Fifty Stars and Thirteen Stripes
Wearing a Team USA uniform with a large American flag patch on my sleeve, I stood tall at one end of the now serene competition pool. Only a few moments earlier, that same pool had been so alive—so energized—by the finals race and the excited crowd. That same crowd now watched as a delegate from the International Paralympic Committee approached and beckoned me to bow.
The woman slid a large gold medal around my neck and placed a bouquet of flowers in my left hand while shaking my right. She offered her congratulations, and I emphatically thanked her, not making any effort to hide my now-beaming smile.
In front of my family, friends, and eighteen thousand other fans, I proudly threw my hands in the air in a “V,” just as I had on the mound at Tropicana Field. The cheers of the crowd were as loud as they had been all night. I smiled even wider, becoming giddy from a flow of emotion and elation that I had only experienced once before: one year ago to the day, when I thought I was about to be reunited with my departed family members and friends in the afterlife.
I smiled, waved, smiled again, and waved again. The moment seemed to stretch on forever, even if it was only a few minutes. During those few minutes, though, the world, my family, and my community were all saying that they were proud of me, which was all I could have ever hoped for.
The moment came to an abrupt end, however, and the cheering crowd quieted as the sounds of an orchestra filled the arena, heralding the first notes of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” I popped to attention, just as I had been taught to do as a young plebe at the US Naval Academy.
As the notes of the anthem played, I was transported back to Dive School, where on the side of a different pool, we put down our SCUBA tanks and fins for a moment while we rendered honors to our country’s sacred flag. Afterward, Tyler would lead our class in a booming, “HOOYAH AMERICA” that would echo across the Dive School compound.
As I stood on the podium, I saw Tyler’s face—smiling and laughing heartily—which was so powerful that the image will stick with me for the rest of my life. I remembered that same picture projected on a screen during a slideshow at his wake, as hundreds came to pay their respects to Tyler’s flag-draped casket. Tyler was such an amazing person and courageous warrior, and he had taught me the power of an incessant positive attitude, and how to look for the good in every person, situation, and circumstance.
I saw Tara’s face flash briefly in my mind, and I thought of all the wonderful moments we shared, whether at the Naval Academy, on our getaways, or on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay. I flinched slightly as I was reminded of her suicide and how much I missed her, but it also reminded me how her death had taught me to never take a friendship—or any interaction with another person—for granted.
In Tara’s absence, I resolved to wholly invest myself in each of my interpersonal relationships, and to try as hard as I could to be a source of positivity for everyone. I hadn’t been able to help Tara, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t help others. A tear formed at the corner of my eye, but despite the pain of this memory, I was comforted to know that Tara was with me, in some way or another, during this great moment.
My mental gaze drifted to that beautiful, final sunrise amongst the harsh mountains and fertile valleys of Afghanistan. I then remembered laying in the fetal position, staring at little blades of grass as my vision faded away forever. I thought about waiting for my hero—Grandpa Lindsey—to come and take me away for eternity.
I remembered Evan and Leo calling to me, bringing me back to reality, and then helping me to a helicopter. I thought about the pilot and flight crew, all of whom put themselves at great risk to land in a hostile area and transport me to a hospital to receive life-saving medical care. I remembered subsequently being told that it took over twelve hours for a surgeon to put my face back together at the hospital in Kandahar. The surgeon and her entire staff had poured every bit of their hearts into repairing my damaged body.
I remembered being told that I was flown to Germany, where another surgeon and his staff spent hours upon hours putting me back together. Without all of those doctors, surgeons, and nurses, I never would have made it anywhere close to a gold medal podium in England.
I thought of my mom, who had gotten the dreaded phone call about my injury at 5:30 in the morning. The voice on the other end of the phone had informed her that her son had stepped on an IED, and had suffered major wounds to his head and face.
I thought of my brother Mitch, who wrapped his arms around her, and comforted our mom when her entire world was instantly shattered. I thought of my brother Russ, who had shown me what it meant to love someone unconditionally while we were in the hospital in Maryland. I thought of my sister Elyse, who had embraced the broken down, ugly version of Brad, which allowed me to shed expectations and rebuild my self-image.
I thought of my dad and how he had taught me to pursue excellence in everything, and shown me what it meant to be a man of character. I hoped that wherever he was, he was able to witness this moment, and that he would be proud of me.
I thought of my hometown friends and supporters in Florida, who had surrounded me and my family with love and support during our time of adversity. I thought of Lindsay, Jenny, and Fred Lewis, who had offered me the opportunity to show myself and others that blindness wouldn’t become an obstacle.
