Marco Island, Florida

FLORIDA SPORTS ADVENTURES

A fellow Plymouth State alumnus named Steve recently invited me to fly to Florida to meet and speak to veterans on beautiful Marco Island. Not wanting to “look a gift horse in the mouth,” I happily accepted, exchanging snow and sleet for sun and sand.

The Florida people were wonderful, although a transplanted New Yorker—an Air Force vet—sized me up with a critical eye at a social event.

“So you’re a Marine and a Red Sox fan? What a bad combination!”

I gave him a Clint Eastwood squint.

“It’s better than being an Air Force guy and a Yankee fan. That’s the worst of all worlds.”

My antagonist stared at me for a moment.

“No, the worst of all worlds would be a Navy guy who likes the Mets.”

We both laughed and did a fist bump and then the Yankee fan bought me a drink.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

My Sunshine State sojourn was a wonderful opportunity to speak, swim, and socialize. During a boat trip around the island, my host cautioned me about getting too much sun.

“Bring it on,” I exclaimed, as I removed my shirt. “It was ten below zero back home.”

I ended up with a sunburn, but that was OK.

Sports are ubiquitous in my world, of course, and circumstances required that we find an appropriate venue to watch the Patriots/Broncos showdown. That venue turned out to be the Foxboro Sports Tavern near Naples, where the walls were covered with Boston sports memorabilia and the seats were filled with New England expatriates. The lone Denver fan there had about as much chance as did the Broncos, as the Pats romped.

Golf was a must and Steve put the top down on his sporty red convertible and drove me to meet a couple friends at the Arrowhead Golf Club. I borrowed some clubs from Roger The Marco Island City Manager, but I was out of synch and didn’t play well and unfortunately lost most of my benefactor’s golf balls. It WAS cool to play on a flat course, although there were plenty of giant sand traps and water hazards.

On the back nine Steve sliced a shot toward a pond but I kept my eye on it as it rolled over a bank.

“I think I can find it,” I said and I headed towards the water, actually hoping to find some balls for Roger The City Manager to replace the ones I’d lost. I did locate Steve’s orange ball next to an old tire at the water’s edge and I saw another ball in the water which I sought to claim by scooping it up with an eight iron.

But then the “tire” straightened out and I realized it was a big old alligator. Now I’ve dealt with geese, wild turkeys, squirrels, ground hogs, and even a moose at Loudon Country Club, but never an alligator.

I stood near the gator and had an idea. I’d ask Steve to let me play his ball with my eight iron. And I’d ask him to get a phone video of me making the shot just inches from the alligator. Surely the video would go viral. I could see it making the Golf Channel! If the gator attacked, well, I’d wield my deadly eight iron.

But then Wendy The Ranger/Beer Girl, drove by in the Refreshment Cart and yelled at me.

“Hey! Get away from that alligator! What are you, some kind of nut?”

I retreated, more afraid of Wendy than the gator.

Steve got a free drop.

Marine Corps Birthday Speech 11/10/2016

You-Tube of Nov. 10, 2016,  Marine Corps Birthday speech in Manchester, N.H.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pplwwv-ajaQ&feature=em-share_video_user

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pplwwv-ajaQ

BILL BELICHICK—KINGMAKER?

BILL BELICHICK—KINGMAKER?

A friend from California came visiting the first weekend in November and was struck by New Hampshire’s political energy.

“Signs everywhere,” he remarked. “We don’t see anything like this in California. And the big-time candidates never visit us.”

I explained that unlike California, New Hampshire was a battleground state, and that politics are our state sport. That’s why Hillary Clinton, Donald Trump, and Barack Obama were making election eve visits to the Granite State.

“Can we go see them?” asked my friend. “Would it cost much?”

I replied that we could see them for free, if he didn’t mind waiting in line.

So at 5:30 p.m. on Sunday night we stood with at least a couple thousand people outside the Center of New Hampshire in Manchester to get into a Hillary Clinton rally. It was cold but we eventually snaked our way inside and into the main event room, where the candidate would appear after 8:30 p.m.

Right after we finally went through the metal detectors organizers began redirecting those behind us to alternate areas, where they’d have to watch on big screen TVs. I was sad for them, as they’d been waiting for hours in the cold and then didn’t get to see the candidate.

Local Democrat candidates gave warm-up speeches, James Taylor sang songs and eventually Mrs. Clinton appeared to give her speech. My friend excitedly got lots of photos and video of the person most pundits predicted would be our next president.

