It was cruel. Simply cruel.

Politican after politician, parading through aisles, shaking hands. The media interviewing one after the other, most defending our presence in Vietnam, and the need for this lottery. Sure, there were some dissenters. But not on this night, at least not officially.

To delay this event that was surely torturing more than just the James household to show pictures of the people who were letting it happen…to keep these young men swirling like wind socks in fear and confusion was not right.

“Can I get anyone anything,” Marge asked softly, seeking an excuse to escape for a fear-laden sob.

“No, thanks, Ma,” Austin answered. His father just shook his head slowly.

Though many politicians were on the scene, the drawing quickly became low key. It opened with an invocation. Young men and women representing the Selective Service’s youth advisory committees across the country gathered to take part in the drawing, removing the political appearance from the actual drawing, a ploy that fooled nobody, certainly not the James’ around their television.

Briefly, the media showed scattered small demonstrations outside, mostly from young people, none of which were a danger of disrupting the proceedings.

Selective Service director Lt. Gen. Lewis B. Hershey, a tough nut in his 70s, greeted the youth members before shaking the hand of Rep. Alexander Pirnie, a Republican from New York who would draw the first capsule.

Austin had read in the paper that Selective Service experts expected the top third of those numbers drawn would be drafted. So the top 120…heck, Austin thought, odds could be worse.

He began to work himself into a belief he would be spared. “Odds on my side,” he thought.

Austin was shifting on the floor, on one side, then the other. Knees pulled to his chest, flat on his back, every which way possible. His mother had returned with a soda he didn’t request but was glad to have. His dad had taken care of himself…scotch, from the cabinet next to his easy chair. There was nothing easy about this.

Pirnie reached into a rotating bin and pulled out a capsule. The first children to go would be those born…

Sept. 14.

“Another 300 sighs of relief and I may actually be relieved,” Austin said, trying to add levity to the situation. His dad cracked a smile, his mother, too. I’ll be fine he thought. This is not my destiny.

The youth committee members lined up to draw the subsequent capsules…Pirnie was the only elected official with a role. Next drawing…

April 24.

Still safe.

Austin was now on his stomach, his long frame stretched out across the carpet. His eyes closed, drawing him back to a time, once upon.

The floor used to be hardwood. When he was little, Austin would take a running start from the front door and slide…Jackie Robinson stealing home. His brother, Joseph, would do a great Yogi Berra impersonation that would crack him up, even at the age of 6.

He clipped the leg of his mother’s old coffee table once, knocking it off and sending the table crashing to the ground. Then she did the Yogi, flipping her lid, but hers wasn’t an act. It was a damn nice table.

December 30.

Joseph called shortly after dinner. “I love you, A.J.,” he said. “And you’ll be fine.”

Joseph was in California, working in advertising. He was Austin’s elder by 4 years, his destroyed left knee keeping him from having to serve. He was in a car accident his senior year in high school that many felt ruined his chance at being drafted by a Major League club. He was a fast switch-hitter, with a stick-’em glove and a line drive stroke. How Austin loved watching him play…peppering bullets to all fields…

…bullets.

February 14.

What does it feel like when they hit? he wondered.

His dad had been wounded, but not from a bullet. A truck exploded, and metal from the blast pierced his hand, as well as his chest and leg. He was scarred along his left pectoral muscle, but the penetration wasn’t too deep, a testament to the rock-solid build of his younger years.

Dad was a man’s man. Tough as nails, romantic to the core, could fix anything, make anyone laugh…just everything. God, how Austin looked up to him…longed to follow in those steady, firm footsteps…always with purpose, always with direction.

A hug from dad was never old. It was never unmacho. It was strength, pure strength and he fed off of it. Each day, every day, like morning coffee.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” Marge howled.

Austin crawled to his father’s lap, his mother collapsing on top of him, a wailing mess of unwavering devotion. Philip wrapped them both in his powerful arms. “Oh God, Dad!” Austin gasped. “I…I…”

Philip’s pot was empty. There was nothing, at that moment, to say. So he just held on. Tightly. And prayed the words would come.

He hadn’t slept for the better part of a week. School was in session, but he was delaying entrance to college until after Major League Baseball’s amateur draft. Now he was regretting the move.

He could have possibly gotten a deferment for Vietnam because of his classification as a student. But he wanted to take those months to prepare for the draft, tour the country with his dad and audition for scouts or whoever else was willing to watch.

Today would be a long day. The longest of his life, though depending what happened tonight, that would surely change.

They were going to televise the drawing. Politicians were gathering in Washington to draw numbers. Each day of the year had its own capsule that would be drawn, one by one. Those born on the first date chosen would be first expected to enroll in the military…the first to join the fight.

October 18. If this went down badly, no birthday would ever be celebrated the same way again. His entrance to the world would also be the date that punched his ticket to war. Austin found that disturbingly ironic.

Both his mom and dad stopped into his room separately, intermittently throughout the day. He sat on his floor, playing his tabletop baseball game, spinning the arrow over the circular cards. Ruth, Gehrig, Cobb…all there. He made cards of his own, too. Wrote formulas and everything. Had an 8-team league he tracked stats for in woodworker’s detail.

His parents asked if they could get him anything, a drink, a sandwich. Dad offered to play catch, as he always did.

Austin broke to help his dad shovel the walk after a half-inch of slushy snow came down that afternoon. His mind wandered often.

At one point a military plane flew overhead. Austin dropped his shovel and stared, following its trail until it faded into the distance, tracking its likely path when out of sight. His dad watched from a distance, knowing the feeling well. Twenty-eight years or not, the day you learn you’re going to war is a day for which the details tend not to escape your mind for very long.

Philip did all he could do. He stood next to his son and stared into the distance as well. Austin looked for clarity in an uncertain future. Philip, his arm around Austin’s shoulder, simply looked for hope. Neither search was successful.

The sun would be down soon. Dinner would be eerily silent. Nobody ate much.

The three sat in the living room. As 8 o’clock approached, nobody moved. Then Austin stood, walked haltingly toward the TV, and turned it on.

The war lottery was ready to begin.