By:Keith Grant
[ITALICS] Keith Grant is the editor of the Long Beach Herald.
A little more than a year ago, I picked up the New York Post on my way into work and saw a photo, from an amazing rescue, across the front page. Two workers had been left dangling some 20 stories up when their scaffolding broke. As they hung on for their lives, one of the city's Finest and one of its Bravest were lowered down from the roof to pull them to safety.
I wasn't surprised to see that firefighter Tom Foley
was one of those heroes.
I met Tom through friends at a bar that was our regular hangout in Manhattan several years ago. I easily could've hated him. He was one of People Magazine's Most Eligible Bachelors in America, and the girls always knew it. He and his fledgling bull-riding career were written up in the New York Times shortly after his big rescue. I hadn't spoken to him in some time, but once again wasn't surprised to see his name in the Post recently among the NYC firefighters chosen for their annual calendar.
Yeah, guys could've hated Tom. But none did. Everyone I know loved him. He went out of his way to be friendly, and usually was a blast to be around. He was also a fearless son of a gun. When I heard that he was signed up for the same bull-riding school I was going to a couple of years ago, I said to myself, Well, there's my competition. Sure enough, he made one of the only two 8-second rides of the weekend, falling two points short of winning the top-prize gold buckle. I still think he made the better ride.
One night last summer, I ran into Tom and his equally insane friend Dave in Long Beach. They lived upstate, but their rugby team was on the Island and stopped off at The Inn. As wannabe rodeo cowboys normally do after a few drinks, we talked about bull riding. We re-lived every ride we had had, and talked about when we'd ride again. He urged me to get back on, telling me how well I had done and how much I had it in me to ride. I figured sooner or later my life would calm down enough that I would ride again somewhere. I'd get in touch with Tom and see where he was signed up for next.
Tom Foley made the front page of the New York Post again last week. On Monday, his name was among nearly 400 missing or killed NYC uniformed personnel. As far as his family is concerned, he is only missing. And knowing Tom, it wouldn't surprise me one bit if he was down there kicking at beams and twisted metal, pulling a few dozen people up out of the rubble. After all, he epitomized the phrase cowboy up.
To cowboy up basically means to suck up your pain or problems and get back on again. In any walk of life, when your body or maybe just your pride has taken a hit, you get back up, dust yourself off and ride again. You don't let anything keep you down. You cowboy up.
Whether Tom makes it out of there or not, our lives have changed forever. Our very way of life has taken a hit, and we can't just lie in the dirt. Our very freedom and safety has been threatened. The freedom and safety to go out and cheer for the Yankees or Mets. The freedom and safety to spend beautiful summer days on the beach. The freedom and safety to pursue our dreams, to choose our paths in life.
As the attack on Pearl Harbor changed the paths of another generation, a new threat to our freedom and safety has altered our paths. The freedoms we have enjoyed were handed to us but earned by others who came before. If our children and grandchildren are to enjoy the freedoms we have had, we now have to earn it for them. Our paths have just changed.
It is time for a new generation of Americans to do what I know Tom Foley is telling us to do from somewhere inside that pile of rubble. It's time to cowboy up.
