The One Percent

I went to The Game yesterday. You know, the Army-Navy game kicked ass yesterday. Cold, cold, cold, but kick-ass.

The storied rivalry is usually played in the City of Brotherly Love, that being a major venue about half-way between West Point and Annapolis. That makes it a little out of the way to go, being on the dreaded I-95 corridor from the District.

The train is how some people do it, or by charter bus, but that is a little more time than I am willing to invest, since I have a pretty strong loyalty to my Service, but considerably less so to that of the Academy that has traditionally formed the backbone of its officer corps.

My habit has been to go over to the Army-Navy Country Club and watch it on the big screen in the member’s grill. They put out a free buffet at half time, and it is fun to see the alumni of the two schools go crazy.

The West Point crowd has actually been going crazy for the last nine years, since the Midshipmen have beaten them each and every one of those years. I know what that is like. Losing to Ohio State for six years seemed like an eternity.

This year, though, it looked like the Mids were faltering, and were coming in with their first losing regular season record since 2002, and it might be the best chance in a decade for the Black Knights of the Hudson to gain bragging rights.

Never mind the Air Force. They can have the Commander-in-Chief’s trophy. This is the game that counts.

Jiggs was responsible for this one. Jiggs was class of ’68, and one of the officers who went off to minesweepers off the coast of South Vietnam when there was such a thing. I went to college, you know, rather than Trade School, which accounts for a general ambivalence. “Canoe U,” was one of the nick-names Annapolis had, and there are plenty more. There was always a little twinge of resentment for how the Academy guys got ahead, but like everything else in this world, that has diminished over time.

Plus, my Dad Raven was Navy, and I was, and my son is, so what the hell. Jiggs had some nose-bleed tickets in the upper reaches of FedEx Field out in Laurel, Maryland, and bus tickets, and passes for the tailgate tent, and he got better seats down on the lower level.

He called me up to see if I would be interested in attending.

“Hell, yeah,” I said. “I have never been to one, and it has always been on the Bucket List.”

“I have not been to one since 1968, and I swore I would never go back. But having the game here in DC is too good to pass up.”

So, that is how we found ourselves out in front of the Crystal City Sports Pub, waiting on the two shiny buses from the Reston that would take us across the District and to the tailgate tent in the sprawling parking lots that surround FedEx Field.

We saw some unusual sites along the way- the driver knew a way to snake around the husk of old RFK Stadium, looking forlorn with the logo of DC United, the soccer franchise that is trying to make it in a country that mostly could care less. I made a note to go back along the route we followed- it looked like some of the Civil War forts are still in tangled trees that have grown up on the old earthworks.

Fort Chaplin was intriguing- and I had passed this way only once before, looking at the Boundary Stones of the northeast quadrant of the District diamond.

The buses deposited us about a half -mile from the white tent where the tailgate was going on. We about froze our butts off on that part of the hike. The tall ramparts of the Stadium were another mile away, almost, and the tailgate tent had a vague resemblance to the roofline of Denver International Airport and seemed to be just as distant.

Did I mention it was cold? The breeze seemed to cut through my old heavy-weight Nomex flight jacket with the stupid squadron and air wing patches on it. Chill or not, it was a good decision to wear, since I had already met several shipmates, who came up to comment on units that no longer exist, and ships that no longer float.

Jiggs had us covered, and a remarkably pert volunteer from the Academy Alumni Association checked us off and handed us colorful wrist-bands to signify that we were paid, and the drinks and the food- all you could down of both- were complementary.

I decided I liked the bloody marys, after about four of them, and started to get jazzed, whether or not I actually attended the Academy. Curiously, there were dozens of West Pointers and active duty Army in the tent, a display of joint service affinity that I think years ago would have been unthinkable.

It is not exactly that there is an outpouring of affection between us- and I found myself thinking “us” in a personal way- but that we have so much more in common than we have with the vast majority of our fellow citizens.

“When do they march on?” I asked. I have no feel for the nuance.

“Already there,” said Jiggs. “but I hear the President is going to be there, so we may as well go and get in line for the enhanced security screen.” I nodded, and downed the last of my drink, and off we trooped.

I knew this was going to be a challenge as the wind knifed through me. I hoped the bulkhead of the upper reaches of the stadium would cut the breeze. Otherwise, I was going to be a chilly puppy.

The crowd was great, and the stadium, freezing or not, was packed. Almost everyone was wearing the colors of one of the teams, and old and young, it was very much a family affair.

Peering down at the field far below, I realized that I had a better idea what was going on from the Jumbotron in the end zone than actually looking at the field.

The President’s motorcade passed us, lights flashing, as we waited the pat-down to get into the stadium. Jiggs headed for his better seats, and once through the irritating security (all the crap in my pockets piled into my Guantanamo Bay ballcap with the scrambled eggs on the visor) I rode the endless escalators up to the heavens.

The clarity that went along with the arctic air mass made the panorama of the capital an impressive thing.

I was amazed at how much higher the seats were from the entrance ramps. The good news was that when the four FA-18 Super Hornets roared across the stadium I thought I could reach out and touch them, and was pleased that the Army came up with four Apache attack helicopters to make another aerial statement.

It was just like a flyover. Only slower.

The President did a nice job with the coin-toss, interestingly (or not) performed with a coin engraved with the likeness of President Reagan in honor of his hundredth birthday.

I won’t bore you with the details of the game. These are no longer exemplars of the best college football teams in the land as they once were. They are very talented, in their way, but hardly powerhouses and more akin to Division II teams than the Penn States of the world.

Of course, it is inconceivable that anything like what happened in Happy Valley could happen at West Point or Annapolis. As I shivered high in the Upper Level seats, it occurred to me that this stadium contained a whole different sort of America. Poli-racial, determined, increasingly bi-gender in composition, self-reliant and loyal.

Anyway, it was a decent game, played close, and the Black Knights were in it right up to the end. The President seemed to sense that, and came down from the luxury box to sit with the Cadets in the student section of the end zone seats.
I didn’t mind.

Navy managed to do the right thing, and it is pretty impressive to have beaten your biggest rival in the world ten straight years.

Walking away, I passed a couple Cadets in their long gray coats with gray shawls across their shoulders. I thanked them for their service as I passed.

Then it occurred to me. The numbers. This stadium on this day was the real one percent. Less than that, really, like the millionaires and billionaires the Occupy Wall Street yammers about all the time.

It is no wonder I couldn’t work up any animosity to the Cadets- crap, the services (along with our Zoomie and Coastie brethren) are the only ones with any skin in the game. And back-off, Gyrines, there were plenty of you there in the crowd with the Department of the Navy, even if it is irritating.

This one percent of the population is not clipping stock coupons or not sitting on their fat asses occupying things and demanding more free stuff. It is a little disconcerting, you know? I decided to shout it out as I headed toward the parking lot.

“We ARE the one percent!” I yelled. “The ones who went!” No one looked back with any curiosity at all. They already knew.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com