Pre-2009 Overview:
Coming into 2009, my marriage was about 3 months old, and I had a good-paying job that I'd been working for over a year and a half, and I was beginning to make some progress in getting some of my smaller bills paid off.
The 2009 Bad News:
Unfortunately (in most ways), I lost my job only a few weeks into the year, which set back almost all of the financial progress I made and put so much stress on my marriage that I sometimes wondered whether it would survive. There were times I felt like I was a broke student again, living on $ 20 for a full 2 weeks, eating off the dollar menu at fast-food places, and questioning my progress in life and place in this world.
The 2009 Good News:
Thankfully, as He has always done, God helped me to survive and brought me through the other side as a smarter man into a better place than I could have imagined when times were at their worst. Despite the hardships, I trust God with my life more now than I ever have before. No matter how bad things get, He proves time and again that He will never put more on me than I can bear, and that he will never let me slip over the edge into such a bad place that he can never bring me back.
I've been at my new job about 6 weeks now, and I like it pretty well. My co-workers and bosses are great, the work I am doing is tough but interesting, and I think my career and finances are back on track. I am extremely grateful that my marriage survived the beating it took in its first year, and even though there is work yet to be done, the survival of my marriage through such tough times gives me hope for a better marital future.
2009 Conclusion:
2009 was definitely an interesting and eventful year, but all things being equal, I am glad it's in the books, and I am hopeful that 2010 will be much, much better.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Back to Work Full-Time and Loving It
I have been employed full-time pretty much my entire adult life, even through college and law school. The last time I had a full-time attorney job was in early March of this year, now over 8 months ago.
That is the longest period of time I have ever been without a full-time job in my entire life, and it sucked more than I can possibly put into words. There are so many things I took for granted up until recently, mainly having money of my own, being able to afford a few luxuries in life, working as a professional, and most importantly, being able to pay my bills. These things sound so small, right up until the minute they are taken away.
I was able to find part-time work as a softball umpire and flag football referee, which I sincerely enjoyed. The job paid better than most menial labor positions, and it did make a dent in my bills. However, the truth is that I would not have been able to pay my bills without the financial support from my family and friends, and I would have been homeless or living with my Dad if it weren't for my wife. I have already told my family and friends how much I appreciate their help during this difficult time, but I would be remiss if I didn't take a moment to express how truly wonderful my wife was over these last 8+ months. We had some disagreements about money, but she never once failed to help me when it was absolutely necessary. Althea, no matter what happens in the future, I will never forget how supportive you were when I needed you the most, so thank you, and I love you.
As you may have guessed by now, after putting out more than 250 application packages for jobs from Hawaii to Italy, I am blessed to be back working full-time at a job in downtown Nashville. My starting salary is about 10% less than I was making back in March, but I think that is a fair trade given the increased quality of life, good bosses, seemingly cool co-workers, and potential for advancement that comes with this position. Also, this job is actually closer to home than my last job, a nice little bonus. Today was my first day back to work, and it felt great being back at work as an attorney again. I have to give a big shout out to Terrance for getting me the interview that led to this job...brother, if you need my last can of pork and beans, you need only to ask. :) Although I know I have a lot to learn working in an area of the law I don't know much about (yet), I am eager to learn and willing to work hard, and that should serve me well. As an aside, I bear no ill will toward my last employer...they gave me a great opportunity and paid me fairly for my hard work, it was simply time for both of us to move on.
I haven't always done the best job handling money, but that is something upon which I sincerely intend to improve this time around, especially when it comes to rendering unto God what is rightfully His. When I was unemployed, I made a promise to God that, if he put me back to work, I would be faithful in my tithing, and that is something I have never done before. I truly believe that God keeps His word, so I look forward with interest to see what God will do when I am faithful with my finances. Lord, thank you for putting me back to work. I promise to work as hard as I can, and to do my work with integrity in a manner befitting your kingdom and showing appreciation for your blessings.
That is the longest period of time I have ever been without a full-time job in my entire life, and it sucked more than I can possibly put into words. There are so many things I took for granted up until recently, mainly having money of my own, being able to afford a few luxuries in life, working as a professional, and most importantly, being able to pay my bills. These things sound so small, right up until the minute they are taken away.
I was able to find part-time work as a softball umpire and flag football referee, which I sincerely enjoyed. The job paid better than most menial labor positions, and it did make a dent in my bills. However, the truth is that I would not have been able to pay my bills without the financial support from my family and friends, and I would have been homeless or living with my Dad if it weren't for my wife. I have already told my family and friends how much I appreciate their help during this difficult time, but I would be remiss if I didn't take a moment to express how truly wonderful my wife was over these last 8+ months. We had some disagreements about money, but she never once failed to help me when it was absolutely necessary. Althea, no matter what happens in the future, I will never forget how supportive you were when I needed you the most, so thank you, and I love you.
As you may have guessed by now, after putting out more than 250 application packages for jobs from Hawaii to Italy, I am blessed to be back working full-time at a job in downtown Nashville. My starting salary is about 10% less than I was making back in March, but I think that is a fair trade given the increased quality of life, good bosses, seemingly cool co-workers, and potential for advancement that comes with this position. Also, this job is actually closer to home than my last job, a nice little bonus. Today was my first day back to work, and it felt great being back at work as an attorney again. I have to give a big shout out to Terrance for getting me the interview that led to this job...brother, if you need my last can of pork and beans, you need only to ask. :) Although I know I have a lot to learn working in an area of the law I don't know much about (yet), I am eager to learn and willing to work hard, and that should serve me well. As an aside, I bear no ill will toward my last employer...they gave me a great opportunity and paid me fairly for my hard work, it was simply time for both of us to move on.
I haven't always done the best job handling money, but that is something upon which I sincerely intend to improve this time around, especially when it comes to rendering unto God what is rightfully His. When I was unemployed, I made a promise to God that, if he put me back to work, I would be faithful in my tithing, and that is something I have never done before. I truly believe that God keeps His word, so I look forward with interest to see what God will do when I am faithful with my finances. Lord, thank you for putting me back to work. I promise to work as hard as I can, and to do my work with integrity in a manner befitting your kingdom and showing appreciation for your blessings.
Friday, October 30, 2009
The Job Search is 99.9% Over
I've been unemployed or employed only part-time since March of this year. After nearly 8 months, I finally got a call today offering me a job. The reason I say the search is 99.9% over is because my future boss told me the interview process is over, that he had checked my references, and that he would like me to come and work in his department.
He told me that he still has to get my final salary number, and thus my final hiring approval, from the Personnel Department. As soon as the has that, I will get a start date, an office, and a firm salary figure. At that time, and not before, the search will be 100% over. I had a celebratory dinner at home with the wife tonight, but we will do something bigger and nicer to celebrate after I start my job and get my first paycheck.
I can't wait to get back to work, and a post full celebration of new job/reflection on my time between jobs will be coming in the very near future. But for now, today was a really good day, and it was a long time coming. Thank you Lord, for everything.
He told me that he still has to get my final salary number, and thus my final hiring approval, from the Personnel Department. As soon as the has that, I will get a start date, an office, and a firm salary figure. At that time, and not before, the search will be 100% over. I had a celebratory dinner at home with the wife tonight, but we will do something bigger and nicer to celebrate after I start my job and get my first paycheck.
I can't wait to get back to work, and a post full celebration of new job/reflection on my time between jobs will be coming in the very near future. But for now, today was a really good day, and it was a long time coming. Thank you Lord, for everything.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Jason Whitlock on Changing the Rules about Strange Tang
His recent attacks on Rush Limbaugh based on "quotes" that Limbaugh never actually said, FOXSports.com's Jason Whitlock is one of my favorite columnists about contemporary issues that have to do with sports and athletes. His columns are so interesting because they almost always have a new, unique angle or perspective that you will never hear from the mainstream media. Whether Whitlock himself personally holds these beliefs is irrelevant, because the job of a writer is to write interesting things that people will read with enthusiasm, and putting conventional wisdom down on paper won't get you there very often.
Most recently, ESPN baseball analyst Steve Phillips was fired from ESPN for his extramarital affair with a woman half his age. His mistress flipped out when he tried to end the affair, contacted his wife, and even tried to mess with his kids at school, but at least she didn't kill him like Steve McNair's mistress did. Although my faith and personal beliefs don't really permit me the luxury of believing in what Whitlock suggests as an actual solution to the affair pandemic for men (athletes and non-athletes alike), his suggestion to remove some of the taboo and social shame that comes with an affair at least makes some intellectual sense. Whitlock first brought up how destructive affairs can sometimes be (he calls the other woman phenomenon Strange Tang or Pussy Galore) in the case of Louisville basketball coach Rick Pitino, who banged a woman not his wife on the table of a restaurant and then had the woman try to extort money from him...not good times. Strange Tang has also claimed Texas Rangers outfielder Josh Hamilton, former Indiana Pacers hoops star Reggie Miller, and Dallas Mavericks superstar NBA F Dirk Nowitzki as its victims, and for every 3-4 of these cases we hear about, there are many more that we don't. The impact on the families of these men is inexcusable and even having an affair demonstrates terrible judgment, but as Whitlock says, affairs have absolutely no bearing on whether someone is a good coach, commentator, or athlete, and it's time to stop pretending otherwise.
Here are the money quotes from Whitlock's article, read and decide for yourself:
"There are moments in our history when common sense forces us to change the rules in deference to a unique, unprecedented force of nature. In the aftermath of ESPN baseball analyst Steve Phillips' sordid affair with Monica Lewinsky II, we can no longer deny the inadequacies of America's current relationship rules as they pertain to the battle against Pussy Galore.
It's time to change the rules of the game. There's been too much carnage. She shredded Rick Pitino's reputation. She pushed Josh Hamilton off the wagon. She sweet-talked Charles Barkley into driving drunk. She hoodwinked Dirk Nowitzki into falling in love with a fugitive. And now a 22-year-old slump-buster has apparently cost Steve Phillips his marriage and his credibility to analyze baseball. It's not right. A little off-the-books nookie should not infringe on man's ability to discuss bats and balls in October. Enough is enough. It's time we had an adult conversation about Ms. Galore and her ability to ruin lives, careers and reputations. We have given her this power and it's obvious she's abusing it.
...Let's put an end to the sexual madness. Let's recognize where we're at as a society and open our borders. Technological, medical and sociological advances have rendered monogamy a theory/fantasy attained solely by men without options and even less self-confidence. Sexual prohibition for a healthy American man is as futile as alcohol prohibition. Man was meant to eat, drink and be merry, and a heterosexual man's happiness is directly tied to his visitation privileges with PG. Man is most happy when he is free to experience her pleasure in her varied forms, textures and styles of dress.
I like steak. Capital Grille is my favorite steakhouse. I could eat at Capital Grille seven nights a week. But, especially when I'm traveling, I like to experience different steakhouses. My occasional trips to Shula's, Morton's, Ruth's Chris and Smith and Wollensky in no way infringe upon my undying love and support of Capital Grille. In fact, shortly after I've digested my meal at a different steakhouse, I'm reminded just how much I love Cap Grille.
Consequently, if a man can afford a no-disease, no-pregnancy occasional night on the town without it affecting his financial and lovemaking responsibilities at home, as mature adults we must reach the point where we can allow this without breaking up the family or running a man from political office/off the set of a popular TV show.
It's simply not personal. It's physical. And in many ways it's a weakness magnified by societal evolution. Monogamy was invented before women entered the workplace, text messaging, cell phones, Viagra, exercise, makeup, perfume, hair extensions, shaved legs, clothes that revealed cleavage, Internet porn and on and on. Seriously, think about it. Let's just go back 50 or 60 years. The typical American man didn't exercise and smoked cigarettes. By age 45 he was almost completely out of the game. Stress, hypertension and just being fat and lazy knocked about all the starch out of his little man. Marilyn Monroe could proposition him, and there was a 75 percent chance he couldn't answer the call to duty.
...Gender equality has given men more access to women. This is not a good thing for fidelity. Madonna, Britney, Paris and Lil' Kim haven't helped much, either. Women are far more sexually aggressive than they used to be. They'll describe in graphic detail exactly what they'll do that your wife can't or won't, and they'll back it up by texting you a naked cell-phone pic.
...It's long past time to change the rules. We have to quit judging married men by their ability or inability to keep it in their pants. Women are looking for love in the wrong place. It's not in our crotch. We keep lust there. Only humans are dumb enough to place such importance on sexual monogamy. It's unnatural. It's emotionally crippling. It destroys families. And it's wreaked havoc on ESPN's "Baseball Tonight" set. Harold Reynolds and Steve Phillips were arguably my two favorite baseball analysts.
Let's redefine marriage by putting sex in its proper place. Reproduction should remain sacred between a married man and woman. Sex should be enjoyed between consenting, mature adults.
I say a moderately famous man earning between $250K and $500K a year should be allowed a mistress he can see weekly, one week-long, $8,000 vacation he can take with his mistress and five strip club nights with his boys a year. A moderately famous man earning between $500K and $1 million a year should be allowed a mistress he can see weekly and every other weekend, a 10-day, $15,000 vacation with his mistress, a $1,500-a-month, fully-furnished apartment for his mistress and seven strip club nights with his boys.
Any man earning more than $1 million a year should come and go as he damn well pleases."
Most recently, ESPN baseball analyst Steve Phillips was fired from ESPN for his extramarital affair with a woman half his age. His mistress flipped out when he tried to end the affair, contacted his wife, and even tried to mess with his kids at school, but at least she didn't kill him like Steve McNair's mistress did. Although my faith and personal beliefs don't really permit me the luxury of believing in what Whitlock suggests as an actual solution to the affair pandemic for men (athletes and non-athletes alike), his suggestion to remove some of the taboo and social shame that comes with an affair at least makes some intellectual sense. Whitlock first brought up how destructive affairs can sometimes be (he calls the other woman phenomenon Strange Tang or Pussy Galore) in the case of Louisville basketball coach Rick Pitino, who banged a woman not his wife on the table of a restaurant and then had the woman try to extort money from him...not good times. Strange Tang has also claimed Texas Rangers outfielder Josh Hamilton, former Indiana Pacers hoops star Reggie Miller, and Dallas Mavericks superstar NBA F Dirk Nowitzki as its victims, and for every 3-4 of these cases we hear about, there are many more that we don't. The impact on the families of these men is inexcusable and even having an affair demonstrates terrible judgment, but as Whitlock says, affairs have absolutely no bearing on whether someone is a good coach, commentator, or athlete, and it's time to stop pretending otherwise.
Here are the money quotes from Whitlock's article, read and decide for yourself:
"There are moments in our history when common sense forces us to change the rules in deference to a unique, unprecedented force of nature. In the aftermath of ESPN baseball analyst Steve Phillips' sordid affair with Monica Lewinsky II, we can no longer deny the inadequacies of America's current relationship rules as they pertain to the battle against Pussy Galore.
It's time to change the rules of the game. There's been too much carnage. She shredded Rick Pitino's reputation. She pushed Josh Hamilton off the wagon. She sweet-talked Charles Barkley into driving drunk. She hoodwinked Dirk Nowitzki into falling in love with a fugitive. And now a 22-year-old slump-buster has apparently cost Steve Phillips his marriage and his credibility to analyze baseball. It's not right. A little off-the-books nookie should not infringe on man's ability to discuss bats and balls in October. Enough is enough. It's time we had an adult conversation about Ms. Galore and her ability to ruin lives, careers and reputations. We have given her this power and it's obvious she's abusing it.
...Let's put an end to the sexual madness. Let's recognize where we're at as a society and open our borders. Technological, medical and sociological advances have rendered monogamy a theory/fantasy attained solely by men without options and even less self-confidence. Sexual prohibition for a healthy American man is as futile as alcohol prohibition. Man was meant to eat, drink and be merry, and a heterosexual man's happiness is directly tied to his visitation privileges with PG. Man is most happy when he is free to experience her pleasure in her varied forms, textures and styles of dress.
I like steak. Capital Grille is my favorite steakhouse. I could eat at Capital Grille seven nights a week. But, especially when I'm traveling, I like to experience different steakhouses. My occasional trips to Shula's, Morton's, Ruth's Chris and Smith and Wollensky in no way infringe upon my undying love and support of Capital Grille. In fact, shortly after I've digested my meal at a different steakhouse, I'm reminded just how much I love Cap Grille.
Consequently, if a man can afford a no-disease, no-pregnancy occasional night on the town without it affecting his financial and lovemaking responsibilities at home, as mature adults we must reach the point where we can allow this without breaking up the family or running a man from political office/off the set of a popular TV show.
It's simply not personal. It's physical. And in many ways it's a weakness magnified by societal evolution. Monogamy was invented before women entered the workplace, text messaging, cell phones, Viagra, exercise, makeup, perfume, hair extensions, shaved legs, clothes that revealed cleavage, Internet porn and on and on. Seriously, think about it. Let's just go back 50 or 60 years. The typical American man didn't exercise and smoked cigarettes. By age 45 he was almost completely out of the game. Stress, hypertension and just being fat and lazy knocked about all the starch out of his little man. Marilyn Monroe could proposition him, and there was a 75 percent chance he couldn't answer the call to duty.
...Gender equality has given men more access to women. This is not a good thing for fidelity. Madonna, Britney, Paris and Lil' Kim haven't helped much, either. Women are far more sexually aggressive than they used to be. They'll describe in graphic detail exactly what they'll do that your wife can't or won't, and they'll back it up by texting you a naked cell-phone pic.
...It's long past time to change the rules. We have to quit judging married men by their ability or inability to keep it in their pants. Women are looking for love in the wrong place. It's not in our crotch. We keep lust there. Only humans are dumb enough to place such importance on sexual monogamy. It's unnatural. It's emotionally crippling. It destroys families. And it's wreaked havoc on ESPN's "Baseball Tonight" set. Harold Reynolds and Steve Phillips were arguably my two favorite baseball analysts.
Let's redefine marriage by putting sex in its proper place. Reproduction should remain sacred between a married man and woman. Sex should be enjoyed between consenting, mature adults.
I say a moderately famous man earning between $250K and $500K a year should be allowed a mistress he can see weekly, one week-long, $8,000 vacation he can take with his mistress and five strip club nights with his boys a year. A moderately famous man earning between $500K and $1 million a year should be allowed a mistress he can see weekly and every other weekend, a 10-day, $15,000 vacation with his mistress, a $1,500-a-month, fully-furnished apartment for his mistress and seven strip club nights with his boys.
Any man earning more than $1 million a year should come and go as he damn well pleases."
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Rules of Bedroom Golf
I found this list of "rules" on the Tall Cool Drink of Water blog...truly hilarious!
The Rules of Bedroom Golf
1. Each player shall furnish his own equipment for play.
2. Play on a course must be approved by the owner of the hole.
3. Unlike outdoor golf, the object is to get the club in the hole and keep the balls out.
4. For most effective play, the club should have a firm shaft. Course owners are permitted to check shaft stiffness before play begins.
