At first I thought the three men sitting in front of me along the first base line were going to interfere with my enjoyment of the Senators’ home opener. They were loud, and one in particular was sounding off about the traffic, the players, and everything else he could think of.

However, when an old woman made her way slowly up the steps, eyes rapidly moving between her ticket and the letters on the steps to see where she should be sitting, they were attentive and solicitous. Unfailingly polite, they asked where her seat was and when they found it was in their row, they were quickly on their feet and out of her way. "Right this way, ma’am," the loud one said, just as my grandparents and mother had always told us we should be speaking to people. And gently taking her arm they helped her into the row and talked with her for a minute before turning their attention back to the game and the failures of the home team on the field.

An inning or two later, the woman’s very overweight husband arrived bearing a carton of food obtained in a long wait at the snack bar counter. Gingerly he made his way up the steps, carefully balancing his load in both hands.

"I’ll bet that’s your husband," the loud one said to the woman, as he and his two friends again headed for the aisle. Not seeing how they were moving to let him in, the man had already stood on the empty bench in front, preparing to tightrope–walk across and then step over the back of the bench to his seat. As he eased his way through, the men held him gently and supported him in his climb over the bench. They helped him get settled and again exchanged small talk before leaving the couple to their food and returning their attention to the field.

I waited for the wink or nudge in the ribs that would tell me they were making fun of this old couple out for a night at the ball game. But it never came. They were genuinely polite and helpful. I couldn’t help thinking of the contrast between these men and a teen who was across the aisle from us.

As we all stood in rapt silence before the game while the Harrisburg Police color guard brought their flags to the center of the field, my eyes rested on two youngsters standing next to an older man. I don’t know whether the three were together; I think I hope they weren’t.

Once the color guard was in position and the soloist started to sing the National Anthem, everyone stood respectfully, most, like me, with their hands at their sides. But the old man across the aisle painfully raised a crippled hand to a salute and held it there. At that, the older of the two teens nudged the other, pointed, and laughed. And then laughed again.

I wanted to speak to them, but didn’t. Had I had the nerve to do so, I would have told them of the night last summer when the concert band I’m in played an outdoor concert at a retirement home. As we went into the National Anthem to open our performance, an old man standing right in front of us saluted. Many of us were near tears by the time we were done. The love of country that is embodied in those salutes is not something we often see—or often feel—these days. And yet it’s something we could use more of.

I’m not one to believe in "my country right or wrong" or to suggest that those who don’t like it here should move elsewhere. But I have great admiration for those who have served us well and still remember what it’s like to honor America. As the nation debates the fate of a six–year–old Cuban boy whose mother lost her life bringing him to freedom, we’d do well to remember those old men and their painful salutes to the land of the free and the home of the brave.