Tittle and Brady, Giants and Pats (and Tightwads)

GIANTS, PATRIOTS, AND MEMORIES

I started watching sports as a six-year-old in (gulp) 1961. Every autumn Sunday at 1 p.m., my dad and I went to our “TV Room.” There we’d watch the New York football Giants on CBS-TV Channel 3, out of Burlington, Vt.—where the Giants had a preseason camp. The Giants always put on a show. Old-timers will remember the names. Y.A. Tittle. Frank Gifford. Andy Robustelli. Sam Huff.  On and on.

The games were in “black-and-white” as opposed to color, of course. But I can still hear TV play-by-play broadcaster Chris Schenkel’s voice.

“TOUCHDOWN, New York!”

I recall Tittle throwing for seven TD passes against the Washington Redskins in 1962. What fun it was to watch Alex Webster, Rosey Grier, Erich Barnes and company. The fledging Patriots weren’t taken seriously in those days. The Giants owned New England

The Giants made the NFL title game in 1961 and 1962, losing to the Packers both years. In 1963 Tittle threw for 36 touchdowns (in 14 games) but New York lost to the Chicago Bears, 14-10 in the championship game.

Those Sunday afternoon memories will never fade away.

Now the Patriots own New England, and countless New Hampshire youngsters now have their own lasting Sunday afternoon memories--watching a team that seldom disappoints.

However, there’s a difference between the Tittle-era Giants and the Tom Brady-era Patriots. Following that 1963 title game, the Giants fell upon hard times. In 1964 the team finished 2-10-2 and Tittle retired. In 1966 the Giants went 1-13. The magic was gone. Our “TV Room” was empty on Sunday afternoons.

But since Brady era began in 2001, the Patriots have had nothing but winning seasons—including five Super Bowl trips. Earlier this month they clinched yet another AFC East title. Fourteen years of unprecedented gridiron success have cemented Pats imagery into the minds of countless youngsters. A half century from now they’ll call up vivid memories of a Patriot Golden Age—just as I have my Giant memories.

So this Sunday I’ll be watching the Pats host the Buffalo Bills. At 1 p.m.. On CBS. In color. In my “TV room.” And I’ll be mentally thanking Coach Bill Belichick and Company for the memories, while pondering how sad it must be for generations of football youngsters to grow up in places like Detroit.

Go Pats!

MORE ON CHARLIE COMISKEY

I owe a “Thank you” to loyal reader Bill Lamb of Meredith, who took me to task for my comments regarding the supposedly penurious Chicago White Sox owner Charlie Comiskey (Sport-Thoughts, Dec. 11 Weirs Times). I pointed out that star ChiSox slugger Shoeless Joe Jackson made only $6000 in 1919, and the conventional wisdom was that the team threw the World Series that year because Comiskey didn’t pay them what they deserved.

Bill writes that “Comiskey was a relatively generous owner who paid his players the going salary rate, and then some.” He sent documentation that the ChiSox had the second highest player payroll in baseball for 1919. Apparently the portrayal of Comiskey as a tightwad owner was a stratagem devised by Black Sox defense lawyers at the 1921 criminal trial. Who knew?

Well, now YOU know “the rest of the story.”

Still, there remain internet accounts of Comiskey forcing his players to launder their own uniforms. And the story lingers that Comiskey’s promised bonus for winning the 1919 pennant turned out to be a case of flat champagne. But as Abe Lincoln reportedly said, “Don’t trust everything you read on the internet.”

Anyway, thanks for the info, Bill. Have a Merry Christmas!

(And if there ARE any tightwad, skinflint Scrooges out there who are not paying people what they deserve, may you be visited by the ghost of Shoeless Joe in your dreams tonight.)

 

Reach-the-Beach ... a 208 mile run!

REACH THE BEACH!

An NHTI-Concord colleague named Fred King approached me a while ago and asked if I wanted to run in a race. I pondered the invite. While the years had taken a toll on my speed and stamina, I still had that competitor gene.

“When is it?” I responded.

“September 12,” I was told.

“How long is it?”

“208 miles.”

