by Jay Price
A light rain was falling this morning as the first runners came out of the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, following in the footsteps of an American hero in the Firefighter Stephen Siller Tunnel-to-Towers Run.
The rain beaded on the hats of the uniformed firemen lining the exit from the tunnel, each one holding an American flag or a banner with the likeness of a firefighter; 343 banners, one for each fireman who died on that other September morning in 2001, a line of heroism and heartbreak that, from down there where the runners exited the tunnel, seemed to stretch forever.
"You look at the banners and it's like, 'I knew him ... I knew him," retired fire lieutenant Denis Driscoll said.
"It brings you back."
Seven years after the hijackers drove the planes into the buildings, there are only two kinds of firefighters in New York: the older ones, like Driscoll, the freshman basketball coach at St. Peter's High School, who lost friends and co-workers the day the hijackers drove the planes into the buildings ... and the young ones like Driscoll's son, Denis Jr., a probationary firefighter, who went on the job after Sept. 11, 2001.
"I went through the list one time," the elder Driscoll said, "and I figured I knew 180 of them. I mean, I probably knew 240 of them, knew who they were. But I really knew 180.
"Seeing all the faces ..."
When he looks up, his eyes are wet.
"I knew half of 'em," he said.
When the the estimated 20,000 runners came out of the tunnel and into the drizzle, the first banner they saw paid tribute to the race's namesake, held by Stephen Siller's nephew, Rob Vogt.
Before he ran through the tunnel with 75 pounds of equipment on his back and got to the World Trade Center in time to die, before his story a symbol for every act of heroism that day, Siller was left an orphan at the age of 10. He went to live with his sister and her husband, and their children.
"My brother and I didn't know the difference," Vogt said. "To us, he was never 'Uncle Stephen.' He was just Stephen.
"We thought he was our older brother."
After the first few runners, they came in a steady stream. The firefighters. The kids from St. Peter's and Monsignor Farrell, and Wagner College. From Guatemala. A platoon of Marines, singing cadence. The London firefighters. The West Point Cadets. A London Bobby. An Air Force rescue jumper. More firefighters, wearing bunker gear, or carrying American flags.
When they came out of the tunnel and saw the banners, some of the men took off their hats. Others saluted. A lot of the runners went the length of the line applauding the firefighters, who were applauding them. A woman pointed to the banners bearing the likenesses of the dead, tapped her chest, and ran on with both hands over her heart.
One man ran along the line of firefighters, pointing to each fireman as he moved along the line.
"Thank you," he shouted to the first of the firefighters.
"Thank you ... thank you ... thank you."
The rain continued to fall, and on they came. The Coast Guardsmen. The Cleveland Fire Department. The Honolulu Fire Department. Miami Dade Rescue. A large man in a Pat Tillman football jersey. A father with his young daughter on his shoulders.
Every so often, one of them veered across the line of march to reach out and touch a banner, or high-five the fireman holding it.
A few stayed to talk.
"People come up and tell me stories," Vogt said. "They'll come up and tell me, 'Stephen Siller was my best friend.'"
The young fireman laughed.
"He must have been 20 people's best friend."
When the last of the runners and walkers were on the Manhattan side of the river, the firefighters formed up behind the pipes and drums.
They came up West Street at a walk, as deliberate as they were that other September morning, when every last one of them knew the trouble they were walking into, and they went anyway.
When they turned the corner onto Vesey Street, the crowd of runners and spectators parted to let them through.
Denis Driscoll, tight-lipped now, was at the front, carrying the memorial helmet with the number 343 on the shield.
Behind him, there was no joking in the ranks, the way there had been earlier in the morning, when old friends came together. Lips quivered.
A woman on the sidewalk watched as the banners kept coming.
"So many," she said.
The rain came harder, as if the heavens had kept from weeping as long as they could, and couldn't hold it in any longer.
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