I thought of Rich Cardillo, who had pushed me to consider the Paralympics, and Fred Lambeck, who had initially shown me how. I thought of Guy and Anne Meree, who had presented me with such a golden opportunity, and who had introduced me to my coach, Brian. I thought of Les, who dropped me off for practice every day that summer, then drove us to work afterward. I thought of that crazy morning when Brian and I first realized that I would have the chance to compete for a gold medal on the anniversary of my vision loss. I thought of Brian’s excited shouts of “YOU WON!” when the story finally came true.
As trumpets and horns sounded, I thought of a painting I had previously seen of the American flag waving gently in the night sky, which was illuminated by exploding enemy shells during the War of 1812. I thought of the historic Baltimore Harbor, where Francis Scott Key had been inspired to write the “Star-Spangled Banner” while witnessing the very image reflected in the painting, and how moving there had changed my life.
As our flag was hoisted higher than any other in that swimming arena, I came to understand that its fifty stars and thirteen stripes represented so much more than states and colonies. They represented the power of a community. I thought about all those people who had loved me, supported me, taught me, and shared their lives with me, and realized everything that had happened that day was the result of a community’s efforts. I would never have made it there if any one of the links in that long chain had not been strong.
My success that day—and the gold medal itself—was not the result of anything I had done as an individual, but as a part of a much wider community. In that moment, I came to understand that individuals never accomplish anything truly great. When communities leverage their cumulative efforts towards a cohesive goal—that is when true greatness can be achieved. The gold medal hanging around my neck belonged to my family, my community, and most of all, my country.
ON NOVEMBER 1, 2013, a group of my closest friends and family gathered in historic Memorial Hall in Annapolis. In that same hall, I had been sworn into service by my uncle, Chuck Allen, in 2002. Later, I served restriction in that hall as punishment for being a lazy midshipman. It was also inside Memorial Hall where I had first stared at the miniature John Ripley and up at Oliver Hazard Perry’s battle flag, and resolved to be a leader of character and to serve in combat.
Nearly a decade later, my family gathered to help me bring that short legacy to a close, as I was about to retire from naval service. At some point between my injury and the fall of 2013, and to this day I am unclear as to how, the administrative separation process that had been initiated by the Navy as a result of my DUI was dropped. This allowed me to instead medically retire with honors, for which I will always be grateful. The brawny EOD warfare officer that had sat across from me during that selection interview so many years ago, now a two-star admiral, proceeded to pin one last piece of flare onto my uniform before guiding me to a podium.
For my family and the civilians in the room, I shared some of the history that makes Memorial Hall so special, and more specifically, why it is so special to me. The small crowd erupted in laughter as I recalled the “two left shoes” incident, and then listened intently as I recalled being on that southern Afghanistan mountaintop with Sarge on the night that Osama bin Laden was killed. I reflected on how in that moment, I truly understood and felt connected to my purpose, which was to serve.
I reflected on the journey that had gotten me to that point, beginning in Weeki Wachee Springs, near the home of my Grandpa Lindsey. I told the story of my grandpa’s heroism, and how he had been a true representative of what has been called the “Greatest Generation” by many. I recalled how from a very early age, I wanted to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps, as many in my generation have resolved to do. In our efforts, some, including the commander-in-chief, have come to refer to us as the “Next Greatest Generation.”
Standing in Memorial Hall, whose walls are decorated with battle flags from every conflict since the Revolutionary War, I proposed that there is no such thing as a “Greatest Generation.” Instead, I explained my belief that greatness can be found in every generation. There will always be those who are willing to lay down their lives in the name of liberty; to commit to a life of service in order to work toward a better world for their family and future generations.
Our founding fathers first stitched together the red, white, and blue to represent a New World predicated on freedom, tolerance, and equal opportunity. Since then, our flag has been the guiding light for our countrymen, throughout our great nation’s growth and development, and through our bouts with civil war, foreign dictators, fascism, cold war, and our current war on terror. Challenge has always been a way of life for our country, and therefore, should be a way of life for each and every one of us.
From the example of our forefathers and the teachings of my dad, coupled with my experiences on the battlefield and the field of competition, I learned the value of virtue and the composition of character. I came to believe that by pursuing excellence and virtue in all aspects of life, we may all become persons of character, and be empowered to fully enjoy our freedom. To me, that is what it means to be an American.
It pained me to leave the ranks of the Navy in 2013, but I left with the resolution that my commitment to serve would not end with my official naval service. I was—and will always be—deeply honored to have been a part of that tradition, and to have served with the best and brightest men and women in the world.
My commitment to my family, my country, and our flag is forever. Through bloodshed on the battlefield, I will always be a part of those fifty stars and thirteen stripes, which serve as my guiding light.
To this day, the light burns deep within me. It is a fire in my eyes that will never be extinguished.