The next night we returned to Manchester and again stood in line for a couple hours to get into the SNHU Arena to see Donald Trump. The larger venue eventually filled with around 10,000 fired-up spectators. After some warm-up speeches the candidate appeared and the crowd exploded. 

Trump clearly reveled in the bedlam and he quickly shared a bombshell announcement. He claimed to have the endorsements of two New England Patriot icons, quarterback Tom Brady and head coach Bill Belichick. Trump then read a letter from Belichick, which stated “Congratulations on a tremendous campaign. You have dealt with an unbelievable slanted and negative media, and have come out beautifully – beautifully. You’ve proved to be the ultimate competitor and fighter. Your leadership is amazing. I have always had tremendous respect for you, but the toughness and perseverance you have displayed over the past year is remarkable.”

The crowd roared and my friend asked me if I thought the endorsements from the football folks were significant.

“Yes,” I replied. And I pointed out that Trump would soon be leaving for a final post-midnight rally in Michigan, where Brady played college football, and where Trump would surely mention the quarterback’s endorsement.

Michigan would eventually go to Trump by the narrowest of margins, less than .3%. The midnight flight with the Patriot endorsements arguably won the state—and the election—for Trump.

So Trump now owes Belichick and Brady—bigly! As both are likely to retire during a Trump presidency, I can see ambassadorships on the horizon. Brady would be a perfect ambassador to Brazil, the native land of his wife Gisele.

As for Belichick, Trump should make him ambassador to California. His mission? Make the Golden State a battleground state once again so people like my friend don’t have to travel 3000 miles to see a presidential candidate!

San Francisco Sports

SAN FRANCISCO SPORTS

“We saw stretched out ahead of us the fabulous white city of San Francisco on her eleven mystic hills with the blue Pacific and its advancing wall of potato-patch fog beyond, and smoke and goldenness in the late afternoon of time.” 
― Jack Kerouac, “On the Road”

Unlike Kerouac—a fellow New Englander who first saw the Golden Gate from his car—my first look at San Francisco was from the air, a view I reprised last week when I again flew into this unique American metropolis.

On our glide path into San Francisco a passenger pointed out Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, the new home of the 49ers and the site of Super Bowl L this past February. I looked to the horizon, past Santa Clara, towards San Jose, and thought of the Earthquakes—perhaps the most storied American professional soccer team. And then it occurred to me that, incongruously, the NHL’s San Jose Sharks were recent Stanley Cup finalists.

Mark Twain supposedly claimed that “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” Northern California indeed features a unique summer climate. The temperature hovered around 60 degrees, with strong winds making it feel much colder. Twain would have been better advised to spend a summer at Lake Winnipesaukee, with its balmy 80 degree July temperatures, while saving San Francisco for January.

San Francisco Giant centerfielder Willie Mays was a victim of contrary winds at Candlestick Park. The Hall-of-Famer hit 660 career home runs, but may well have surpassed Babe Ruth’s 714 had he played in AT&T Park, which opened in 2000. Obviously Barry Bonds had no trouble hitting homers at the newer venue.

Signs remain directing people to Candlestick Park, but that historic edifice was demolished last year. It’s a pity, given all the sports history made by the Giants, 49ers, and others—like the Beatles, who performed their final outdoor concert there in 1966.

Winners of the World Series in 2010, 2012, and 2014, the Giants remain a premier MLB franchise—built in large part by their general manager, Concord’s Brian Sabean.

And then there are the Golden State Warriors. A local delightedly pointed out their recent signing of basketball superstar Kevin Durant. As the Warriors just set the single season NBA victory record, some feel the Warriors are already a lock for next year’s World Championship. But I pointed out that the 1968-69 Lakers were similarly projected as unbeatable after they acquired Wilt Chamberlain to team up with L.A. superstars Jerry West and Elgin Baylor. That unbeatable team fell 108-106 to Bill Russell’s Boston Celtics in Game 7 of the 1969 NBA Finals.

Russell, incidentally, was a product of the University of San Francisco, where he led the Dons to a 55-game win streak and two NCAA titles.

With Stanford University and UCal-Berkley also featuring storied college sports traditions, I wondered if the Bay Area had surpassed New England as the nation’s top sports region. But as it wasn’t until the late 1950s that big-time sports came to San Francisco, historic Boston must remain the nation’s top sports city—though maybe we could rethink that designation if San Francisco sports continue to flourish for a few more decades.

