Tom Sileo (4 page)

“Look, this is your call and your decision,” Tom told his son, who he always believed could excel at the Naval Academy and beyond. “But I think you're making a big mistake.”

Ever since running around his house singing the Marine Corps hymn with his sister, Ryan, when they were little kids, the academy had seemed like the most logical step to Travis. But once he actually got there, he was introduced to the daily routine: wake up at 5:30 a.m., get your room inspected, eat breakfast at 7:00 a.m., start class at 7:55, and then sit in lecture halls all day before a grueling 3:00 p.m. wrestling practice. After a full day of physical and academic challenges, Travis and other midshipmen would spend most of the evening studying and preparing for the next day's classes.

It was an exhausting routine for any college student. Travis couldn't imagine returning from vacation and starting the grind all over again.

The holiday was gloomy for Travis, who barely touched his Thanksgiving dinner. As sounds of laughter filled the living room, where his mom and dad, Ryan, and other relatives were socializing, Travis knew his time at the Naval Academy was over. A few days later, he returned to Lieutenant Colonel Gardner's office with his completed resignation packet.

“I'm really sorry to see you go, Travis,” Gardner said. “I wish you the best, but I also want you to know that if you ever want to come back, I will put in a word for you.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” Travis replied. “But this place isn't for me.”

Travis, who had made good grades at Navy, had no problem gaining admission to Drexel University in Philadelphia, where
he contributed significantly as a freshman Division I-A lacrosse player while planning to join the wrestling team.

Travis didn't hate Drexel. But after spending a semester away from Annapolis, his appreciation for what Navy stood for, as well as the bonds he had forged with several academy friends, made him regret his decision to leave. There was only one place for Travis Manion, and if he could get another chance, it was time to go back.

Neil Toohey came to the Naval Academy straight out of high school without any exposure to military life prior to the fall of 2000. After getting his head shaved during “I-Day,” induction day for incoming midshipmen during plebe summer, Toohey was rushing back to his room to finish unpacking his belongings before his room was to be inspected for the first time. He had already seen another plebe being berated for screwing up and didn't want that to happen to him on his first day.

Toohey arrived in his room to find a muscular, brown-haired guy going through his clothes. At first he thought it was one of the upperclassmen doing an inspection, but this guy was wearing a plebe's uniform. As Toohey was pondering the possibility that someone was going through his underwear, the young man quickly dispelled that fear by introducing himself.

“Hey, I'm Brendan Looney, your new roommate,” he said. “We've got to get all your clothes folded before the inspectors get here.”

Grabbing Toohey's shirts and socks from his duffle bag, Brendan quickly folded them as he heard footsteps coming down the hall.

“You've got to fold 'em like this,” Brendan said. “Make the socks smile.”

“Oh . . . thanks, man,” Toohey said. “But just one thing. . . . You mixed up my shirts.”

“Shit, that's my bad,” Brendan said. “I'm colorblind.”

After Toohey thanked him a second time, Brendan, an imposing figure even at age nineteen, responded with a nod and a grin. It was already clear to Toohey that his new roommate was looking out for him.

“Man, I just have no idea what I'm doing around here,” Toohey complained.

“Relax,” Brendan said. “You're not supposed to. . . . It's our first day.”

Though Brendan was also a plebe, he was more prepared for I-Day than most others after spending ten months attending the Naval Academy Preparatory School in Newport, Rhode Island. With a grueling academic, physical, and military training regimen, NAPS had given Brendan the chance to play football against junior college and junior varsity opponents while preparing to join Navy's Division I-A team.

About 15 percent of the incoming class came from NAPS, and each of those 177 students, including Brendan, had a head start. As Brendan demonstrated by helping Toohey pass inspection, the “NAPSters” were seen as big brothers by many plebes, who felt clueless and frightened while getting hollered at for making the smallest of mistakes. Although Brendan still had a lot to learn himself, he knew not making his bed in thirty seconds or forgetting to shine his belt buckle wouldn't get him kicked out of the academy. His sheer physical presence gave him the appearance of a natural leader, but it was the calming smirk he often gave the other plebes that really demonstrated that quality.

Of the four plebes in Brendan's room, three had gone to NAPS. After experiencing ten tough months together, the first signs of military-style brotherhood were evident in the NAPSters, who usually stuck together. Toohey gained inclusion by virtue of being their roommate.

