RAIDER RUFFIANS?

RAIDER RUFFIANS AND FOOTBALL FANATICS

Aaron Hernandez’s name came up during a recent Sports Law class. The former New England Patriots tight end was incarcerated earlier this year and charged with murder. It will take a while for his case to go to trial, as the wheels of justice move slowly in America. But eventually he’ll be convicted and sentenced.

 

Or will he?

What if Hernandez is found “not guilty?” Stranger things have happened. (Can you say “OJ?”)

Would he return to the Patriots? Highly unlikely. So I asked my students, if not the Patriots, then what team would be most apt to sign Hernandez?

“The Raiders!” they responded in unison. 

 

I laughed. An earlier discussion had centered on what will happen to Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Michael Vick, now that he has been supplanted by Nick Foles. Vick is a convicted felon who did serious prison time for his involvement with dog fighting. If the Eagles release Vick, what team would be most likely to take a chance on him?

 

“The Raiders!” my students responded in unison. 

 

What is it about the Raiders?

Every team has its own culture, and Raider culture is renegade culture. Oakland has long been known to give second chances to purported bad hombres—which is nice, if you’re a bad hombre.

Having spent considerable time in San Diego, I picked up on the cultural differences between Charger fans (chilled) and Raider fans (swilled). San Diego’s Qualcomm Stadium always sold out for the annual Raiders game, with many thousands of Raider fans donning their black and silver garb, putting on their eye-patches, grabbing their chains, and heading for the stadium.

 

This is not to say that all Raider fans are outlaws. It’s just that bad 90% that give the good 10% a bad name. Consider the recent Thanksgiving Day game in Dallas, where the Cowboys hosted the Raiders. Dallas’ Channel 11 reported how after the Dallas victory, Cowboy fan Carlos Olivares was leaving the stadium yelling “Go Cowboys!” His next memory was waking up in a hospital bed, unable to open his eyes.

“I woke up in shock,” Olivares said. “I got up real fast ‘cause I didn’t know where I was. Nurses held me down.”

 

Witnesses told police that several men wearing Raiders attire attacked Olivares . Friends found him lying on the ground, unconscious. His cell phone was gone, as was the cash from his wallet. Despite the beating and memory loss, doctors told him he was lucky.

“I’m just glad I was left alive,” Olivares said.

Laid-back San Diegans are familiar with such behavior. So with pro football being a business, the Charger management decided to screw the Raider fans. San Diego was struggling and was not selling out Qualcomm—except for the Raider game, when black-shirted fans bought every available ticket. So the Chargers decreed that anyone who wanted a single ticket to the Raider game had to buy a three-game package. Raider fans only wanted to see the one game, but were incensed at having to pay for three. This did not improve their moods as they tailgated in Qualcomm’s giant parking lot, drinking hard stuff and looking for trouble.

Other Sports Cultures

 

Referring to Raider fans as hooligans overstates the renegade aspect of Raider culture. Hooligans are British soccer followers who are actually criminals who use sport as an excuse for mayhem. But sports fans in certain American cities do take on tribal characteristics.

 

The aforementioned San Diego fans are famously laid-back, whereas Boston Red Sox fans were famously fatalistic—at least until 2004. New York fans are famously obnoxious. Philadelphia fans are famously cruel—known to boo everyone from Santa Claus to Miss Pennsylvania. Cleveland fans are famously morose.

Sport sociologists studied these tribal traits and identified the three most volatile fan segments.  Foxsports.com described an Emory University study that confirmed what many have long purported: Football fans—especially those rooting for New England, Pittsburgh, or Oakland—can be unstable.

 

Pats fans unstable? Say it isn’t so!

 

Marketing professors Michael Lewis and Manish Tripathi devised an algorithm and analyzed data to figure out how various fan bases deal with losses—and they found that fans of the Raiders, Steelers and Patriots do not cope well.

Patriot fans ranked high in terms of instability because they are the saddest fans after a loss, as measured by angry Twitter Tweets. It probably has a lot to do with expectations. Pats fans expect to win.

According to Lewis and Tripathi, the most stable fans are Cowboy fans. Over the last 15 years Cowboy fans have been conditioned to expect disappointment, so when Tony Romo fails them they are not surprised.

So what does all this mean? It means that the Raider Ruffians should be careful about showing up in black and silver the next time Oakland plays at New England. Gillette Stadium is not Qualcomm. Regardless of the outcome, if they’re looking for trouble, they’ll find it—and will likely end up paraphrasing Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.

“We’re not in California anymore!”

Alabama- Auburn

FOOTBALL RIVALRIES AND ALABAMA–AUBURN

The last Saturday in November was college football’s Rivalry Saturday, when historic foes met for annual grudge matches. It’s a unique day on the annual sports calendar, as rivalry games are replete with special energy and emotion.