5. Course owners reserve the right to restrict club length to avoid damage to the hole.
6. The object of the game is to take as many strokes as necessary until the course owner is satisfied that play is completed. Failure to do so may result in being denied permission to play the course again.
7. It is considered bad form to begin playing the hole immediately upon arrival at the course. The experienced player will normally take time to admire the entire course with special attention to well formed bunkers.
8. Players are cautioned not to mention other courses they have played, or are currently playing, to the owner of the course being played. Upset course owners have been known to damage players' equipment for this reason.
9. Players are encouraged to bring proper rain gear for their own protection.
10. Players should ensure themselves that their match has been properly scheduled, particularly when a new course is being played for the first time. Previous players have been known to become irate if they discover someone else playing on what they considered to be a private course.
11. Players should not assume a course is in shape for play at tall times. Some players may be embarrassed if they find the course to be temporarily under repair. Players are advised to be extremely tactful in this situation. More advanced players will find alternative means of play when this is the case.
12. The course owners is responsible for manicuring and pruning any bush around the hole to allow for improved viewing of alignment with, and approach to the hole.
13. Players are advised to obtain the course owners permission before attempting to play the back nine.
14. Slow play is encouraged. However, players should be prepared to proceed at a quicker pace, at least temporarily, at the course owners request.
15. It is considered outstanding performance, time permitting, to play the same hole several times in one match.
The Rules of Bedroom Golf
1. Each player shall furnish his own equipment for play.
2. Play on a course must be approved by the owner of the hole.
3. Unlike outdoor golf, the object is to get the club in the hole and keep the balls out.
4. For most effective play, the club should have a firm shaft. Course owners are permitted to check shaft stiffness before play begins.
5. Course owners reserve the right to restrict club length to avoid damage to the hole.
6. The object of the game is to take as many strokes as necessary until the course owner is satisfied that play is completed. Failure to do so may result in being denied permission to play the course again.
7. It is considered bad form to begin playing the hole immediately upon arrival at the course. The experienced player will normally take time to admire the entire course with special attention to well formed bunkers.
8. Players are cautioned not to mention other courses they have played, or are currently playing, to the owner of the course being played. Upset course owners have been known to damage players' equipment for this reason.
9. Players are encouraged to bring proper rain gear for their own protection.
10. Players should ensure themselves that their match has been properly scheduled, particularly when a new course is being played for the first time. Previous players have been known to become irate if they discover someone else playing on what they considered to be a private course.
11. Players should not assume a course is in shape for play at tall times. Some players may be embarrassed if they find the course to be temporarily under repair. Players are advised to be extremely tactful in this situation. More advanced players will find alternative means of play when this is the case.
12. The course owners is responsible for manicuring and pruning any bush around the hole to allow for improved viewing of alignment with, and approach to the hole.
13. Players are advised to obtain the course owners permission before attempting to play the back nine.
14. Slow play is encouraged. However, players should be prepared to proceed at a quicker pace, at least temporarily, at the course owners request.
15. It is considered outstanding performance, time permitting, to play the same hole several times in one match.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
We Had a Miscarriage
Ever since I was a teenager, I have looked forward to the day I would be a father myself. As a younger man, that desire had a lot to do with not repeating the same mistakes raising my own child(ren) that my father made. As I got older, it became more about passing on all the love I have to give, and the knowledge, experience, and wisdom I have gained in my 30 years (so far) on this planet...and of course, I'd still like to avoid the mistakes of past generations.
From a purely selfish perspective, I always wanted to wait a few years and enjoy my new marriage before having kids. However, Althea is a few years older than me, and is already a statistical outlier for a healthy pregnancy, so we had to start trying to get pregnant right after the wedding.
Given those desires, I was so happy when Althea told me she had a positive pregnancy test a couple of weeks ago. When we went to her OB/GYN appointment, the doctor told us her hormone levels were low and that she couldn't see much on the ultrasound, which was a cause for concern, so we made an appointment to come back in a couple of weeks. Unfortunately, we never made that appointment. Over the weekend, Althea started to have bleeding and severe stomach cramps, neither of which are supposed to happen when a woman is pregnant. Althea has one of the highest tolerances for pain of anyone I have ever known, so I knew that it was time to go to the hospital when she was curled up in the fetal position in our bedroom and unable to move.
We called her OB/GYN doctor, and she was so great, helping us even though it was the weekend. She called ahead and cleared the way for Althea to be admitted to the hospital as soon as we got there. We got to the hospital, and Althea got some pain medicine, but the bleeding didn't stop. We stayed the night at the hospital, and Althea was discharged the next day. At her next OB/GYN appointment a couple of days later, the doctor confirmed what we already knew...Althea had a miscarriage. One the one hand, I am glad she wasn't farther along in the pregnancy (i.e., long enough to know the sex, pick out a name, see the baby's features, etc.). On the other hand, it doesn't make me (or us) any less sad. I'm not sure why this happened...the doctor says miscarriages often happen when there will be major problems that might injure, deform, or kill the baby-to-be. I prefer to think that maybe God just needed our baby up in heaven with Him and the angels more than we needed him or her down here.
Regardless of the reason, all we can do is grieve, pray, heal, and try again when the doctor says we can. In the meantime, we will give thanks to God for allowing us to contribute one more beautiful soul to heaven. Even if we didn't get to meet this child here in this life, we will get to meet him or her one day in heaven, and I can't wait.
From a purely selfish perspective, I always wanted to wait a few years and enjoy my new marriage before having kids. However, Althea is a few years older than me, and is already a statistical outlier for a healthy pregnancy, so we had to start trying to get pregnant right after the wedding.
Given those desires, I was so happy when Althea told me she had a positive pregnancy test a couple of weeks ago. When we went to her OB/GYN appointment, the doctor told us her hormone levels were low and that she couldn't see much on the ultrasound, which was a cause for concern, so we made an appointment to come back in a couple of weeks. Unfortunately, we never made that appointment. Over the weekend, Althea started to have bleeding and severe stomach cramps, neither of which are supposed to happen when a woman is pregnant. Althea has one of the highest tolerances for pain of anyone I have ever known, so I knew that it was time to go to the hospital when she was curled up in the fetal position in our bedroom and unable to move.
We called her OB/GYN doctor, and she was so great, helping us even though it was the weekend. She called ahead and cleared the way for Althea to be admitted to the hospital as soon as we got there. We got to the hospital, and Althea got some pain medicine, but the bleeding didn't stop. We stayed the night at the hospital, and Althea was discharged the next day. At her next OB/GYN appointment a couple of days later, the doctor confirmed what we already knew...Althea had a miscarriage. One the one hand, I am glad she wasn't farther along in the pregnancy (i.e., long enough to know the sex, pick out a name, see the baby's features, etc.). On the other hand, it doesn't make me (or us) any less sad. I'm not sure why this happened...the doctor says miscarriages often happen when there will be major problems that might injure, deform, or kill the baby-to-be. I prefer to think that maybe God just needed our baby up in heaven with Him and the angels more than we needed him or her down here.
Regardless of the reason, all we can do is grieve, pray, heal, and try again when the doctor says we can. In the meantime, we will give thanks to God for allowing us to contribute one more beautiful soul to heaven. Even if we didn't get to meet this child here in this life, we will get to meet him or her one day in heaven, and I can't wait.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Letalvis Cobbins Found Guilty in Christian and Newsom Torture Slaying
I previously blogged about the gruesome torture, rape, and murder of Chris Newsom and Channon Christian, a young white Knoxville couple by 4 black men in a run down house in a rough part of town in Knoxville. The first defendant, Letalvis Cobbins, went on trial in a Knoxville court with a jury chosen from Nashville due to pretrial publicity. In terms of legal strategy, this was a smart move by Cobbins' lawyers, as Nashville is considerably more liberal than Knoxville.
Cobbins was found guilty of most of the crimes he was charged with and pled guilty to some other charges. Although he was eligible for the death penalty, the jury, for reasons known only to them and to God, gave him life without parole instead. I wrote to Michelle Malkin to update her on the case, and she was kind enough to publish my e-mail update on her blog. This is the second time I have made her blog, and while that's very cool, I sincerely wish the circumstances were different.
Accused ringleader Lemaricus Davidson goes on trial for his role in the slayings later this year, and I hope that jury doesn't repeat this one's disgrace. Hopefully they will give Davidson the death penalty he deserves and these kids and their families the justice they deserve.
Cobbins was found guilty of most of the crimes he was charged with and pled guilty to some other charges. Although he was eligible for the death penalty, the jury, for reasons known only to them and to God, gave him life without parole instead. I wrote to Michelle Malkin to update her on the case, and she was kind enough to publish my e-mail update on her blog. This is the second time I have made her blog, and while that's very cool, I sincerely wish the circumstances were different.
Accused ringleader Lemaricus Davidson goes on trial for his role in the slayings later this year, and I hope that jury doesn't repeat this one's disgrace. Hopefully they will give Davidson the death penalty he deserves and these kids and their families the justice they deserve.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Why Pro Athletes Should Never Marry
Fox Sports columnist Jason Whitlock waxes philosophic about why pro athletes should never marry, at least not in the prime of their careers at the peak of their earning capacity. Whitlock is talking about this topic in light of Steve McNair's recent murder, but as he astutely points out, it is bigger than that.
My take is that pro athletes and professionals (doctors, lawyers, etc.), should hold off on marriage as long as possible. I always wanted to be married before I finished law school so I would know my wife wasn't with me just because I am a lawyer, but it wasn't meant to be. Strangely, although my occupation is a good conversation piece and is somewhat impressive to the ladies, it was never the basis of a relationship. Even now, my wife respects me because I am an attorney, but she would be happy with me no matter what I did as long as I was happy and could be a good provider. I waited until I was almost 30 to get married, and it was a wise thing to do. I would recommend it to pro football players, because that's when they usually start on the downside of their careers (except for elite quarterbacks, who can play into their late 30s or early 40s). Bottom line, if pro athletes who stand to make a fortune aren't married before they get rich, they should stay single until their playing days are over, or at a minimum, they should get the best lawyer they can find and have the woman sign the most ironclad prenuptial agreement possible.
Money quotes are below, check it out.
"Besides a strip club, massage parlor or whore house, I can't think of a work environment less supportive of a monogamous, healthy relationship than a men's locker room.
Strange Tang is the No. 1 topic of conversation inside a locker room. It's not steroids, the playbook or the next opponent. It's gossip about strip clubs, girls met in soon-to-be-visited cities on Facebook and Myspace and getting drunk.
Oh, you might occasionally overhear someone on the God Squad chitchatting about the next Bible study or the evils of the Internet porn they accidently looked at for 90 minutes. But mostly the locker room is a haven for unapologetic sinners. It's a place where you pick up a lot of bad habits.
A professional locker room is filled with in-shape, wealthy young men. They're carted around the country in private planes. They're at an age when they and their peers are supposed to do their hardest partying. They're members of an elite fraternity, and their membership in the fraternity can expire at any moment.
What would you do? More than likely, you'd go as hard as you could for as long as you could.At the very least, you'd occasionally dabble.
Why get married?
The athlete and the wife know it's a lie on their wedding day. He knows he's on a moving train and he can't jump off. She knows she jumped on that moving train and it never really slowed the whole time they were dating. It might've momentarily stopped, unloaded old passengers and re-boarded new ones, but she knows exactly where the train is headed and has a pretty good estimate on just how many miles are left on the trip.
The desperate hope is the marriage will survive until he retires and then the train will stop for good. That's the biggest pipe dream going. By the time the train stops, he absolutely loves the ride. He can't sleep without the steady hum of the tracks, the rocking of the compartment, the look and the smell of the new passengers.
He's a full-blown addict in desperate need of his next high when they retire his jersey. That's why he's hitting on teenagers working the drive-thru window at fast food joints. That's why he's proposing to 22-year-old strippers. He has a habit to feed.
If you're a millionaire athlete and you haven't made the mistake of impregnating half the women in your old neighborhood/college campus, why not hire someone to clean your house, prepare your home-cooked meals and date whomever you choose, whenever you choose? Get over your insecurity that you better lock her up while you're in the league because she might not want you when you get cut and she figures out the only money-producing skill you have is throwing a football, fielding a groundball or hitting a three off a screen.
There's a damn good chance she's just as insecure as you are and has less to offer. She'll wait. Or someone just like her will.
They say it's cheaper to keep her. The truth is, most athletes should never purchase anything. Just test drive. That way, the new car smell they love never goes away."
My take is that pro athletes and professionals (doctors, lawyers, etc.), should hold off on marriage as long as possible. I always wanted to be married before I finished law school so I would know my wife wasn't with me just because I am a lawyer, but it wasn't meant to be. Strangely, although my occupation is a good conversation piece and is somewhat impressive to the ladies, it was never the basis of a relationship. Even now, my wife respects me because I am an attorney, but she would be happy with me no matter what I did as long as I was happy and could be a good provider. I waited until I was almost 30 to get married, and it was a wise thing to do. I would recommend it to pro football players, because that's when they usually start on the downside of their careers (except for elite quarterbacks, who can play into their late 30s or early 40s). Bottom line, if pro athletes who stand to make a fortune aren't married before they get rich, they should stay single until their playing days are over, or at a minimum, they should get the best lawyer they can find and have the woman sign the most ironclad prenuptial agreement possible.
Money quotes are below, check it out.
"Besides a strip club, massage parlor or whore house, I can't think of a work environment less supportive of a monogamous, healthy relationship than a men's locker room.
Strange Tang is the No. 1 topic of conversation inside a locker room. It's not steroids, the playbook or the next opponent. It's gossip about strip clubs, girls met in soon-to-be-visited cities on Facebook and Myspace and getting drunk.
Oh, you might occasionally overhear someone on the God Squad chitchatting about the next Bible study or the evils of the Internet porn they accidently looked at for 90 minutes. But mostly the locker room is a haven for unapologetic sinners. It's a place where you pick up a lot of bad habits.
A professional locker room is filled with in-shape, wealthy young men. They're carted around the country in private planes. They're at an age when they and their peers are supposed to do their hardest partying. They're members of an elite fraternity, and their membership in the fraternity can expire at any moment.
What would you do? More than likely, you'd go as hard as you could for as long as you could.At the very least, you'd occasionally dabble.
Why get married?
The athlete and the wife know it's a lie on their wedding day. He knows he's on a moving train and he can't jump off. She knows she jumped on that moving train and it never really slowed the whole time they were dating. It might've momentarily stopped, unloaded old passengers and re-boarded new ones, but she knows exactly where the train is headed and has a pretty good estimate on just how many miles are left on the trip.
The desperate hope is the marriage will survive until he retires and then the train will stop for good. That's the biggest pipe dream going. By the time the train stops, he absolutely loves the ride. He can't sleep without the steady hum of the tracks, the rocking of the compartment, the look and the smell of the new passengers.
He's a full-blown addict in desperate need of his next high when they retire his jersey. That's why he's hitting on teenagers working the drive-thru window at fast food joints. That's why he's proposing to 22-year-old strippers. He has a habit to feed.
If you're a millionaire athlete and you haven't made the mistake of impregnating half the women in your old neighborhood/college campus, why not hire someone to clean your house, prepare your home-cooked meals and date whomever you choose, whenever you choose? Get over your insecurity that you better lock her up while you're in the league because she might not want you when you get cut and she figures out the only money-producing skill you have is throwing a football, fielding a groundball or hitting a three off a screen.
There's a damn good chance she's just as insecure as you are and has less to offer. She'll wait. Or someone just like her will.
They say it's cheaper to keep her. The truth is, most athletes should never purchase anything. Just test drive. That way, the new car smell they love never goes away."
Monday, July 27, 2009
Great Article on Secret Service Agent Training
This Washington Post article details the rigors of Secret Service training for future agents. It sounds rough, but given the threats faced by America today and the extremely high number of people who would love nothing better than to murder an American president, this training is necessary. Read the whole thing.
"LESSON ONE: Get Ready To Die
The teacher walks into the mat room.
"Good morning, Mr. Mixon," the students say in unison.
"Cut that [expletive] out. Don't act like you give a crap about my morning."
Steve Mixon smiles, or maybe it's a snarl. Before he became an instructor at the Secret Service training camp outside Washington, Mixon served as a team leader on President George W. Bush's Counter Assault Team.
"Everyone's going to leave today in some degree of pain," Mixon tells the special agent trainees.
The 24 recruits, dressed in black combat pants and jackets, stiffen into four rows, jingling handcuffs. Scott Swantner clenches his jaw. Krista Bradford rubs raw knuckles. One trainee, who broke a rib, is keeping it a secret, fearing he'll be discharged.
"Everything is in play here, guys. Everything you learned from Day One," Mixon tells them in a basement that muffles rifle blasts. "Assailant control. Guillotine chokeholds."
For the members of Special Agent Training Class No. 283, this is finals time. They have been cramming here for months, since days after the election of Barack Obama, hoping to join the men and women charged with protecting the president. Not all of them will make it.
If they fail, they will leave humiliated. If they pass, they'll become members of an elite, stealthy service during a period of exceptional pressures. At their annual party, Ralph Basham, the former director, greeted his replacement: "I'm the happiest guy in Washington because I'm not the director of the Secret Service anymore."
With the rise of Islamic terrorism, the agency's roster of protectees has grown. With the election of the first African American president, public scrutiny has exploded. Presidents typically receive 3,000 threats a year, says a Secret Service expert. Obama is outpacing the average.
"We understand the historic significance," says the current director, Mark Sullivan. "If we make a mistake, it's going to be devastating for the country. We're not going to let the country down."
That promise depends in large part on what happens inside this 493-acre compound. Unmarked, behind barbed wire and hidden in the woods, the James J. Rowley Training Center sits so close to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway that its inhabitants -- in chemical weapons suits, suicide bomber vests or white robes while role-playing the pope -- can hear the commuter traffic's oblivious swish.
Obama's security detail drills here two weeks out of every eight. The vice president's detail, the first lady's, the agents who protect foreign dignitaries and former presidents, as well as the tactical units -- the counter snipers posted on the White House roof, and the Emergency Response Team, which stops incursions into the White House grounds--also drill here.
Overseeing them are instructors like Mixon, who wears a size 52 suit jacket, whose T-shirt says "Fighting Solves Everything," and whose 2-year-old son knows how to do a one-man takedown. This morning Mixon, 40, is testing control tactics, or ground-fighting.
Forty minutes into the wristlocks and head stuns, the trainees' necks burn with scratches. Dan Batt is supposed to disarm a classmate but accidentally knees him in the groin.
"Right in the junk!" Mixon laughs.
Dan wants to apologize for his clumsiness -- his infant daughter is teething and kept him up half the night -- but the men keep wrestling, too afraid to stop. A student in the class ahead of them flunked out the week before graduation for buckling during push-ups.
"Next!" Mixon calls.