“What?”

The race Fred referred to was the annual “Reach the Beach” (RTB) Relay Race from Cannon Mountain to Hampton Beach.

“You only have to do three or four legs,” Fast Fred explained. “Around 20 miles total. There will be eleven of us splitting it up.”

Despite some trepidation, I agreed to run.

So on to September 12. Two vans with eleven team members pulled into the Cannon Mountain parking lot. It was 40 degrees with a stiff wind. I’d travelled from summer to winter in one road trip. Brrrr!

We checked in and got an orientation. There were 520 registered teams—meaning approximately 5000 runners. Groups of runners were released to run the first leg every 15 minutes. Our first runner, Bridget, would launch with a dozen other runners at 10:15 a.m.

Our team name was “Run-a-Quickie-4-Vickie” to show our support for Fred’s sister-in-law, who was recovering from a serious medical procedure. We sized up our competition—teams that we’d be crossing paths with for the next 24-plus hours. They included Orthopedics Anonymous, Off Like a Prom Dress, Agony of Duhfeet, Crouching Runner—Hidden Van, the Channel 4 News Team, and the 12 Disciples of Pain.

Bridget went almost nine miles and handed the baton off to Jeremy, our “ringer.” Jeremy passed 34 runners while doing his eight miles—“kills” in RTB parlance. The sun came out and the weather warmed as we went through Twin Mountain and down Crawford Notch. Scores of vans sped along Route 302 to transition zones to exchange runners. Each transition area featured a festive, carnival atmosphere, as RTB veterans decorated their vans with all manner of graffiti. One van had a land shark on top. Another actually featured a hula skirt. I’d never seen a van with a hula dress before.

Finally it was time for my leg. I warmed up at my transition area a few miles north of Conway, awaiting teammate Tim and the baton. I took stock of the competition. The Fat and the Furious. Girls Gone Coastal. The Joggernauts. We Got The Runs. The Vermonsters.

Dave King, brother of Fred, gave me an incredulous look.

“You’re not supposed to warm up! You need to save all your energy for the race!”

Finally, Tim appeared. I took the baton and headed south, looking for my first kill. Pumped up, I maintained a solid, steady pace, but soon was passed by a speeding runner from The Flying Bandits. I’d been killed. Despite my steady pace I was killed again and again as I approached Conway. My teammates drove by and cheered from the van. I later passed them when they were stuck in traffic.

“Don’t worry,” yelled Dave. “Fred got out and he’ll meet you up ahead at the transition area in Conway.”

I pressed on, gaining on a runner who seemed to be fading. I closed in on my first kill—a member of the Waltham Wussies. But he took away my joy when he explained he’d slowed down on purpose.

“My team is stuck in traffic,” he explained. “There’s no one waiting for me at the transition area.”

Soon I was in Conway. A cop held up traffic on Route 16 and I ran across to a side road and the transition area. But as I approached the hand-off point, I was shocked to see that Fred wasn’t there. I waited at the line. What was going on?

Suddenly Fred burst out of a port-a-john, adjusting his shorts and looking at his watch.

“You’re early!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you for another four minutes!”

Fred took the baton and headed south, chasing a runner from The Last and the Furious, looking for his first kill.

Night Moves

And so it went, as runners rotated legs until the sun set. Then a new, nocturnal world beckoned. RTB is strict about participants being “lit up” as they run down such busy highways as Routes 16, 25, or 3 during the hours of darkness. My first night leg would commence at the Gilford High School transition point. Our van pulled in around 1:30 a.m. and we awaited Tim’s arrival as he completed a six mile leg from Laconia Ball Bearing. Runners tried to catch a bit of sleep in the vans, but some had brought sleeping bags and were scattered about the GHS campus. I adjusted my reflectors, my head lamp, and my tail lights. My legs ached and I wondered how many times I’d be killed on my coming leg. Finally Tim arrived and I took the baton and again headed south and eventually up into some hills.

A surreal scene unfolded as I left the hubbub of GHS behind me. Dozens of illuminated runners ascended into the darkness ahead of me, flitting like fireflies along the country road.