I was in California’s Orange County and made my way to a Buffalo Wild Wings Restaurant to take in the gridiron action. BWW has become a preeminent sports bar chain, with multiple large screens showing grid contests from across the nation. It was a perfect venue for Rivalry Saturday.

One of the rivalry games was UCLA-USC, and I shared a table with two blue-shirted UCLA Bruin fans. To our front was a table of red-shirted USC Trojan fans. After the game started, other Bruins fans sent drinks to our table. I was wearing a white shirt, but having accepted the free libations, I felt obliged to become a Bruins fan.

Other games were on BWW’s multiple screens, and I noted that Ohio State improved its record to 12-0 with a 42-41 win over arch-rival Michigan in Ann Arbor—where wondrous things have occurred in the past.

A Bruin alum at our table had a sister going to UCal-Berkeley. Cal had earlier lost its rivalry game at Stanford, 63-13. It was a tough loss for the Bears, but I pointed out that the greatest college football play of all time occurred at Cal when the Bears beat Stanford and John Elway in 1982. A last second kick-off was returned for a touchdown, a return that included five laterals. The Stanford band was coming out on the field when Kevin Moen scored the winning TD, bowling over Cardinal trombone player Gary Tyrrell.

 

“Check it out on You-Tube,” I advised. “Truly the greatest football play of all time.”

 

And then—suddenly—there was a NEW “greatest football play of all time!”

 

It was loud and raucous and most BWW patrons were focused on UCLA-USC, but on an alternate screen I saw a replay of a kick-return for a touchdown and fans swarming out on the field. Upon closer examination, I learned that the undefeated, defending national champion Alabama Crimson Tide had lost to arch-rival Auburn, 34-28.

Last year Alabama trounced Auburn in the annual Iron Bowl by a score of 49-0. But this year, Auburn came into the rivalry game at 10-1, fresh off an improbable 43-38 win over Georgia. Auburn won that game with a last minute touchdown pass on fourth and long.

 

The 2013 Alabama-Auburn Iron Bowl had apparently ended in a 28-28 tie, making it an instant classic already. But officials found one second left on the clock, and Bama Coach Nick Saban opted for a 57-yard field goal attempt. The attempt was short and Chris Davis caught it nine yards deep in the end zone. Around 15 seconds later, after he’d returned the ball 109 yards for a touchdown, Davis became an immortal.

As long as he lives, Davis will be remembered for those 15 seconds. His run got him on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and the ball he carried into the Promised Land was soon valued at $100,000. He’ll never have to worry about finding a job. He’s now set for life, assuming he can handle the adulation.

Was Davis’ return the greatest play in college football history? I think so, given the circumstances. The 1982 rivalry game between Stanford and Cal featured two .500 teams. The Alabama-Auburn game had national championship implications. And there is so much more. Subplots like “Saban is a jerk.” The frenzied passion of SEC football. On and on.

After the game, I found the play on You-Tube. It had already been viewed 7000 times. By the next morning the viewing total had surpassed a half million. Check it out. The greatest play ever!

(Oh yeah. UCLA beat USC 35-14. Go Bruins!)

Medicine and Thanksgiving

SPORTS, HEALTH CARE AND THANKSGIVING

 

Health care remains at the top of the news. It’s that rare subject that affects EVERYONE.

The medical arena is proximate to the sports arena. Just consider the Red Sox. How fortunate it was that John Lackey's surgery and rehab worked out the way it did. Ditto for Clay Buchholz. And Jacoby Ellsbury. I'm glad that the physical ailments of David Ortiz and Dustin Pedroia received world-class medical attention. And how great was it that John Lester beat cancer?

 

EVERYONE has health issues to some degree—including big, strong sports columnists like me. OK, I'll use the first-person, singular pronoun. I've noted that the great columnist George Will never uses "I" or "me," but I'm not him and will go ahead and personalize things.

Sports fans don't usually pick up a newspaper to find out the latest on someone's health. Unless, of course, they want to know how soon Aaron Rogers might return to form with the Packers, if they want to bet on Green Bay. But having recently spent some time in a hospital, medical thoughts have been bouncing around my brain.

My hospital stay was prompted by worsening run times in 5K road races. When my friend and colleague Fred King of Colebrook and Loudon beat me in a race, I knew it was time to chat with a doctor. Eventually I had a cardiac ablation procedure which appeared to clear up an irregularity. But while in the hospital and while rehabbing, I had plenty of time to think, and I figured out that I/we live in a wonderful time and place where things get fixed that used to sideline people—or worse.

 

So thank you, Dr. Chadosh, for your great work. I don't know what you make, but it should be at least half as much as the Red Sox pay Jarrod Saltalamacchia!

