I was disappointed to learn the Big Ten's draft preparatory documentary has been excluding so many important facts. Enclosed is the grizzled truth the power brokers in Chicago feared would get out. The world deserves to know:
Sanzenbacher walked into the selective services office. He knew the Sa's/1988's were next. His brother Chad had seen the horror; looked it right in the eye, starved off demise, and returned to home soil. But he was never the same again. A nervous sweat dripped down his brow, but he knew this is what he'd wanted his whole life. The chance to make a difference, the chance to embrace fate and become precisely the individual the universe had aligned to make him. "SANZENBACHER, DANE" a bellowing voice echoed through the corridors of nervous young men. He proceeded to the front of his line, gathered his papers, his uniform and shook a hand. The moment of initial anxiety had come and gone but the rest of his life still loomed ominously.
Watt tasted the bittersweet mix of sweat, blood, and landscape swirling over his tongue. Concussions echoed from all directions making all the littered the sonic landscape the high pitched shrill of future hearing (or worse) lost. "PRIVATE WATT, GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER" Staff Sergeant Bielema barked at the glassy eyed 21 year old. Somewhere at the intersection of tomorrow and never, Watt gathered himself and kept pushing through the opposing lines towards his objective. Like the sound of a midnight train careening through Pewaukee, Wisconsin, the night sky lit up like the night sky on Independence Day. In the confusion Watt lost track of all those around him. "SARGE? SARGE?" he yelled looking for some clarity amiss a landscape of chaos in all directions. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his fallen leader. His once athletic framed reduced to a hollow shell. Ash and scar discolored all at superficial glance, less a familiar Hawkeye tattoo at the ankle of his direct report. While the staff sergeant didn't respond, Watt refused to accept the reality of the situation. "We're going home, Sarge. We're going home," he called out to no one in particular, dragging his fallen comrade along with no end destination and no path to salvation.
For as long as he could remember, Davie's intellect was both his greatest asset and most crippling curse. The laundry list of numbers in front of him read like a phone book muddled with non-sequitur differential equations. The sheer audacity to assume his education and natural abilities made him a fit for an analytical role maddened him, but in his heart of hearts, he knew he was a perfect for the role. None the less his attentions drifted to the front line, lost comrades, college friends and rivals living out a more obviously higher purpose, and coming back home as decorated heroes. Feeling his toils were for anonymity, he none the less pushed throw, racking his brain over one line of code then the next. "If they can't sleep in the trenches, neither can I," the new Ivy alumnus repeated to himself as many of the print outs began to blur together. The further he pushed, the more consumed by nerve-racking guilt and frustrations. The tears were stippled by pride, but he knew what he had to do: he had to do everything at his disposal to get to where the action was.
Fast, authoritative, purposeful loud German surrounded him on all sides. While the tongue of his great grandparents was historically inoffensive to him, as a man of more recent Polish decent, vitriol pumped through his veins having to be subjected to such cruel irony. The planning sounded urgent but calculated, critical though strangely confident; none the less the foreign vowels, consonants, and diphthongs felt particularly distant this day. As the room scattered, the dressed to the nine's officers departing for whatever task may lie at hand, Wisniewski tried to be unnoticed sitting still as possible. At the same time the dehydration and claustrophobic nature of the situation at hand was beginning to wear on him and he wished to be somewhere, anywhere than this place at this moment in time. With the majority of the crowd now dispersed, he caved against his better judgement, decided to try to subtly draw attention. Somehow a lifeline, any touch of humanity seeping through an otherwise unthinkable circumstance would rule the day, he was sure of it. A woman dressed in a white gown acknowledged his plight. Rather than alerting higher authorities, she simply snarked and carried on about herself, muttering something in German under her breath. Sitting in the full body cast, the mountain of a man reduced to incapacity continued to lie seemingly lifeless in the bed, casts encompassing the entirety of his physique. Why they'd spared him from end, he was unsure. But what they'd do with him upon better health shook him right down to the core.