Not that San Francisco can’t claim some history. Sports bars feature plenty of photos of the DiMaggio brothers, who played early on with the San Francisco Seals of the Pacific Coast League. But Joe will also be remembered as a New York Yankee, and Dom as a member of the Boston Red Sox. Sorry, about that, San Francisco.

San Francisco is a friendly place, but somewhat alien to your traditional Granite Stater. Riding the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit system) meant listening to a cacophony of foreign tongues. Still it was heartening to see so many diverse peoples getting along. And I was happy that folks with purple, green, and pink hair had a safe place to be themselves.

Could I live in San Francisco, if circumstances required? Sure. It’s a special place with wonderful sports teams—and more.

But if such a move ever manifested itself, I’m sure I’d end up writing wistfully of New England. Maybe I’d even write a song, for which—with apologies to Tony Bennett—I already have a name.

“I Left My Heart…in Lake Winnipesaukee!”

(Photo caption: The DiMaggos, Dom, Joe, and Vince.)

A NEW FENWAY PARK?

A NEW FENWAY PARK?

Annual pilgrimages to Fenway Park are mandatory for fans to remain in good standing in Red Sox Nation, and I made mine on June 4^th to witness the BoSox host the Toronto Blue Jays.

The historical edifice remains special—the only venue in the American League where the likes of Babe Ruth, Tris Speaker Walter Johnson, Lou Gehrig and other legends actually took to a field of dreams.

Fenway has its charm, of course, but it can also be a field of nightmares for plus sized people—of which there is no shortage in modern-day America. My problem is trying to fit a 6-foot-4 frame into a seat made for Dustin Pedroia. Those with ample derrieres wider than 18 inches face different challenges.

I paid a couple hundred bucks for two relatively decent seats where we could see the infield, even if our seats faced center field. But the people to our right had their view of home plate obscured by a pole/girder. They eventually went to standing room to watch, where they couldn’t see the message board behind center field. But then again neither could we.

We could have parked relatively close to the park for $40, which I refused to do. I WAS able to find parking for only $33 at a garage on Newbury Street, which meant a half hour walk to Fenway. But it was a nice day and I celebrated with a libation. It only cost $9.75.

Fortunately, we saw a good game as Boston prevailed, 6-4. But what a drag it would have been to pay all that money to see your team get lose. (Toronto won every other game in the series to knock the Sox out of first place.)

Per usual, I wore my #8 Yastrzemski jersey, but had to chuckle when I saw my first Babe Ruth #3 Red Sox shirt—historically inaccurate chutzpah. While the Bambino indeed played for Boston from 1914-1919, he never wore a number for the Red Sox, much less #3. Teams didn’t start using numbers until 1929.

REBUILD FENWAY!

Will the BoSox EVER move to a better park, as has every other non-Cub team in baseball? 

Numerous proposals have them moving south or west of Boston—or even to New Hampshire. The Patriots certainly flourish in Foxborough.

If the Sox didn’t want to move, they COULD do what the Yankees did and renovate their existing park. The Yankees left the old Yankee Stadium for two years, playing at Shea Stadium in 1974 and 1975 while the Stadium was gutted and renovated. The team returned to a revitalized Bronx venue in 1976 and won three straight pennants. The revamped structure served the Yankees well for three more decades. Then they moved into a brand new Yankee Stadium in 2009—and won that year’s World Series.

Joe Martino is a native New Englander who is now Chief Operating Officer for Shangri-La Construction, owned by billionaire mogul Steve Bing.  Martino built the AT&T Center, where the Spurs play in San Antonio. He thinks renovating Fenway might be a great idea.

“What’s amazing is how fast everyone will forget about [the Sox playing elsewhere for a year] when they are back in Boston playing in a newly renovated but historic and legendary home like Fenway.”

But where would the Red Sox play for a year if Fenway was renovated?

The answer is Pawtucket, Portland, Manchester, and—mostly—Montreal.

I noted with interest that the blue-clad Jays fans sitting behind us at the Toronto game were speaking French, indicating they were Quebecois—as opposed to Ontarians. And some Expo jerseys were to be seen as well, even though MLB left Montreal for Washington over ten years ago.

