My father retired from the NYPD in 1988, after serving as a police officer for 20 years. Much of that time was spent in the 71st Precinct, in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, which, at the time, was one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the country.
Dad was also a long-term member of the New York's Finest Football team, playing on both the offensive and defensive lines. The team played against a variety of opponents, including other police departments, the NYC Corrections and Sanitation Departments, and some semi-pro teams.
But, of course, their main rival was New York's Bravest, the hated squad fielded by the Fire Department of New York City.
Each year, the NYPD and FDNY would face off in the Fun City Bowl, which was such a big deal that it drew audiences sizable enough for the game to be held at locations like Shea Stadium, then home of the New York Mets.
These days, it often takes place at MetLife Stadium, home of both the New York Giants and Jets.
The annual feud has gone on since the early 70's and has often featured brawls between cops and firefighters, both on the field and in the parking lot.
Believe it or not, the yearly hockey game is consistently worse, and the stupidity frequently involves spectators, as well.
While my dad was never involved in any such fisticuffs, that didn't mean that he didn't harbor a healthy degree of animus toward the men that he often referred to as "empty rubber suits."
To be fair though, a lot of his close friends were firemen, and I'm sure they employed similarly offensive epithets for the cops. So, Dad was just, you know, being a dude.
But then…
One day, while I was in high school, my father received a new pair of black uniform boots. That was something new at the time, as cops had traditionally worn just standard leather shoes.
His new arrivals were essentially leather combat boots, with rugged, treaded soles, and I remember him being inordinately excited about his newly acquired footwear. He laced them up and strode around the house, proclaiming, "These are the greatest things I've ever had on my feet."
About two weeks later, he and his partner were riding in their patrol car during a 4-to-12 shift, when they happened upon a fire in a brownstone building near Empire Blvd. They were the first ones on the scene so, even after calling the fire into dispatch, they couldn't simply wait for the fire trucks to arrive.
Instead, they went in.
I remember him later vividly describing the whole thing to me, and me thinking, "Wow, I never thought about that."
What I'd, "never thought about," was the fact that, as the two underdressed cops traveled through the rooms and hallways of the building, paint was melting off the ceiling and landing on the shoulders and backs of their uniform blouses, searing through the fabric and inflicting third-degree burns on the both of them.
Additionally, they both inhaled a hell of a lot of smoke.
Fortunately, they were able to brave the conditions long enough to rescue the residents from the burning building and, as they escorted them out the front door, the FDNY had already begun to arrive. It was about that time that my dad realized that the soles of his sweet new combat boots had melted through to his socks.
He and his partner both spent the next few nights in Kings County Hospital for smoke inhalation and to treat what I remember being some really serious burns. After being discharged, my dad was placed on convalescent leave, so he was home for about the next two weeks.
For at least the first several days, he was in a mild state of shock and, during this period, if you asked him something as innocuous as, "Hey, Dad, how're you feeling?" about the most you could get out of him was, "They can keep that f***in' job."
I can assure you, he said it more than a couple of times that week.
Last night, I had been watching the Eagles-Patriots game on CBS and, since I had some time before the Giants game came on, I just stayed on the same channel to watch 60 Minutes, not knowing that the entire show was going to be devoted to the heroic actions performed by New York's Bravest on September 11, 2001.
If you haven't yet watched it, make sure you do. They’ve been re-running it every year.
The truth of the matter is that, while I certainly haven't forgotten that day, it has, as a matter of course, become a more distant memory each year. I'm a bit ashamed to admit that. Maybe it's because, thankfully, I didn't lose anyone particularly close to me in the attacks.
However, that day did significantly alter the course of my life, as my NY-based Marine Corps Reserve unit was quickly mobilized, and we spent the next 18 months on active duty, including a tour in Iraq.
I would later observe the 10 year anniversary of 9/11 in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan.
One member of our battalion who didn't make the trip to Iraq was Corporal Sean Patrick Tallon. That was because Sean was also a New York Firefighter, assigned to Ten House, home of Ladder 10 and Engine 10, right across the street from the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
Cpl Tallon was a member of Weapons Co., 2nd Battalion, 25th Marines, in Garden City, and was as beloved as any Marine in the unit. He came from a very Irish, very Catholic family, and had just returned from a trip to Ireland in August. He'd served as an EMT in his Bronx neighborhood, before attending the Fire Academy, and had earned his BA in Criminology from Iona College.
On 9/11, given his house's close proximity to the towers, he was among the very first to respond to the scene.
Sean, who was still in his probationary period as a member of Ladder 10, was one of two firefighters in that unit who gave their lives that day. Engine 10 lost another three.
On July 4th of the following year, US Pacific Command christened a newly established compound in East Timor as, Camp Tallon.
When the temporary outpost was shut down, the Marines who'd been assigned there, shipped the facility's sign to Ten House, in New York. Today, it remains displayed on the back wall of the house, which I visited recently.
Marine Gunnery Sergeant Matthew Garvey served on active duty for 10 years, which included a tour in Beirut and a deployment in support of Operation Desert Storm. As a Marine, he was one of a handful to earn the designation of "dual cool," meaning that he was both parachute and scuba qualified.
