I watched the first lottery with my floormates in Whitbeck House-Sellery Hall. As each guy had his number called, he left the room. This was a totally spontaneous ritual. The networks speculated that those whose numbers were in the first third-about through number 122-would likely be drafted when they became eligible. Those who fell within that range, inlcuding me, since my number was 118, went out and had more than a few beers. As it turned out, in 1972, when I became eligible, they only got to around number 95 or so. As a result, I was never drafted. I now live in Washington DC, and often visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, to pay homage to those whose names appear on the wall, who were not as fortunate as I was. I have told my children that those men, and women, never had a chance to live out their lives as I did, or realize their hopes and dreams. That hurts me, and I will never forget them.