 

It took a few days for the effects of general anesthesia to wear off, and I thought of earlier sports medical situations. Everything from ankle sprains to stitches to finger dislocations to poison ivy infections—from looking for lost golf balls. My first hospital visit came about in 1980 after being sucker-punched in the eye during a basketball game. My eyesight returned but in 2010 I required a serious vitrectomy procedure after "floaters" significantly obscured my vision. Kudos to all the personnel at Bethesda Naval Medical Center for all they did and thank you Captain Blice, USN, for your surgical prowess. The Navy should pay you at least half as much as the Red Sox pay Ryan Dempster.

Before retiring my Marine Corps uniform, I made another 2010 trip to Bethesda, where Lieutenant Commander Humphries expertly repaired a glaring hernia situation. Thank you Doctor Humphries. I hope the Navy pays you at least half as much as the Red Sox pay Johnny Gomes.

A side effect of the vitrectomy was a cataract, which was expertly removed last year in Concord. Thank you, Dr. Wasserman, for your great work. I hope you earn at least half as much as the Red Sox pay Jake Peavy.

 

At my age, it is a joy to participate—pain free—in road races or in NBA basketball (Noontime Basketball Association) at NHTI-Concord. Basketball battles had earlier taken a toll on the joints, resulting in torn meniscuses in both knees. Thank you, Dr. Moran, for your great orthopedic work during those 2005 and 2008 operations. The wheels have been working great ever since. I wish your arthroscopic procedures were around years ago for the Bobby Orrs and Joe Namaths of the world. I hope you make at least half as much as the Red Sox pay Will Middlebrooks.

 

So after my successful procedure, I received a letter from my insurance company. Having heard that millions of Americans are likely to lose their health insurance, and knowing of cancer patients who’ve already had their coverage terminated, I looked at the letter with trepidation—the way I’d look at a letter from the IRS or from any attorney-at-law.

 

I finally opened it and ….. I read that my company was going to cover the full cost of the procedure. Good news. But it’s too bad so many of us have to have this new trepidation about health insurance. It’s not healthy.

It IS healthy to count one’s blessings, and to appreciate that we live in an age where a typical American can access health technologies, medical procedures, and extraordinary doctors to get things fixed that would have gone unfixed a generation ago—even if you were a king, a rich Sultan, or a U.S. President.

So Happy Thanksgiving!

 

 

(And watch out, Fred King. I’m BACK!)

Mike Durant - Twenty Years Since "Black Hawk Down!"

NEW HAMPSHIRE’S MIKE DURANT – A HERO’S ODYSSEY

 

It’s now been twenty years since that October day in Somalia when Mike Durant saw what hell looked like. A Black Hawk helicopter pilot, Durant was shot down during the battle for Mogadishu. All the members of his crew were dead. A rescue team moved him away from the aircraft and placed him next to a wall. But now they, too, were all dead. Durant had a broken leg, a broken back and was out of ammunition when a horde of Somalis descended upon him, intent on beating him to death. Already suffering a bullet wound, Durant helplessly endured the blows. A Somali fighter smashed Durant’s face and broke Mike’s nose and eye socket with what Mike first thought was a club. Then, to his horror, Durant realized he was being beaten to death with the severed arm of one of his comrades. He knew his death was imminent and then he heard a gunshot.

BERLIN BOY

Forty years ago Mike Durant boarded a ski bus in Berlin to head north on Route 16 and then west on Route 26 with dozens of other youngsters to ski at the Wilderness Ski Area in Dixville Notch.

“I loved skiing,” Durant recalled in a recent interview. “I loved the snow. Like so many other North Country boys, I also loved getting out into the woods and hunting. And yes, I also played hockey.”

That Durant played hockey was no surprise, Berlin being “Hockey-Town USA.”

As that ski bus headed for the slopes Durant’s friends in adjacent seats surely had no inkling that in 1993 their buddy’s face would be the first one featured simultaneously on the covers of TIME, NEWSWEEK, and U.S. NEWS AND WORLD REPORT. That bruised and bloodied face became the face of an American military encounter that would change the country and the world—the first battle with Al Qaeda.

AMERICAN HOSTAGE

 

The gunshot was meant to quiet, not to kill. A Somali leader with some authority saw that Durant had more value as a hostage/prisoner than as a corpse. Dirt was thrown into Durant’s face and a rag was stuffed down his throat. His agony became excruciating when his captors kicked his broken bones and then he realized was “being carried aloft on the thundering wave of a mosh pit from hell.”

It was October 3, and Durant would face 11 days of agonizing captivity as followers of Somali warlord Mohamed Farah Aideed stared down the United States. They used Durant as a pawn so tribal fighters could seek concessions from an American superpower caught up in an unexpectedly brutal urban battleground. Durant was confined to a small room to be interrogated and indoctrinated by select Somalis who knew some English. His wounds were not treated, but he was given water and allowed to live, as negotiations continued between Somalis and Americans.

