MUSICIAN, MARINE, FRIEND
Scott “Scooter” Brown and Chris share a laugh during a hunting trip. Their friendship was a song— literally—as they collaborated on a tune Scooter included on a recent album.
I met Chris for the first time at Base Camp 40—Warriors in the Wild, an organization that takes combat veterans on elk hunts in western Colorado. A mutual friend, Base Camp 40 director Paul Bristol, introduced us on the mountain. Our first conversation went like this:
“Scott Brown? I heard there was some jarhead up here that thinks he can sing,” said Chris.
“Yup. I heard there was some squid up here that thought he could write books. I hope you brought some in case we need to start a fire.”
“I think we’re gonna be friends,” said Chris, laughing.
I am a U.S. Marine. I served in Iraq in 2003. Now I’m the lead singer of the Scooter Brown Band. When I met Chris, we discovered that we had a lot in common besides serving the country we love. We talked family, kids, music, baseball, rodeo, and hunting. When we met, I hadn’t read his book and honestly didn’t really know much about him. After reading American Sniper, I realized we were in Nasiriyah, Iraq, around the same time in 2003.
Two nights in a row the weekend we were at Base Camp 40, we came down from the mountain to hang out at a little bar in Grand Junction. Both nights we somehow found ourselves in some minor scraps. It seemed like guys just had something to prove and gravitated toward us.
One guy looked like he was gonna hit us with a beer bottle. Chris looked at him and said, “You always hold a beer bottle like you’re gonna break it over somebody’s head?” While the man was trying to formulate an answer, the bouncer came over to calm things down. He proceeded to tell out antagonists they were trying to start a fight with a Marine and a Navy SEAL, then explained who Chris was. They lost some color in their skin tone and kissed our asses for the rest of the night. It was pretty damn funny to witness.
For some reason, the bar owner thought we were a couple of big shots with lots of money and started talking to us about buying his bar. We’d been putting back some Coors Light, so we entertained the conversation for our own amusement, knowing damn well we couldn’t buy any bar.
I turned to Chris and said, “So, what are we gonna name our bar?” We tossed around a bunch of joke names, coming up with the crudest names we could think of.
Then Chris got quiet. “Valor,” he said. “We should name it valor. To pay respects to everyone who’s fought and sacrificed for our country. No matter if you got a medal for it or not, we all fought with valor.”
It stuck with me.
Back in Texas, we continued our friendship. As a songwriter, the word “valor” kept running through my head. I told Chris I was gonna write a song about it and tossed some ideas around with him. Once the song was finished, Chris said he didn’t want any credit for helping to write it. That was typical Chris Kyle style. I told him to go fly a kite.
I only got to play it for him twice. Once while visiting him and Taya, and once at his memorial service at Cowboys Stadium in Arlington, Texas. It was the most honorable thing I’ve ever been asked to do—and one that I wish I never had to do.
I can honestly say that Chris has had a huge impact on my life. I love everything he stood for, his love for his amazing family, his love for his fellow brothers in arms, and his will to want to give back and help others.
Was Chris a hero to me? Yes. Not just because of his military service but because he was a great father, husband, family man, and friend. It was an honor to call Chris a friend.
Semper fidelis, brother.