Playing a year at Montreal’s Olympic Stadium would fill a baseball void and garner the BoSox new legions of fans while sharpening the Toronto rivalry. And while the aforementioned minor league venues have limited seating capacities, playing at least one home series in Pawtucket, Portland and Manchester would certainly energize the greater New England baseball universe as well.

Meanwhile, Fenway should be completely gutted. Put in an upper deck behind home plate. Put in bigger seats. Put in luxury suites—that’s where the real money is. Increase capacity to 45,000. Build a parking garage.

Sure, keep the exterior brick façade with the “1912” on top. And keep the Green Monster. Landsdowne Street isn’t going anywhere. And keep the dirt, upon which trod Ruth, DiMaggio, William, and Gehrig. The best of all worlds.

And it occurs to me that the Babe DID wear #3 in Boston, when he finished his career in Beantown with the Braves in 1935. So let’s go ahead and retire #3 for the Bambino, at a future Opening Day in the NEW Fenway Park—against the Yankees, of course!

Rico Petrocelli

                                                                        RICO

Roger Kahn’s best-selling 1972 book “The Boys of Summer” was a tribute to the Brooklyn Dodgers of the early 1950s. Think Pee Wee Reese, Carl Furillo, Gil Hodges, Roy Campanella, Duke Snider, Jackie Robinson and company. Kahn’s poignant paean captured how a baseball team became part of his—and Brooklyn’s—identity.

Many New Englanders—including me—have our own Boys of Summer. The Red Sox of the late 1960s revived baseball in Boston. Their names included Carl Yastrzemski, Jim Lonborg, Reggie Smith, George Scott … and Rico Petrocelli.

Brooklyn-born Rico was the All-Star shortstop for the Impossible Dream 1967 Red Sox, who had to win the last two games of the season at Fenway Park against the Minnesota Twins to advance to their first World Series in decades. Led by Yaz, the Red Sox came from behind in both games to win an improbable pennant.

Sportscaster Ned Martin’s call of the final out that October 1 will forever resonate.

“The pitch … is looped towards shortstop … Petrocelli’s back …he’s got it! The Red Sox win!  And there’s pandemonium on the field.”

Seemingly every television and radio in New England was tuned in to the game. That Boston victory, almost 50 years ago, created our modern Red Sox Nation.

Petrocelli and Company lost a seven-game World Series to the St. Louis Cardinals, although Rico helped force the deciding game with two homers in Game 6.

In 1969 Rico hit 40 home runs and fielded almost flawlessly while finishing 7^th in the MVP voting.

After the Red Sox acquired Luis Aparicio to play shortstop, Rico moved to third base. He batted .308 in the classic seven-game 1975 World Series, won by the Cincinnati Reds. He retired after the 1976 season.

I write of Rico because, improbably, I was invited to be a Leadership Development Conference panelist with the Red Sox great last week in Salem, hosted by Methuen Construction Company. The other two panelists included former State Supreme Court Chief Justice John Broderick and Fahim Fazli, with whom I co-authored a book following our military service in Afghanistan.

We all talked about leadership experiences, traits, principles, approaches and personalities. And of course we talked about sports.

Rico: “I looked so bad trying to hit against Bob Gibson in the ’67 Series that my own father called me a bum!”

Rico: “Dick Williams was what we needed as a manger in 1967. But he later alienated almost everyone.”

Rico: “Yes, we should have left Willoughby on the mound” (concerning the ninth inning pitching change during Game 7 of the 1975 World Series).

Knowing that Rico caught that final out of the Impossible Dream season, I had to ask him what happened to the ball.

Rico: “I gave it to [pitcher Jim] Lonborg.”

Moffett: “You realize that ball would be worth many millions of dollars today if you’d have just hung on to it.”

Rico: “We didn’t think about that stuff in those days. I think Lonborg lost the ball.”

Aye carumba!

At the end of the session I signed books and Rico signed baseballs. It occurred to me that Roger Kahn met many of his Boys of Summer because he wrote a book. And to have Rico Petrocelli ask me to sign my book for him represented another Impossible Dream of sorts, at least for someone who as a 12 year-old kid watched his hero hit those home runs in the 1967 World Series.

Walton, Wooden, and Wellness Wishes

WALTON, WOODEN, AND WELLNESS WISHES

The folks at CAP Alternative Therapy in Rancho Santa Margarita, California, specialize in helping athletes—and former athletes—with physical rehabilitation and pain management. I recently paid them a visit for some knee therapy and was impressed by the patient photos adorning their walls. As their clientele included big names from the NBA and the NFL, I felt I was in good hands—including those of Dr. Bill Cowdrey.

