Unlike the general public, of which only a fraction of 1 percent had fought overseas since 9/11, the sacrifices being made by brave US troops and their families were touching Annapolis on an almost daily basis. Naval Academy graduates like Captain Zembiec and Second Lieutenant J. P. Blecksmith, a teammate of Brendan’s in the 2001 Army-Navy football game, were fighting on Iraq’s war-torn streets at that very moment. Places like Fallujah and Ramadi were under siege by al Qaeda terrorists and Iraqi insurgents bent on destroying the country rather than letting it be reshaped. Every single day, American blood was being spilled.
In May 2004, Brendan and Travis graduated with their Naval Academy classmates and were commissioned as US military officers. Brendan would go on to serve in the Naval intelligence community, while Travis would head to The Basic School for Marine Corps officers in Quantico, Virginia.
“I can say with certainty that you will have a role in fighting this war on terrorism,” Air Force General Richard Myers, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, told Travis, Brendan, and 988 fellow Naval Academy graduates on May 28, 2004. “You will face many enormous challenges. You will go into harm’s way. The sacrifice that you have learned by now is part of the job description.”
Three days after graduation, Navy was seeking its first men’s lacrosse national championship in thirty-five years. Though the Midshipmen were underdogs against Syracuse, one of the most storied programs in the sport’s history, the ongoing wars in Iraq and Afghanistan made Navy the overwhelming sentimental favorite. That the 2004 NCAA men’s lacrosse national championship game was played on Memorial Day only added to its significance.
Names of other Navy lacrosse players, including Brendan’s brothers Steve and Billy, may have shown up more often in the box score, but Brendan, who wore number 40, was the team’s heart and soul. It didn’t matter that he had only been playing lacrosse for less than three years, whereas everyone else on the team had been playing for at least a decade. His athletic prowess and work ethic were so fierce that the oldest Looney brother immediately became a force as a defenseman.
In practice, Brendan had performed almost exactly as he had in football, with raw determination and zero tolerance for anyone giving less than 100 percent. He had eventually earned significant playing time on the lacrosse team, which often forced opponents to alter their strategies.
Earlier that season, in a game against Georgetown, the Hoyas’ best player—one of the nation’s top midfielders—had run over to the referee in the middle of a game and pleaded for him to blow the whistle. He wanted protection from Brendan, who was playing such tenacious defense that the player could barely breathe, let alone think about scoring. Navy’s starting goalie, Matt Russell, a sophomore who lived on the same floor as Brendan and Travis, referred to his teammate as the most “violent” lacrosse player he had ever seen. In a sport built around a combination of skill and toughness, being an aggressive player was a good thing.
Yet as soon as the final whistle blew, Brendan was a gentleman. When the teams shook hands after the games, Brendan was one of the first in line.
Navy men’s lacrosse captain Thomas “Bucky” Morris had met Brendan while they were preparing for academy life at NAPS, but got to know him better after Brendan went out for lacrosse. Though Brendan initially made the lacrosse team as a “rider,” with the specific role of recovering loose balls, his rapid improvement led Navy coach Richie Meade to give him a central role as a defensive midfielder. Playing the position for the first time in his young lacrosse career, Brendan worked closely with Morris, one of the nation’s top defensemen.
Morris was impressed with Brendan’s intensity and wanted to help him learn the sport even more quickly. He knew Brendan had played football and was obviously well versed in team sports, but what inspired him most was the way Brendan watched over and protected his younger brothers, who were both rising stars on the Navy squad.
In the middle of a game that ended in a Navy blowout victory against Holy Cross in 2004, Billy had made a freshman mistake, getting burned on a face-off, which allowed an opposing player to score; he celebrated wildly with his teammates. Shortly after watching his brother get chewed out by Navy coaches on the sidelines, Brendan, a senior, took the field with his sights set squarely on the Holy Cross player who had embarrassed Billy. As the player fought for a grounder, Brendan hammered him with a pulverizing, yet clean, hit.
“Oh my God, Brendan just crushed that kid,” a Navy player on the sidelines said to his teammates.