Scott Swantner ten-huts, shoulders back, towering over the others. A former rifle platoon commander with the Marine Corps, Scott lost three fingers in Iraq. In Beltsville, he attended remedial control tactics with Krista Bradford every Friday before sunrise.
"Yes, sir!" Scott says cheerlessly. For the last scenario of their four-hour exam, the mat room becomes a heavy metal bar. Red and blue lights flash in the dark. The rock band Disturbed blares from speakers.
Their instructions: "Patty McGuire has made threats against POTUS [President of the United States] and you have an arrest warrant . . . An informant told you Patty is in the bar."
In pairs, the trainees open the door.
"Why don't you [expletive] off and die?" shrieks Disturbed. The instructors pounce with sticks and training knives. They slam the trainees into the wall. They rip at their hair. One trainee shatters his instructor's cheekbone. But another freezes, goes into "brain vapor-lock," as his partner is repeatedly shot.
Krista and her partner wait outside for their turn. "If they clench their fists," Krista strategizes, "I'll pull out my baton."
Krista is 4 feet 11 inches. She moves like a gymnast, nimbly, with concentrated grace. She has lively green eyes, fine features and a buoyant ponytail. She cheers Scott, Dan and the others between drills with Dove chocolates. A social worker, she also used to work at Disney World, dressing up as cartoon characters.
"She was Minnie Mouse, for God sakes," Mixon grumbles.
Within seconds of entering the mat-room bar, Krista's partner, an Army National Guardsman who earned a Bronze Star, is knocked to the ground. A role-player drags Krista across the floor by the cuff of her pants. He straddles Krista and punches her.
"Get off me!" Krista screams.
"Get ready to die!" the music screams.
"Keep fighting!" Mixon screams.
The role-player twists Krista's arms around her neck and pulls, choking her with her own hands. She gags. Her nose is bleeding. Her cheek is bleeding. Blood blisters on her legs, bruised by training bullets while chasing assassins through the woods, trickle and ooze.
On her back, in the dark, Krista watches the role-player's face swirl into darker shades of gray. She is losing consciousness. Mixon yells, "Do something!"
In the Secret Service, the saying goes, "You never quit. You always win. Everything else is negotiable."
Krista lifts her head an inch, level with her assailant's hand. She opens her mouth.
"Here it comes! Get ready to die!" the music screams.
Krista grinds her teeth into the meat of his palm. He releases her, and Krista and her partner stagger out of the room. Their final exam is over. A drop of sweat dangles from the tip of her partner's nose. He looks at Krista, gasping:
"Did we pass?"
LESSON TWO (Nine Months Earlier): Do Whatever It Takes
Business was slow at the Sherwin-Williams paint store. Dan Batt, a sales associate, sat cataloguing colors: Salute red, Nantucket Dune.
Dan is 24, the second-oldest of nine home-schooled children, a quiet man with sloping shoulders, fair skin and pure black hair. He has a face that often gets skipped over in a crowd, a modest chin and nice-boy eyes.
Dan smiled mildly as a teenager tramped into the store.
"But I want it, Dad!" A blast of cold Buffalo air blew in with the girl and her father.
She wanted to paint her bedroom Lime Rickey green. It was, Dan thought, a hideous color.
"This is a very, uh, fun color," Dan later recalled saying.
Dan always deferred to the customer. His wife was seven months pregnant, and they needed the paycheck.
"Yes, he said to everyone. "Yes, yes, yes."
No, this wasn't the career he'd wanted. His mother, who read her Bible, had taught him about good and bad, and he dreamed -- never mind that he is shy -- of fighting for good. When Dan's cellphone rang later at the store, "Restricted Number," he felt something lurch inside his chest. Maybe his wife was having early contractions. Or maybe, improbably, it was the other call, the one that meant Dan had mixed his last Lime Rickey.
Twelve hundred miles to the south in New Orleans, Krista Bradford, 32, was driving her car. She almost didn't answer when her call came. Krista had just assessed a 4-year-old autistic girl. She told the girl's mother to buy crayons and blocks, she later recalled. As a social worker, Krista was tired of rappelling into lives after they'd crumbled. She wanted to try something preemptive, such as law enforcement. Krista herself had experienced the limits of social services. She was given up at birth in an adoption that failed, and later moved into an adolescent group house where she reached for a serving bowl and was stabbed in the hand with a fork.
"I'll be a good protector," Krista believed. "I know how important it is to be protected."
The application process took nine months, complicated by a background check that tracked three different childhood last names, and a job history that included dressing up as Jiminy Cricket and Dopey.
Eventually one afternoon, her cellphone flashed: "Withheld." "Hello?" Krista said, thinking: I'll do whatever it takes.
Four states away, in an Oakland, Calif., shipyard, Scott Swantner, 30, watched a freighter offload a container. An Iraq war veteran, he was two weeks into a job at the Pacific Maritime Association. He had the air of a man whose penalty kick had clunked off a goal post. Earlier in the year, Scott had spent a month filling out the 34-page Secret Service application. He had flown from his Berlin Marine post to California to renew his driver's license, which had been shredded in Nasiriyah by a rocket-propelled grenade. He had passed the written test, the drug test, the vision test, the hearing test, the initial interview, the panel interview, the home interview, and the "worst experience of my life," the polygraph, which elicited every foible and shame. Tall and broad, Scott had played right guard for the Naval Academy football team. He has thick, brown hair, buzz cut for the military. His features project success. Scott's father, a termite inspector, constantly told his winning boy, "Don't screw up."
Yet, somehow Scott had. He had fallen short on the Secret Service's physical exam, he guessed, "because of my hand." As a Marine, Scott had hoped to emulate his grandfather's World War II service in the Pacific. Instead, in Iraq, Scott lost two soldiers in his platoon -- "You feel you let them down. It'll always stick with you" -- and, later, part of his left hand. Things that had come easily for Scott were now doubted. Secret Service screeners questioned Scott's commander: "He says he can physically do this, but can he?" Can he still shoot? Eventually, Scott was told they had found a better-qualified applicant. Scott took the shipyard job. He was talking to a longshoreman when his cellphone beeped: "Unknown."
The voice sounded friendly. "Hey, it's Charlie White." From the San Francisco Field Office. "We want to offer you -- " The Secret Service had never accepted anyone with his disability before but had reconsidered. They were going to give Scott a try.
The acceptance calls rang out in 24 corners of the country. In Plant City, Fla., a YMCA director felt his phone vibrate during a board meeting debating zumba dance classes. In Tulsa, a police officer exhausted from jumping fences while chasing drug dealers till 2 a.m. snapped open his phone. In Baltimore, a Home Depot manager folded his orange apron then and there in Hardwood Flooring.
Their family and friends sometimes found the news confusing: "So you're going to be a spy?" "Do you change your name?" "Will the president talk to you directly through that plastic thing in your ear?"
The new recruits -- 21 men and three women, 25 to 32 years old -- assembled in Glynco, Ga., for 12 weeks of basic federal law-enforcement training. Then they moved to a Residence Inn in Maryland. They unpacked creatine bodybuilding powder and Aveda Comforting Tea, boxing DVDs and voodoo dolls. On their first morning, the recruits ride in government vans to the classified complex. A guard in a booth raises the gate. They cross over, into a mission called for by Congress following the 1901 assassination of President William McKinley. They are admitted onto the grounds and into the secrets of the Service.
"We train unlike any other federal agency," says A.T. Smith, an assistant director, who stands by while the trainees stencil their names on their T-shirts. "We train to the edge, and then we lean over." The center's drills are increasingly scenario-based, says Smith, who had served as Hillary Clinton's detail leader. "For years, our training was based on the lone gunman and the long-range rifle. Now it's automatic weapons, multiple explosions as a diversion to a secondary attack." An intelligence PowerPoint presentation on "The Emerging Threat" flashes from the old-style assassin, Squeaky Fromme, to chanting Islamic fanatics. Threat experts have created a new Obama-era prototype, a white supremacist who calls Obama "a mud person" and White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emmanuel, a Jew, "the Antichrist."
New hazards have prompted a new emphasis in training -- a kind of extreme, lethal improv -- using scenarios that are dynamic and demand responses that run counter to typical human behavior. Smith says, "Our goal is to make it instinct." To alter reflexes, to rewire the "muscle memory" of recruits, they built 37 buildings, including fake colonial-style houses and a mock airport. Facades line the main street: a cafe, a tattoo parlor and a hardware store.
"It's like a small town," Smith explains.
Except that all day and many nights, explosions rock presidential candidates at the pizzeria. The dogs, on command, break from their leashes and maul shrieking men. Gunmen fire from the All Saints Church at the president's wife. Marine One, the president's helicopter, crashes in the swimming pool, and fleeing black Suburbans climb the curbs at 45 mph. Behind every mailbox, lamppost and flowering bush, a killer possibly squats, racking his AK, or, he might spray a vial of sarin.
Smith smiles: "I never said it was a nice town. I said it was a small town."
LESSON THREE: Be Obsessive-Compulsive
"Your head's going to spin and you feel like you're going to throw up," says Mixon. "Don't do it in my mat room."
This is Mixon's welcome speech to SATC No. 283 on its first day. "Sometimes trainees pass out in the bathroom, so develop a buddy system among yourselves."
Krista finds a buddy -- the other woman who can't do a pull-up. Dan's buddy is the Tulsa cop who classmates swear can bench-press a Honda. Scott scans the room with the dark-browed scowl of an American eagle, privately amazed that he is even here.
Mixon distributes their "Use of Force" chart, which graphs the amount of force to use on a subject, depending on their level of menace. The trainees' eyes widen at its complexity.
"Details! Think details!" Mixon says. He walks around the room, his chest forward, like a piece of earth-moving equipment. "What is your job? The man in the most powerful office in the world -- you're standing next to him with a loaded gun." Success, Mixon says, rests on attention to detail.
"Use the force necessary. You can hit them with your car, stab them with a big pin," Mixon says. "We in the Secret Service are super Type-A personalities, people who want to take control and win at all costs." But within legal limits, Mixon warns. "Don't get that little extra shot in there, that extra revenge...I want to make sure if I'm going through a door with you, that I can trust you. If not, I'm not going to let you take that walk on graduation day."
All day, instructors say, Do sweat the details:
"I expect neat hair! No goatees!"
"If you wore boxer shorts, it's the last day you do!"
"Cut off [alcoholic] drinking eight hours prior to range practice!"
"You know the old joke: We're just one assassination away from wearing the FBI badge!"
The recruits recite a list of rules. Dan reads No. 16 out loud, "No sleeping in class." He stifles a new-father yawn. Dan is the only recruit who moved his family to Beltsville. He wedged a Pack 'n Play next to the bed. He bought his 4-month-old a pink Secret Service onesie. He keeps uniforms in the bathroom, so he doesn't wake his wife and infant when he dresses at dawn. At the end of the nine-hour hazing, the students stand, soaked and mute. A former IRS employee nods toward a sweat splash on the mat: "That's me and Scott, right about there."
The Home Depot manager stamps his foot. "One day down."
Krista exhales. "Four days and 15 weeks to go."
Krista is counting down to graduation on a hand-drawn chart, penciling an "X" when she wakes up every morning. She tallies Mixon's sessions with a dash that she crosses when completed. Holidays are coded in orange marker. She jokingly calls it her "calendar of what to dread." Her meticulousness is actually the sign of a good agent. "You got to have a little OCD [obsessive-compulsive disorder] to have this job," says the firearms coordinator. "You worry about every little thing. That's what we do. That's who we are."
Why? The firearms instructor explains: "A bad guy's attacking POTUS, you fire and you miss. Who you gonna hit? POTUS!" Trainees have to score 80 percent in marksmanship. They spend months learning how to shoot and assemble their Sig Sauer P229 pistols, MP5 9mm submachine guns, Remington 12-gauge shotguns. Krista buys a finger-exerciser to build trigger muscles. She and the others will fire about a thousand rounds at practice targets such as the vacant-eyed white man with glasses and thinning hair, lifting his pistol. They aim for "center mass," the heart. No warning shots.
"What should be the first thing on your belt?" an instructor asks.
"Spare magazine?" Dan says.
"Right. I've seen people load pagers and cellphones. They don't go bang when you pull the trigger." The students struggle to memorize details that parse life and death. During barricade-shooting, a technician chastens Dan: "Don't expose your leg. You get hit in the fibular artery, you're dead in seconds." Though, if hit, you are still expected to fight: "You have 10 seconds where you can keep fighting." They call it "the dead man's 10 seconds." The one Secret Service employee who died in the line of duty shot the would-be assassin after he'd been mortally wounded. "He fired back. He didn't give up."
"Do not use starch or bleach on the ballistic panels," a teacher says, laundry tips for their sweaty bulletproof vests. "And if you're at the White House and hear shooting, hit the deck -- the vest does not stop ERT [Emergency Response Team] bullets."
During their sixth week, students take an emergency medicine course: "So you're standing post on the golf course, and someone gets struck by lightning ... " They learn how to treat a head of state who's been eviscerated: "Some of you with military backgrounds were taught to urinate on the intestines to keep them warm. That is not Secret Service protocol." And how to deliver a baby while standing post (happened twice last year): "I don't want to hear about you using your shoelaces or anything nasty to tie the cord. Do not let the woman go to the bathroom, or Junior is going to be bungee jumping into the toilet."
Krista memorizes her flashcards and aces the medical exam.
The "details! details!" theme follows them into a surveillance course, where trainees trail each other around Maryland malls. "Act normal," the teacher says, Rule No. 5. "If you're halfway through your low-fat blueberry muffin -- that's not really low-fat -- finish it. Otherwise, it looks suspicious. If you and your partner are friends, act like friends! And do not make out in surveillance -- it's happened."
During the rescue swimming unit, the instructor specifies, "Talk to the flailing victim. Now, there is an exception: If Mr. Obama falls overboard, do you say, 'Mr. Obama, kick your feet! Move your legs!' No. Get in the water." The deadliest details emerge during WMD training. Much of it is classified, involving untraceable toxins that could kill the president in his hotel suite while he is showering or clipping his toenails.
"There is an unbelievable amount of unaccounted-for chemical weapons," says the WMD specialist. "And when it turns up, it better not be on your advance. But if it does, this class is going to help."
The students learn how to adjust their gas masks after they've clapped on the president's, whose straps are custom-sewn for a tight seal. They inhale caustic fumes in a gas chamber, discovering their initial symptoms -- Scott's throat itches, Dan's eyes blaze, Krista's lips sting -- to recognize a gas attack.
WMD attacks could come at any time, the instructor says in class: "You're on an advance team in Ohio, and you eat at the Golden Corral salad bar." An assassin squirts SEB toxin from a rubber ball in his sleeve onto the chopped lettuce. The entire team gets sick.
"The president is due in minutes, and you're in bed, projectile vomiting to knock the clock off the wall. Every orifice in your body is going to be exuding liquid, like doing back-to-back advances in Cairo."
The trainees stare, glassy-eyed. It is 4:30 p.m., break time.
"Okay, folks," says the WMD specialist. The students are saturated in detail, in every blood, blister, nerve, bacterial and viral agent that will clot, choke and putrefy their bodily organs.
The teacher smiles sweetly as the students shuffle toward the candy machines. "You guys have a nice day!"
LESSON FOUR: Keep Moving
The control tactics coordinator addresses Scott as "the delicate one."
Scott is huge and meat-freezer hard, aside from his injured hand.
The coordinator says, "Are we sadists? No. We find and exploit any weakness in all trainees. It's stress inoculation."
"They're terrified, that's our preferred mode," says Mixon. (When the trainees aren't looking, he coos over pictures of his toddler nuzzling cherry blossoms.)
On this sunny afternoon on the race-car pad, the students' source of terror is a tactical driving test. The armored vehicles, many from President George H.W. Bush's old fleet, roll out of a garage, "the inner sanctum."
An instructor who chauffeured George W. Bush cautions, "I hit a bump in Denver and hit Bush's head on the ceiling. He asked me when was the last time I had a drug test. Try to avoid that."
Krista slides into the driver's seat, "Anyone want a paper bag?" Her feet strain to reach the pedals.
"Don't forget to lock the back doors. Nothing more embarrassing than the president busting your chops because you forgot to lock the door," an instructor says. Then he shares one of the Service's biggest secrets -- where they hide the presidential spare keys.
"All right, Scott Swantner's up," says the evaluator, Tipper Gore's former driver, his voice drawling over the police radio. Scott shifts vehicle No. 5 into gear, facing a slalom course of orange traffic cones.
The blacktop -- 1,800 feet long, 300 feet wide -- is streaked with truck-tire marks from the Humvee-heavy limousines. One instructor executes a J-turn, performed when a driver can't ram a roadblock. He zooms backward and whips the wheel, spinning the limousine a screeching reverse 180 degrees. The air is pungent with gas and smoking rubber.
"The track's clear. Turn on your lights and sirens," the evaluator says to Scott.
Scott must complete two runs, no fishtailing or skidding outside the lines. For Scott this is a natural. He thrives inside lines: lays out his uniform just so each night, cooks one low-sodium recipe on Saturday and eats leftovers every evening.
"Ready, set, bang!"
Scott weaves through the orange cones. "Run the course hard, as if you're taking the protectee to a hospital," the evaluator had told them.
Recently here, Obama's security detail had practiced assaults on a motorcade parade. A mock Obama, first lady and two daughters strolled, waving to cheering crowds. Suddenly, over the trees, mortars crashed. Fanatics in pickup trucks thundered out, crippling "the Beast," the president's limousine. Counter snipers in a tower fired back. The Counter Assault Team stampeded. The first family was bundled into the spare limousine, "the Tomb," and sped out of the kill zone. Scott's class had also practiced "pushing out" of the kill zone. The maneuver: Drive a Suburban into the president's rear fender, pushing his disabled limousine.
"If you're 'pushing out' on a $3 million car, you're not out of gas," the instructor said. "You're in the woods, you're taking rounds, the limo's dead. What do you do?"
"Push it out," Scott said.
"Want to know what we do, in two words?" the instructor said. "Keep moving."
Motorcade attacks average 45 seconds, he said. "Get out of the kill zone. If Iraq has taught us one thing -- you cannot stop."
In Musayyib, Iraq, Scott's Marines kept him moving the night a Russian-made fuse tore off part of his hand. Scott was clearing houses. A group of frightened girls showed him grenade fuses inside an old helmet. "I'm taking these," Scott said, reaching down. Then, he recalled, "I heard a pop. The guys I was with wouldn't let me look down." But they kept Scott moving. It took 15 minutes to walk to their patrol. Scott was in shock, dripping blood, but somehow he moved his feet.
Privately Scott blames himself: "I should have known." But he jokes with friends, "Give me seven!" He tells himself, "Got to move on." And though doubtful, Scott keeps moving.
On the driving pad, the evaluator scratches his head. "I don't see any problems with this class," he mumbles, and he adds their test numbers again. "Scott might be the weakest." Scott scored 68, missing the 70-point minimum.
The evaluator announces: "I need Car 5 to stay here. Which is Scott Swantner?"