Like so many Californians, Dr. Bill has deep New England roots. His dad was from Massachusetts and his uncle Ralph had a place on Lake Winnipesaukee. But the Golden State called to Cowdrey, and it was there that he pursued a career in sports training and sports medicine, eventually becoming a chiropractor. He started his career at UCLA, working with Bruin basketball players and their legendary coach, John Wooden.

“Coach Wooden was nearing the end of his coaching career,” recalled Dr. Bill. “It was a privilege to get to know him, and we stayed in touch the rest of his life.”

An All-America at Purdue in the 1930s, Wooden was a six-time national college basketball “Coach-of-the-Year” at UCLA. He won ten NCAA national championships in 12 years, including an unmatched seven in a row. His Bruins set a record by winning 88 consecutive games.

Central to that win streak was Hall-of-Famer Bill Walton—he of the famously fragile feet.

“I saw how much attention Walton’s feet needed,” recalled Dr. Bill. “I couldn’t believe he played professionally.”

Walton’s NBA career was marred by injury, except for 1976-77, when he led Portland to an NBA title, and 1985-86, when he missed only one game all season for the NBA champion Boston Celtics.

Walton’s woes became better known this year with the publication of his book “Back from the Dead.”

Walton’s publisher, Simon and Schuster, described his ordeal thusly: “In February 2008, Bill Walton suffered a catastrophic spinal collapse—the culmination of a lifetime of injuries—that left him unable to move. He spent three years on the floor of his house, eating his meals there and crawling to the bathroom, where he could barely hoist himself up onto the toilet. The excruciating pain and slow recovery tested Walton to the fullest. But with extraordinary patience, fortitude, determination, and sacrifice—and pioneering surgery—he recovered.”

An avid follower of the Grateful Dead, Walton figuratively returned to life and was a prominent media personality at the recent NCAA Final Four.

But Dr. Bill has his own comeback story. In his late forties, Cowdrey was diagnosed with cancer (Lymphoma). He took on the dread disease with determination, with a treatment regimen that included aggressive chemotherapy and eight months in a wheelchair. Happily the cancer went into remission. The news thrilled Cowdrey and his family, but the chemotherapy had serious side-effects. Reduced blood flow to the bones in his knee joints caused necrosis. Doctors told him the dead bone matter would have to come out and he’d need artificial knees.

“Knee replacements meant a whole new way of life,” said Cowdrey, who’d always been athletically active. “It was very difficult to come to terms with.”

So Dr. Bill braced for the worst. And prayed.

Shortly before his scheduled surgery, some friends asked Cowdrey to go water skiing. Knowing that he’d never ski again on artificial joints, Dr. Bill hit the water one last time—and did well.

At his next doctor’s visit, Cowdrey shared that he’d water skied.

“That’s impossible,” replied his doctor. But a subsequent examination showed that his bones had miraculously returned to life—back from the dead, as Bill Walton might say. Cowdrey’s faith was rewarded and he retains that special aura that people exude after their desperate prayers are answered.

Coach Wooden once said that "Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out." Dr. Bill’s journey exemplifies those sentiments, and Cowdrey’s office includes a poster of Wooden’s famous “Pyramid of Success.”

Cowdrey stayed in touch with Coach Wooden until the latter’s death in 2010, at the age of 99.

We in the sports world savor “comebacks.” Even Patriots fans had to honor how Peyton Manning came back from a serious cervical fusion procedure to win a Super Bowl. But while sports comebacks are great, we’re also surrounded by “regular” people who have rebounded from all sorts of desperate adversity, people whose stories can inspire and give hope. People like Bill Walton.

And Dr. Bill Cowdrey.

Dr. Bill Cowdrey with his baby son and the legendary UCLA Coach John Wooden in 1996.

ATTIC TREASURES AND 1963 SPORTS

ATTIC TREASURES AND 1963 SPORTS

Attics can be treasure troves—especially attics of older relatives. A recent attic visit turned up some true treasures worth sharing.

For some folks, “treasure” means gold and jewels. This column isn’t for those folks, but rather for those who appreciate historical treasures. The treasures I found included baseball, basketball, and hockey cards from 40-50 years ago. These are indeed jewels to a sports guy, even if they aren’t significant to incurious dullards who think history is boring.