It was cold, around 45 degrees, but there was no wind. I eschewed the bulky sweatshirt other runners wore in favor of a t-shirt, knowing from experience that my body would overheat while running uphill— which it did.

The bounce was gone from my step. I sadly felt my age as I was killed time and again. A woman from SISTAS WITH BLISTAS blew by me. The euphoria of the afternoon was replaced by an exhausted melancholia that was relieved somewhat by the intriguing scenario and all the bouncing lights.

I passed a town marker for “Belmont” and soon saw a bunch of vans lined up ahead of me near the transition point, where Fred would hopefully be waiting. As I approached I saw an accident scene. A van ran nose down into a ditch, its tail-lights pointing up at the moonlit sky. A wrecker tried to extricate it. Then I saw Fred, handed him the baton, climbed into our van, and fell half-asleep while we waited for the stricken vehicle to be rescued so we could catch up to Fred.

To the Finish

If you’re tired enough, you can fall asleep anywhere, and I nodded off intermittently while awaiting my next leg. Dawn broke and with our van temporarily being the “off” van, we made a brief pit stop at a private residence. Then we headed to the transition point in Sandown, N.H., to meet the other van. I’d never been to Sandown before. We went through another set of legs and again Tim handed off the baton to me. Somewhere around Kingston, N.H., I handed off to Fred and finished my last leg. We returned to the van and tracked our runners the rest of the way to Hampton Beach. All of us greeted the runner doing the final leg on the sand and we finished together in triumph, 176^th overall, edging out some familiar faces from the Rosie Ruiz Fan Club—but just behind the Nuts N’ Honeys. We got our medals, posed for pictures, and enjoyed some libations in the vast beer tent.

The newfound camaraderie boosted my tired spirits and I rethought the decision I’d made during my final leg to never commit to another 208 mile race. Fred asked if I’d do it again and I surprisingly replied in the affirmative.

The Nuts N’ Honeys need to be killed, in RTB parlance. We’ll get them in 2015!

A Primary Victory on Sept. 9! On to Nov. 4!

A good day in Loudon/Canterbury !!!! ON TO NOVEMBER !!!

State House - Merrimack District 9 - GOP Primary
September 10, 2014 - 08:25AM ET
New Hampshire - 2 of 2 Precincts Reporting - 100%...

Moffett, Michael 464    43%
Kreis, Kenneth    441    41%
Shaikh, Lee         176    16%

Running for State Representative!

Yes, I am a candidate for N.H. State Representative, for Merrimack 09 (Canterbury/Loudon). There is a time to stand up and for me, 2014 is that time. Yes, citizens are upset with what has been happening in Washington and Concord, to include the profligate spending that threatens the future for our young people.Yes, most Americans now wish that Mitt was President. We can't change 2012, but we can chart a better course for the future, starting in 2014, and starting in N.H. My theme is "Accountability, Integrity, and Service" and I also want to encourage a better appreciation for our American heritage. Folks who know me know that I take all this very seriously, that I Iisten, and that I'm conscientious. I look forward to meeting and working with people from all over to make a difference for the better!

 

 

Redskins?

REDSKINS

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." – William Shakespeare.

 

So if the Washington Redskins change their name, will they still stink?

Pressure has been building for this NFL franchise to change its nickname to something more politically correct.

The team has been called the Redskins for 80 years and it was never an issue until recently. While activists have been successful in many schools and colleges in getting sports programs to drop Native American/Indian nicknames, big league teams seemed immune to politically correct pressures, and Redskins, Braves, Indians, and Warriors still competed with their long-time nicknames.

The nicknames, ironically, were meant to HONOR Native Americans, not disparage them. Inevitably, some malcontents were “offended” by some of the caricatures portrayed and adjustments were made. For example, Chief Noc-a-homa, the Atlanta Brave mascot, retired for good. Teams tried to compromise.

And most Native Americans were not offended. A Sports Illustrated survey found that almost 80% of American Indians supported the nickname associations. Indeed, the sign outside a high school on a Navajo reservation proclaimed “Welcome to the Home of the Redskins.”