Scott bites his lip. He calls the feeling "black hole," a place where a voice warns of disappointment. "It's my voice," Scott says later, "It says, 'Don't fail.' With a little crowd of people agreeing -- my family and guys I served with in Iraq. I don't want to let people down."
The evaluator notes, "could be his fingers, driving with your thumb and index finger." On the range, it was the same. When Scott jerked the trigger, the instructor shook his head: "He doesn't have much there to hold on to the gun." The rest of the class rumbles off the pad. The evaluator tells Scott, "We got to run through this again, get you up to snuff."
"Yes, sir."
Overhead, gray clouds crowd out the sun. Raindrops pit Scott's windshield. Two days later, Scott joins the others outside the mat room for their control tactics midterm. One role-playing instructor moans, "I got killed 24 times today. This is embarrassing."
Mixon is giving the test, pretending to be a member of the president's political staff. Mixon the political aide races over to Scott on tippy-toes, his eyes wild, his voice high:
"Oh, my God! You gotta help me! This guy is in there, and the president's going to be here in, like, 10 minutes! I told the guy to leave and he told me to go [expletive] myself! Make him leave! He scares me!!"
Scott stalks off to investigate.
Mixon the staffer smiles, "Thanks! I'm going to go get a latte."
After each student fights the assailant, he or she is directed to a small, dark room. Except for Scott, who is told to wait in the stairwell.
"I don't like being separated like this," he says.
Out on the driving pad, in fact, the driving evaluator had made a math mistake. Scott had qualified, first try.
"This has been the longest week," Scott sighs in the stairwell. He begins to pace. It is part of him now, a survival instinct.Two words: keep moving.
LESSON FIVE: Be a Meat Shield
Dan's wife is kicking him. Third or fourth time tonight. The baby is whimpering, and Dan is sleeping through it, even though he lies closer to her crib. Dan pops in her pacifier, he later recalls, amazed by how quickly his wife wakes up. It's as if she possesses a different set of senses.
In the morning, at the center, Dan huddles in the fake lobby of a fake hotel with Krista and the Tulsa cop. On the mezzanine above them, Bill Clinton's current detail skulks along the railings, poking submachine guns around corners, practicing clearing halls.
The mandatory three-mile runs are giving Dan painful shin splints. "You still got five weeks, man," the Tulsa cop tells Dan. "You don't want to get stress fractures."
But Dan is afraid he'll be dismissed if he doesn't run. And besides, he's a guy who says yes: at the paint store to Lime Rickey, and at a recent baton drill to battling three of his biggest classmates -- a sky diver, a self-described Cro-Magnon and Scott -- all at once. Afterward, Dan tottered away in a cold sweat, as dizzy as he'd been when he fainted as an 8-year-old altar boy. "Dude, you're white. You need to get checked out," said the Tulsa cop, lugging Dan off to the emergency medical services office down the hall.
Dan's gentle nature is a problem, and it worries him. "My whole life I'm always right in the middle," he once said. He may be the most agreeable recruit, but Dan won't make it as an agent if his response is always affirmative.
On this morning, at the fake hotel, Mixon ambles over to the students and cracks his neck. He's here to teach them how the Secret Service says no.
"We'll start with basic stuff. Attacks on the rope line, lapel grabs, overzealous handshakes. "
During the George W. Bush years, an instructor says, Bush always told them if he was planning to shake hands. "We're not in that environment now. We're in a Clintonesque environment, you have to deal with spontaneous rope lines."
Mixon says: "You may say, why do I need to know this?" because new agents don't work on the president's security detail. They investigate crimes and work advance or security posts. "But my first post-standing was in Brownsville, for President Clinton. I was standing there in my new J.C. Penney suit, and Clinton dives into the crowd. The shift leader grabs me by the back of my belt loops and made me help. You could be working rope lines in a matter of weeks."
Dan watches Mixon demonstrate releasing a fan's handshake. He peels back the fan's thumb with so much force, it makes a popping sound.
"If he's still jaw-jacking, saying to the protectee, 'We need to save the three-legged mosquito!' and the protectee's giving you that 'Oh, [expletive]' look, you'll peel him off," Mixon says. "The press is always around, and he's just a knucklehead, not necessarily a threat, so -- " Mixon cuts to the Tulsa cop. "You can't punch him in the face."
During a break, Dan calls Amanda. She's busy changing the baby. They met when he was 11 and she was 9. They still speak to each other with a childhood sweetness.
When the trainees reassemble, Mixon initiates them into the most sacred rite of protection:
"If there's an attack, get as big as you can to protect him. Make a nice meat shield between the protectee and the problem." It takes a few beats to understand "meat shield."
"And where's the shielding for the protectee?" Mixon says.
The students blink. "The shift leader?" "The limousine?"
"No," Mixon says. "Point to yourself. You are the shielding for the protectee."
Scott taps his foot. Dan and Krista exchange glances.
"Your job is to get big. Get your lats out wide. We are now a meat shield. A sandwich: Kevlar, your body, another layer of Kevlar -- covering the protectee."
For the U.N. General Assembly, Mixon says, "you'll be working foreign protectees, Sultan Abu Bin Abu Babab. In an attack, get the protectee's head down, cover vital organs. If he falls, pick him up. You may have to think for them -- 'move, move, move' -- they may be literally pooping themselves."
"Do the protectees know what our responses are going to be?" says Krista.
"The president, yes. But the first lady of Iceland, no. On 9/11, two agents snatched Cheney out of his desk, and his feet never touched the ground till he was out of danger."
For weeks, the class practices shift formations, as if working a security detail. A pudgy politician makes speeches: "Keep paying your taxes! We need the money!" Dan, Krista and Scott shadow him out of boardrooms, into ballrooms and onto a Boeing 707 replica of Air Force One. They encounter actors and role-playing agents as innocuous as a flirty redhead and as deadly as a bald man wielding a syringe of Ebola.
Mixon critiques them: "You guys made a nice meat shield," he says to Krista. When shots rang out, Krista cupped the candidate's body with her own, his greasy hair sliding over her throat. "Excellent job controlling him. Bradford got as big as she's ever gotten in her life. Mighty Midget came to the rescue."
To Scott, who repelled an autograph seeker, Mixon says, "Too much aggression. You were on him like a spider monkey jacked up on Mountain Dew."
"I'll turn it down, sir," says Scott. He's adjusting to post-Iraq rules of engagement.
And Mixon scolds Dan, who saw a man throw a bottle. "Apparently, you can throw a bottle at the president and nothing happens. Don't wait for someone to hit you. You can hit him back first."
But Mixon levels his biggest criticism at the entire class. "Everyone took steps backwards when the shooting started." He glares at a former police officer.
"I'm used to going down on a knee," the former cop pleads. It's a reflex, basic officer safety.
"Well, resist. Now you're working protection. You need to be the shield."
Students remove their earplugs and safety glasses, dazed, looking existentially perplexed. An instructor who had protected Bush shrugs:
"That's the premise of protective training -- to override human nature."
In the evening, Dan drives back to the Residence Inn, to human nature as it seems intended. He locks his training gun and bathes the baby. She eats potato puffs in her high chair and laughs at her dad on the floor doing push-ups.
Dan's wife, Amanda, a luminescent brunette, cooks them tuna casserole and tries not to think about his work. "It's hard for me to visualize," she says.
The baby is sitting on Amanda's lap, gnawing a teething ring. Dan is mulling Mixon's lesson, which he's not yet internalized.
But the words "meat shield" spark recognition in Amanda's soft eyes. When she was pregnant in Buffalo, "I slipped and fell on the ice. As I was going down, I was thinking, 'Don't fall to hurt the baby. Don't fall on your stomach.' I didn't care if I broke an arm, I had to protect the baby."
Amanda sprained her wrist. She used her body as a shield.
Dan turns to his wife, nodding, as if the tumblers in his head were finally grinding in the right combination. Click: meat shield.
"It's the instinct, the mother instinct," Dan says. "When the cubs are in danger, the mother bear gets big, as Mr. Mixon says."
Being a Secret Service agent might be a stoic, macho job. It is also a little bit like being pregnant with the president.
LESSON SIX: Stand Your Ground
"Let's see -- gun, lip gloss," Krista says. It is 5:30 a.m. at the Residence Inn.
Dan texts Krista, "R U driving in this morn?"
Yes, but Krista has to drive in early for remedial submachine gun. She qualified on the MP5, but her supervisor said she needs practice. He also assigned her to remedial physical fitness, though her scores are on par with the Tulsa cop's. Krista jokes to Dan and Scott that she has remedial lunch and remedial breathing. She plays the song by Pink: "So What?" She never lets the guys see her tear up. She averages 96.5 percent on her written exams. In the bathroom, a green smear of Biore Pore Perfect mask dabs the pull-up bar Krista installed for practice. Last night, she hit her cheek while cranking out four pull-ups. Enough for her to pass.
"Don't be defined by other people's limited perceptions!" says the Post-it on her bathroom mirror.
Her instructors may see a perky, size-2 woman dispensing ibuprofen and Alka Seltzer to classmates who are beat--up or hung-over. They may see that she is only one of two recruits who'd never used a weapon or been in a fight before.
But what they don't know, Krista says, is that she'll do "whatever it takes." Tumbling as a child from failed adoptions to foster homes, with no sense of where her mother was, she used to write letters, "Dear Mrs. X, Today I graduated from high school . . ." She felt like she'd been "born in midair." Now she is determined to embrace an identity that is defined by standing your ground. Standing one's ground -- standing post -- is the recruits' next lesson. First, a classroom lecture:
"No playing BrickBreaker."
"No hands in pockets." Hands should be up and ready; as Mixon puts it, "New York, Italian."
"In Muslim countries, no pounding a balled fist into a palm. It's like the middle finger."
"If you have to go to the bathroom, suck it up. Don't drink water. You can always get an IV after your shift."
Then, the students are tested in the tactical village. Krista and Mr. Home Depot stand outside a bookstore, where a candidate is signing books. Across the street, men squeal up and rob a bank. Some of the other recruits had chased the robbers.
"It may be a diversion, a favorite tactic of Tommy Taliban and his al-Qaeda friends," Mixon says. Never abandon your guard post, Mixon says, even if someone faints: "Make sure he's not doing the funky chicken with foam coming out of his mouth, it could be a nerve gas attack. Otherwise, it's not your problem."
A role-player nicknamed "the horse" tries to push into the bookstore. Other trainees didn't notice him, but Krista, weighing 105 pounds, blocks him with her flattened palm. A drunk rolls out of the bar next door, distracting Mr. Home Depot. Another man lopes up, wearing a suicide bomber vest.
"Bomb!!!!" Krista yells, shooting the suicide bomber. Mixon had taught them to shout so loudly, "dope dealers two blocks away should be flushing toilets."
Afterward, Mr. Home Depot says, "Can't believe I didn't see the guy with the freakin' bomb." Home Depot has such good aim on the range, he routinely rubs Krista's trigger finger with his, to transfer his magic.
"You had tunnel vision," the evaluator says to him, and turns to Krista, "Even with the horse in front of you, you saw. I watched your eyes. I'm impressed. You a former cop, ma'am?"
Krista braces for his smirk, "I'm a former social worker, sir."
"No. You're a protection agent now."
But not until Krista passes control tactics, which she fails along with four other trainees. "You've got to find that inner bitch," the coordinator says, "the thing that pisses you off, and use it."
Two weeks before graduation, the five retest. The scenario: standing post; bad guys pounce. When it's over, they can barely speak, panting:
"You do okay?"
"Who knows."
"No one knows."
"Did he shoot you?"
"I think he did."
Everyone passes except for Krista. When Mixon tells her on the spot, all her breath leaves her body.
"I know I can do it," she says, her lips pale. "I'm going to graduate." She is mottled with so many blood blisters from training bullets, a massage therapist pulled her aside to ask about an abusive relationship. After she leaves, Mixon explains that Krista didn't "demonstrate the warrior spirit." Like Krista, Mixon grew up without a mother. Her heart gave out when he was 2. No one tucked him in at night, and he realized, as Krista did at an early age, that he would have to make his own way.
One spring evening in 1981, as a "poor, badass kid" in Kentucky, Mixon watched the news on his black-and-white TV. He saw a man in a gray suit jump up, as if he were impenetrable, and block a .22--caliber bullet meant for President Ronald Reagan. Right then, Mixon decided he wanted to be that hard man. He still keeps the old TV in his garage. Now that he has a 2-year-old, he tells the boy when he trips and cries, in a voice blunted with gruff love: "Shake it off."
As a social worker, Krista's slogan is: "positive reinforcement."
As an agent, Mixon's slogan is: "Americans sleep well in their beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would harm them!"
"We can't pass her cause we think she's a nice girl," Mixon says.
Over the next week, Krista sticks with her class. They dress in business suits and visit the intelligence division at headquarters, inside a vault. They see pictures of 50 "class 3" subjects who, if given a chance, would attack the president, including one grizzled white man, "whereabouts unknown, last seen in Tennessee." A class 3 must be supervised if the president visits his district. "Be creative," an instructor had advised. "Some agents take them out for ice cream, take them bowling, make sure he's on his medication. In L.A., we took class 3s to the movies when the president was in town."
They peer into the 24-hour duty desk, a glass-enclosed room resembling a flight- tracking center. The names of 37 protectees light up the wall, along with their call signs and locations. The Obama girls are at Camp David; Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter are in Walnut Mountain, Ga. The next day, the review board convenes and decides to give Krista one more try.
"My whole future depends on tomorrow, and when I pass, Jess," her pull-up buddy, "and I are going to go get eyelash extensions," Krista jokes. The anxiety has whittled her weight so sharply, she's using a safety pin to hold up her pants.
"If I had to go through the extra training and the adversity you faced," Dan tells her, "I don't know how I could get up in the morning."
Her mother helps. "Short people rule!" reads a card from Krista's birth mother, whom Krista eventually tracked down. When Krista first called, her mother gulped: "I've been waiting for this call for 19 years." Five months after Krista was born, her mother married her father. They had three more kids.
Her classmates also help. The entire SATC No. 283 turns out in the chilly predawn for Krista's test. "She's like the group mom," says one guy, twice her size. Krista had ordered shoulder holsters for them all. But in the end it is Krista alone, one week before graduation, walking barefoot past her friends into the mat room. Most of the guys hang back. Scott walks up to the closed door and presses against it, listening:
Krista is standing post. Two trainers jump her. She uses her gun and baton to beat them back. Then the evaluator says, "All right, now we're overseas and you're not allowed to carry a weapon." Krista must overcome them, unarmed.
"Get on the ground!" Krista screams. "Police! Stop fighting!" There's pleading in her screams. The guys in the hall are squirming, looking down at their boots.
"Stop! Stop! Aaaagh!" Krista's screams are wild, and after a minute the sounds grow guttural. "Aaaagh! Yaaagh!" Scott's forehead furrows. Goose bumps rise on the arms of a New Orleans cop who once heard the transmission of an officer friend being executed by thugs. He wants to break into the mat room. His eyes fill with tears: "It's what a radio sounds like when a cop is dying."
LESSON SEVEN: Get A Will
The firearms instructor clicks on a PowerPoint slide: a picture of a toilet.
"You're in the hopper; where's the safest place to put your weapon?"
"On the toilet paper holder?"
"No, you get lead all over the toilet paper and then . . . you see? Put the gun between your feet. Which stall do you use?"
No one tries to answer.
"The stall next to the wall. You don't want someone reaching to grab your gun. Call ahead for reservations."
Thus concludes the last Secret Service class, one day before graduation. The previous lecturer told them about alcohol counseling. Four employees had DUI arrests in the past year. She also said: "Get a will."
"Good riddance!" Dan says, tossing a bag of combat training pants into the center's laundry cart. His voice has hardened, as has his body, as has his attitude. Dan turns people down now. And when the shooting started during their final exercises, Dan became a meat shield -- "I didn't even think,it was instinct" -- repudiating a gunman's bullet with a full-bodied no.
That night, Dan and Amanda sleep peacefully. The baby's front teeth have finally cut through her gums. In the morning, at commencement, Dan mills around backstage at the fake hotel.
Everyone is there except for Krista. She was released from training for failing control tactics. She hung on until the last hour, doing advance work for a candidate at a nature preserve, tramping through goose droppings in the rain, until the training director summoned her to his office. Krista's classmates were stricken. When Scott walked past the mat room, he avoided Mixon's eyes, hunching over his new government-issued BlackBerry.
Mixon said, "I feel like I failed. I've given my all; she's given her all. In good conscience though, I would be attending her funeral next week."
Krista is back home in New Orleans now, running along the bayou, pushing the mandatory three-mile run to five, six, seven. She thinks she should have passed. "The only rule in fighting is to never quit. I never stopped fighting." She appealed the decision and is waiting to hear from headquarters. She says she'll do whatever it takes to become an agent.
Backstage, at the center's fake hotel, an instructor says: "One minute to showtime!"
"I need some Visine," says a recruit. "I drank too much last night."
They all line up: the chubbiest recruit, who lost 85 pounds to enlist; the homesick recruit, who never unpacked his suitcase; the grittiest recruit, who agonized in silence over his detached rib. Each had beat his weakness. Scott glances around, the doubt for once lifting from his dark brows. On their last day of training, Scott walked onto the outdoor range and plugged 24 out of 30 shots into the heart of a silhouette -- a class record, and a refutation of the claim that a seven-fingered man can't shoot.
Out in the audience, in the front row, Scott's father is beaming, holding two cameras in case one malfunctions. He flew in from California, a giant man, who says, "God help the person who comes up against Scott." And then all at once, he turns red, and lifts a thick thumb to wipe away his tears: "When we got that call at 3 a.m. from Iraq, it was very, very tough ... "
Mixon takes a seat in the back, behind the families watching the ceremony.
There is the speech: "You have completed 28 weeks of the most intensive training of any law enforcement agency in the world."
And the oath of office: "I do solemnly swear . . . so help me God."
Mixon leans forward, rubbing scarred knuckles, his gaze alighting on his pupils' open faces, his own expression different from that of the glowing parents, more knowing, a trace sad.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the special agents of Class 283!" Applause.
Mixon wanders into the crowd to say goodbye. The Tulsa cop's father exclaims, "I'm the happiest duck in the pond!"
"You got your badge!" Scott's father gushes. "You want me to hold it?"
Mixon pushes past a row of chairs to offer Scott his hand: "Congratulations."
"Yes, sir."
"Hey, cut this 'sir' [expletive] out."
Scott meets Mixon's eyes.
Mixon pulls back for a moment and then opens his arms, wrapping Scott in a hug. In a hurried, hidden gesture, Mixon lifts his mouth to Scott's ear. He whispers to the new Secret Service agent, "Stay safe."
"LESSON ONE: Get Ready To Die
The teacher walks into the mat room.
"Good morning, Mr. Mixon," the students say in unison.