In looking through the baseball material I hoped to find a century-old Honus Wagner card which would be worth a million bucks. But instead I found the likes of Craig Swan, Mike Lum, and Kurt Bevacqua, all worth a good deal less than a Wagner. (But I’m willing to part with my newly discovered Kurt Bevacqua card, if anyone wants to make an offer. Bidding starts at $1000.)

Likewise for the Joe Caldwell NBA basketball card, which indicated that Jumping Joe averaged over 16 points per game for the 1968 St. Louis Hawks.

But a true treasure was an October 9, 1934 Boston Post newspaper. It only cost two cents, but that was a lot of money during the Depression, as my grandfather always pointed out. The main headline was DAFFY DEAN TIES UP SERIES; WINS 4-3. The lead story was about how the St. Louis Cardinals tied up the World Series at three games apiece with a win in Detroit against the Tigers. The Gas House Gang Cardinals would win that World Series with an 11-0 Game 7 triumph that very October 9.

The sports headline overshadowed a lesser headline about Bruno Hauptman, who’d earlier been arrested and charged with the kidnapping and murder of the Lindbergh baby. Still another headline read NAB BLONDE AND MAN IN CAB HOLDUP.

I found another old newspaper, one from my lifetime, a Nov. 23, 1963 Boston Record American—which cost eight cents. The headline brought back awful memories, memories that still haunt anyone around 60 years of age or older.

PRESIDENT SLAIN BY ASSASSIN.

Even 53 years later, the memory still sears, as the President of the United States belongs to all of us, regardless of party. Hopefully our country will never go through such a trauma again. After revisiting the then-fresh details of the president’s murder, I naturally turned to the sports pages. The main story was about Harvard-Yale football.

The Boston Patriots were 5-5-1 in the AFL East—they’d finish 7-6-1 to make their only AFL title game, where they were crushed by San Diego Chargers. But that weekend’s game against Buffalo would be postponed, out of deference to the late president. The NFL would go ahead and play that Sunday anyway, with players who didn’t care performing before half-empty stadiums with fans who really didn’t much care either, what with the president’s death. NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle would later say that going ahead with football that weekend was the worst mistake he ever made.

The NFL standings showed the Giants and Bears leading their respective divisions. They’d later meet in the NFL title game in Chicago, where quarterback Y.A. Tittle’s New Yorkers would lose 14-10.

I also checked the other standings and found the Boston Celtics were 12-1 and atop the four-team Eastern Division of the nine-team NBA. The Boston Bruins were 3-10-2 and in last place in the six-team NHL.

The top movie playing was “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” with a true all-star cast, led by Spencer Tracy.

Eventually I put the old newspapers away. While history is fascinating, one can’t live in the past. We also need to look forward.

But I couldn’t help but wonder if this very Weirs Times might someday be found in a Granite State attic. Will whoever finds it marvel at how little it cost? (Even less than the 1934 Post or the 1963 Record American—or the six bucks I recently paid for the Sunday New York Times.)

Whoever finds this paper years from now will know how things worked out under President Trump. Or will it be President Hillary? Or President ????

And maybe they’ll find some baseball cards as well. Kurt Bevacqua should be worth a million bucks by then!

DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES? YES! IN 1960!

DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES? YES! IN 1960!

According to numerous sports media outlets, the top sports story of the 20^th Century was the 1980 Olympic Gold Medal triumph by Coach Herb Brooks’ USA ice hockey team. For many reasons, that American victory in Lake Placid has taken on mythological overtones. The classic sports movie MIRACLE captured it all quite well.

That team—and sportscaster AL Michaels—will forever be defined by Michaels’ epic shout-out at the climax of the USA’s 4-3 win over the Soviet Union. “Do you believe in miracles? Yes!”

(Part of that team’s mythology includes the mistaken notion that the triumph over the Russians won the USA a goal medal. The truth is that the Americans had to come-from-behind to beat Finland for the Gold a couple days later.)

Of course there are countless epic sports stories in human history, and to pick any as the “greatest” is obviously subjective. But events of the past 50 years—coinciding with our modern information age—perhaps get disproportionate attention. There are wonderful sports stories from throughout history, if you care to look for them. And through the magic of Google, such stories are at our fingertips.

