Grateful American: A Journey from Self to Service(72)
On hole number one, Samuel and I stepped up to the tee box. Samuel teed off first and hit his ball 280 yards right down the middle. A crowd had gathered to watch, but it wasn’t very large yet, and the people all applauded nicely. (As the tournament progresses, the crowd grows substantially bigger.) Then my turn came up. “Ladies and gentlemen, now on the tee, from the new hit series CSI: NY, Gary Sinise!” Yikes. Already my stomach ached. As I prepared to take my swing, I was sweating, and inside I was shaking, but I put on a good face, acting through my fear. I let loose with a nervous swing and sliced the ball down the fairway. At least I hit it, I thought. The crowd tried to be polite, clapping in that small-crowd golf kind of way.
Few of my next shots went well. A slight rain fell, and I hit a ball into the woods, another into a water hole, another into a sand trap. Between the ninth and tenth holes, we passed the parking lot and I seriously considered jumping into my car and never looking back. But then I reminded myself that for an actor, the show must go on, so I powered up to the tenth tee and tried again. My golf pro caddied for me, so he gave me a few pointers along the way, and sometimes I hit a few good shots in a row. But nothing kept the feelings of panic under control.
The good news was that Clint Eastwood hosted the tournament, and he subsequently became a friend as well as a big supporter of my foundation. The bad news is the second day went no better than the first. I hit the ball all over the place. By the third day, Saturday, we played at Pebble Beach, and the crowds had swelled. About midway through the course, as Samuel and I walked to the tee, the pro I was with knew the course and the tournament, and just before we turned the corner, he said, “Okay, get ready.” We turned the corner, and a massive crowd greeted us with applause. Literally thousands of people lined this hole, all the way from the tee to the green. My knees quaked. Again, Samuel’s shot flew straight down the fairway. I wound up with another big swing and launched. It didn’t look pretty, but again, at least I hit the ball and it stayed on the fairway. Still nervous but somewhat relieved, I glanced around for a tree I could throw up behind.
On the tee at the eighteenth hole, in the distance, I could see that the grandstand surrounding the green was packed with people. And the fairway was lined with spectators all down the right side from tee to green. The Pacific Ocean was to our left. At least it’s a beautiful day, I thought. Here goes. My last drive. I’m going to nail this shot and walk to the green like a champion. I stepped up to the tee. The crowd grew quiet. I set up. Took my swing. Hit the ball, and . . . uh-oh . . . it soared over the crowd to the right. A polite little applause followed. I cracked some sort of joke and folks laughed. I wasn’t about to chase my ball into the crowd, so I said, “Guys, I’ll just walk it in from here and enjoy this beautiful day. You guys finish strong.” Samuel and the pros all kind of nodded and chuckled. They finished up, and I walked it in. I never pretended to be much of a golfer. It was a truly humbling few days. I was glad I did it, but I was also glad it was over.
I think the ratings for CSI: NY actually went down after that.
On my first USO trip to Iraq in 2003, I sat on the C-130 transport plane next to a man wearing a button with the picture of his two sons. His name was John Vigiano. His younger son, Joe Vigiano, was a highly decorated New York City police officer, and his older son, John Vigiano Jr., served with the FDNY in Brooklyn at Ladder 132, Engine 280, a station that lost six firefighters that terrible September day.
John Vigiano Sr. and I became good friends over the years and remained so until his death in 2018. He served in the Marine Corps and is a legendary New York City firefighter himself. Both of his boys were family men and absolute heroes on the job. John Jr. was known as one of the best firefighters in his department, and Joe had taken three bullets in his career and received multiple awards for valor. John Sr. talked to his sons on the phone each day before work. His last line to each of them was always, “I love you.” He lost both of his sons in the Twin Towers’ collapse on 9/11. They laid down their lives trying to rescue others. John Jr. was thirty-six; Joe was thirty-four.
After we returned from Iraq, John Sr. introduced me to many of New York’s bravest at the FDNY who inspired me with their selflessness and willingness to help others. John also proved a great inspiration to me in my Catholic journey. He was a man of deep faith who loved God. After losing both his boys and searching for their bodies among the rubble for days and days, John easily could have despaired or turned bitter. But he saw many people who came from all over America to help search for other people’s loved ones. He met many fellow Americans who passed out food and water to the rescue workers and who gave wherever they could. In light of the outpouring of support, John said to me, more than once, “I believe more good came out of September 11th than evil.” I will never forget that.
John invited me to Ladder 132, the very station where his son John had worked, to meet the guys, have a classic chicken parm dinner (lots of bread, lots of pasta, lots of fun), and take a tour of the firehouse. The guys told me that if a bell rang and they needed to go out on a call, I should be ready too. So they dressed me up in full firefighter gear, and sure enough, a call came. We all jumped on the truck and headed out, sirens blaring. Somebody had fallen down an elevator shaft, and the guys set out to rescue him.
Once we got to the site, one of the firefighters handed me some sort of tool and told me to look busy. Other engines from other houses were coming, and they didn’t want to explain me. Sure enough, other firefighters arrived, and they all sort of glanced at me and grinned. Turned out, the guys from Ladder 132 had handed me some sort of tool that no respectable firefighter would ever use in that specific rescue operation—so to their trained eyes I stuck out like a sore thumb. Like changing a flat tire with an egg beater. This was firefighter humor at its best, and everybody enjoyed a good laugh about it afterward, including me. The firefighters became an extremely important part of my life. These were the guys who were there during the first battle in the new war of the twenty-first century. They had lost friends and loved ones and seen horrific things that terrible day. I wanted to support them however I could, and many became great friends of mine. We’ve undertaken a number of initiatives together over the years. In 2016, to say thanks for championing their work, the FDNY commissioner Daniel Nigro made me an honorary battalion chief. My pals were all there for me, including John Vigiano, who drove into the city from his home in Long Island for this special day. I was and remain humbled to receive that recognition from the FDNY.