Every day after baseball practice, my Dad picked me up. Still clad in my dirt-stained pants, still too young to have a full appreciation for deodorant, I would toss my bookbags and gear in the back of our Volvo and jump in the front seat with him. He'd ask how practice was, and I'd tell him about the double play Alex and I turned, about the two singles I hit in the scrimmage. It was fun, I'd say. He'd nod, and he'd drive, and as we'd round the final sublets before swinging onto the freeway, I'd turn to him and ask if today was the day the US had found Saddam's weapons of mass destruction.
This is how Washington searched for WMDs, and how it lost a generation.
It was 2003. I was a freshman in high school. This was our routine, my father and I. I'd drop sweat across the infield, bunch my baseball socks into the lowest and smelliest confines of my bag, and, early in the ride back, ask my father if we'd yet discovered Iraq's stores of anthrax and smallpox and ricin. I would ask my dad, days upon weeks upon an eventual season, whether or not the hunt was over. Whether we'd found the reason we were there.More »