From time to time, I'll find myself thinking about our military and eventually, to the time my attempt to enlist fell apart. This also begets the "what if" question(s) that arise as a result.
The 1985-86 school year was my junior year of high school. One day, I received an envelope from the New Jersey motor vehicle agency regarding licensing, and it included a postcard for information for the New Jersey National Guard. Interested, I filled it out and sent it in.
There were a couple of motivating factors involved. The first was that, as someone who'd been overweight his entire life, joining the service would be a great way to get in shape. The second was money for college, which would have been nice.
A few weeks later, I got a call from Sergeant Green, a NJNG recruiter. As I'd just awoken from a nap, I wasn't hitting on all cylinders, so Dad took over.
Sgt. Green came by several days later, as I recall, to discuss opportunities and so forth. He also scheduled a date for me to take the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) test.
The test consisted of a variety of common-sense questions to help the military gauge the aptitude and intelligence of the prospective recruit. (My raw score was 87, which Sgt. Green said was really great for someone of my age.) Out of all the questions posed, one stuck out in my mind, probably because of its ridiculous absurdity. While I don't remember the exact wording, it had to do with the function of the clutch in a car. One of the multiple-choice answers was, "disconnect the pistons from the crankshaft."
Sgt. Green also scheduled me for a physical at the MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station), which was the next step. It consisted of a physical exam, covering all sorts of things, from height and weight, to vision, to strength, etc. Alas, I was rejected for being slightly overweight, based on their charts, as well as vision. Thus began the downhill trajectory of my day.
Sgt. Green dropped me off at school in time for my fifth-period gym class. Given that this was April or May (I suspect the latter), softball was the order of the day. I went to my gym locker and changed, and we gathered, divided ourselves into teams, and went outside to the field.
Long story short: I was hit in the face at the top of the game, when the first hit was thrown to me on first base, and I used me face to catch the ball. Thus ended my school day.
In the ensuing years immediately afterward, I entertained the thought of attempting to enlist a second time. But, as things like school and work took greater priority, that idea was gradually pushed to the back burner.
Yet sometimes I wonder how different I would be than the person I am now. Would I have greater self-confidence? Would I be more assertive? Less apprehensive? I don't know, nor will I ever.
I suppose, looking back, it was for the best. I don't doubt I may have made a good soldier. Three years after graduating high school, I suffered a grand mal seizure one morning before work, which also put my mind at ease and solved that one nagging question that had been in the back of my mind for a number of years. Thirteen years after that, I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, and four years later, I injured my knee on the job. Those conditions, along with my age, are enough to keep me out period.
So instead, I admire and respect those men and women who choose to enlist in our armed forces, pursuing something that's greater than them. One person described serving in the military as "the ultimate expression of patriotism," in that they're willing to risk their lives to show how much they love their country. To them I say, "Thank you."
The 1985-86 school year was my junior year of high school. One day, I received an envelope from the New Jersey motor vehicle agency regarding licensing, and it included a postcard for information for the New Jersey National Guard. Interested, I filled it out and sent it in.
There were a couple of motivating factors involved. The first was that, as someone who'd been overweight his entire life, joining the service would be a great way to get in shape. The second was money for college, which would have been nice.
A few weeks later, I got a call from Sergeant Green, a NJNG recruiter. As I'd just awoken from a nap, I wasn't hitting on all cylinders, so Dad took over.
Sgt. Green came by several days later, as I recall, to discuss opportunities and so forth. He also scheduled a date for me to take the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) test.
The test consisted of a variety of common-sense questions to help the military gauge the aptitude and intelligence of the prospective recruit. (My raw score was 87, which Sgt. Green said was really great for someone of my age.) Out of all the questions posed, one stuck out in my mind, probably because of its ridiculous absurdity. While I don't remember the exact wording, it had to do with the function of the clutch in a car. One of the multiple-choice answers was, "disconnect the pistons from the crankshaft."
Sgt. Green also scheduled me for a physical at the MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station), which was the next step. It consisted of a physical exam, covering all sorts of things, from height and weight, to vision, to strength, etc. Alas, I was rejected for being slightly overweight, based on their charts, as well as vision. Thus began the downhill trajectory of my day.
Sgt. Green dropped me off at school in time for my fifth-period gym class. Given that this was April or May (I suspect the latter), softball was the order of the day. I went to my gym locker and changed, and we gathered, divided ourselves into teams, and went outside to the field.
Long story short: I was hit in the face at the top of the game, when the first hit was thrown to me on first base, and I used me face to catch the ball. Thus ended my school day.
In the ensuing years immediately afterward, I entertained the thought of attempting to enlist a second time. But, as things like school and work took greater priority, that idea was gradually pushed to the back burner.
Yet sometimes I wonder how different I would be than the person I am now. Would I have greater self-confidence? Would I be more assertive? Less apprehensive? I don't know, nor will I ever.
I suppose, looking back, it was for the best. I don't doubt I may have made a good soldier. Three years after graduating high school, I suffered a grand mal seizure one morning before work, which also put my mind at ease and solved that one nagging question that had been in the back of my mind for a number of years. Thirteen years after that, I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, and four years later, I injured my knee on the job. Those conditions, along with my age, are enough to keep me out period.
So instead, I admire and respect those men and women who choose to enlist in our armed forces, pursuing something that's greater than them. One person described serving in the military as "the ultimate expression of patriotism," in that they're willing to risk their lives to show how much they love their country. To them I say, "Thank you."
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