Volume 6, Issue 31: Junebug

"God loves you just the way you are, but He loves you too much to let you stay that way."

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Both of my grandfathers were infantrymen in World War II. My mom’s dad, Grandpa Dooley, was a turret gunner.

Both of my grandparents loved me, and loved to talk to me, and loved when I asked them questions, but I could never get them to tell me about the actual wars themselves. They always smiled and moved onto something else. Their military service was inextricable from their identity—Grandpa Dooley wore his dog tag around his neck every day—but it wasn’t something they would get into any detail about. Once, my uncle Lotsi, who had immigrated from Poland, fought for the United States in WWII and then married my grandmother’s sister, took me down to his basement in Bethalto, Illinois, and showed me the rifle he took home from the war. He pointed to the bayonet on the end and tapped the side of the stained blade. “Still sharp,” he said. “Your grandpa’s old rifle is over there. He doesn’t like to have it in the house, so I keep it for him.”

All three of those men, my grandfather and my uncle, received a veterans burial; their coffins were covered with the flag, which was then folded (correctly) by uniformed officers and presented to their widows. The oldest sons of each men, my uncle Mike and my father Bryan—my great uncle Lotsi never had any children—also joined the military directly after they graduated from high school; Mike enrolled in West Point, and my father signed up for the Air Force, assuming he would end up in Vietnam. (He ended up repairing planes at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia.) None of these men—I knew all of them well, they are all central figures to the man I have become and continue to try to be—were aggressive men, or disagreeable, or wayward in any way. They were straightforward, Midwestern in every way. They liked to grill, drink domestic beer, tinker with their cars, listen to baseball on the radio and come home after a full day’s work and be with their families. They were complicated men, like all people are, their lives (especially Mike’s) were far more complex and nuanced than I can possibly describe in one paragraph, but in the end, more than anything else, they believed that their lives were one of service: That they were just small pieces in a larger story, and that the lives they had, and the lives they were able to provide for the people they loved, were possible because of the country they were born in, had grown up in and deeply believed in. All of them flew the flag in their front yards; one of my proudest moments was, when I was 10 years old, Grandpa Dooley took me out the night before Thanksgiving and showed me how to properly lower the flag and then raise it the next morning.

America was something you loved, unconditionally, but also something you knew required constant maintenance. Something you knew was unique, special, and therefore fragile; it was something you were called not just to serve, but to protect. These men had their own biases and blindspots, as all men do. But they believed in America, the promise of it, the possibility of it, that its ideals were worth striving for even if we were never going to ever quite get there. They loved their country, but they also knew its faults, and they had a sense of humor about it; making fun of its customs, and definitely its leaders, was one of the reasons to be proud of it, one of special privileges of getting to live there. (I watched Johnny Carson make a joke about Ronald Reagan while staying up at my grandparents, and my grandfather cackled: “Can’t do that if you’re Soviet!”) America was the air you breathed, all-enveloping; you complained about it but you also understood you had to share it with everyone around you. To love America was to be alive, and to be a part of something. It belonged to you, and the person next to you, and the person next to them.

And that was the most important part: It was all of ours. My grandparents, my great uncle, my father, my uncle, anyone who had served this country—include those who had served by being shot at by other human beings and shooting back at them—claimed no special status of American. They were Americans like the woman at the bank was an American like the man who pumped your gas was an American like the man who tried to wash your window and ask you for cash when you were at a stop sign in the big city was an American like your teachers were American like your classmates where Americans like all your friends and everyone you knew were American. Their America—my America, the one I still believe in and I have profound faith still exists—is one that is my land and your land. It’s our actual national anthem.

It’s those moments when we recognize that we are one—that our country is built to be different, and special, and that our failings to achieve that ideal is not a sign of rot but a sign of what we can still yet to do—and that we can accomplish anything, that we have accomplished so much already, when we remember that … that’s the America I love and, in spite of, you know, everything, that’s the America I believe still exists.

Last night, after that incredible Argentina-Cabo Verde World Cup match, I scrolled through YouTube TV and saw an ABC Disney celebration of America 250. I will confess that I have mostly skipped any Semiquincentennial commemorations. Almost all of it has been corrupted by the current administration—The Great American State Fair strikes me as yet another thing we’ll look back at over the next couple decades as the perfect metaphor for just how much things collapsed in this era, the ongoing enshittification of America itself—and, to be honest, it’s difficult sometimes to remember to be proud of one’s country when it is in its current state. At this point, I imagined ABC Disney’s celebration to be some sort of crypto ad starring the Minions and some stray Kushners.