The Holy Cross player was fine, but everyone on the Navy team, including Morris, had seen how closely the Looney brothers stuck together. When Steve or Billy made a rookie mistake, Brendan was the first person in their faces. But if someone else dared to show them up, Brendan would roll through that opponent like a freight train.
Early afternoon rain fell in Baltimore on Memorial Day 2004, yet 43,898 fans still showed up at M & T Bank Stadium, home of the NFL’s Baltimore Ravens. At the time, it was the largest crowd to attend a nonbasketball championship game in NCAA history.
In the parking lot was Second Lieutenant Travis Manion, a newly commissioned US Marine officer who had just graduated in front of his proud mom, dad, sister, and someone who had been instrumental in making his second chance at the Naval Academy possible: Lieutenant Colonel Corky Gardner. Travis was standing on top of a car leading a “Let’s go Navy” chant by hundreds of frenzied fans. After his shoulder injury had caused him to miss the entire second half of his senior wrestling season, this was a championship game for Travis, too.
In the stadium, Travis sat with the midshipmen, while Tom and Janet Manion joined Brendan’s parents, Kevin and Maureen Looney. Exactly one year earlier, Brendan had met Amy just a few blocks from the stadium where he was about to play the biggest game of his life. Now Amy was stuck at work and couldn’t attend the game, but she was planning to meet the Looney brothers and Travis almost immediately afterward.
As newly commissioned US Navy Ensign Brendan Looney sat in the Ravens locker room, he was reminded of the 2001 Army-Navy football game, especially when his coach pointed out that Naval Academy graduates were currently fighting overseas. Ever since Navy had started its NCAA tournament run, and especially since the Midshipmen had beaten Princeton in Saturday’s national semifinal, messages of support had poured in from military bases all over the world, including Iraq and Afghanistan.
Syracuse head coach John Desko admitted that some of his own players were struggling with the idea of seemingly playing against their country. “One of our guys just read an article in the Baltimore paper about Navy and Memorial Day and wartime and said, ‘I almost want Navy to win,’” Desko said. “They’ll have a lot of people rooting for them.”
Indeed, there was no such thing as a “neutral” fan at the 2004 NCAA Men’s Lacrosse National Championship Game. You were a Syracuse student, parent, or graduate, or you were a Navy fan. Some Syracuse alumni even bought Navy hats to wear with their Orange T-shirts and ponchos. They wanted to show that despite rooting for Syracuse, they appreciated the sacrifices being made by the Navy athletes and their classmates.
The final seconds before the Navy players ran out on the field felt like the countdown to a Super Bowl or a Rolling Stones concert. The atmosphere, created in part by rowdy midshipmen like Travis, who was chanting “U-S-A!” and crowd surfing, made the Syracuse players and coaches feel like they were playing a road game instead of a neutral-site contest.
Each Navy sports team had a Marine as its official liaison, and Gunnery Sergeant John Kob, who had spent time with Travis and the wrestling team, took his duty with the men’s lacrosse team very seriously. Kob had joined the Army in 1983 and served seven years as a soldier before joining the Marine Corps. The hard-nosed warrior had already deployed to Somalia before being assigned to the Naval Academy in 2001 and was now just months away from deploying to Iraq’s Babil province with 1st Battalion, 1st Marine Division, based out of California’s Camp Pendleton.
Befo
re each game Kob would lead the Midshipmen out onto the field carrying a massive American flag, which always excited the supportive home lacrosse crowds in Annapolis. But this day’s opening ceremony was even more special.
As Brendan, his brothers, and their teammates stood in the tunnel leading out to the M & T Bank Stadium field listening to the thunderous applause above them, Kob, a bald, imposing figure whose face could easily appear in the dictionary next to the definition of “Marine,” dashed out onto the field with the gigantic American flag, waving it so vigorously that the pole nearly broke. From the lower bowl to the upper deck, a crescendo of patriotism swept the stadium, with Travis cheering as his roommate tore onto the field with his hands raised proudly toward the cloud-filled sky.
