall. I think I was 5'7"ish as a junior in high school, and height-wise, he didn't top me by much.
But good Lord, did that boy have muscles.
He held out that hand to shake mine, and I could feel my eyes going wide. I was sure his bicep was as big as I was. I was also sure he could crush my hand by accident. But I swallowed, took that hand, and shook it as firmly as I could. (I am absolutely certain he was not fooled in any way. The Marine definitely knew I was a wimp).
I think after that, we exchanged a few words about life, the article, and tattoos, but my memory of the conversation is honestly a little fuzzy. I was half-focused on his words and half-focused on the color rising into my face.
Our paths crossed a few more times, but for the most part, my knowledge of The Marine after that was indirect.
I knew when he got married. And my parents helped him out quite a bit when he moved. And through his twin brother, to whom I was and am much closer, I was fortunate enough to hear about him, his wife, his two adorable little girls. I knew him that way, and loved him because of it.
I am just a wanna-be writer, with extra words tucked into every corner of my head. Those words could never be enough to describe the kind of person he was, the amount of love and prayers that surrounded him daily, the pride he incited just by being what he was born to be. But I wouldn't have felt right if I didn't at least try.
God rest you, Kevin Balduf. You were more than a hero to me.
In my first year as a member, my junior year, we were made aware of a significant event. A previous alum, a Marine, had been given the Bronze Star after seeing combat in Afghanistan.
It just so happened that I knew The Marine, not through high school, but rather through church. I had known him for years in that our-parents-run-in-the-same-circles way.
I could remember being over at their house when the boys (The Marine and his twin brother) were still in high school. I can't remember why we were there or what I was doing. But I do remember that the twin was on the computer, listening to The Marine, who was talking even then about his plans to join the military. He even showed me how to do a real push-up.
Because of that connection, hearing about this high honor being conferred upon him made me ridiculously proud.
The time came to decide which of us would write the article, and although part of me really wanted to write it, the other part of me was scared to death of screwing it up. But no one else felt up to the task, either; this was the most serious, most important news article we had ever written. Eventually, I bit the bullet, and volunteered.
Other than an installment of the fictional story I was writing with PurpleFriend for the issue, the article about The Marine was my only other writing responsibility.
I won't lie. I procrastinated. Which is something I am very good at.
But I knew I had to write it. I wanted to write it, and write it well. So I got my mom involved.
My Superhero Mom got me The Marine's phone number by way of His Awesome Mom. I sat next to the phone for two hours writing and re-writing my questions for him. I was less-than-thrilled about talking on the phone, but for this purpose it seemed not only necessary, but also worthwhile. I picked up the phone and dialed.
For the next 45 minutes or so, The Marine patiently answered my questions and explained the events leading up to his award. I was overwhelmed. The situation he was describing was far too intense for me to imagine, but you can bet my imagination did its best. I was scared for my friend, so much so that my mouth went dry, and the pencil I used to record his words shook in my hand.
"I could feel the prayers," he told me near the end of the interview. "There was no way I could have survived that without God... I was convinced those prayers were saving me."
Only a few minutes later, I hung up the phone, and cried.
The next day, I set about composing the article. It began with The Marine's childhood dreams, and what followed was gunfire. The story I wrote then was unique to my repertoire, being the only such story I'd ever set to paper that wasn't fictional. The Marine, brave in a way I would never fully understand, put his own life in danger, while his fellow soldiers fell back to cover, to call in the coordinates for air support. His efforts led to victory.
That ridiculous pride only grew stronger as I put the finishing touches on the article and cropped the picture of the ceremony provided by His Awesome Mom. That article remains one of the best things I have ever written, merely because of the subject -- the character and courage of the subject.
A few weeks later, The Marine was actually in town. He came to church with His Awesome Mom, who wanted to put the two of us face-to-face after our phone conversation and the article. I just remember being nervous as all get-out, standing there in front of this person. I'd known him for years, sure, but now he was a Marine, and a hero to boot! I couldn't speak. I just smiled like an idiot.
He held out his hand for a handshake.
It is pertinent to tell you at this juncture in the story, that The Marine was not very tall. I think I was 5'7"ish as a junior in high school, and height-wise, he didn't top me by much.
But good Lord, did that boy have muscles.
He held out that hand to shake mine, and I could feel my eyes going wide. I was sure his bicep was as big as I was. I was also sure he could crush my hand by accident. But I swallowed, took that hand, and shook it as firmly as I could. (I am absolutely certain he was not fooled in any way. The Marine definitely knew I was a wimp).
I think after that, we exchanged a few words about life, the article, and tattoos, but my memory of the conversation is honestly a little fuzzy. I was half-focused on his words and half-focused on the color rising into my face.
Our paths crossed a few more times, but for the most part, my knowledge of The Marine after that was indirect.
I knew when he got married. And my parents helped him out quite a bit when he moved. And through his twin brother, to whom I was and am much closer, I was fortunate enough to hear about him, his wife, his two adorable little girls. I knew him that way, and loved him because of it.
I am just a wanna-be writer, with extra words tucked into every corner of my head. Those words could never be enough to describe the kind of person he was, the amount of love and prayers that surrounded him daily, the pride he incited just by being what he was born to be. But I wouldn't have felt right if I didn't at least try.
God rest you, Kevin Balduf. You were more than a hero to me.
Beautiful tribute. Thank you for sharing.
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