But I turned it on anyway. And there were no Minions, and no Kushners. I saw the story of Dr. Marion Lee, the Black mathematician who helped NASA send John Glenn into orbit.

They later had a feature on the Wright brothers, Jonas Salk, the 2001 World Series, Miles Davis and the Challenger explosion. I kept watching. This was my history, and your history, American history, the visionary, the awful, the glorious, the tragic, joys, horrors, heroic moments, cowardly ones—and all of it, stories we had lived through together. As I get older, I find such collective moments—those moments when we are all living the same thing, in the same reality, at the same time—vitally important, and worrisomely fleeting. Those collective moments are what remind us that we are human, and very much not alone.

You know what America is? It’s this:

It’s a tiny restaurant in the Little Morocco neighborhood of Queens. But throughout this World Cup, it has swelled with pride, song and beating drums as the Moroccan national team has pushed its way deep into soccer’s biggest international tournament.

It’s a scene that has been echoed across the United States — in a multitude of languages and colors, as soccer fans from all over the world, many now making their homes in America, have packed bars, restaurants, living rooms and concert venues.

No matter where they came from or where they gathered, they all sought the same experience: a chance to watch their nations compete while surrounded by others who share passion and pride for the country they or their ancestors once called home.

Together, these fans have brought places throughout the United States to life.

We are our differences, all brought together, in those fleeting moments, as one. It’s looking across the room at someone who you do not know and understanding, instantly, that you have a bond. It does not mean you have to agree on everything; that would be impossible, you are two entirely different people. It just means that there is one thing that brings you together, and it’s something whose ideals, however rarely it can live up to them, allow that to happen. It’s a place for everyone: The soldiers who fight for it, the families who build lives in it, the activists who work to change it, the people who come together and work to reveal its limitless possibilities.

In my lifetime, it has never been harder to be an American—to feel proud of being an American, to believe it those ideals, to be secure that they will be protected and values—than it has been in the last year-and-a-half of American life. There are people actively attempting to destroy those values. But they have not succeeded. I still believe, and I suspect many of you still do too. It’s worth fighting for—however you fight for it. America drives me crazy. America is often terrifying. But I still love it. Because I still believe in it. Because it’s ours. This land was made for you and me. Now let’s make sure we keep it.

HOT DOG

Another of my July 4 traditions is the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest in Coney Island, which I visited and wrote one of my favorite Deadspin pieces about way back in 2007. It also marks the fifth anniversary of the proudest moment of my career.

Here is a numerical breakdown of all the things I wrote this week, in order of what I believe to be their quality.

1. What to Look Forward to in July, MLB.com. Should be a very fun month.

2. The Next Cardinals Stretch is the Biggest Cardinals Stretch, MLB.com. Holding up so far!

3. Your USMNT-Bosnia Preview, New York. The Belgium preview should be up tomorrow morning.

4. Penalty Kicks Are a Metaphor For Life, The Washington Post. It’s all about where you happen to be standing.
   
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5. This Week’s Power Rankings, MLB.com. The Cardinals keep hanging in, man

PODCASTS

Grierson & Leitch, we discussed “Supergirl” and “Jackass: Best and Last,” and we also had a generational discussion about “Obsession” and “Backrooms.”

Morning Lineup, I did Monday’s show.

Seeing Red, Bernie and I previewed the second half.

LONG STORY YOU SHOULD READ THIS MORNING … OF THE WEEK

“I Went to the American State Fair and May Never Sleep Again,” Alexandra Petri, The Atlantic. Perfect match of writer and subject.

Also, I absolutely agree with this David Wallace-Wells piece. Something’s changing.

ONGOING LETTER-WRITING PROJECT!

This is your reminder that if you write me a letter and put it in the mail, I will respond to it with a letter of my own, and send that letter right to you! It really happens! Hundreds of satisfied customers!

Write me at:

Will Leitch
P.O. Box 48
Athens GA 30603

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO

Had to go with this one, one of the great Springsteen covers.

Remember to listen to The Official Will Leitch Newsletter Spotify Playlist, featuring every song ever mentioned in this section. Let this drive your listening, not the algorithm!

The Leitches all made it out to see our Cardinals beat the Braves this week.

Also, I think we’re beating Belgium. Have a great Fourth, all.

Best,
Will