Monday, June 9, 2008

Cheerleaders

His name was Garrison. I didn't think about it at the time but, looking back, it was exceedingly apt.  He was six-foot-six or so and easily three-hundred pounds of nearly solid muscle.  He had played football in high school and college. Garrison had worked as a prison guard at a state penitentiary but decided, ultimately, upon a safer career in education when his first daughter was born.

 

You wouldn't have imagined it by looking at him--or even dared to think it--but he was my cheerleader.

 

It was nearly a decade ago that I was suffering through basic training.  I'm only five-foot-ten, maybe five-foot-eleven on a day of light gravity when I'm blessed with a bouncy spirit.  Then, I was still a very overweight two-hundred-and-fifty pounds.  I had somehow survived my freshman year.  Everyone else packed on fifteen.  I packed on fifty and picked up smoking.

 

Basic was trying, to say the least, and I'm not certain I could have made it through without the support of Garrison.

 

He was my cheerleader.  He knew what to say to drive me on, whether it was a simple, "Pick up the pace!" or the more wily ego-challenge, "You gonna let the drill sergeants beat you?!" 

 

He'd fall back when I slowed because I was losing my breath--because I felt like I was suffering too much, for too little.  When I fell asleep in class and lost my hat, he dropped and did the push-up punishment with me.  On fire-patrol, he always had my back.

 

He was a true, great friend.  Sadly, I only knew him for those three months.  Wherever he is, I wish him well.

 

This post is for all of the cheerleaders out there.  Those people dear to us that have helped us or spurred us to accomplish the difficult.

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