The Joy of Victory, the Reality of Losses

Air Force One passed over the football stadium and dipped a wing in salute to the nearly 70,000 people gathered for the 105th Army-Navy game. An hour later, President Bush spoke to both teams in their locker rooms. He thanked them for their service to the United States.

In the Navy locker room, the president spoke in the presence of three empty jerseys.

The jerseys carried names and numbers.

Blecksmith 10. Zellem 31. Winchester 73.

The jerseys were stretched over shoulder pads.

Then the president marched to midfield for the coin toss. He waved to the crowd. There was a big smile on his face, as if he had great good reason to be happy. The three jerseys over empty pads were on chairs in front of Navy’s bench.

The empty jerseys represented three Navy football players now dead.

Two were killed in Iraq, one by a bomb Sept. 3, one by a sniper Nov. 11. One died Aug. 10 when his jet fighter crashed into the Pacific.

A nice game, Navy winning 42-13, its ninth victory against two losses.

Next up for the Midshipmen, the Emerald Bowl against New Mexico and a chance for Navy’s first 10-victory season since 1905.

Nice. Very nice. If only all college football could be Army-Navy.

But I saw Air Force One and the president, smiling.

And I saw three jerseys, empty.

I thought of J.P. Blecksmith.

He matched the prototype of the 21st century quarterback, 6-foot-3, 216, a rocket arm, a proven star in his California high school. Problem was, Navy ran a 19th-century offense.

So for a moment in 2000 Blecksmith thought he’d get out before he incurred the military obligation demanded of all academy students.

“After his first year, we weren’t sure he’d come back,” said John Wilckens, a physician on the Navy’s staff and a man whose family served as sponsors to Blecksmith, providing an Annapolis home away from home.

Blecksmith had come to the academy because he thought he wanted to be a Marine, as his father had been a Marine. Edward Blecksmith played football at Southern Cal before serving in Vietnam. But early on, when J.P. Blecksmith saw what Navy thought of passers, he talked to coaches at Southern California and UCLA, who said they’d take a look at him.

No scholarship. Here’s what professional college teams say to J.P. Blecksmiths: Show us you can play, then we’ll talk.

That’s when J.P. Blecksmith made the decision that shaped his life and death.

He returned to Navy, full speed ahead.

He would run the scout team, impersonating the next opponent’s quarterback. He would switch to defensive back just to play. He would go to wide receiver -- do whatever coaches asked.

He had made up his mind. “Deep down,” said Wilckens, “he wanted to be a Marine more than he wanted football.”

The doctor loved the big guy.

“A great sense of humor,” he said. “He kept my own kids entertained.”

On this Saturday, every time Navy linebacker Lane Jackson walked past the empty jerseys, he touched them. He called Blecksmith “a pleasure to be around.”

There were 30 seconds to play when safety Josh Smith stood by the empty jerseys. He put his right hand on the Blecksmith jersey. They’d played together; they’d studied together -- he and Blecksmith once did a paper on how building dams affected China’s economy.

“J.P. could walk into a room full of strangers, and in an hour everybody would love him,” said Smith, a sensational defender on this day of sadness and joy, blitzing Army into confusion, returning an interception 67 yards for a touchdown. “He was just a great guy, unselfish. My buddy, my teammate, my brother.”

The Army and Navy men and women know what they’re signing up for. They want to do what they believe needs to be done. Whether that means flying F-14s over an ocean or conducting urban warfare in a godforsaken thousand-dead nowhere, they do it. Josh Smith, talking about Blecksmith, acknowledged the cold truth of talking about his friend: “They might be talking about you in two years.” 2nd Lt. J.P. Blecksmith was a platoon leader in the 3rd Battalion 5th Marines. That day a month ago, he stood atop a building in Fallujah, Iraq. A sniper shot him in the back. He was 24.

The president sat on the Army side of the stadium the first half. At halftime, he walked across the field to the Navy side, waving, smiling.

Someone had moved the empty jerseys out of his path.

After three quarters, the president left the stadium.

Maybe two hours later, Josh Smith left the Navy locker room.

He’s a senior. One more game. I asked, “What will you be doing next year?” “Navy pilot,” he said.

Godspeed.