 

Though the Americans did not know Durant’s location and could not rescue him, they knew he was alive. A helicopter flew over Mogadishu with loudspeakers blaring: “Mike Durant! We will not leave without you!”

The messages gave Durant hope, but he knew he was dying from his wounds and was running out of time.

“If you guys are preparing a rescue mission, you’d better hurry,” Durant thought. “Or else you’ll be rescuing a corpse.”

The pain worsened by the hour as Durant suffered in the brutal African heat. When he could, he’d drift off into a semi-sleep and dream of skiing at Wilderness and of white Christmases in New Hampshire—and then awaken to his agonizing reality.

It never snows in Mogadishu.

DREAMS OF FLYING

 

Durant’s father was a sergeant in the N.H. National Guard and Mike always respected the military. After a pilot named Joe Brigham took Durant for a flight over Mt. Washington, Mike dreamed of becoming an army pilot. He enlisted after graduating from Berlin High School in 1979. He survived basic training and follow-on schools and eventually flight school. After earning his wings he was assigned to the 101^st Airborne Division at Fort Campbell, Kentucky and soon qualified for The United States Army’s elite 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne), also known as the Night Stalkers. Durant’s career took him to Korea, Panama, and the Persian Gulf for Operation Desert Storm.

During that 1991conflict Durant flew missions deep into Iraq, looking for SCUD missiles, eventually finding a site and firing it up. He also experienced the pain of losing comrades.

“Flying in combat can be an adventure,” recalled Durant. “But when you lose people it brings you back to reality and you remember how so many people pay the ultimate price in war.”

 

SURVIVAL

Durant’s best-selling 2003 book “In the Company of Heroes” provided material for this story. It chronicles his Somali ordeal.

“October 9, 1993. On my seventh day as a prisoner of war, I found religion …. Literally …” 

Durant’s captors allowed a “Care Package” to be delivered to him and among its items was a Bible. Not only did Durant draw inspiration from certain passages, but he wrote coded notes in special places, thinking that his captors would let him keep the Holy Book when he was released and the notes might prove invaluable in piecing things together later on.

Negotiations continued while Durant lay a prisoner and American officials conveyed to Aideed’s people that very, very, very bad things would happen to all of them if Durant didn’t survive. Finally, on October 14, with the help of the International Red Cross, the Granite Stater and his Bible were placed on a stretcher and transported to an exchange point where he was reunited with his countrymen.

Mike Durant had escaped from hell.

A HUMANITARIAN MISSION

 

American involvement in Somalia came about during the last days of the Bush Administration, in December of 1992. The country had descended into lawless chaos, which combined with famine meant that tens of thousands were dying of starvation. Because competing warlords were preventing food and humanitarian assistance from getting to the starving people, American military forces embarked upon Operation Restore Hope to secure food distribution points and routes. The mission evolved during 1993, as forces from the U.S. and elsewhere were inevitably drawn into the internecine fighting. The Clinton administration significantly increased the American military presence in Somalia and eventually the Americans were seen as opponents to Aideed, the most prominent warlord. Food distribution was threatened and both sides took casualties. Eventually a major mission was planned for October 3 to capture Aideed and his top lieutenants. While many of the targeted individuals were indeed captured, the mission was disrupted when a Black Hawk helicopter was shot down by a rocket propelled grenade. Later, Durant’s helicopter was also shot down. The battle resulted in 18 American deaths, with 80 wounded. Estimates of Somali casualties range from 1,500 to 3,000.

 

BACK TO AMERICA

 

Given the severity of his wounds and injuries, Durant’s rehabilitation took a long time, but he still dreamed of flying again. He was told that the prospect of rejoining the Night Stalkers in a flight status was doubtful, but he persevered. In 1995 he ran the Marine Corps Marathon to prove his fitness and eventually he did again fly Black Hawks.

 

In 2001 Durant retired from the Army and married Lisa desRoches, the widow of a helicopter pilot who was killed on a training mission. The two have worked together to raise six children. They live in Huntsville, Alabama, where Mike runs his own company, Pinnacle Solutions, an engineering and training services business that develops flight simulators and the like. Durant received the "2013 Vetrepreneur Award" for his company’s efforts on behalf of veterans. Pinnacle Solutions has grown steadily and now employs 81 people.

During an October 29th interview, Durant explained that the events from October of 1993 are always with him. He speaks candidly about American policies and policy-makers.

“Looking back, I wish that the Clinton administration would have been more responsive to the requests they received from the leaders on the ground in Somalia,” said Durant. “Three things in particular would have made us more successful. An aircraft carrier would have been a huge plus. As it was, we were sleeping 50 yards from the bad guys on the ground. Requested AC-130 gunships would have come in handy on Oct. 3 and 4. And leaders on the ground requested we have tanks and armored vehicles which were never delivered—which is why we suffered so many casualties.”