What’s really troubling is that this is yet another example of a small minority of activists defining the issue on THEIR terms, i.e. “Redskin” being insensitive or worse. So they try to impose their perspective on everyone else.

This nonsense has been going on for far too long. It’s tough to counter it, because the activists are so quick to play the “racist” card, and who needs that?

Shockingly, the federal government has now taken sides, led by President Obama, who presumably has more pressing issues to deal with.

Michael Galo reported in “Athletic Business” that the United States Patent and Trademark Office cancelled six federal trademark registrations for the name of the Washington Redskins, ruling that the name is "disparaging to Native Americans." Due to its "disparaging" nature, the name cannot be trademarked under federal law which prohibits protection of offensive or disparaging language. The decision allows anyone to use the "Redskins" name on merchandise or other memorabilia, without needing permission.

So a team that honors Native Americans with a nickname that most Native Americans support is losing trademark property rights. It’s outrageous.

When are we going to stand up to these activist bullies? Appeasing them simply encourages them to continue their moral preening as they target their next victims. School boards and timid college administrators usually acquiesce to the unhappy braying of the politically correct, but kudos to Washington Redskin owner Dan Snyder for standing firm.

Property rights, freedom of speech, and tolerance of different perspectives are hallmarks of a great America. Too many activists in Washington—and Concord—have been successful at eroding these rights. If we let them get away with it, then we only have ourselves to blame.

CUPCAKES AND BEER

Along the same lines as above …

For generations youngsters celebrated each other’s birthdays at school with cupcakes. But no more. Due to the First Lady’s crusade for “healthier” eating, some schools told students that birthday cupcakes are now forbidden, due to nutritional concerns.

Where will it end?

And …the Orange County Register recently reported the firing of Jay Creps, who led Chatsworth School's softball team to the L.A. City Section Division 1 championship game. Principal Tim Guy canned him after a parent turned in a photo of him drinking beer out of a bottle during a team bonding party at his home that was attended by parents and players in either 2012 or 2013. So now you can get fired for having a legal libation in your own home? Granted, Creps may have been better advised to have had a soda. But SODA POP is now forbidden in many schools. Too much sugar, the First Lady will tell you.

Where will it end?

ON A HAPPIER NOTE …

… the Orange County Register also reported that more than 500 baseballs and softballs, 60 bats, 20 batting tees, umpire gear and other items were donated to the local Banning-Pass Little League by the Morongo Band of Mission Indians. The gear represents a $5,500 gift from the tribe to the league, according to a news release from the tribe.

One of the teams in the Banning-Pass Little League is known as the Indians. Presumably they won’t need to change their name!

World Cup!

 

WORLD CUP MANIA!

   The quadrennial World Cup Soccer Tournament inevitably reminds me of my Groveton High School language teacher, Gerard Gaetjens. One October afternoon in 1972, Monsieur Gaetjens ventured to the GHS soccer field to watch our Purple Eagles lose a hard-fought 2-1 contest to a White Mountain Regional team that would end the season as undefeated state champions. (There was only one N.H. boys’ tournament in those days.) A fellow named Dave Pinkham scored both goals for WMRHS. Apres le match—after the game—Monsieur Gaetjens spoke rather dismissively of the quality of soccer he'd witnessed, which I found annoying.

 

   "What does he know?" I thought. "Isn't he from Haiti? Do they even have sports in Haiti?"

   But I knew that soccer (or futbol) WAS the world's most popular sport—played in virtually every nation.

   I remained a soccer guy after high school and made the sub-varsity team at UNH as a freshman. I played several seasons in the NH summer soccer conference. I was delighted to see both my daughters serve as soccer team captains at Concord High School. So being a soccer guy, I naturally get World Cup fever every four years. Men's AND women's. Watching the U.S. women's team beat China for the 1999 Women's World Cup remains one of my top sports memories.