"Cut that [expletive] out. Don't act like you give a crap about my morning."
Steve Mixon smiles, or maybe it's a snarl. Before he became an instructor at the Secret Service training camp outside Washington, Mixon served as a team leader on President George W. Bush's Counter Assault Team.
"Everyone's going to leave today in some degree of pain," Mixon tells the special agent trainees.
The 24 recruits, dressed in black combat pants and jackets, stiffen into four rows, jingling handcuffs. Scott Swantner clenches his jaw. Krista Bradford rubs raw knuckles. One trainee, who broke a rib, is keeping it a secret, fearing he'll be discharged.
"Everything is in play here, guys. Everything you learned from Day One," Mixon tells them in a basement that muffles rifle blasts. "Assailant control. Guillotine chokeholds."
For the members of Special Agent Training Class No. 283, this is finals time. They have been cramming here for months, since days after the election of Barack Obama, hoping to join the men and women charged with protecting the president. Not all of them will make it.
If they fail, they will leave humiliated. If they pass, they'll become members of an elite, stealthy service during a period of exceptional pressures. At their annual party, Ralph Basham, the former director, greeted his replacement: "I'm the happiest guy in Washington because I'm not the director of the Secret Service anymore."
With the rise of Islamic terrorism, the agency's roster of protectees has grown. With the election of the first African American president, public scrutiny has exploded. Presidents typically receive 3,000 threats a year, says a Secret Service expert. Obama is outpacing the average.
"We understand the historic significance," says the current director, Mark Sullivan. "If we make a mistake, it's going to be devastating for the country. We're not going to let the country down."
That promise depends in large part on what happens inside this 493-acre compound. Unmarked, behind barbed wire and hidden in the woods, the James J. Rowley Training Center sits so close to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway that its inhabitants -- in chemical weapons suits, suicide bomber vests or white robes while role-playing the pope -- can hear the commuter traffic's oblivious swish.
Obama's security detail drills here two weeks out of every eight. The vice president's detail, the first lady's, the agents who protect foreign dignitaries and former presidents, as well as the tactical units -- the counter snipers posted on the White House roof, and the Emergency Response Team, which stops incursions into the White House grounds--also drill here.
Overseeing them are instructors like Mixon, who wears a size 52 suit jacket, whose T-shirt says "Fighting Solves Everything," and whose 2-year-old son knows how to do a one-man takedown. This morning Mixon, 40, is testing control tactics, or ground-fighting.
Forty minutes into the wristlocks and head stuns, the trainees' necks burn with scratches. Dan Batt is supposed to disarm a classmate but accidentally knees him in the groin.
"Right in the junk!" Mixon laughs.
Dan wants to apologize for his clumsiness -- his infant daughter is teething and kept him up half the night -- but the men keep wrestling, too afraid to stop. A student in the class ahead of them flunked out the week before graduation for buckling during push-ups.
"Next!" Mixon calls.
Scott Swantner ten-huts, shoulders back, towering over the others. A former rifle platoon commander with the Marine Corps, Scott lost three fingers in Iraq. In Beltsville, he attended remedial control tactics with Krista Bradford every Friday before sunrise.
"Yes, sir!" Scott says cheerlessly. For the last scenario of their four-hour exam, the mat room becomes a heavy metal bar. Red and blue lights flash in the dark. The rock band Disturbed blares from speakers.
Their instructions: "Patty McGuire has made threats against POTUS [President of the United States] and you have an arrest warrant . . . An informant told you Patty is in the bar."
In pairs, the trainees open the door.
"Why don't you [expletive] off and die?" shrieks Disturbed. The instructors pounce with sticks and training knives. They slam the trainees into the wall. They rip at their hair. One trainee shatters his instructor's cheekbone. But another freezes, goes into "brain vapor-lock," as his partner is repeatedly shot.
Krista and her partner wait outside for their turn. "If they clench their fists," Krista strategizes, "I'll pull out my baton."
Krista is 4 feet 11 inches. She moves like a gymnast, nimbly, with concentrated grace. She has lively green eyes, fine features and a buoyant ponytail. She cheers Scott, Dan and the others between drills with Dove chocolates. A social worker, she also used to work at Disney World, dressing up as cartoon characters.
"She was Minnie Mouse, for God sakes," Mixon grumbles.
Within seconds of entering the mat-room bar, Krista's partner, an Army National Guardsman who earned a Bronze Star, is knocked to the ground. A role-player drags Krista across the floor by the cuff of her pants. He straddles Krista and punches her.
"Get off me!" Krista screams.
"Get ready to die!" the music screams.
"Keep fighting!" Mixon screams.
The role-player twists Krista's arms around her neck and pulls, choking her with her own hands. She gags. Her nose is bleeding. Her cheek is bleeding. Blood blisters on her legs, bruised by training bullets while chasing assassins through the woods, trickle and ooze.
On her back, in the dark, Krista watches the role-player's face swirl into darker shades of gray. She is losing consciousness. Mixon yells, "Do something!"
In the Secret Service, the saying goes, "You never quit. You always win. Everything else is negotiable."
Krista lifts her head an inch, level with her assailant's hand. She opens her mouth.
"Here it comes! Get ready to die!" the music screams.
Krista grinds her teeth into the meat of his palm. He releases her, and Krista and her partner stagger out of the room. Their final exam is over. A drop of sweat dangles from the tip of her partner's nose. He looks at Krista, gasping:
"Did we pass?"
LESSON TWO (Nine Months Earlier): Do Whatever It Takes
Business was slow at the Sherwin-Williams paint store. Dan Batt, a sales associate, sat cataloguing colors: Salute red, Nantucket Dune.
Dan is 24, the second-oldest of nine home-schooled children, a quiet man with sloping shoulders, fair skin and pure black hair. He has a face that often gets skipped over in a crowd, a modest chin and nice-boy eyes.
Dan smiled mildly as a teenager tramped into the store.
"But I want it, Dad!" A blast of cold Buffalo air blew in with the girl and her father.
She wanted to paint her bedroom Lime Rickey green. It was, Dan thought, a hideous color.
"This is a very, uh, fun color," Dan later recalled saying.
Dan always deferred to the customer. His wife was seven months pregnant, and they needed the paycheck.
"Yes, he said to everyone. "Yes, yes, yes."
No, this wasn't the career he'd wanted. His mother, who read her Bible, had taught him about good and bad, and he dreamed -- never mind that he is shy -- of fighting for good. When Dan's cellphone rang later at the store, "Restricted Number," he felt something lurch inside his chest. Maybe his wife was having early contractions. Or maybe, improbably, it was the other call, the one that meant Dan had mixed his last Lime Rickey.
Twelve hundred miles to the south in New Orleans, Krista Bradford, 32, was driving her car. She almost didn't answer when her call came. Krista had just assessed a 4-year-old autistic girl. She told the girl's mother to buy crayons and blocks, she later recalled. As a social worker, Krista was tired of rappelling into lives after they'd crumbled. She wanted to try something preemptive, such as law enforcement. Krista herself had experienced the limits of social services. She was given up at birth in an adoption that failed, and later moved into an adolescent group house where she reached for a serving bowl and was stabbed in the hand with a fork.
"I'll be a good protector," Krista believed. "I know how important it is to be protected."
The application process took nine months, complicated by a background check that tracked three different childhood last names, and a job history that included dressing up as Jiminy Cricket and Dopey.
Eventually one afternoon, her cellphone flashed: "Withheld." "Hello?" Krista said, thinking: I'll do whatever it takes.
Four states away, in an Oakland, Calif., shipyard, Scott Swantner, 30, watched a freighter offload a container. An Iraq war veteran, he was two weeks into a job at the Pacific Maritime Association. He had the air of a man whose penalty kick had clunked off a goal post. Earlier in the year, Scott had spent a month filling out the 34-page Secret Service application. He had flown from his Berlin Marine post to California to renew his driver's license, which had been shredded in Nasiriyah by a rocket-propelled grenade. He had passed the written test, the drug test, the vision test, the hearing test, the initial interview, the panel interview, the home interview, and the "worst experience of my life," the polygraph, which elicited every foible and shame. Tall and broad, Scott had played right guard for the Naval Academy football team. He has thick, brown hair, buzz cut for the military. His features project success. Scott's father, a termite inspector, constantly told his winning boy, "Don't screw up."
Yet, somehow Scott had. He had fallen short on the Secret Service's physical exam, he guessed, "because of my hand." As a Marine, Scott had hoped to emulate his grandfather's World War II service in the Pacific. Instead, in Iraq, Scott lost two soldiers in his platoon -- "You feel you let them down. It'll always stick with you" -- and, later, part of his left hand. Things that had come easily for Scott were now doubted. Secret Service screeners questioned Scott's commander: "He says he can physically do this, but can he?" Can he still shoot? Eventually, Scott was told they had found a better-qualified applicant. Scott took the shipyard job. He was talking to a longshoreman when his cellphone beeped: "Unknown."
The voice sounded friendly. "Hey, it's Charlie White." From the San Francisco Field Office. "We want to offer you -- " The Secret Service had never accepted anyone with his disability before but had reconsidered. They were going to give Scott a try.
The acceptance calls rang out in 24 corners of the country. In Plant City, Fla., a YMCA director felt his phone vibrate during a board meeting debating zumba dance classes. In Tulsa, a police officer exhausted from jumping fences while chasing drug dealers till 2 a.m. snapped open his phone. In Baltimore, a Home Depot manager folded his orange apron then and there in Hardwood Flooring.
Their family and friends sometimes found the news confusing: "So you're going to be a spy?" "Do you change your name?" "Will the president talk to you directly through that plastic thing in your ear?"
The new recruits -- 21 men and three women, 25 to 32 years old -- assembled in Glynco, Ga., for 12 weeks of basic federal law-enforcement training. Then they moved to a Residence Inn in Maryland. They unpacked creatine bodybuilding powder and Aveda Comforting Tea, boxing DVDs and voodoo dolls. On their first morning, the recruits ride in government vans to the classified complex. A guard in a booth raises the gate. They cross over, into a mission called for by Congress following the 1901 assassination of President William McKinley. They are admitted onto the grounds and into the secrets of the Service.
"We train unlike any other federal agency," says A.T. Smith, an assistant director, who stands by while the trainees stencil their names on their T-shirts. "We train to the edge, and then we lean over." The center's drills are increasingly scenario-based, says Smith, who had served as Hillary Clinton's detail leader. "For years, our training was based on the lone gunman and the long-range rifle. Now it's automatic weapons, multiple explosions as a diversion to a secondary attack." An intelligence PowerPoint presentation on "The Emerging Threat" flashes from the old-style assassin, Squeaky Fromme, to chanting Islamic fanatics. Threat experts have created a new Obama-era prototype, a white supremacist who calls Obama "a mud person" and White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emmanuel, a Jew, "the Antichrist."
New hazards have prompted a new emphasis in training -- a kind of extreme, lethal improv -- using scenarios that are dynamic and demand responses that run counter to typical human behavior. Smith says, "Our goal is to make it instinct." To alter reflexes, to rewire the "muscle memory" of recruits, they built 37 buildings, including fake colonial-style houses and a mock airport. Facades line the main street: a cafe, a tattoo parlor and a hardware store.
"It's like a small town," Smith explains.
Except that all day and many nights, explosions rock presidential candidates at the pizzeria. The dogs, on command, break from their leashes and maul shrieking men. Gunmen fire from the All Saints Church at the president's wife. Marine One, the president's helicopter, crashes in the swimming pool, and fleeing black Suburbans climb the curbs at 45 mph. Behind every mailbox, lamppost and flowering bush, a killer possibly squats, racking his AK, or, he might spray a vial of sarin.
Smith smiles: "I never said it was a nice town. I said it was a small town."
LESSON THREE: Be Obsessive-Compulsive
"Your head's going to spin and you feel like you're going to throw up," says Mixon. "Don't do it in my mat room."
This is Mixon's welcome speech to SATC No. 283 on its first day. "Sometimes trainees pass out in the bathroom, so develop a buddy system among yourselves."
Krista finds a buddy -- the other woman who can't do a pull-up. Dan's buddy is the Tulsa cop who classmates swear can bench-press a Honda. Scott scans the room with the dark-browed scowl of an American eagle, privately amazed that he is even here.
Mixon distributes their "Use of Force" chart, which graphs the amount of force to use on a subject, depending on their level of menace. The trainees' eyes widen at its complexity.
"Details! Think details!" Mixon says. He walks around the room, his chest forward, like a piece of earth-moving equipment. "What is your job? The man in the most powerful office in the world -- you're standing next to him with a loaded gun." Success, Mixon says, rests on attention to detail.
"Use the force necessary. You can hit them with your car, stab them with a big pin," Mixon says. "We in the Secret Service are super Type-A personalities, people who want to take control and win at all costs." But within legal limits, Mixon warns. "Don't get that little extra shot in there, that extra revenge...I want to make sure if I'm going through a door with you, that I can trust you. If not, I'm not going to let you take that walk on graduation day."
All day, instructors say, Do sweat the details:
"I expect neat hair! No goatees!"
"If you wore boxer shorts, it's the last day you do!"
"Cut off [alcoholic] drinking eight hours prior to range practice!"
"You know the old joke: We're just one assassination away from wearing the FBI badge!"
The recruits recite a list of rules. Dan reads No. 16 out loud, "No sleeping in class." He stifles a new-father yawn. Dan is the only recruit who moved his family to Beltsville. He wedged a Pack 'n Play next to the bed. He bought his 4-month-old a pink Secret Service onesie. He keeps uniforms in the bathroom, so he doesn't wake his wife and infant when he dresses at dawn. At the end of the nine-hour hazing, the students stand, soaked and mute. A former IRS employee nods toward a sweat splash on the mat: "That's me and Scott, right about there."
The Home Depot manager stamps his foot. "One day down."
Krista exhales. "Four days and 15 weeks to go."
Krista is counting down to graduation on a hand-drawn chart, penciling an "X" when she wakes up every morning. She tallies Mixon's sessions with a dash that she crosses when completed. Holidays are coded in orange marker. She jokingly calls it her "calendar of what to dread." Her meticulousness is actually the sign of a good agent. "You got to have a little OCD [obsessive-compulsive disorder] to have this job," says the firearms coordinator. "You worry about every little thing. That's what we do. That's who we are."
Why? The firearms instructor explains: "A bad guy's attacking POTUS, you fire and you miss. Who you gonna hit? POTUS!" Trainees have to score 80 percent in marksmanship. They spend months learning how to shoot and assemble their Sig Sauer P229 pistols, MP5 9mm submachine guns, Remington 12-gauge shotguns. Krista buys a finger-exerciser to build trigger muscles. She and the others will fire about a thousand rounds at practice targets such as the vacant-eyed white man with glasses and thinning hair, lifting his pistol. They aim for "center mass," the heart. No warning shots.
"What should be the first thing on your belt?" an instructor asks.
"Spare magazine?" Dan says.
"Right. I've seen people load pagers and cellphones. They don't go bang when you pull the trigger." The students struggle to memorize details that parse life and death. During barricade-shooting, a technician chastens Dan: "Don't expose your leg. You get hit in the fibular artery, you're dead in seconds." Though, if hit, you are still expected to fight: "You have 10 seconds where you can keep fighting." They call it "the dead man's 10 seconds." The one Secret Service employee who died in the line of duty shot the would-be assassin after he'd been mortally wounded. "He fired back. He didn't give up."
"Do not use starch or bleach on the ballistic panels," a teacher says, laundry tips for their sweaty bulletproof vests. "And if you're at the White House and hear shooting, hit the deck -- the vest does not stop ERT [Emergency Response Team] bullets."
During their sixth week, students take an emergency medicine course: "So you're standing post on the golf course, and someone gets struck by lightning ... " They learn how to treat a head of state who's been eviscerated: "Some of you with military backgrounds were taught to urinate on the intestines to keep them warm. That is not Secret Service protocol." And how to deliver a baby while standing post (happened twice last year): "I don't want to hear about you using your shoelaces or anything nasty to tie the cord. Do not let the woman go to the bathroom, or Junior is going to be bungee jumping into the toilet."
Krista memorizes her flashcards and aces the medical exam.
The "details! details!" theme follows them into a surveillance course, where trainees trail each other around Maryland malls. "Act normal," the teacher says, Rule No. 5. "If you're halfway through your low-fat blueberry muffin -- that's not really low-fat -- finish it. Otherwise, it looks suspicious. If you and your partner are friends, act like friends! And do not make out in surveillance -- it's happened."
During the rescue swimming unit, the instructor specifies, "Talk to the flailing victim. Now, there is an exception: If Mr. Obama falls overboard, do you say, 'Mr. Obama, kick your feet! Move your legs!' No. Get in the water." The deadliest details emerge during WMD training. Much of it is classified, involving untraceable toxins that could kill the president in his hotel suite while he is showering or clipping his toenails.
"There is an unbelievable amount of unaccounted-for chemical weapons," says the WMD specialist. "And when it turns up, it better not be on your advance. But if it does, this class is going to help."
The students learn how to adjust their gas masks after they've clapped on the president's, whose straps are custom-sewn for a tight seal. They inhale caustic fumes in a gas chamber, discovering their initial symptoms -- Scott's throat itches, Dan's eyes blaze, Krista's lips sting -- to recognize a gas attack.
WMD attacks could come at any time, the instructor says in class: "You're on an advance team in Ohio, and you eat at the Golden Corral salad bar." An assassin squirts SEB toxin from a rubber ball in his sleeve onto the chopped lettuce. The entire team gets sick.
"The president is due in minutes, and you're in bed, projectile vomiting to knock the clock off the wall. Every orifice in your body is going to be exuding liquid, like doing back-to-back advances in Cairo."
The trainees stare, glassy-eyed. It is 4:30 p.m., break time.
"Okay, folks," says the WMD specialist. The students are saturated in detail, in every blood, blister, nerve, bacterial and viral agent that will clot, choke and putrefy their bodily organs.
The teacher smiles sweetly as the students shuffle toward the candy machines. "You guys have a nice day!"
LESSON FOUR: Keep Moving
The control tactics coordinator addresses Scott as "the delicate one."
Scott is huge and meat-freezer hard, aside from his injured hand.
The coordinator says, "Are we sadists? No. We find and exploit any weakness in all trainees. It's stress inoculation."
"They're terrified, that's our preferred mode," says Mixon. (When the trainees aren't looking, he coos over pictures of his toddler nuzzling cherry blossoms.)
On this sunny afternoon on the race-car pad, the students' source of terror is a tactical driving test. The armored vehicles, many from President George H.W. Bush's old fleet, roll out of a garage, "the inner sanctum."
An instructor who chauffeured George W. Bush cautions, "I hit a bump in Denver and hit Bush's head on the ceiling. He asked me when was the last time I had a drug test. Try to avoid that."
Krista slides into the driver's seat, "Anyone want a paper bag?" Her feet strain to reach the pedals.