Secretary of Defense Les Aspin took the fall. He resigned in December of 1993 and died in 1995.

“I met Secretary Aspin at a memorial ceremony at Fort Bragg,” said Durant. “He could see the consequences of his decision-making on the faces of the families there. I think it contributed to his death.”

Meeting the families of Gary Gordon and Randy Shughart was especially poignant for Durant. The two soldiers were Delta Force operators who jumped from a helicopter to try to protect Durant and the crash site. Both were killed and each received the Congressional Medal of Honor.

 

“When I first saw Gary and Randy I thought I’d been saved,” recalled Durant. It was the greatest feeling. Then I realized it was only those two, against hundreds of Somalis. They never had a chance.”

Durant treasures a letter he received from Randy’s widow, Stephanie, which thanked him for giving Randy’s death a purpose. “I can look at you and see that his efforts were not in vain… Because of your bravery and refusal to be captured, I can sleep at night.”

Durant likens the Somali experience to the Vietnam experience, in that American forces were hamstrung by politics. He added that he has been asked repeatedly about the 2012 Benghazi fiasco where four Americans died in Libya.

 

“Benghazi was like Somalia in that our people didn’t get the support they deserved and they paid for it with their lives.”

Naturally, Durant has seen Ridley Scott’s movie “Black Hawk Down.”  Actor Ron Eldard played Durant in the movie.

“Ron seemed like a good guy,” recalled Durant, who met many cast members. “Although he really didn’t look, talk, or act like me. They mostly seemed like good guys, although Jeremy Piven was an ass.”

Piven played Cliff Wolcott, the pilot of the first Black Hawk shot down.

 

TODAY

 

Today Mike and Lisa Durant live in Huntsville. Three of their six children still live at home. The youngest, Michael, is an ice hockey player.

In Alabama?

“Yep,” said Durant. “We have ice in Alabama. And Michael’s on a travel team, decisively engaged in ice hockey operations. The problem is that the trips can be long ones. Like a 7 ½ hour drive to Columbus, Ohio.”

Durant often thinks of New Hampshire and savors his visits “home.”

 

“Of course I was excited to see the Red Sox in the World Series,” said Durant. “But it broke my heart to hear that Wilderness Ski Area closed.”

Durant was in the Granite State last winter to play in the Concord Black Ice Pond Hockey Tournament at White’s Park.

How did he do?

“Well, I’m proud to say that my team was the ‘Over-40 B-Division’ champs,” said Durant.

 

You can take the man out of Hockey-Town, but you can’t take Hockey-Town out of the man!

 

Harry Briggs - An Inspiration!

HARRY BRIGGS —AN AMERICAN ORIGINAL

 

Early in 1995 an older gentleman came to see me in my office at NHTI-Concord, where I was then working as Public Information Officer. He explained that even though he was 74-years-old, he wanted to do a 12-mile lake swim, and was looking for someone to help him organize and publicize it.

 

I didn’t really need an extra project, on top of everything else I was doing, but I listened patiently to his story. After I learned that Harry Briggs was a fellow Marine, a veteran of World War II’s Pacific Campaigns, I knew I’d do what I could to help him pursue his dream.

Could a 74-year-old swim 12 miles? Time would tell. But who was this interesting stranger with such an unusual goal?

 

Harry’s Story

I learned that Harry had enjoyed a consequential life, beyond his World War II experiences, which ended with him being sent to Nagasaki not long after that Japanese city was destroyed by an atomic bomb.

A native of Melrose, Mass., Harry attended Tilton Prep and then majored in history at Tufts University, graduating in 1942 before enlisting in the Marines in 1943. He later earned a Masters Degree at Boston University and then a Ph.D. at Western Reserve University in Cleveland.

A natural athlete, Harry coached varsity hockey at Tufts for two years, and later played semi-professionally for the Akron (Ohio) Stars. He also worked as a sportswriter for the old Boston Post before serving as a civilian historian for the U.S. Army. He also worked in insurance.

In 1952 he returned to ice hockey and worked that winter for the Buffalo Hockey Club, then a member of the American Hockey League. The next year he used his hockey background to get a job managing the Boston Arena.

Not only did Harry change jobs frequently in those days, but he also fell in love several times. Sadly, things never worked out and so he signed up for a two-year billet as a recreation consultant with the U.S. Army in Europe. It was there that he decided to attempt his first marathon swim, a 16-mile journey through shark-infested waters between the Mediterranean islands of Corsica and Sardinia.

To train for the swim, Harry climbed Switzerland’s Matterhorn Mountain, one of the most difficult climbs in the world.