Rain pelted down on the grassy turf as the game went back and forth. Brendan and other Navy defensemen were focused on Syracuse’s Michael Powell, one of the greatest attack men in NCAA lacrosse history and the only player to ever win the Tewaaraton Trophy—similar to college football’s Heisman Trophy—twice. For Navy to have any chance of defeating the Orange, its defensemen, including Morris, Brendan, and other midshipmen, would have to contain Powell.
The crowd was in a frenzy as a goal by Navy’s Ben Bailey gave the Midshipmen the early lead, with more “U-S-A” refrains replacing the stadium’s usual chant of “Let’s Go Ravens.” Travis, who had played lacrosse in high school and later at Drexel, had closely followed his roommate’s team all season.
Brendan was playing his heart out, as always, but there was a reason Syracuse had won two out of the past four national championships. After tying the score with five minutes to play, the Orange took the lead ninety seconds later, resulting in a nervous hush throughout most of the stadium. It didn’t help that Russell, Navy’s starting goalie, was forced to leave the game because of a collarbone injury.
Syracuse had a 13–12 lead with 1:05 left when its most dangerous player, Powell, darted like a missile toward Navy’s backup goalie. Brendan closed his eyes as the ball hit the back of the net, giving Syracuse a two-goal lead with a minute to play.
“Shit,” Travis said to a fellow midshipman in the stands.
Though Navy followed with a goal, Syracuse won its third championship in five years and eighth overall title.
Brendan was absolutely crushed by the 14–13 defeat. This was supposed to be Navy’s day. It would take some time for the loss to sink in, but Brendan, who had just played his final collegiate game, and everyone associated with the Navy program knew deep down that the team’s improbable Final Four run had been a truly amazing feat.
“What a game and what a crowd,” Tom Manion said after the game, as Janet nodded in agreement. “That’s the kind of thing that really makes you proud to be an American.”
Travis, Amy, Brendan, and Steve were supposed to be having a victory celebration that night at the second home the Manions owned in Annapolis, where they would often hang out on weekends, before heading out to McGarvey’s, O’Brien’s, and their other favorite downtown bars. But even after a devastating defeat, there was still something to be happy about. The US Naval Academy class of 2004 had just graduated.
With a light mist falling, music blared through the Manion house as a cooler full of Bud Light chilled on the back porch. While Amy and Brendan’s brother joked around inside, Brendan went outside to talk to Travis.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this low, man,” Brendan grumbled. “We should have won that fucking game.”
“I know,” Travis replied. “But don’t do what I did to myself in wrestling.”
“What do you mean?” Brendan asked.
“When I lost that match in Texas, I thought my whole life was over,” Travis said. “I hadn’t been that miserable since I quit the academy. But there are bigger things out there. Think of what we’re probably going to be doing a year or two from now.”
Without saying anything, Brendan held out his plastic cup, as if to say “cheers.” After graduating as officers in the US Navy and Marine Corps, respectively, Brendan and Travis quietly commemorated their achievement before heading inside to laugh, drink more beer, and get their minds off the game’s disappointing outcome.
A few minutes later, as the music got even louder, Amy laughed as Travis and Steve made an awful attempt at break dancing on the floor. Temporarily snapping out of his dejected mood, Brendan managed to crack his customary grin as he walked up to his girlfriend and put his right arm around her. Though he wished he could have changed the result of the championship game, Brendan knew he was blessed to have found a great girl and such good friends during his Naval Academy years.
While waiting for their duty assignments, Travis and Brendan worked at the academy for part of the summer after graduation. Travis was living in his parents’ house, while Brendan lived with some former lacrosse teammates in Annapolis’s Eastport neighborhood.
On one particularly hot and humid day, Brendan asked Bucky Morris, the lacrosse star who had helped him become such a solid defenseman, if he wanted to go mountain biking on a nearby trail.
“Sure, man,” Morris said.
“Cool,” Brendan said. “We just need to ride downtown first and meet Trav at his place.”
When they arrived at the Annapolis house, Travis was sitting on the back porch enjoying a glass of water. A cooler full of ice cold beer was beside him, which would surely serve as a reward when the three young officers returned from their afternoon ride.