"Don't forget to lock the back doors. Nothing more embarrassing than the president busting your chops because you forgot to lock the door," an instructor says. Then he shares one of the Service's biggest secrets -- where they hide the presidential spare keys.
"All right, Scott Swantner's up," says the evaluator, Tipper Gore's former driver, his voice drawling over the police radio. Scott shifts vehicle No. 5 into gear, facing a slalom course of orange traffic cones.
The blacktop -- 1,800 feet long, 300 feet wide -- is streaked with truck-tire marks from the Humvee-heavy limousines. One instructor executes a J-turn, performed when a driver can't ram a roadblock. He zooms backward and whips the wheel, spinning the limousine a screeching reverse 180 degrees. The air is pungent with gas and smoking rubber.
"The track's clear. Turn on your lights and sirens," the evaluator says to Scott.
Scott must complete two runs, no fishtailing or skidding outside the lines. For Scott this is a natural. He thrives inside lines: lays out his uniform just so each night, cooks one low-sodium recipe on Saturday and eats leftovers every evening.
"Ready, set, bang!"
Scott weaves through the orange cones. "Run the course hard, as if you're taking the protectee to a hospital," the evaluator had told them.
Recently here, Obama's security detail had practiced assaults on a motorcade parade. A mock Obama, first lady and two daughters strolled, waving to cheering crowds. Suddenly, over the trees, mortars crashed. Fanatics in pickup trucks thundered out, crippling "the Beast," the president's limousine. Counter snipers in a tower fired back. The Counter Assault Team stampeded. The first family was bundled into the spare limousine, "the Tomb," and sped out of the kill zone. Scott's class had also practiced "pushing out" of the kill zone. The maneuver: Drive a Suburban into the president's rear fender, pushing his disabled limousine.
"If you're 'pushing out' on a $3 million car, you're not out of gas," the instructor said. "You're in the woods, you're taking rounds, the limo's dead. What do you do?"
"Push it out," Scott said.
"Want to know what we do, in two words?" the instructor said. "Keep moving."
Motorcade attacks average 45 seconds, he said. "Get out of the kill zone. If Iraq has taught us one thing -- you cannot stop."
In Musayyib, Iraq, Scott's Marines kept him moving the night a Russian-made fuse tore off part of his hand. Scott was clearing houses. A group of frightened girls showed him grenade fuses inside an old helmet. "I'm taking these," Scott said, reaching down. Then, he recalled, "I heard a pop. The guys I was with wouldn't let me look down." But they kept Scott moving. It took 15 minutes to walk to their patrol. Scott was in shock, dripping blood, but somehow he moved his feet.
Privately Scott blames himself: "I should have known." But he jokes with friends, "Give me seven!" He tells himself, "Got to move on." And though doubtful, Scott keeps moving.
On the driving pad, the evaluator scratches his head. "I don't see any problems with this class," he mumbles, and he adds their test numbers again. "Scott might be the weakest." Scott scored 68, missing the 70-point minimum.
The evaluator announces: "I need Car 5 to stay here. Which is Scott Swantner?"
Scott bites his lip. He calls the feeling "black hole," a place where a voice warns of disappointment. "It's my voice," Scott says later, "It says, 'Don't fail.' With a little crowd of people agreeing -- my family and guys I served with in Iraq. I don't want to let people down."
The evaluator notes, "could be his fingers, driving with your thumb and index finger." On the range, it was the same. When Scott jerked the trigger, the instructor shook his head: "He doesn't have much there to hold on to the gun." The rest of the class rumbles off the pad. The evaluator tells Scott, "We got to run through this again, get you up to snuff."
"Yes, sir."
Overhead, gray clouds crowd out the sun. Raindrops pit Scott's windshield. Two days later, Scott joins the others outside the mat room for their control tactics midterm. One role-playing instructor moans, "I got killed 24 times today. This is embarrassing."
Mixon is giving the test, pretending to be a member of the president's political staff. Mixon the political aide races over to Scott on tippy-toes, his eyes wild, his voice high:
"Oh, my God! You gotta help me! This guy is in there, and the president's going to be here in, like, 10 minutes! I told the guy to leave and he told me to go [expletive] myself! Make him leave! He scares me!!"
Scott stalks off to investigate.
Mixon the staffer smiles, "Thanks! I'm going to go get a latte."
After each student fights the assailant, he or she is directed to a small, dark room. Except for Scott, who is told to wait in the stairwell.
"I don't like being separated like this," he says.
Out on the driving pad, in fact, the driving evaluator had made a math mistake. Scott had qualified, first try.
"This has been the longest week," Scott sighs in the stairwell. He begins to pace. It is part of him now, a survival instinct.Two words: keep moving.
LESSON FIVE: Be a Meat Shield
Dan's wife is kicking him. Third or fourth time tonight. The baby is whimpering, and Dan is sleeping through it, even though he lies closer to her crib. Dan pops in her pacifier, he later recalls, amazed by how quickly his wife wakes up. It's as if she possesses a different set of senses.
In the morning, at the center, Dan huddles in the fake lobby of a fake hotel with Krista and the Tulsa cop. On the mezzanine above them, Bill Clinton's current detail skulks along the railings, poking submachine guns around corners, practicing clearing halls.
The mandatory three-mile runs are giving Dan painful shin splints. "You still got five weeks, man," the Tulsa cop tells Dan. "You don't want to get stress fractures."
But Dan is afraid he'll be dismissed if he doesn't run. And besides, he's a guy who says yes: at the paint store to Lime Rickey, and at a recent baton drill to battling three of his biggest classmates -- a sky diver, a self-described Cro-Magnon and Scott -- all at once. Afterward, Dan tottered away in a cold sweat, as dizzy as he'd been when he fainted as an 8-year-old altar boy. "Dude, you're white. You need to get checked out," said the Tulsa cop, lugging Dan off to the emergency medical services office down the hall.
Dan's gentle nature is a problem, and it worries him. "My whole life I'm always right in the middle," he once said. He may be the most agreeable recruit, but Dan won't make it as an agent if his response is always affirmative.
On this morning, at the fake hotel, Mixon ambles over to the students and cracks his neck. He's here to teach them how the Secret Service says no.
"We'll start with basic stuff. Attacks on the rope line, lapel grabs, overzealous handshakes. "
During the George W. Bush years, an instructor says, Bush always told them if he was planning to shake hands. "We're not in that environment now. We're in a Clintonesque environment, you have to deal with spontaneous rope lines."
Mixon says: "You may say, why do I need to know this?" because new agents don't work on the president's security detail. They investigate crimes and work advance or security posts. "But my first post-standing was in Brownsville, for President Clinton. I was standing there in my new J.C. Penney suit, and Clinton dives into the crowd. The shift leader grabs me by the back of my belt loops and made me help. You could be working rope lines in a matter of weeks."
Dan watches Mixon demonstrate releasing a fan's handshake. He peels back the fan's thumb with so much force, it makes a popping sound.
"If he's still jaw-jacking, saying to the protectee, 'We need to save the three-legged mosquito!' and the protectee's giving you that 'Oh, [expletive]' look, you'll peel him off," Mixon says. "The press is always around, and he's just a knucklehead, not necessarily a threat, so -- " Mixon cuts to the Tulsa cop. "You can't punch him in the face."
During a break, Dan calls Amanda. She's busy changing the baby. They met when he was 11 and she was 9. They still speak to each other with a childhood sweetness.
When the trainees reassemble, Mixon initiates them into the most sacred rite of protection:
"If there's an attack, get as big as you can to protect him. Make a nice meat shield between the protectee and the problem." It takes a few beats to understand "meat shield."
"And where's the shielding for the protectee?" Mixon says.
The students blink. "The shift leader?" "The limousine?"
"No," Mixon says. "Point to yourself. You are the shielding for the protectee."
Scott taps his foot. Dan and Krista exchange glances.
"Your job is to get big. Get your lats out wide. We are now a meat shield. A sandwich: Kevlar, your body, another layer of Kevlar -- covering the protectee."
For the U.N. General Assembly, Mixon says, "you'll be working foreign protectees, Sultan Abu Bin Abu Babab. In an attack, get the protectee's head down, cover vital organs. If he falls, pick him up. You may have to think for them -- 'move, move, move' -- they may be literally pooping themselves."
"Do the protectees know what our responses are going to be?" says Krista.
"The president, yes. But the first lady of Iceland, no. On 9/11, two agents snatched Cheney out of his desk, and his feet never touched the ground till he was out of danger."
For weeks, the class practices shift formations, as if working a security detail. A pudgy politician makes speeches: "Keep paying your taxes! We need the money!" Dan, Krista and Scott shadow him out of boardrooms, into ballrooms and onto a Boeing 707 replica of Air Force One. They encounter actors and role-playing agents as innocuous as a flirty redhead and as deadly as a bald man wielding a syringe of Ebola.
Mixon critiques them: "You guys made a nice meat shield," he says to Krista. When shots rang out, Krista cupped the candidate's body with her own, his greasy hair sliding over her throat. "Excellent job controlling him. Bradford got as big as she's ever gotten in her life. Mighty Midget came to the rescue."
To Scott, who repelled an autograph seeker, Mixon says, "Too much aggression. You were on him like a spider monkey jacked up on Mountain Dew."
"I'll turn it down, sir," says Scott. He's adjusting to post-Iraq rules of engagement.
And Mixon scolds Dan, who saw a man throw a bottle. "Apparently, you can throw a bottle at the president and nothing happens. Don't wait for someone to hit you. You can hit him back first."
But Mixon levels his biggest criticism at the entire class. "Everyone took steps backwards when the shooting started." He glares at a former police officer.
"I'm used to going down on a knee," the former cop pleads. It's a reflex, basic officer safety.
"Well, resist. Now you're working protection. You need to be the shield."
Students remove their earplugs and safety glasses, dazed, looking existentially perplexed. An instructor who had protected Bush shrugs:
"That's the premise of protective training -- to override human nature."
In the evening, Dan drives back to the Residence Inn, to human nature as it seems intended. He locks his training gun and bathes the baby. She eats potato puffs in her high chair and laughs at her dad on the floor doing push-ups.
Dan's wife, Amanda, a luminescent brunette, cooks them tuna casserole and tries not to think about his work. "It's hard for me to visualize," she says.
The baby is sitting on Amanda's lap, gnawing a teething ring. Dan is mulling Mixon's lesson, which he's not yet internalized.
But the words "meat shield" spark recognition in Amanda's soft eyes. When she was pregnant in Buffalo, "I slipped and fell on the ice. As I was going down, I was thinking, 'Don't fall to hurt the baby. Don't fall on your stomach.' I didn't care if I broke an arm, I had to protect the baby."
Amanda sprained her wrist. She used her body as a shield.
Dan turns to his wife, nodding, as if the tumblers in his head were finally grinding in the right combination. Click: meat shield.
"It's the instinct, the mother instinct," Dan says. "When the cubs are in danger, the mother bear gets big, as Mr. Mixon says."
Being a Secret Service agent might be a stoic, macho job. It is also a little bit like being pregnant with the president.
LESSON SIX: Stand Your Ground
"Let's see -- gun, lip gloss," Krista says. It is 5:30 a.m. at the Residence Inn.
Dan texts Krista, "R U driving in this morn?"
Yes, but Krista has to drive in early for remedial submachine gun. She qualified on the MP5, but her supervisor said she needs practice. He also assigned her to remedial physical fitness, though her scores are on par with the Tulsa cop's. Krista jokes to Dan and Scott that she has remedial lunch and remedial breathing. She plays the song by Pink: "So What?" She never lets the guys see her tear up. She averages 96.5 percent on her written exams. In the bathroom, a green smear of Biore Pore Perfect mask dabs the pull-up bar Krista installed for practice. Last night, she hit her cheek while cranking out four pull-ups. Enough for her to pass.
"Don't be defined by other people's limited perceptions!" says the Post-it on her bathroom mirror.
Her instructors may see a perky, size-2 woman dispensing ibuprofen and Alka Seltzer to classmates who are beat--up or hung-over. They may see that she is only one of two recruits who'd never used a weapon or been in a fight before.
But what they don't know, Krista says, is that she'll do "whatever it takes." Tumbling as a child from failed adoptions to foster homes, with no sense of where her mother was, she used to write letters, "Dear Mrs. X, Today I graduated from high school . . ." She felt like she'd been "born in midair." Now she is determined to embrace an identity that is defined by standing your ground. Standing one's ground -- standing post -- is the recruits' next lesson. First, a classroom lecture:
"No playing BrickBreaker."
"No hands in pockets." Hands should be up and ready; as Mixon puts it, "New York, Italian."
"In Muslim countries, no pounding a balled fist into a palm. It's like the middle finger."
"If you have to go to the bathroom, suck it up. Don't drink water. You can always get an IV after your shift."
Then, the students are tested in the tactical village. Krista and Mr. Home Depot stand outside a bookstore, where a candidate is signing books. Across the street, men squeal up and rob a bank. Some of the other recruits had chased the robbers.
"It may be a diversion, a favorite tactic of Tommy Taliban and his al-Qaeda friends," Mixon says. Never abandon your guard post, Mixon says, even if someone faints: "Make sure he's not doing the funky chicken with foam coming out of his mouth, it could be a nerve gas attack. Otherwise, it's not your problem."
A role-player nicknamed "the horse" tries to push into the bookstore. Other trainees didn't notice him, but Krista, weighing 105 pounds, blocks him with her flattened palm. A drunk rolls out of the bar next door, distracting Mr. Home Depot. Another man lopes up, wearing a suicide bomber vest.
"Bomb!!!!" Krista yells, shooting the suicide bomber. Mixon had taught them to shout so loudly, "dope dealers two blocks away should be flushing toilets."
Afterward, Mr. Home Depot says, "Can't believe I didn't see the guy with the freakin' bomb." Home Depot has such good aim on the range, he routinely rubs Krista's trigger finger with his, to transfer his magic.
"You had tunnel vision," the evaluator says to him, and turns to Krista, "Even with the horse in front of you, you saw. I watched your eyes. I'm impressed. You a former cop, ma'am?"
Krista braces for his smirk, "I'm a former social worker, sir."
"No. You're a protection agent now."
But not until Krista passes control tactics, which she fails along with four other trainees. "You've got to find that inner bitch," the coordinator says, "the thing that pisses you off, and use it."
Two weeks before graduation, the five retest. The scenario: standing post; bad guys pounce. When it's over, they can barely speak, panting:
"You do okay?"
"Who knows."
"No one knows."
"Did he shoot you?"
"I think he did."
Everyone passes except for Krista. When Mixon tells her on the spot, all her breath leaves her body.
"I know I can do it," she says, her lips pale. "I'm going to graduate." She is mottled with so many blood blisters from training bullets, a massage therapist pulled her aside to ask about an abusive relationship. After she leaves, Mixon explains that Krista didn't "demonstrate the warrior spirit." Like Krista, Mixon grew up without a mother. Her heart gave out when he was 2. No one tucked him in at night, and he realized, as Krista did at an early age, that he would have to make his own way.
One spring evening in 1981, as a "poor, badass kid" in Kentucky, Mixon watched the news on his black-and-white TV. He saw a man in a gray suit jump up, as if he were impenetrable, and block a .22--caliber bullet meant for President Ronald Reagan. Right then, Mixon decided he wanted to be that hard man. He still keeps the old TV in his garage. Now that he has a 2-year-old, he tells the boy when he trips and cries, in a voice blunted with gruff love: "Shake it off."
As a social worker, Krista's slogan is: "positive reinforcement."
As an agent, Mixon's slogan is: "Americans sleep well in their beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would harm them!"
"We can't pass her cause we think she's a nice girl," Mixon says.
Over the next week, Krista sticks with her class. They dress in business suits and visit the intelligence division at headquarters, inside a vault. They see pictures of 50 "class 3" subjects who, if given a chance, would attack the president, including one grizzled white man, "whereabouts unknown, last seen in Tennessee." A class 3 must be supervised if the president visits his district. "Be creative," an instructor had advised. "Some agents take them out for ice cream, take them bowling, make sure he's on his medication. In L.A., we took class 3s to the movies when the president was in town."
They peer into the 24-hour duty desk, a glass-enclosed room resembling a flight- tracking center. The names of 37 protectees light up the wall, along with their call signs and locations. The Obama girls are at Camp David; Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter are in Walnut Mountain, Ga. The next day, the review board convenes and decides to give Krista one more try.
"My whole future depends on tomorrow, and when I pass, Jess," her pull-up buddy, "and I are going to go get eyelash extensions," Krista jokes. The anxiety has whittled her weight so sharply, she's using a safety pin to hold up her pants.
"If I had to go through the extra training and the adversity you faced," Dan tells her, "I don't know how I could get up in the morning."
Her mother helps. "Short people rule!" reads a card from Krista's birth mother, whom Krista eventually tracked down. When Krista first called, her mother gulped: "I've been waiting for this call for 19 years." Five months after Krista was born, her mother married her father. They had three more kids.
Her classmates also help. The entire SATC No. 283 turns out in the chilly predawn for Krista's test. "She's like the group mom," says one guy, twice her size. Krista had ordered shoulder holsters for them all. But in the end it is Krista alone, one week before graduation, walking barefoot past her friends into the mat room. Most of the guys hang back. Scott walks up to the closed door and presses against it, listening:
Krista is standing post. Two trainers jump her. She uses her gun and baton to beat them back. Then the evaluator says, "All right, now we're overseas and you're not allowed to carry a weapon." Krista must overcome them, unarmed.
"Get on the ground!" Krista screams. "Police! Stop fighting!" There's pleading in her screams. The guys in the hall are squirming, looking down at their boots.
"Stop! Stop! Aaaagh!" Krista's screams are wild, and after a minute the sounds grow guttural. "Aaaagh! Yaaagh!" Scott's forehead furrows. Goose bumps rise on the arms of a New Orleans cop who once heard the transmission of an officer friend being executed by thugs. He wants to break into the mat room. His eyes fill with tears: "It's what a radio sounds like when a cop is dying."
LESSON SEVEN: Get A Will
The firearms instructor clicks on a PowerPoint slide: a picture of a toilet.
"You're in the hopper; where's the safest place to put your weapon?"
"On the toilet paper holder?"
"No, you get lead all over the toilet paper and then . . . you see? Put the gun between your feet. Which stall do you use?"
No one tries to answer.
"The stall next to the wall. You don't want someone reaching to grab your gun. Call ahead for reservations."
Thus concludes the last Secret Service class, one day before graduation. The previous lecturer told them about alcohol counseling. Four employees had DUI arrests in the past year. She also said: "Get a will."
"Good riddance!" Dan says, tossing a bag of combat training pants into the center's laundry cart. His voice has hardened, as has his body, as has his attitude. Dan turns people down now. And when the shooting started during their final exercises, Dan became a meat shield -- "I didn't even think,it was instinct" -- repudiating a gunman's bullet with a full-bodied no.