 

“It was thrilling and terrifying,” said Harry. “But it was the worst thing I could have done before a swim. It tightened my muscles badly and my toenails were black from coming down 13 miles to the base camp in Zurmatt. I was almost crippled. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.”

Undaunted, Harry still traveled to Corsica with a friend and made arrangements for that epic swim—which he completed despite sharks, windy weather, and dangerous rocks on the Sardinian shore.

Harry returned to Corsica (on a boat!) and was feted as a hero. Wire services sent news of his swim all around the world. Harry found the subsequent attention to be quite validating and when he returned to the U.S. he pondered what he might do for a swimming encore.

In 1956 Harry was drilling as a Marine Corps reservist when the infamous Ribbon Creek Massacre occurred at Parris Island (S.C.) Marine Corps Recruit Depot. Six recruits drowned during a night movement and suddenly there was national interest in Marine training and swimming. The Marine Reserves decided to support Harry in his quest to become the first person to swim across Lake Erie, from Canada to the U.S.  A flotilla of ten ships and half a battalion of Marines accompanied Harry for 18 miles before a big storm ended his attempt—twelve miles short.  He tried again two months later, but the lower water temperature proved to be a showstopper. Harry was pulled from the lake after 20 miles.

“I felt like a disgrace to myself, my family, and the Marine Corps,” recalled Harry. “I was so despondent that I decided I’d go up to Alaska, the last frontier, to get my head together.”

While in Alaska, Harry quickly found a job with the Crippled Children’s Association and then got involved again in ice hockey, organizing the Alaska AAU Hockey Tournament. He then went to work for the Anchorage Baseball League before becoming a sportscaster for KENI, and eventually did interview pieces with high profile sports visitors to Alaska like Ted Williams, Billy Martin, and Vin Scully.

 

But his Lake Erie failures haunted Harry. He trained hard in the cold Alaskan waters and in August of 1957 he returned to Ohio and escorted by four boats he dove into a polluted Lake Erie and began swimming north towards Canada. Twenty four hours later he was still swimming, and was within four miles of the Canadian shore when a 25 mile north wind whipped up four foot waves, driving Harry away from his goal.

“But at that point I was in a ‘do or die” mode and just kept on,” said Harry.

He almost died.  It took him ten hours to complete those last four miles, but Harry finally set his foot down on the Canadian shore, having completed a 32 mile swim in 34 hours and 55 minutes.  His eyes were swollen shut and he couldn’t stand up. Canadian life guards got him to a doctor who treated him for hypothermia and got him into bed.

Then the fun began. An auto company flew him to New York City, where he appeared on the nationally televised Ed Sullivan Show. Gay Talese did a feature on him for the New York Times. Sports Illustrated ran a story as well.

“I received telegrams of congratulations from all over the country,” recalled Harry. “It was so motivating.”

Harry returned to Alaska, pondering his next big swim.

 

Lydia

Still a bachelor at age 37, Harry dated often, but had never met the right woman—until the spring of 1958, when he met Lydia, who encouraged Harry’s dreams and even swam with him as he trained. An extraordinarily beautiful woman, Lydia was the daughter of a German prostitute, and she never knew who her father was. She and her mother fled the Nazis and ended up in New York City. Lydia’s adventurous spirit led her to travel to many places and she eventually ended up in Alaska. She and Harry married got married on Dec. 31, 1958 in Wasilla—a town which later received notoriety after Sarah Palin was elected mayor there. Harry and Lydia were one of the last couples to be married in the territory of Alaska, which became the 49^th state four days later.

 

New Hampshire

Harry never forgot his New England roots and when visiting the east coast he often hiked in the New Hampshire’s White Mountains.

“Climbing mountains is a great way to gain leg strength,” explained Harry. “But I never repeated my Matterhorn mistake of doing too strenuous of a climb too close to a big swim.”

 

Harry and Lydia fell in love with the Granite State when Harry trained in N.H. for a record-setting Lake Michigan swim in 1960. The next year they bought property on Route 175 in Campton, where they eventually established the “Eskimo Shop,” that Harry still owns and runs today. Motorists traveling Route 175 now recognize it as “The Chalet,” a gift and antique shop.

In 1963 the new Granite Stater turned his swimming sights to Lake Winnipesaukee, that most wonderful of lakes.  On Saturday, August 31, he embarked on a circuitous 31 mile swim from Alton Bay to Wolfeboro and eventually to Weirs Beach. This marathon swim lasted 33 hours and 12 minutes, and like his Lake Erie swim, attracted much attention.  Laconia Mayor Hugh Bownes issued a decree making Harry an honorary Laconia citizen and proclaimed “Saturday, September 7, 1963, to be HARRY BRIGGS DAY in honor of this intrepid feat.”