One such story involves another ice hockey team which received but a fraction of the acclaim given to the 1980 “Miracle” team. That would be the 1960 USA Olympic ice hockey team, winners of the Gold Medal at Squaw Valley.

In several ways, the 1960 team’s success was even more improbable than the 1980 team’s. The American ice hockey infrastructure in those days was quite limited. The sport was played in regional enclaves. Even in New Hampshire, few schools had competitive hockey squads, outside of Berlin. Berlin’s Notre Dame High School won its 14^th straight NHIAA ice hockey title in 1960, beating Berlin High School 9-1 in the championship game.

There were virtually no Americans in the six-team National Hockey League.

At the Olympic level, the USSR had, even then, committed to world dominance. The Soviets were defending Olympic champs and heavily favored at Squaw Valley, although there were other fine teams from countries like Czechoslovakia, Sweden, and—of course—Canada.

Into this forbidding hockey universe came a man named Jack Riley, the USA’s 1960 head coach. Now while Brooks’ 1980 team was indeed a bunch of college kids, they were college kids whose skills had been honed at powerhouse programs like Minnesota and Boston University. And Brooks had several months with which to mold his team into a cohesive unit. Riley had less time—and less talent.

(Ironically, Brooks was the last player cut from the 1960 squad.)

Sports Illustrated’s Shannon Lane aptly referred to the 1960 team as a collection of “carpenters, salesmen and firefighters” who were thought to have no chance against the established international powers.

The USA lucked out early on by getting Australia as an opponent. The Yanks’ 12-1 win over the Aussies was a confidence builder. The Americans eventually advanced to the medal round, where it was expected that Sweden would end their run. But, as in 1980, inspired by the home crowd, the Americans upset the Swedes 6-3. Then an easy win over Germany gave the USA an improbable shot at a medal,

On February 25, 1960, American goalkeeper Jack McCarten played the game of his life, and somehow the USA upset Canada, 2-1. Two days later, with ever-growing confidence, the Americans—as in 1980—took on the Soviet juggernaut. As in 1980 the Americans came from behind to win an epic 3-2 contest to make the Gold Medal Game against Czechoslovakia on February 28.

The Czechs led 4-3 going into the final period, but the Americans were not to be denied, as the USA scored six straight times for a 9-4 win and the most improbable of Gold Medals—with all due respect to the 1980 Miracle Team. 

So did the top sports story of the 20^th Century really happen in 1960 and not 1980? Who is to say? The 1960 team played before the modern information age and the players returned to being carpenters, salesmen and firefighters. The NHL was not in their future.

Coach Riley passed away last month at age 95—nother member of the so-called “greatest generation,” Riley was a navy pilot during World War II, but moved to West Point in 1950, where he coached Army for 36 years.

Did Riley believe in miracles?  I am going to guess that the answer would be …

“Yes!”

BURLINGTON BASKETBALL AND WILDCAT WOES

BURLINGTON BASKETBALL AND WILDCAT WOES

Back in 2005 I drove a van full of sports management students back into the USA after a weekend sports conference in Montreal. It was this time of year—March Madness—and talk in the van naturally turned to basketball. Some bantered about the University of Vermont’s men’s basketball team, which had just upset Syracuse in the first round of the NCAAs. Led by Taylor Coppenrath, the Catamounts would next take on Coach Tom Izzo’s Michigan State Spartans.

It was Sunday and we found a sports station on the radio and we heard Izzo acknowledge that “Everyone in the country is rooting for Vermont. We hate to be Bambi-killers, but WE want to win too!”

As we hurtled south on I-89 it occurred to me that we’d pass through Burlington, home of UVM, just as the Catamounts and Spartans would be tipping off. Always wanting to expose my students to diverse sports cultures, I suggested we find a pizza place and experience some March Madness right at the very home of the Catamounts.

The students unanimously agreed and we pulled off the interstate and onto the UVM campus—which seemed strangely quiet. Turns out it was spring break. Still, we headed toward a pizza place and saw a huge crowd on Church Street.

“Aha! Must be a rally for the basketball team,” I opined, as I parked the van. We could see many in the crowd holding signs. “Let’s mingle with the fans and then watch the game at the pizza place.”

But as we approached the crowd we realized that it was a political demonstration, not a sports rally. The theme was “George Bush Sucks!”

Ah yes. Burlington. Home of Bernie Sanders. Berkeley East, if you will. We turned around and went into the pizza place. The food was great. The basketball was not. Michigan State romped. Soon we were back on I-89 heading south towards our beloved Granite State.