That night, Dan and Amanda sleep peacefully. The baby's front teeth have finally cut through her gums. In the morning, at commencement, Dan mills around backstage at the fake hotel.
Everyone is there except for Krista. She was released from training for failing control tactics. She hung on until the last hour, doing advance work for a candidate at a nature preserve, tramping through goose droppings in the rain, until the training director summoned her to his office. Krista's classmates were stricken. When Scott walked past the mat room, he avoided Mixon's eyes, hunching over his new government-issued BlackBerry.
Mixon said, "I feel like I failed. I've given my all; she's given her all. In good conscience though, I would be attending her funeral next week."
Krista is back home in New Orleans now, running along the bayou, pushing the mandatory three-mile run to five, six, seven. She thinks she should have passed. "The only rule in fighting is to never quit. I never stopped fighting." She appealed the decision and is waiting to hear from headquarters. She says she'll do whatever it takes to become an agent.
Backstage, at the center's fake hotel, an instructor says: "One minute to showtime!"
"I need some Visine," says a recruit. "I drank too much last night."
They all line up: the chubbiest recruit, who lost 85 pounds to enlist; the homesick recruit, who never unpacked his suitcase; the grittiest recruit, who agonized in silence over his detached rib. Each had beat his weakness. Scott glances around, the doubt for once lifting from his dark brows. On their last day of training, Scott walked onto the outdoor range and plugged 24 out of 30 shots into the heart of a silhouette -- a class record, and a refutation of the claim that a seven-fingered man can't shoot.
Out in the audience, in the front row, Scott's father is beaming, holding two cameras in case one malfunctions. He flew in from California, a giant man, who says, "God help the person who comes up against Scott." And then all at once, he turns red, and lifts a thick thumb to wipe away his tears: "When we got that call at 3 a.m. from Iraq, it was very, very tough ... "
Mixon takes a seat in the back, behind the families watching the ceremony.
There is the speech: "You have completed 28 weeks of the most intensive training of any law enforcement agency in the world."
And the oath of office: "I do solemnly swear . . . so help me God."
Mixon leans forward, rubbing scarred knuckles, his gaze alighting on his pupils' open faces, his own expression different from that of the glowing parents, more knowing, a trace sad.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the special agents of Class 283!" Applause.
Mixon wanders into the crowd to say goodbye. The Tulsa cop's father exclaims, "I'm the happiest duck in the pond!"
"You got your badge!" Scott's father gushes. "You want me to hold it?"
Mixon pushes past a row of chairs to offer Scott his hand: "Congratulations."
"Yes, sir."
"Hey, cut this 'sir' [expletive] out."
Scott meets Mixon's eyes.
Mixon pulls back for a moment and then opens his arms, wrapping Scott in a hug. In a hurried, hidden gesture, Mixon lifts his mouth to Scott's ear. He whispers to the new Secret Service agent, "Stay safe."
Monday, July 13, 2009
UFC 100 Recap
I am a huge fan of the Ultimate Fighting Championship ("UFC"), and I really hope that I will be able to begin training mixed martial arts one day, but I have to get in substantially better shape to do that. In the meantime, I have taken a great deal of pleasure in watching the UFC grow from a sport that was on the verge of being banned and was derided as "human cockfighting" by Sen. John McCain (RINO-AZ) into a legitimate sport with a following of millions of fans worldwide and a pool of talent that grows deeper by the day. The UFC's explosive growth culminated in UFC 100, held in Las Vegas, NV, which featured a main card with a #1 contender match in the middleweight division between Michael Bisping and Dan Henderson, a title fight in the welterweight division between #1 contender Thiago "Pit Bill" Alves and Georges "Rush" St. Pierre, and a main event match-up for the heavyweight title between #1 contender/interim champion Frank Mir and Brock Lesnar. Here is my recap of the three main event fights:
1.) Dan Henderson 24-7 vs. Michael Bisping 18-1
These two fighters were coaches in the "Ultimate Fighter: U.S. vs. U.K." series on Spike. They could not stand each other, mostly because the British team sent 3 out of a potential 4 fighters to the season finale to fight for the UFC contract and Michael Bisping could not shut up about it. Maybe it was selective editing, but he came of as a smarmy, immature, cocky kid, while Henderson came off as the wily veteran biding his time until he could extract his revenge. In the UFC 100 countdown pre-show, I remember Henderson saying that he just let Bisping talk, and that he would "take it out of his a$$" at UFC 100.
The first round was mostly dancing and defense, but Henderson was controlling the tempo and landed the harder shots. After minimal action in the early part of the second round, Henderson uncorked a crushing right hand that knocked Michael Bisping out cold, and just for good measure, he added a vicious forearm to the face of Bisping after he was already unconscious on the mat but before the referee could step in. The blow was a little late, but not so late that it would draw a fine from the UFC or the scorn of the fans as a cheap shot, but the timing could only have been executed by a veteran of Henderson's stature. He should get a rematch with Anderson Silva later this year or early in 2010 based on this dominating win.
*************************************************************************************
2.) Georges St. Pierre 18-2 vs. Thiago Alves 22-4:
All 5 rounds of this match looked pretty much the same. St. Pierre had a big height, reach, and athleticism advantage, and it showed all night. Alves couldn't get inside St. Pierre's reach to hit him with his big power, and he spent most of his night getting badly battered on his back. This wasn't anywhere near as one-sided as the beating that St. Pierre laid on Jon Fitch a few months back, but it was still one-sided, and St. Pierre cruised to a unanimous decision.
What makes this domination even more impressive is the fact that St. Pierre apparently tore a groin or adductor muscle in the 3rd or 4th round, and yet he still managed to completely outclass one of the most vicious strikers in the game. This is an injury that frequently puts NFL players on injured reserve for the season or out of action for several weeks, but St. Pierre fought for 2 more rounds with that severe injury and won them both. One of the reasons I am such a big fan of the UFC is the class and respect shown by the fighters toward one another. I saw a story that said Thiago Alves came up to St. Pierre at a post-fight party in Vegas, told him congratulations on a great fight, and shared a few drinks with him. That is truly a great story, and this victory continues to cement GSP as one of the best in the fight game at any weight class and one of the most dominant champions of all time.
*************************************************************************************
3.) Brock Lesnar 3-1 vs. Frank Mir 12-3:
Back at UFC 81, Brock Lesnar made his UFC debut against former UFC champion and jiu-jitsu ace Frank Mir. After dominating Mir for nearly the entire 90 seconds the fight lasted, Mir caught Lesnar in a knee bar and forced him to tap out. That didn't sit well with Lesnar, a former NCAA wrestling champion who hates to lose. Lesnar rebounded from his loss to Mir with a unanimous decision destruction of Heath Herring, then he won the heavyweight title with a 2nd round TKO of Randy Couture. Mir earned his shot at Lesnar by dominating Antonio Minotauro Nogueira with a TKO, the first TKO loss of Nogueira's career.
The writing on the wall was pretty clear very early on in this fight. Lesnar took Mir down early in the fight, but unlike last time, he was much more patient and did not let Mir work his jiu-jitsu game. Toward the end of Round 1, he landed some very hard punches to the face, cutting and bruising Mir's face badly. At the start of Round 2, Mir seemed to understand that going back to the ground would probably cost him the fight, so he landed some good punches and a jumping knee to Lesnar's face, but Lesnar got the takedown when Mir came back down from the knee. Lesnar then pinned Mir against the cage and based his face in until the referee mercifully saved Mir, making Lesnar the undisputed UFC heavyweight champion.
Unfortunately, Lesnar made an a$$ out of himself after the fight in several ways, including getting up in the face of his injured and defeated opponent to talk trash. After that, Lesnar proceeded to bad-mouth Budweiser, one of the UFC's main sponsors, act like a WWE wrestling heel by screaming, spitting, and flipping off the cameras and/or the crowd, and most memorably, by telling the stunned crowd that he would "go home and get on top of his wife tonight". That was not one of the classier post-fight performances by a UFC fighter, and UFC President Dana White apparently agreed with my opinion, because he went into Lesnar's dressing room and read him the riot act. A much more contrite and humble Lesnar appeared at a press conference, where he apologized to the fans, to Budweiser, and to the UFC for his foolishness. I think that was the right thing to do, and I am excited to see how he does in the future, because he is a freak of nature athlete and a huge gate draw for the UFC. That said, my wife is thoroughly disgusted and wants him out of the sport forever, but I think that's because Frank Mir is one of her favorite UFC fighters and she was already mad because he lost...only time will tell if she softens up her hard mood toward Brock. :)
*************************************************************************************
All in all, this was a great card, and I would have loved to have been in Vegas to watch it personally, but that isn't possible without that little thing called a job. Anyhow, here's to another 100 successful pay-per-views for the UFC and many great fights to come!
1.) Dan Henderson 24-7 vs. Michael Bisping 18-1
These two fighters were coaches in the "Ultimate Fighter: U.S. vs. U.K." series on Spike. They could not stand each other, mostly because the British team sent 3 out of a potential 4 fighters to the season finale to fight for the UFC contract and Michael Bisping could not shut up about it. Maybe it was selective editing, but he came of as a smarmy, immature, cocky kid, while Henderson came off as the wily veteran biding his time until he could extract his revenge. In the UFC 100 countdown pre-show, I remember Henderson saying that he just let Bisping talk, and that he would "take it out of his a$$" at UFC 100.
The first round was mostly dancing and defense, but Henderson was controlling the tempo and landed the harder shots. After minimal action in the early part of the second round, Henderson uncorked a crushing right hand that knocked Michael Bisping out cold, and just for good measure, he added a vicious forearm to the face of Bisping after he was already unconscious on the mat but before the referee could step in. The blow was a little late, but not so late that it would draw a fine from the UFC or the scorn of the fans as a cheap shot, but the timing could only have been executed by a veteran of Henderson's stature. He should get a rematch with Anderson Silva later this year or early in 2010 based on this dominating win.
*************************************************************************************
2.) Georges St. Pierre 18-2 vs. Thiago Alves 22-4:
All 5 rounds of this match looked pretty much the same. St. Pierre had a big height, reach, and athleticism advantage, and it showed all night. Alves couldn't get inside St. Pierre's reach to hit him with his big power, and he spent most of his night getting badly battered on his back. This wasn't anywhere near as one-sided as the beating that St. Pierre laid on Jon Fitch a few months back, but it was still one-sided, and St. Pierre cruised to a unanimous decision.
What makes this domination even more impressive is the fact that St. Pierre apparently tore a groin or adductor muscle in the 3rd or 4th round, and yet he still managed to completely outclass one of the most vicious strikers in the game. This is an injury that frequently puts NFL players on injured reserve for the season or out of action for several weeks, but St. Pierre fought for 2 more rounds with that severe injury and won them both. One of the reasons I am such a big fan of the UFC is the class and respect shown by the fighters toward one another. I saw a story that said Thiago Alves came up to St. Pierre at a post-fight party in Vegas, told him congratulations on a great fight, and shared a few drinks with him. That is truly a great story, and this victory continues to cement GSP as one of the best in the fight game at any weight class and one of the most dominant champions of all time.
*************************************************************************************
3.) Brock Lesnar 3-1 vs. Frank Mir 12-3:
Back at UFC 81, Brock Lesnar made his UFC debut against former UFC champion and jiu-jitsu ace Frank Mir. After dominating Mir for nearly the entire 90 seconds the fight lasted, Mir caught Lesnar in a knee bar and forced him to tap out. That didn't sit well with Lesnar, a former NCAA wrestling champion who hates to lose. Lesnar rebounded from his loss to Mir with a unanimous decision destruction of Heath Herring, then he won the heavyweight title with a 2nd round TKO of Randy Couture. Mir earned his shot at Lesnar by dominating Antonio Minotauro Nogueira with a TKO, the first TKO loss of Nogueira's career.
The writing on the wall was pretty clear very early on in this fight. Lesnar took Mir down early in the fight, but unlike last time, he was much more patient and did not let Mir work his jiu-jitsu game. Toward the end of Round 1, he landed some very hard punches to the face, cutting and bruising Mir's face badly. At the start of Round 2, Mir seemed to understand that going back to the ground would probably cost him the fight, so he landed some good punches and a jumping knee to Lesnar's face, but Lesnar got the takedown when Mir came back down from the knee. Lesnar then pinned Mir against the cage and based his face in until the referee mercifully saved Mir, making Lesnar the undisputed UFC heavyweight champion.
Unfortunately, Lesnar made an a$$ out of himself after the fight in several ways, including getting up in the face of his injured and defeated opponent to talk trash. After that, Lesnar proceeded to bad-mouth Budweiser, one of the UFC's main sponsors, act like a WWE wrestling heel by screaming, spitting, and flipping off the cameras and/or the crowd, and most memorably, by telling the stunned crowd that he would "go home and get on top of his wife tonight". That was not one of the classier post-fight performances by a UFC fighter, and UFC President Dana White apparently agreed with my opinion, because he went into Lesnar's dressing room and read him the riot act. A much more contrite and humble Lesnar appeared at a press conference, where he apologized to the fans, to Budweiser, and to the UFC for his foolishness. I think that was the right thing to do, and I am excited to see how he does in the future, because he is a freak of nature athlete and a huge gate draw for the UFC. That said, my wife is thoroughly disgusted and wants him out of the sport forever, but I think that's because Frank Mir is one of her favorite UFC fighters and she was already mad because he lost...only time will tell if she softens up her hard mood toward Brock. :)
*************************************************************************************
All in all, this was a great card, and I would have loved to have been in Vegas to watch it personally, but that isn't possible without that little thing called a job. Anyhow, here's to another 100 successful pay-per-views for the UFC and many great fights to come!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Steve McNair, R.I.P. (1973-2009)
Over the 4th of July weekend, former Tennessee Titans quarterback Steve "Air" McNair was murdered in a condo he was renting with a friend in downtown Nashville. He was the murder portion of a murder-suicide carried out by a 20 year old woman originally from Florida with whom he had been carrying on a months-long affair. Worse still, in a nearly statistically impossible irony, McNair had taped a suicide prevention message in April of this year. Given that McNair's murderer committed suicide after killing him, Tennessee state officials have properly decided not to air that public service announcement.
Many columnists have written about the unfortunate circumstances surrounding McNair's death. Elizabeth Merrill of espn.com has written one of the more accurate, balanced articles about the dilemma of how people, especially in Nashville, are struggling with what to remember most about McNair...his play on the field, his charity off it, or the dark, sordid actions that led to his murder. The pastor at Mt. Zion Baptist Church in Nashville, presiding over McNair's memorial service, wisely reminded us all to "drop our stones" when we feel the urge to condemn Steve McNair for the sin and bad decisions that led to his life being ended so prematurely, as none of us are without sin. For social commentary, what this means to black men and society as a whole, you absolutely can't beat Jason Whitlock's column, entitled "Don't Be So Quick to Make McNair a Hero". I strongly recommend that you read the whole thing, but here's a taste of the best from Whitlock's article:
"We can quit calling Steve McNair a great leader now. Leadership starts at home. And I'm no longer all that interested in hearing about the community service work McNair did in Tennessee and Mississippi. Service to community begins at home, too. ...
Until the police wrap up their investigation, I'm only willing to acknowledge four victims — McNair's four sons. I don't know how to classify the adults in this saga — McNair, his wife Mechelle or his 20-year-old girlfriend, Sahel "Jenny" Kazemi. The kids, they're victims of two horrific crimes: 1. the murder of their father; 2. their father's apparent abandonment so that he had time to wine, dine, vacation and shack up with his jump-off. ...
What we do know is that McNair had four sons. And based on the observations and comments of Kazemi's neighbors and neighbors at the condominium McNair rented, McNair spent so much time with Kazemi over the past few months that people assumed they lived together.
You see, this is my problem with McNair, with American men as a whole.
We shirk our responsibilities as fathers. We don't have time for it. We think it's a part- or no-time job. We think our career is more important. We think charity work is more important. We think some young tail is more important.
We foolishly believe we're unnecessary in the rearing of children. This mindset must die. ...
I think it's ridiculous and embarrassing that he spent so much time chasing after a Nashville waitress that he created the impression he lived with her. Many have tried, but you can't maintain two homes, two families. If HBO has shown us anything, it's that kids are the losers when it comes to Big Love.
You can't live with a waitress in a condo/apartment, take her parasailing, clubbing, to Vegas and raise a brood of boys living in a home on the other side of town. Kids are game-changers. Kids require sacrifice. Kids are a daily and sometimes hourly responsibility. You don't properly raise them in your spare time with money, fame, gifts and glowing newspaper and magazine stories about your courage to play on Sundays despite injury and pain. Steve McNair sounds like a warrior who fought the wrong war. He won a public-relations battle.
Steve McNair was flawed in the same way as most American men.
Too many men think financial success is their primary and most important contribution to a relationship with their kids, wives and/or girlfriends. A grown woman has the right to settle for that. Children shouldn't have to settle for anything less than their father's very best effort."
Here is what I remember about Steve McNair. Tennessee had no football team until the late 1990's, and when they first got here, they played in Memphis, then at Vanderbilt's stadium until what is now L.P. Field was fully built and ready to be played in. I had followed the NFL all my life, and at different times, I liked different teams as a kid, from Jim McMahon and the '85 Super Bowl champion Bears, to John Elway and the back-to-back world champion Denver Broncos, to the Aikman-Irvin-Smith triumvirate and the three-time world champion Dallas Cowboys...but I never had a team of my own to follow until the Titans arrived. Steve McNair was our first quarterback, and much like a first love, true football fans never forget their first quarterback.
Steve McNair the football player was not so different than the man he was in the real world as we learned in the days after his death...talented, but flawed. McNair was co-MVP of the league in 2003 along with Peyton Manning, led the Titans to their only Super Bowl appearance, and single-handedly led the comeback in many games the Titans should have lost. On the other hand, for all his success throwing deep at Alcorn State back in college, he consistently threw one of the worst deep balls in the NFL, and he threw entirely too many interceptions. Also, later in his career when too many hits had sapped his mobility, his limitations operating as a pocket passer were badly exposes, especially in his last years with the Baltimore Ravens. Because of his limitations, both my father and I predicted that the Titans would not be able to win a Super Bowl with McNair as our quarterback, and unfortunately, we were right.
What I remember most about McNair was his toughness, his grit, and his willingness to play through pain. When I played college football at Middle Tennessee State University, there were many times I wanted to quit, but it was McNair's example (among others) that helped me to keep going. I once thought so much of McNair and his toughness, I briefly considered getting a tattoo on my arm that said "Mac-9", but as with every other fleeting notion I ever had of getting a tattoo, it went away (thank goodness). The moment I will never forget about McNair was the the look on his face after the Music City Miracle back in the 2000 playoffs...it was one of the biggest smiles I have ever seen, a look of absolute elation, and reminded me once again of why men play and watch football.
