His name was destined to be on a baseball card, but it ended up on a tombstone first.
On Saturday, a soft layer of snow coated the departed at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery. Gloom loomed from the gray sky. In the 31-degree cold, the whipping wind was incessant. And inscribed on one of the off-white graves, which looked like all the others in this row, and every row, row after row, thousands and thousands of Americans who made the ultimate sacrifice, was his name:
It’s a name we should’ve known.
It’s a name we still should know.