The bike ride started normally, as Travis, Brendan, and their buddy rode out of the city and headed into the woods. They had traveled ten or fifteen miles when Morris suggested turning back. Travis and Brendan, both realizing the usual afternoon thunderstorm was probably on the horizon, agreed to head home, with one catch.
“We’ll ride back single file, and whoever’s last has to try to make his way up front,” Brendan said.
“Yeah, let’s do that the whole way back,” Travis said.
Morris may have been the most talented athlete of the three, and he had no reason to doubt he could keep up with Brendan or Travis. He just didn’t understand why they couldn’t casually ride back to Travis’s house without engaging in what was sure to be an exhausting competition.
When their contest started in a wooded, downhill stretch of the trail, Travis was in the back and Brendan was in the front. They hadn’t been riding for more than five minutes when Travis cranked his way past his former roommate.
“See ya later, assholes!” Travis called, laughing.
As Morris had seen at countless lacrosse practices, Brendan wore an intense frown as he roared toward his challenger. Though he and Travis were the best of friends, there was no way he was about to be defeated.
Brendan pedaled harder and harder, getting so close to Travis’s bike that the contest began to look like the famous chariot race in Ben Hur. Morris was keeping up so far, but knew he couldn’t last another two miles at this ridiculous pace. As he tried to catch his breath, Morris pleaded with his friends to ease up.
Travis and Brendan were already gone, racing one another down the mountain, through the woods, and toward the city where they had grown from young plebes into military officers. As dark clouds filled the sky before the inevitable storm, Morris, who would later become a Navy fighter pilot, pedaled alone. He was slightly pissed at his friends for leaving him, but also amused at how Brendan and Travis turned everything, even a routine bike ride, into a contest.
When Morris finally made it back, he locked his bike to the Manions’ front gate. As he walked toward the door, he heard the unmistakable sound of Travis and Brendan laughing on the back porch. They were drinking beer and joking about leaving their unsuspecting buddy in the dust, leading Morris to think the stunt may have been planned.
“Really, guys?” Morris asked as he stepped onto the porch. “We couldn’t just go on a relaxing bike ride?”
“Nice of you to join us,” Travis said, throwing a Bud Light to Morris.
“You guys are something
,” Morris said with a grin. “So who the hell won?”
“Me,” Brendan said.
“Bullshit,” Travis yelled. “I was ahead until he cheated.”
As the Foo Fighters song “Times Like These” played and cold beer flowed, the laughter of three young military officers filled the air until it was finally overtaken by thunder. Though their Naval Academy days were over, it was times like these that Travis and Brendan would always remember.
A few days later, Travis packed up his car to leave Annapolis. He would soon head to The Basic School in Quantico, where all newly commissioned Marine officers must train, to learn how to lead Marines in battle. Brendan was commissioned as a Navy intelligence officer, and before heading to Virginia Beach he would mentor and coach young lacrosse players at NAPS in Rhode Island.
As Travis drove out of Annapolis with the radio tuned to Baltimore’s rock station, the music added to his relaxed, reflective mood. Pulling onto King George Street, Travis looked at the Naval Academy gates, which were once closed to him after he decided to quit. He saw the historic buildings where he had attended classes, wrestled, and learned how to lead. He also looked out toward the harbor, where ships had been stationed to protect the Naval Academy during the 9/11 attacks.
The car’s brakes screeched as Travis, whose attention had momentarily drifted, narrowly avoided rear-ending the car in front of him. The sudden stop sent several items packed in the backseat flying, including a small box he had kept on his desk throughout his four-plus years as a midshipman.
The brown plastic box, which hit the dashboard when Travis pumped the brakes, was filled with index cards, which scattered all over the front seat. On each card was a different movie quote that had inspired Travis during many nights of watching videos and DVDs with Brendan and other Naval Academy friends.
As he pulled over to clean up the car, picking up the cards one by one and putting them back in the box, one in particular caught his eye. It contained the dying words spoken by Captain John Miller, played by Tom Hanks, to Private James Ryan, played by Matt Damon, in Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan.
Tom Sileo Page 5