SAN JOSE — It is a day of barbecues and water-skiing, a day when our Fourth of July independence is medium rare and glassy smooth.
That's why Pat Tillman went to Afghanistan.
His life was nicely marinated and mostly free of ripples. His freedom was a given, his future and that of his family unthreatened -- until two planes flew into the World Trade Center and another into the Pentagon. The rest of us gasped and fretted. Tillman acted.
The story is not new. Nor is it any less amazing. He was an honor student and star football player from San Jose who went to Arizona State and became an honor student and star football player. He went on to become a star defensive back with the Arizona Cardinals in the NFL. Then he left it all, including a multimillion-dollar contract, saying that members of his family had traditionally served in the military, that his grandfather had been at Pearl Harbor, "and I really haven't done a damn thing."
We liked him before that. The long hair that flowed from under his helmet set him apart, but not any more than his disdain for showy, material things or for shallow questions from sportswriters. Those questions were greeted by a raised eyebrow and a slight frown that meant he thought they lacked substance, something he never did.
It has been two years, two months and 12 days since he died in Afghanistan. We grill our meat, ride our skis, sit on our beaches and assume that there will always be another Pat Tillman, another shield. The military, as embattled and besieged as it is today, is full of heroes to be celebrated on this day of patriotism. We have civilian heroes in every phase of life, putting out fires and standing in crosswalks so 6-year-olds can pass safely.
But there was only one Pat Tillman, and the world of sports, which generates more swaggering pretend heroes per capita than perhaps any other phase of American life, may never see another like him. Tillman didn't swagger and would have hated being called a hero.
Alex Garwood is Tillman's brother-in-law. His wife, Christine, is the sister of Tillman's widow, Marie. Garwood is also the executive director of the Pat Tillman Foundation, which exists, according to the foundation's website, "to carry forward Pat's legacy by inspiring and supporting young people striving to promote positive change in themselves and the world around them." Garwood says the foundation programs are going well because of "the power of Pat." To the foundation, and Tillman's friends and family, that is a given, not a motto.
"He had \o7it\f7, whatever \o7it \f7was," Garwood says. "He was the kind of man who walked into a room and everybody noticed. People wanted to be close to \o7it\f7, to rub up against \o7it \f7and hope some rubbed off."
Garwood says he never thinks of Tillman in uniform, either football or military.
"I think of him as my friend, sitting with me, having iced tea and talking. He was the best listener I knew."
And the least full of himself.
"When Pat was with the Cardinals," Garwood says, "people he'd run into would ask him what he did? He would tell them he worked in Arizona."
Garwood and Tillman were hiking alongside a river near Sedona, Ariz., five or six years ago when Tillman suggested they walk the middle of the shallow river, rock to rock, without getting their shoes wet.
"We ended up going a mile, maybe more," Garwood recalls. "I was soaked. He never got a drop on his shoes. The amazing thing wasn't just his athleticism, but watching his mind work as he figured out each next step and how best to do it."
When they finished, Tillman climbed a cliff about two stories high and, to get back down, leaped from the top of the cliff to a tree, 10 feet away, and calmly climbed down.
"The rest of us have trepidation," Garwood says.
It is possible that, on that April 22, 2004, in Afghanistan, even Pat Tillman had trepidation. He died a horrible death, at the hands of his fellow Army Rangers, who apparently were confused and frightened and fired at what they thought was the enemy, rather than somebody they had idolized, somebody they'd watched hand out $5 bills to youngsters in the dusty poor towns of Afghanistan, somebody who'd bought and brewed special coffee blends for them so they could have the best.
Tillman's platoon was split, one part ending up firing on the other, Tillman's group in the hills. Not far from the group doing the firing was Tillman's brother, Kevin, who didn't learn that his brother had died until nearly an hour later.
It took a month before the Tillman family was told the truth, although they're still not sure they have it all. Their son had not died from enemy fire, but friendly fire. The military calls that "fratricide."
It has taken several years for journalists, especially those from the San Francisco Chronicle, the Washington Post, CNN and The Times' David Zucchino, to unearth and report the stunning details of what happened and how the truth was stonewalled and turned into a mockery by the U.S. military.