Much as with the death of Michael Jackson, I view Steve McNair's untimely death and his life leading up to that point as every bit the lawyer and Christian that I am...with eyes wide open, with a full appreciation for the off-the-field good and charity work he did, with admiration at the type of football player and leader he was, but with regret at all the good he still had left to do which will forever remain undone, with the knowledge that but for the grace of God that I as a man could end up in a similar situation, and with sadness at the tragedy being endured by his wife and children. Rest in Peace Air McNair, I hope you are flying with the angels and tossing footballs to Jesus and the NFL greats of ages past.
Many columnists have written about the unfortunate circumstances surrounding McNair's death. Elizabeth Merrill of espn.com has written one of the more accurate, balanced articles about the dilemma of how people, especially in Nashville, are struggling with what to remember most about McNair...his play on the field, his charity off it, or the dark, sordid actions that led to his murder. The pastor at Mt. Zion Baptist Church in Nashville, presiding over McNair's memorial service, wisely reminded us all to "drop our stones" when we feel the urge to condemn Steve McNair for the sin and bad decisions that led to his life being ended so prematurely, as none of us are without sin. For social commentary, what this means to black men and society as a whole, you absolutely can't beat Jason Whitlock's column, entitled "Don't Be So Quick to Make McNair a Hero". I strongly recommend that you read the whole thing, but here's a taste of the best from Whitlock's article:
"We can quit calling Steve McNair a great leader now. Leadership starts at home. And I'm no longer all that interested in hearing about the community service work McNair did in Tennessee and Mississippi. Service to community begins at home, too. ...
Until the police wrap up their investigation, I'm only willing to acknowledge four victims — McNair's four sons. I don't know how to classify the adults in this saga — McNair, his wife Mechelle or his 20-year-old girlfriend, Sahel "Jenny" Kazemi. The kids, they're victims of two horrific crimes: 1. the murder of their father; 2. their father's apparent abandonment so that he had time to wine, dine, vacation and shack up with his jump-off. ...
What we do know is that McNair had four sons. And based on the observations and comments of Kazemi's neighbors and neighbors at the condominium McNair rented, McNair spent so much time with Kazemi over the past few months that people assumed they lived together.
You see, this is my problem with McNair, with American men as a whole.
We shirk our responsibilities as fathers. We don't have time for it. We think it's a part- or no-time job. We think our career is more important. We think charity work is more important. We think some young tail is more important.
We foolishly believe we're unnecessary in the rearing of children. This mindset must die. ...
I think it's ridiculous and embarrassing that he spent so much time chasing after a Nashville waitress that he created the impression he lived with her. Many have tried, but you can't maintain two homes, two families. If HBO has shown us anything, it's that kids are the losers when it comes to Big Love.
You can't live with a waitress in a condo/apartment, take her parasailing, clubbing, to Vegas and raise a brood of boys living in a home on the other side of town. Kids are game-changers. Kids require sacrifice. Kids are a daily and sometimes hourly responsibility. You don't properly raise them in your spare time with money, fame, gifts and glowing newspaper and magazine stories about your courage to play on Sundays despite injury and pain. Steve McNair sounds like a warrior who fought the wrong war. He won a public-relations battle.
Steve McNair was flawed in the same way as most American men.
Too many men think financial success is their primary and most important contribution to a relationship with their kids, wives and/or girlfriends. A grown woman has the right to settle for that. Children shouldn't have to settle for anything less than their father's very best effort."
Here is what I remember about Steve McNair. Tennessee had no football team until the late 1990's, and when they first got here, they played in Memphis, then at Vanderbilt's stadium until what is now L.P. Field was fully built and ready to be played in. I had followed the NFL all my life, and at different times, I liked different teams as a kid, from Jim McMahon and the '85 Super Bowl champion Bears, to John Elway and the back-to-back world champion Denver Broncos, to the Aikman-Irvin-Smith triumvirate and the three-time world champion Dallas Cowboys...but I never had a team of my own to follow until the Titans arrived. Steve McNair was our first quarterback, and much like a first love, true football fans never forget their first quarterback.
Steve McNair the football player was not so different than the man he was in the real world as we learned in the days after his death...talented, but flawed. McNair was co-MVP of the league in 2003 along with Peyton Manning, led the Titans to their only Super Bowl appearance, and single-handedly led the comeback in many games the Titans should have lost. On the other hand, for all his success throwing deep at Alcorn State back in college, he consistently threw one of the worst deep balls in the NFL, and he threw entirely too many interceptions. Also, later in his career when too many hits had sapped his mobility, his limitations operating as a pocket passer were badly exposes, especially in his last years with the Baltimore Ravens. Because of his limitations, both my father and I predicted that the Titans would not be able to win a Super Bowl with McNair as our quarterback, and unfortunately, we were right.
What I remember most about McNair was his toughness, his grit, and his willingness to play through pain. When I played college football at Middle Tennessee State University, there were many times I wanted to quit, but it was McNair's example (among others) that helped me to keep going. I once thought so much of McNair and his toughness, I briefly considered getting a tattoo on my arm that said "Mac-9", but as with every other fleeting notion I ever had of getting a tattoo, it went away (thank goodness). The moment I will never forget about McNair was the the look on his face after the Music City Miracle back in the 2000 playoffs...it was one of the biggest smiles I have ever seen, a look of absolute elation, and reminded me once again of why men play and watch football.
Much as with the death of Michael Jackson, I view Steve McNair's untimely death and his life leading up to that point as every bit the lawyer and Christian that I am...with eyes wide open, with a full appreciation for the off-the-field good and charity work he did, with admiration at the type of football player and leader he was, but with regret at all the good he still had left to do which will forever remain undone, with the knowledge that but for the grace of God that I as a man could end up in a similar situation, and with sadness at the tragedy being endured by his wife and children. Rest in Peace Air McNair, I hope you are flying with the angels and tossing footballs to Jesus and the NFL greats of ages past.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Holiday World Vacation
Before I got married, I always thought that my wife and I would take a great big vacation to celebrate our first wedding anniversary, which would be October 4 of this year, only 3 months from now. Having been out of work for several months now with very few prospects of immediate re-employment, that obviously wasn't going to happen. Even so, Althea and I wanted to take some kind of vacation, even if it was smaller than we wanted it to be and more of a family vacation (Althea, her daughter Gracie, and I, and Althea's sister Claudia and her daughter Shanice all went on the trip) than a just the two of us vacation. We decided to take a 4th of July weekend vacation to Holiday World in Santa Claus, IN, and we stayed at the Jasper Inn and Convention Center in Jasper, IN.
The first thing I noticed about the trip up to Indiana is how long the drive was. After we got past the area of I-65 North in Tennessee and a few exits in Kentucky with only gas stations and hotels next to them, we got onto a rural highway that seemed to go on forever. At least we were able to drive 70 MPH for the majority of the trip, but the last hour or so of the drive to the hotel was on even smaller, rural back roads where the maximum speed was 55 MPH. Also, we found out the next day that Jasper is a good 45 minute drive from Holiday World, which is in Santa Claus, and that fact isn't exactly advertised prominently on the hotel website.
The Jasper Inn and Convention Center is a relatively nice hotel, but there just isn't very much around it at all. Besides a few chain restaurants, a couple of strip malls, a courthouse, and the other things you see in a very small town, there isn't anything to do except go to the hotel. We ate at the McDonald's next to the hotel, then we went and checked in. Unfortunately, we got to the hotel in the evening, and they had already shut down the pool, the jacuzzi, and the restaurants run by the hotel, which kept us from enjoying the main things about the hotel that led me to choose it in the first place. The room itself was pretty ordinary, and breakfast the next morning was OK. The hotel served its purpose, but I certainly wasn't blown away or anything.
The next morning, we drove to the park itself, and when I say this park is in the middle of nowhere, I mean it. One minute, we were driving through woods, grass, and trees, and the next minute, we were in the car line at the park. Parking was fine and plentiful, and we didn't have to walk miles and miles to the park. I also liked the fact that the park offered unlimited free soft drinks and Gatorade the entire day. It keeps everyone hydrated and healthy without making them so broke they can't afford to eat anything.
The roller coasters were fun and the lines weren't too bad, but I've been on much higher and faster roller coasters before. When it comes to roller coasters, for me, the coaster is more fun the higher and faster it is and the more loops it has. Still, given the rural location of the park and the big family focus of the park, I got about the medium-level height and speed on the rides I expected. As far as specific rides, The Legend was very fast, but it jerked me around so hard on wooden tracks (which are already jerkier than metal coaster tracks) I thought my ribs might break. Fortunately, my ribs didn't break, and I was able to get off the ride in one piece. The water park was an entirely different story. The lines for the water rides were ridiculously long, it took forever to walk anywhere, and they charged for using lockers. At least they provided free sunscreen to prevent sunburns.
Overall, I'd give the park a B+, the hotel a C (for closing down the best things about the hotel so early), and the drive a D (because it was so long an relatively uninteresting. Even so, the trip as a whole was fun, and I was glad to spend some time with Althea and the rest of the family, and I am glad we got to have some kind of vacation this year rather than none at all.
The first thing I noticed about the trip up to Indiana is how long the drive was. After we got past the area of I-65 North in Tennessee and a few exits in Kentucky with only gas stations and hotels next to them, we got onto a rural highway that seemed to go on forever. At least we were able to drive 70 MPH for the majority of the trip, but the last hour or so of the drive to the hotel was on even smaller, rural back roads where the maximum speed was 55 MPH. Also, we found out the next day that Jasper is a good 45 minute drive from Holiday World, which is in Santa Claus, and that fact isn't exactly advertised prominently on the hotel website.
The Jasper Inn and Convention Center is a relatively nice hotel, but there just isn't very much around it at all. Besides a few chain restaurants, a couple of strip malls, a courthouse, and the other things you see in a very small town, there isn't anything to do except go to the hotel. We ate at the McDonald's next to the hotel, then we went and checked in. Unfortunately, we got to the hotel in the evening, and they had already shut down the pool, the jacuzzi, and the restaurants run by the hotel, which kept us from enjoying the main things about the hotel that led me to choose it in the first place. The room itself was pretty ordinary, and breakfast the next morning was OK. The hotel served its purpose, but I certainly wasn't blown away or anything.
The next morning, we drove to the park itself, and when I say this park is in the middle of nowhere, I mean it. One minute, we were driving through woods, grass, and trees, and the next minute, we were in the car line at the park. Parking was fine and plentiful, and we didn't have to walk miles and miles to the park. I also liked the fact that the park offered unlimited free soft drinks and Gatorade the entire day. It keeps everyone hydrated and healthy without making them so broke they can't afford to eat anything.
The roller coasters were fun and the lines weren't too bad, but I've been on much higher and faster roller coasters before. When it comes to roller coasters, for me, the coaster is more fun the higher and faster it is and the more loops it has. Still, given the rural location of the park and the big family focus of the park, I got about the medium-level height and speed on the rides I expected. As far as specific rides, The Legend was very fast, but it jerked me around so hard on wooden tracks (which are already jerkier than metal coaster tracks) I thought my ribs might break. Fortunately, my ribs didn't break, and I was able to get off the ride in one piece. The water park was an entirely different story. The lines for the water rides were ridiculously long, it took forever to walk anywhere, and they charged for using lockers. At least they provided free sunscreen to prevent sunburns.
Overall, I'd give the park a B+, the hotel a C (for closing down the best things about the hotel so early), and the drive a D (because it was so long an relatively uninteresting. Even so, the trip as a whole was fun, and I was glad to spend some time with Althea and the rest of the family, and I am glad we got to have some kind of vacation this year rather than none at all.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Michael Jackson, R.I.P.
Earlier this week, Michael Jackson, known as the "King of Pop", died at the age of 50 from what appears to be heart failure due to an overdose of a sleep-inducing drug. I have somewhat mixed feelings about this, so I will try to be as fair as I can to this deceased superstar.
First, given his childhood and background, there is little chance that he could have grown up to be anything other than a troubled, disturbed man. He was driven mercilessly to great success at a very young age, he was beaten and abused constantly by his father, and he became so famous that he literally could not go anywhere without being mobbed to the point of nearly inciting a riot. That may not sound like much in the cell phone, internet, and paparazzi age, but Michael Jackson was suffocating under the glare of the media and the crush of his fans 15 years before the 24 hour news cycle. He was easily the most famous musician since Elvis Presley, and there may never be another performer and entertainer like him.
There can be no doubt that Michael suffered from self-esteem issues (see his numerous plastic surgeries), racial identity issues (see his constant skin lightening), stunted emotional growth (see his preference for hanging around children as opposed to grown ups well into his adulthood), sexuality issues (see his farce of a marriage to Lisa Marie Presley), and medical issues (see his constant self-medication and addiction to prescription drugs, which ultimately appears to have killed him), among many other things. It is nothing short of a miracle that he became, by all accounts, a good father to his 3 children, and that he was able to successfully shield them from the intense media glare that caused him to wilt and suffer so badly throughout his life.
Musically, there was no one like him. He was to pop music what Elvis Presley was to rock and roll. I remember songs like "Thriller", "Bad", "Billie Jean", "Man in the Mirror", and "Smooth Criminal" vividly and fondly from my own childhood. Perhaps my favorite Michael Jackson song of all time was "Beat It". To this day, I remember the surge in my young blood the first time I heard the distinct sound of Eddie Van Halen ripping those now immortal guitar chords into the chorus of "Beat It", and I still enjoy playing that song on "Guitar Hero" on Nintendo Wii way more than I should. Everyone from early rap artists to Chris Brown to Justin Timberlake and a hundred other artists most people recognize were influenced by him musically, lyrically, and in their style of dancing.
Unfortunately, no memorial post about Michael Jackson would be complete without mentioning his two child molestation cases. In 1993, a 13 year old boy came forward with allegations that Jackson had molested him repeatedly. Despite a thorough criminal investigation, no criminal charges were ever brought against Jackson. However, in order to avoid a civil trial, Michael Jackson's insurance carrier agreed to a settlement of over $20 million dollars against Michael's wishes. Because this case was settled prior to trial, there was never a finding that Michael Jackson molested this child, but paying out an 8 figure settlement in a case where nothing supposedly happened doesn't look entirely innocent either. Later, in 2005, Michael was criminally charged with child molestation in California. After a trial where the accuser's family turned out to be shady criminals and the accuser's testimony appeared inconsistent, Michael was found not guilty on all charges.
Here is my final take on Michael Jackson: 1.) He was a once in a lifetime talent, who dies entirely too soon, and I thoroughly enjoyed his music; 2.) He seemed to be a wonderful father, and his children loved him very much; 3.) He had an entire encyclopedia worth of personal problems that most of us could never even begin to understand, some of which manifested themselves in odd, dangerous, and self-destructive behavior; 4.) As Glenn Beck said on his radio show, no one truly knows what did or didn't happen with those children except Michael Jackson and God, and the only way we will know if he did anything bad to those kids is when we get to heaven and see Michael there or if we (God forbid) get to hell and see Michael there.
As a lawyer, the system in which I work and believe found him innocent of criminal charges, and he paid a settlement to settle a heavily disputed civil claim, so I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt about his guilt or innocence and let God sort it out. In closing, I guess I would say that Michael Jackson is finally at peace...no more leeches sucking him dry, no more physical pain, no more mental and emotional distress, and no more of anything that hurt him while he was alive. I truly hope his soul is in heaven right now, and that he is teaching some angels how to moonwalk as we speak. Rest in Peace Michael Jackson, we will miss you.
First, given his childhood and background, there is little chance that he could have grown up to be anything other than a troubled, disturbed man. He was driven mercilessly to great success at a very young age, he was beaten and abused constantly by his father, and he became so famous that he literally could not go anywhere without being mobbed to the point of nearly inciting a riot. That may not sound like much in the cell phone, internet, and paparazzi age, but Michael Jackson was suffocating under the glare of the media and the crush of his fans 15 years before the 24 hour news cycle. He was easily the most famous musician since Elvis Presley, and there may never be another performer and entertainer like him.
There can be no doubt that Michael suffered from self-esteem issues (see his numerous plastic surgeries), racial identity issues (see his constant skin lightening), stunted emotional growth (see his preference for hanging around children as opposed to grown ups well into his adulthood), sexuality issues (see his farce of a marriage to Lisa Marie Presley), and medical issues (see his constant self-medication and addiction to prescription drugs, which ultimately appears to have killed him), among many other things. It is nothing short of a miracle that he became, by all accounts, a good father to his 3 children, and that he was able to successfully shield them from the intense media glare that caused him to wilt and suffer so badly throughout his life.
Musically, there was no one like him. He was to pop music what Elvis Presley was to rock and roll. I remember songs like "Thriller", "Bad", "Billie Jean", "Man in the Mirror", and "Smooth Criminal" vividly and fondly from my own childhood. Perhaps my favorite Michael Jackson song of all time was "Beat It". To this day, I remember the surge in my young blood the first time I heard the distinct sound of Eddie Van Halen ripping those now immortal guitar chords into the chorus of "Beat It", and I still enjoy playing that song on "Guitar Hero" on Nintendo Wii way more than I should. Everyone from early rap artists to Chris Brown to Justin Timberlake and a hundred other artists most people recognize were influenced by him musically, lyrically, and in their style of dancing.
Unfortunately, no memorial post about Michael Jackson would be complete without mentioning his two child molestation cases. In 1993, a 13 year old boy came forward with allegations that Jackson had molested him repeatedly. Despite a thorough criminal investigation, no criminal charges were ever brought against Jackson. However, in order to avoid a civil trial, Michael Jackson's insurance carrier agreed to a settlement of over $20 million dollars against Michael's wishes. Because this case was settled prior to trial, there was never a finding that Michael Jackson molested this child, but paying out an 8 figure settlement in a case where nothing supposedly happened doesn't look entirely innocent either. Later, in 2005, Michael was criminally charged with child molestation in California. After a trial where the accuser's family turned out to be shady criminals and the accuser's testimony appeared inconsistent, Michael was found not guilty on all charges.
Here is my final take on Michael Jackson: 1.) He was a once in a lifetime talent, who dies entirely too soon, and I thoroughly enjoyed his music; 2.) He seemed to be a wonderful father, and his children loved him very much; 3.) He had an entire encyclopedia worth of personal problems that most of us could never even begin to understand, some of which manifested themselves in odd, dangerous, and self-destructive behavior; 4.) As Glenn Beck said on his radio show, no one truly knows what did or didn't happen with those children except Michael Jackson and God, and the only way we will know if he did anything bad to those kids is when we get to heaven and see Michael there or if we (God forbid) get to hell and see Michael there.
As a lawyer, the system in which I work and believe found him innocent of criminal charges, and he paid a settlement to settle a heavily disputed civil claim, so I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt about his guilt or innocence and let God sort it out. In closing, I guess I would say that Michael Jackson is finally at peace...no more leeches sucking him dry, no more physical pain, no more mental and emotional distress, and no more of anything that hurt him while he was alive. I truly hope his soul is in heaven right now, and that he is teaching some angels how to moonwalk as we speak. Rest in Peace Michael Jackson, we will miss you.
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