I thought of this 2005 visit when I returned to UVM last week to watch the UNH Wildcats take on UVM in an America East Conference semifinal basketball game. Both teams finished the season with 11-5 league records, and I had a feeling that this MIGHT be a break-out year for Coach Bill Herrion’s Wildcats, who hadn’t won at UVM’s Patrick Gymnasium since 2000. It was the 14^th time in 15 years that UVM had made the semi-finals.

But a UNH win was not to be. UVM led all the way before a packed house to easily advance to the finals against Stony Brook.

The energized crowd naturally made me long for some similar March Madness in N.H. someday. But while Vermont had won its opening playoff game at home by demolishing Maine before another packed house, UNH had advanced by beating Binghampton before a modest crowd of 1500 fans at Lundholm Gym—a fraternal twin to Patrick Gym.

Once upon a time the UNH sports folks wanted the Wildcat hoopsters to play at the 6000 seat Whittemore Center. Indeed, UNH did play some games at that venue, but before 600 fans, not 6000. So back to Lundholm went the Wildcats.

Vermont’s larger hoop fan base is energized by a tradition of success. The only men’s hoop tradition in Durham is one of under-achieving. Will that ever change? Herrion’s had some winning seasons of late, but until UNH can beat UVM, team records won’t mean much.

I noted UNH’s 12-man roster included seven Texans and no Granite Staters. Interesting. But Vermont’s roster had no Green Mountain Boys either, although they did have some studs from Connecticut, which IS a bit more local than Texas.

So will New Hampshire EVER experience March Madness first-hand, the way they do in Vermont? Who knows? UNH men’s basketball reminds me of the Chicago Cubs.

“Any team can have a bad century.”  Or two.

As in 2005, I left Burlington feeling a bit blue.

But at least there we no “George Bush Sucks!” signs this time. 

Mike Moffett with Erin Cofiell of WVNY ABC Ch. 22 before the UNH-UVM playoff basketball game in Burlington on March 7.

On War and Peace

WHAT PEACE MEANS TO ME

 

By Michael Moffett, (LtCol, USMC, ret)

 

Peace is synonymous with tranquility---a condition marked by an absence of violence. There are people living in blessed enclaves who've known nothing but peace throughout their lives. But these fortunate folks likely lack the same deep appreciation for peace felt by those who've directly experienced war and violence.

 

As a Marine Corps infantry officer I witnessed violence and its effects first-hand, from the Persian Gulf to Afghanistan. So like refugees from war-torn lands, I've a special appreciation for the general tranquility found throughout most of our beautiful country. I love peace.

 

That notion may seem counterintuitive to some, as I was trained to wreak violence, if necessary. But most of my brothers and sisters-in-arms and their families surely share that peace-loving sentiment. As firemen deplore fires, but stand ready to fight conflagrations when necessary, most military people deplore violence, but stand ready to counter those forces seeking to threaten our national security or to destroy our way of life.

 

And yes, I subscribe to the notion that a strong military can be a force for peace and a deterrent to aggression---hopefully until such time as threats recede on their own accord, as when the Soviet Union dissolved and the Berlin Wall came down.

 

And "Blessed are the peacemakers," those inspired individuals who use their special gifts to counter conflict. On a macro level, these peacemakers win Nobel Prizes. On a micro level, they save lives and diffuse danger in homes, at schools, or on village streets.

 

Such a peacemaker is my friend Fahim Fazli, a native Afghan who escaped a war-torn nation to come to America. Here he became a citizen with a unique appreciation for his adopted country, and its wealth, opportunities, and tranquility. And yet, after becoming a successful Hollywood actor, Fahim left his career and family to return to his native homeland, so cursed with violence. He volunteered to be an interpreter for a Marine infantry company in dangerous Helmand Province. But while he wore a warrior's uniform, he carried no firearm. His weapons were words and laughter, and he used those to bring people together, to such great effect that our enemy put a price on his head.

 

No civilians lost their lives where Fahim's company operated. And not only did Fahim survive, but so did all his comrades. When they left Afghanistan, their area of operations was markedly more peaceful than it was before they arrived.

 

Blessed, indeed, are the peacemakers, particularly those like Fahim and company---those who don't win Nobel Prizes but who bring a measure of peace to places where it is needed most.