   And as a sports historian of sorts, I knew that the USA didn't have much of a World Cup tradition before the 1990s. Except for 1950. I later read about how that year, a hastily thrown-together U.S. Men's National Team traveled to Brazil for the World Cup tournament. The squad included semi-pro players who otherwise taught high school, drove hearses, or delivered mail. A 500-1 shot, the Americans found themselves scheduled to play a powerhouse England team that had defeated a strong Portugal team 10-0 in Lisbon two weeks earlier. But in a true sports miracle—apologies to 1980 US Olympic ice hockey team—the US pulled off a 1-0 win, in what some still feel is the greatest World Cup upset of all time.

   The lone goal was scored on a first half header by a Haitian dishwasher then living in New York City. His name was Joe Gaetjens—brother of Gerard, my high school French teacher.

   I guess they did have sports in Haiti after all!

Sochi Olympic Mania!

WINTER OLYMPICS!

The 22^nd Winter Olympic Games get underway on Feb. 7 and the eyes of the sports world will turn to Sochi, Russia, for over a fortnight. As usual, attention will focus on skiing, figure skating, and hockey. But there are many other winter sports as well—including curling!

Curling always begs the question as to whether or not this activity is really a sport. It’s kind of like billiards on ice, only with fewer and bigger balls. Actually they’re polished stones which curlers slide towards the center of concentric circles, while also seeking to knock out opponents’ stones. It’s weird, but it has a cult following. I can’t help but watch.

Among the other sports that some may consider weird is the biathlon, which involves skiing and shooting. Cool. The biathlon always brings back memories of training in Norway with A-Company of the reserve 25^th Marine Regiment in 1993. We were in the Arctic that March as part of a NATO exercise and our reservists from Maine and New Hampshire really shined. A reserve outfit doesn’t always compare well to an active duty unit featuring full-time servicemen. But our company was full of northern New England woodsmen, hunters, and skiers who knew how to deal with frozen conditions. Many of the active duty Marines—who hailed disproportionately from places like Texas, Louisiana, and Florida—were absolutely miserable. But the northern New Englanders were always ahead of schedule as we whipped around the training areas on our cross country skis.

One day we received a surprise visitor—retired General H. Norman Schwarzkopf, who appeared at our camp with a CBS-TV film crew. Most of us had served under Schwarzkopf two years earlier during Operation Desert Storm in the Persian Gulf. Being forward deployed, we never saw the general in the desert. But the “Most Admired Man in America” somehow found his way to our Arctic bivouac. His mission was to get video footage of Marines in the snow for a feature that CBS would run the following year when it covered Norway’s 1994 Lillehammer Olympics. He’d apparently heard that our guys were adept at skiing and shooting and his crew got lots of footage. I was thrilled to see some of my men in the feature which aired during those Lillehammer Games (yes, the Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan Olympics).

The military actually deserves much credit for the development of winter sports in America, beyond the biathlon. The 10^th Mountain Division specifically trained for winter warfare and thousands of its men became proficient skiers who after the war pushed for the development of new ski areas all over the country, including several in N.H.

The 10^th Mountain Division’s very first volunteer was Private Charles McLane, Captain of the Dartmouth College ski team, who enlisted a day after the Pearl Harbor attacks, Dec. 8, 1941. His ski coach, Walter Prager, later enlisted as well.

A recent VFW Magazine article also mentioned Lebanon’s Bob Townsend, who overcame a war wound to ski in the 1948 Winter Olympics. Keene’s John Morton, a Vietnam veteran, qualified for the 1972 Olympic Team while another former soldier, Peter Dascoulias of Franklin, skied in the 1976 Olympics.

The proficiency of New Hampshire’s military men in the snow is nothing new. The legendary colonial scouts known as Rogers Rangers were adept at winter warfare, using snowshoes to ambush and defeat a French force south of Lake Champlain in 1757. (In 1940, Finnish ski troops successfully held off a huge Soviet army by using swiftness and mobility to ambush and decimate road-bound Soviet forces.)

So while ice hockey and skiing will get big TV ratings from Russia over the next two weeks, you can be sure that some of us will be watching the biathlon with special interest and appreciation.

And yes, for some reason, I’m sure I’ll be watching the “fierce” curling competition as well.

USA! USA! USA!