End of Swim Career?

 

Harry did some work for Belknap College in those days, and “Doctor Briggs” was sometimes referred to as the “Paddling Professor.” He did another 22 mile Lake Winnipesaukee swim in 1964, but at age 43 the marathons were taking a toll, not just on Harry’s body but on Lydia’s psyche as well.

 

“She wanted me to end the swimming because of the risks and also so we could concentrate more on our work,” said Harry. “So in the next 30 years I didn’t swim ten strokes.”

Through 1991 Harry and Lydia built their businesses, traveled the globe, played tennis, and worked on their unique, special relationship. But that relationship ended abruptly when Lydia suffered a stroke at The Chalet and died hours later at Plymouth hospital.

 

“After they took the tubes out, we were alone for a while, and I held her hand,” Harry recalled. “Then I looked at her for the last time and saw that the suffering had left her face and she had the most angelic smile I had ever seen. That smile convinced me there is an afterlife. I touched her hair, gave her my best Marine salute, and walked out the hospital room door with tears running down my face.”

1995

 

The loss of Lydia understandably left Harry shattered, but he pressed on with his life and tried to think of ways to honor his beloved spouse. Among other things, he donated funds to Plymouth State University’s tennis program in Lydia’s memory.  Then one day he read a story of a long-distance swimmer who swam the length of Lake Winnipesaukee. The press account stated that it was the first time such a feat had been accomplished.

 

Harry—the honorary Laconia citizen—was surprised and disappointed. He dug out an old plaque commemorating his 1963 swim and while holding it he suddenly felt that old desire to swim, for the first time in 30 years. You could take Harry out of the water, but you couldn’t take the water out of Harry. A competitive athlete still resided inside the old Marine.

Which is what brought him to my office that day in 1995.

We talked about possibilities and he said he wanted to swim Golden Pond—Squam Lake—and I was candid with the old “Paddling Professor.”

 

“Can a 74-year-old swim 12 miles?” I asked.

 

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think I could,” said Harry, who explained he was motivated by that earlier press account, as well as by Lydia’s memory.

We talked about logistics and publicity and Harry promised to train. A fellow World War II Marine had a place on Squam Lake and Harry regularly hit the lake there. We “tested the waters” with a two mile swim across Little Squam Lake, and followed that up with a five mile swim the length of Newfound Lake. The local media began to take notice and an Associated Press story about Harry’s swimming ran in newspapers all over northern New England.

 

Then it was time for the big test. Almost 12 miles, starting at the extreme east end of Squam Lake on Sandwich Beach, and ending three counties and five towns later, on Ashland Beach at the extreme west end of Little Squam Lake.

 

Numerous boats went by the “Paddling Professor” during his day-long swim, as people from all over Golden Pond yelled their encouragement. A nice crowd awaited Harry on the Ashland Beach. Harry emerged from the water to cheers and put on a robe and was warmed by the hugs of his new fans before doing an interview with a reporter from Channel 9.

Could a 74-year-old swim 12 miles? The answer was YES! 

2013

 

Fast-forward 18 years to 2013. As occurred in 1995, an older gentleman unexpectedly showed up outside my office door at NHTI-Concord. It was Harry Briggs. I was surprised and delighted to reconnect with the old Marine and he caught me up on his adventures.  At age 92 he was still buying and selling antiques and “The Chalet” was still doing business on Route 175 in Campton. He wintered in Louisiana where he swam when he could while serving as an adjunct professor of American Government at Northwestern State University.  He’d driven his van all the way from Louisiana to N.H.

“Will you help me with another swim?” he finally asked.

“Well,” I said.  “Let’s talk.”

Harry shared that he’d been inducted into the International Marathon Swimming Hall of Fame and he wanted to try at least one more distance swim. We eventually decided that, as in 1995, we’d start by trying a two mile swim across Little Squam Lake.

Later, the good folks at Plymouth State University indicated a desire to help with the project and we met and identified Labor Day, September 2, 2013, as a target day to do a Squam Lake swim.  Harry is training once again.

 

After our first organizational meeting, I drive back towards Concord and thought about what an extraordinary man Harry Briggs is.  His proposed 2013 lake swim would occur 70 years after he enlisted in the Marine Corps and headed off to witness some of the horrors of World War II’s Pacific Campaign. A 2013 swim would be 50 years after his 1963 Lake Winnipesaukee Swim—Sept. 7 being the Golden Anniversary of HARRY BRIGGS DAY.  During a time when unprecedented numbers of Americans are on food stamps, 92-year-old Harry Briggs is still earning a living, running a business, paying taxes, and teaching at a university. During a time when America faces an obesity epidemic, this man­—born in 1921—again wants to swim the length of one of N.H.’s most famous lakes.

Can a 92-year-old swim the length of Little Squam Lake?

