VETERAN ACE
How a 93-year-old World War II veteran stole the softball stage
Harley Richardson strode to the pitcher’s circle wearing his wool armygreen jacket, his garrison cap and a huge smile.
Even though the temperature was well into the triple digits, it was difficult not to get goosebumps.
Friday was Military Appreciation Night at the World Cup of Softball, and before the day’s finale between the USA and Japan, Richardson threw out the first pitch.
He’s a World War II veteran. He’s 93 years old. Talk to him for three seconds, and you’ll find that Richardson is an absolute treasure, too.
“It isn’t that you’re wanting to be recognized,” he said of being a veteran. “You don’t really care about that. But you’d like to think people appreciated what you did.”
Richardson was still a senior in high school in southwest Missouri when he entered the Army.
"I got a letter from the president," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "It said 'Greetings' on it." He laughed. Even though Richardson lacked a few credits for his high school diploma, the draft board told him he could complete his requirements in the Army by getting credit for physical education.
"I would've rather taken physical ed than 17 weeks of basic training," Richardson said, that twinkle back in his eye. "Forty-mile hike and all that stuff.
"Physical ed, I could've goofed off."
Instead, he did basic training in Texas, the Army Specialist Training Program in Stillwater, then more training back in Texas.
In late 1944, he was with the 103rd Division when it shipped off to the European theater. Its journey from New York to France took 14 days by boat.
"I was seasick for 15," Richardson said.
The night they arrived, they walked 18 miles in the rain carrying 75-pound packs.
"Didn't matter to me," Richardson said, "as long as I was on land."
For the next 18 months, Richardson saw the horrors of war. Six of those months, he was in combat.
"It's mean, nasty business," he said. "No matter where you are or what you're doing, it's the same thing. Vietnam. Korea. Desert Storm. All of that. Same thing.
"When you go in, you come back different."
Richardson tells people that regularly. After he retired from his work as an electrical engineer with AT&T, he started volunteering at the 45th Infantry Museum, which is just south across the street from Hall of Fame Stadium and just down the road from the Oklahoma City Zoo. In France, he had fought alongside the 45th, which was in combat over 500 days.
He goes to the museum every Friday to greet visitors, talking about the 45th but also sharing his experiences.
He volunteers for lots of reasons. It gives him a routine and keeps him active, though he and wife, Adalee, are doing a pretty good job of that already. In the three or so years they've been married — both were widowed after long marriages; Richardson was wed to his first bride, Bonnie, for 67 years — they've made trips to see canyons in Colorado and bluebonnets in Texas and family in Missouri.
And he doesn't go to the 45th Museum to get out of the house either.
"You can write that down," he told me as he glanced at Adalee.
He goes to the museum because he wants to make sure people know about the sacrifice that all veterans make. Millions like him did in World War II fighting for freedom, and millions more have in the decades since.
He gives voice to them.
Friday night, he gave them a face when he walked to that pitcher's circle.
"It's a great honor," he said of being chosen to throw out the first pitch.
And after he got the ball to the plate — albeit with a couple bounces — he couldn't go very far without someone wanting to shake his hand. Players and coaches on the field. Fans and fellow veterans in the stands.
Neither Harley Richardson nor any other American who served our country ever did it for recognition.
That doesn't mean they don't deserve it.