Garvey entered the FDNY Academy in 1995 while continuing his service as a Marine Reservist, assigned to 6th Communications Battalion, in Brooklyn. He was considered "a Marine's Marine," a guy who always looked after his men.
At 6th Comm, he was playfully referred to as "Gunny Highway," due to how much his demeanor resembled that of Clint Eastwood's character in the film, “Heartbreak Ridge.”
Gunny Garvey studied Kung Fu‚ played guitar‚ enjoyed photography and had climbed to the summit of Mount Rainier.
In September 2001, he was a member of the elite Squad 1, one of FDNY's eight special operations units, based in Park Slope, Brooklyn.
His nightstand in the firehouse featured books such as Don Quixote, War and Peace, The Iliad, and Moby Dick. He'd also recently been accepted into law school.
On the morning of the 11th, after receiving the call to respond to the Trade Center, Matt and the rest of the Squad who were on duty, mounted their truck, sped up Hamilton Ave, and through the Battery Tunnel.
The Squad would wind up being one of the most devastated units that day, losing 12 men, fully half of its firefighters, among them, Matt.
Like Sean Tallon, Matt Garvey would be missed not only by his FDNY brothers but by his fellow Marines, as well.
At St. Agnes High School, on Long Island, I had this really terrific English teacher named Russ Siller, whose younger brother, Stephen, was a year ahead of me at our school.
They, and their five siblings, had tragically lost both parents within a year of each other, and before Stephen had turned 10. So, Stephen was raised by his older sisters and brothers, primarily Russ.
Stephen was one of Matt Garvey's housemates at Squad 1.
That Tuesday morning, he was coming off a 15-hour overnight tour and was headed out to Long Island to play a round of golf with his brothers. However, just after 8:46, before he'd gotten too far east, the scanner in his truck alerted him to the first plane having struck the North Tower.
Rather than continue on his way to his tee time, and just leave the matter in the hands of Garvey and the guys on duty at the time, he turned around and headed back toward the City.
As he drove west, he called his wife, Sally, and casually asked her to call his brothers, simply to tell them that he'd catch up with them later.
By the time Stephen arrived back at the Battery Tunnel, it had been closed to vehicular traffic. Again, rather than just throw up his hands (which certainly could've been excused), he reached into the bed of his truck and retrieved his bunker gear, which he quickly donned, and then began his now legendary run through the longest underwater tunnel in North America.
(After originally posting this piece, I was asked by a reader how close the Battery Tunnel’s Manhattan side is to the World Trade Center, and my response was, “Hey, that’s a great point,” because it’s not at all close. Here’s a look.)
Like Sean Tallon, Matt Garvey, and 341 other members of the FDNY, Stephen was last seen defying all manner of logic by voluntarily —and valorously— entering a building from which he would never emerge.
What these men have in common is an attribute that I’m certain eludes most of us. I've never been uncomfortable with the notion of "running to the sound of the guns," but what these guys and their brothers do is somehow beyond me.
What they did on 9/11 was, as far as I'm concerned, a blatant violation of human instinct.
This past weekend, in addition to the 60 Minutes episode, I watched an interview with Stephen Siller's brother, Frank.
In it, he described the conversations the firefighters had shared with one another before entering the towers. The topics of their exchanges, he pointed out, were not their plans for the weekend or what they'd have for dinner back at the firehouse that evening.
Instead, they were saying goodbye to each other, because they had every reason to believe that the conversation they were having might very well be their last. In fact, many of them fully expected it to be.
In any case, they then just shook hands, hugged or fist-bumped, and started climbing the stairs.
You know the rest of the story.
In a 1981 ceremony where he presented the Medal of Honor to US Army Master Sergeant Roy Benavidez, President Reagan mused aloud, "Where did we find such men?"
I find myself asking the same question when I contemplate the notion of a fellow human being willingly entering a burning building for the sake of strangers. And, yes, that includes my dad.
I'm grateful that I watched 60 Minutes last night. Maybe I needed to be reminded —not of the event, of course— but of the unfathomable degree of selfless and resolute sacrifice exercised by New York's Bravest that day.
I am in awe of it, and I hate to admit it, but they can keep that f***ing job.
God bless them all for what they do. God bless the 9/11 families. And may God continue to bless the United States of America.
Brian O'Leary is a retired Marine Corps colonel, who served for 30 years, including deployments to Somalia and Iraq, and command of an infantry battalion in Afghanistan. Additionally, he has spent 25 years in the financial services industry. Brian earned his BA in English from Penn State University, and his MA in National Security Studies from the US Army War College.
Thanks for taking the time, Lisa. Pieces like this are never easy for me to write, especially those that involve people I know, whether Marines, cops, or firefighters.
Don't tell anyone, but I often cry, as well.
Thank you for this beautiful piece. I write these words with tears streaming down my face. These men and so many more are truly inspiring and amazing human beings. I love reading your posts and of ten share them. Thank you.