As the first-year midshipmen adjusted to the academy's grueling routine in the fall and spring of 2000, Navy's class of 2004 was
beginning to take shape. Unbeknownst to Brendan and the other plebes, however, a key member of their social circle was not yet with them.

When Travis told his father he wanted to reapply to the Naval Academy after one semester at Drexel, Tom, still unhappy over his son's decision to drop out in the first place, was skeptical.

“That's your decision,” he said. “If you want to go back, you're going to have to do it on your own.”

“I will,” Travis said.

A few days later, Lieutenant Colonel Gardner was sitting in his Annapolis office when a surprise visitor walked in.

“Travis?” he said. “It's good to see you again.”

After asking how his good friends Tom and Janet were doing, Gardner welcomed the former midshipman into his office and asked him to have a seat. Travis explained that while he had given Drexel a try, it had only taken him a few months to realize that Gardner had been right. The Naval Academy was indeed where he belonged.

Gardner was thrilled by Travis's epiphany, but also cautious in his response. He agreed that Navy was the right place for Tom and Janet's son, but he stressed that getting into the academy a second time was very rare. Gardner told Travis that while he would do everything possible to help, it would be a challenge to convince the Naval Academy that he deserved a second chance.

Though he understood that the odds of getting back into Navy were probably against him, Travis was undeterred. For the next five months he worked exhaustively to win the hearts and minds of a skeptical Naval Academy admissions board.

Because Travis had immediately enrolled at Drexel and participated in a varsity sport during his lone semester on the Philadelphia campus, his readmission request was taken seriously. His academic
record was strong, before and after leaving Navy. But what made his application stand out was a cover letter from Gardner, who wrote that he had “absolutely no doubt” that Travis would be a fine midshipman and even better military officer.

For the class of 2004, 10,296 young men and women applied to the US Naval Academy, of which only 1,224 were admitted. Travis, a second semester addition, was one of them.

Tom and Janet were watching an ABC News interview with Texas governor George W. Bush, the presumptive Republican nominee for president, when Travis walked into their Doylestown living room holding a large envelope from the Naval Academy.

“I got back in,” Travis said.

“I knew it!” Janet said before jumping up to hug her son. “I knew it.”

Tom was surprised and pleased, as he fully appreciated the size of the mountain his son had just climbed. After a brief pause, he shook his son's hand.

“You have a second chance,” he said. “I'm proud of you, but don't forget how fortunate you are to be getting this opportunity.”

Travis, who returned to Navy in the spring of 2001 as a second semester plebe, barely knew anyone on his floor, including his three roommates, who had just been through their first semester. Though he was thrilled to be back at the academy, Travis felt like a ballplayer traded in the middle of the season. There was still a pitcher's mound and ninety feet between each base, but he was surrounded by a different group of teammates, including upperclassmen who frequently reminded him how much they detested quitters. Travis was ready for the criticism, and for the most part, he took it in stride.

The Naval Academy dorms looked more like classroom hallways than living quarters. The shiny floors, often cleaned by midshipmen
who had done something to piss off a company officer or upperclassman, stretched the length of several football fields, with the open doors of aspiring sailors and Marines lining the hallways. No matter what they were doing, underclassmen always had to be ready for surprise inspections. Brendan and Travis, who carried the burden of being Division I athletes along with their academic and drilling responsibilities, rarely if ever complained.

Just after the start of the fall 2001 semester, Travis and Brendan met up for an early morning run. The wrestler and football player both had practice later that afternoon, but as two varsity athletes who wanted to be the best, they were determined to work harder than everybody else.

After talking about the start of the NFL season, their mid-jog conversation shifted to their backgrounds. They had a lot in common, including their love of sports and their country. Both midshipmen had been raised Catholic in tight-knit families, although Brendan's was a little larger.

“I have two brothers and three sisters,” Brendan said as they jogged past Navy-Marine Corps Memorial Stadium and into a nearby Annapolis neighborhood.

The two younger Looney brothers, Steve and Billy, were still at DeMatha, the high school attended by Brendan and their father, Kevin. After graduation, Steve and Billy would join Brendan at the Naval Academy.

Brendan's sisters, Bridget, Erin, and Kellie, grew up wanting to hang out in “the cool room.” That was their nickname for Brendan's room, where all of his younger siblings wanted to hang out. Like Steve and Billy, the Looney sisters looked up to Brendan and strove to emulate him. Not only did Brendan set an example as the ideal big brother; he was also a hardworking, stellar athlete, and all his talented younger siblings would eventually follow in his footsteps.