I wouldn’t bet against it!

NASCAR Mania!

NASCAR RACING IN LOUDON, N.H.!

 

While New Hampshire may not have any big league pro sports teams, it does have the

New Hampshire Motor Speedway. And auto racing attracts more spectators than any other

sport in America. So twice a year, when NHMS hosts a NASCAR Sprint Cup event,

Loudon, N.H., becomes the Granite State’s version of Green Bay, Wisconsin—a small

community temporarily transformed by sport into a Major League City.

The stands in Loudon can accommodate around 110,000 fans, more than Fenway Park

and Gillette Stadium combined.  That’s Major League, baby!

The most recent example of this phenomenon occurred on July 14 when NHMS hosted

the NH 301, meaning that the 100,000 people traveling Rt. 106 to the Speedway included

 the likes of Jimmie Johnson,  Dale Earnhardt Jr., Jeff Gordon, Jeff Burton, and other top

drivers.

I mentioned the event to a friend visiting from California who’d never been to a race before.

“I am strenuously and morally opposed to NASCAR,” she replied with a wide smile,

hoping, perhaps to tweak my sportsman’s sensibilities.

 

Her “progressive leanings” apparently led her to believe that auto racing was too loud,

too fuel inefficient, too grandiose, too dangerous, and too male, among other things. 

But when I mentioned I had tickets and easy access to the track, she changed her tune. 

“Well, I was raised by an engineer/mechanic,” she explained.  “I had three older brothers,

and our nightly dinner table conversation revolved around cars and planes. Maybe I could

give it a chance.”

 

“Danica Patrick will be racing,” I replied. “She’s a girl!”

“Awesome!” said my feminist friend, whom I’ll forthwith refer to as Non-Danica.  “Let’s go!”

So Non-Danica and I made our way to the Magic Mile. She was quickly captivated by

the energy and all the people as we walked through the extensive concessions areas

before ascending into the stands where she was soon surrounded by around 100,000

of my amicable NASCAR friends. She struck up a conversation with a couple from

upstate New York sitting to our right and was given a quick primer on NASCAR, and

the joys of camping out in Winnebagos right next to the track.

Helicopters and planes circled overhead.

“Is this on TV?” queried Non-Danica, the Golden Stater.

“Yep. National television. TNT.”

 

As engines roared to life and revved in the pit areas, crews went through final checks,

their impact wrenches whirring and whizzing. Non-Danica’s enthusiasm mounted.  

Soon she was sending text messages and photos all over the country to friends and

family members.

“Wow!” she shouted.  “This is so exciting!”

Pre-race activities included a recognition of Granite State first-responders, a wonderful

rendition of our National Anthem by Miss New Hampshire, and an invocation from a

clergyman.

“Wow. I didn’t expect such a long prayer,” said Non-Danica.

 

“Hey, this is New Hampshire, not California,” I responded. “It’s NASCAR.  It’s Sunday. 

Live Free or Die!”

A giant bearded man wearing a biker shirt and carrying a large cooler soon settled in

front of us. He looked back and said “Who needs a beer?”

Then the race started and the roar of the engines of America’s top drivers drowned out

the public address announcer.

 

“Oh my gosh!” laughed Non-Danica, beverage in hand.  “This is so exciting! I’m

so ashamed that I like this so much!”

During the first yellow caution, when things quieted a bit, Non-Danica remarked that her

consciousness was suddenly flooded with those dinner-table car conversations between

her brothers and late father.  She also recalled that her attendance at the high school’s

 introductory auto-mechanics class was required before driving the family car.

“I want to know more about these cars, engines, tires, drivers, crews, and racing

strategies,” said Non-Danica. 

Next, Non-Danica wondered aloud whether car-racing was a sport, or something else. 

The debate as to whether or not NASCAR drivers are athletes will never end, but there

is no question that the race crews showed incredible teamwork, changing four tires

while re-fueling a car and sending it back out in less than 20 seconds.

Danica Patrick’s car was knocked out late in the race, which Tony Stewart led for over a

hundred laps. But with 12 laps to go, Brian Vickers took the lead and held on for an

emotional win.

Non-Danica was moved by the spectacle.  

 

“What a thrill,” she said. “The power, the speed, the crowd, the energy!”

I responded that NHMS would host another Sprint Cup event in September.

“There is something quintessentially American in all this,” observed Non-Danica, the

California Progressive and temporary NASCAR fan, who suddenly reminded me of

Diane, from the TV show Cheers.  “It’s a fascinating cultural study.” 

We stood and made our way down the stands, passing our new buddy, the giant

bearded man in the biker shirt, who again asked us if we needed any beer.

 

Non-Danica gave him a big smile, as did I.

 

Next mission: “Give Wal-Mart a chance!”