A couple of years ago I was on a flight from Atlanta to Dallas and struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. He was young, 19, and on his way home from Iraq. He was an air traffic controller in the Air Force and was heading home to California to get married. We talked for a while about the war and hometowns and what he had missed while he was gone.
He had a cast on his wrist and, hoping for a good story, I asked about it. He seemed a little hesitant to tell me about how it happened, which to me suggested maybe it was the result of some traumatic war-related activity. I pushed, and finally he told me he had broken his wrist playing volleyball in the Iraqi desert.
After a little more conversation, he made a comment about the book I was reading. It was a collection of essays written by important Texans. He said he could tell I was from Texas because “only somebody from Texas would read about other Texans.”
I told him only somebody from California would go all the way to Iraq and break their wrist playing beach volleyball.
He had a cast on his wrist and, hoping for a good story, I asked about it. He seemed a little hesitant to tell me about how it happened, which to me suggested maybe it was the result of some traumatic war-related activity. I pushed, and finally he told me he had broken his wrist playing volleyball in the Iraqi desert.
After a little more conversation, he made a comment about the book I was reading. It was a collection of essays written by important Texans. He said he could tell I was from Texas because “only somebody from Texas would read about other Texans.”
I told him only somebody from California would go all the way to Iraq and break their wrist playing beach volleyball.