HEROES AND ATHLETES
By
Paul Martino. Sapper, Nui Dat, South
Vietnam 70/71
uc_da_loi@optusnet.com.au
Son of Kenneth Martino, R/O H.M.S.
Hardy, Torpedoed North Atlantic Run WWII
Grandson of Dominic Martino, Soldier,
Green Howards. Machine Gunned France WWI
The
Athlete
The Swimmer touches the tiles, winning
his race by 1000th of a
second.
He is hailed mightily throughout the
country as a “Hero”.
The overweight Weightlifter lifts an
extra 10 lbs. He too is called a “Hero”.
The too-lean Bicyclist in fancy colours
wins by a lead of milliseconds,
Apoplectic newscasters go into
hysterical cardiac fits.
The Javelin Thrower’s spear goes that
extra yard, yet another “Hero”
The sweat stained runner wins by ten
yards and we’ve got another “Hero”
Let the screaming thousands of
sightless, mindless drunkards, loose,
Headed by our disgustingly cricket mad,
overenthusiastic Prime Minister,
loose on a cricket Pitch,
And if you believe him, we have a team
of the greatest “Heroes” who ever
existed.
“Heroes” all, these sportsmen, if you
are uncaring and believe in fairy
stories -
For this is the new cheap
sensationalism. Every Australian athlete
is now a “Hero”,
Merely to stir up long wanted forgotten
patriotism, to forget about the real
Heroes.
To quickly forget those who actually
gave their all, and get on with “real”
life,
That the pampered Athlete might continue
his life of uninterrupted luxury.
That he might immediately receive the
best medical treatment to be had,
The best clothes money can buy, the
finest food, and luxury accommodation,
Ticker tape parades, screaming crowds of
the ever forgetful at every move.
More of a welcome than the most true
Hero, existing in peaceful silence, ever
got.
“Hero” the soft, pampered, Athlete is
definitely not!
The Hero
Lays quietly, in peace, forever at rest
in a turbulent false world
In mysteriously, well tended endless
soft rolling green fields
Scattered around the world, all
enveloped in an eerie peaceful silence.
In acres of fields lined with hundreds
of thousands simple white crosses,
In absolute parade ground precision of
the living.
No cheering of the enthusiastic
apoplectic sports commentator here,
No enthusiasm by any Government
Official, or Prime Minister of note.
The true Hero all too quickly forgotten
by those many who never served.
And yet luckily, there are those of us,
who returned,
Left to remember as we grow old.
And remember we will. Forever.
For there’s Homage to pay.
And pay you will, you spoiled majority,
Those same families who never served,
the same sons of the same rich,
For we will never let you forget the
real Hero beneath those humble white
crosses
Laying in eternity, silently at peace,
in those roughly hewn graves.
These are the Heroes. These are the men
and women, who gave their all,
Who really went the extra inch, who
lifted far more than the extra ten
pounds,
In living conditions unimaginable by
today’s generations.
Their opposition was deadly aplenty,
their lot - filthy ragged clothing, bad
food,
Expected to perform their best in all
weather, hot, cold, raining, dry, and
freezing.
Day or Night. Rested or not. Neither
hunger nor thirst a factor of any
consideration.
No clean clear smooth quiet , peaceful
pathway for these men and women.
No first class medical treatment, for
strains or painful wounds, on call day
and night.
And yet shamefully you all forget, they
too won their competition regardless!.
Except there was no handshake at the end
of their race. Just exhaustion.
Out of respect for the true Hero, get it
right. An Athlete is after all, just an
Athlete.
The surviving Hero often arrives home in
the quiet darkness of night, no
greetings,
Medals in his pocket, kitbag on his
shoulder, expecting no more
And getting even less.
