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.

 

Orange Crush

EXPATRIATES AND EX-PATRIOTS

Sports bring people together—in many ways and in many places.

I once saw a man wearing a Red Sox shirt in remote central Afghanistan, which was cause to connect and make a new friend.

Orange County, California, is not quite as remote, but it’s still a good distance from New England. As I was in the Golden State during the recent Patriots-Broncos AFC Championship Game, I figured it might be fun to watch the Brady-Manning gunfight at a sports bar.

So I did some homework and found an Irish Pub in Tustin—Ye Auld Dubliner—as a venue to watch the big game. With so many New Englanders (like meself) being of Irish extract, it seemed a natural place to find kindred spirits—New England expatriates, if you will. And supposedly the Dubliner was a favorite of Sam “The Bam” Cunningham, a USC grad, and one of the all-time great New England running backs. Maybe the ex-Patriot would show up and hang out with us expatriates!

Having forgotten to borrow my brother’s #12 Brady shirt, I wore my green Plymouth State windbreaker—green being apropos for an Irish bar. And I made a deal with Beth, my Beloved Bronco Fan (BBF). I’d drive to the Dubliner and she’d drive back to San Clemente. I thought I’d gotten the best of that arrangement, but there was a caveat. She had to spend an hour at the “Fitness Elite for Women” health club en route. But I was assured we had plenty of time.

En route to the health club, BBF, who grew up near Denver, reminisced about the first Bronco team to go to the Super Bowl, with quarterback Craig Morton, defensive end Lyle Alzado, and the Orange Crush defense.

As the club was for women only, I cooled my heels in the lobby for an hour. Then BBF looked in from the gym said she just needed 10 minutes in the locker room and we’d be off to the game. Over twenty minutes later I was still cooling my heels, and wondering if we’d get there in time for kick-off, or even a seat. (Try not to let this destroy your faith in the punctuality of women.)

Eventually we were flying up I-5 toward Tustin. We left the highway and sped around corners—seemingly on two wheels—and through all too many traffic lights.

BBF: You ran a red light!

ME: I think it was orange.

BBF: You’ll be seeing a lot of orange when the game starts.

We got to the Dubliner a minute before kick-off. Naturally every seat was taken so we found places to stand. As the game was on every one of twenty big screens, we could see action in any direction.

Patriot fans indeed abounded. I estimated at least 200, judging by apparel. Including BBF there were approximately five Bronco fans, and one pathetic soul wearing a Browns jersey. My Plymouth State attire got some attention and I actually connected with several Plymouth alumni. Small world.

Yes, it was a great game. The last-minute Brady to Gronk touchdown pass caused paroxysms of joy for the well-lubricated Patriot faithful. Only a two-point conversion separated us from overtime and one of the great games in NFL history.

It didn’t happen. A giant whoosh of disappointment left the Dubliner. The only consolation was I didn’t have to drive home. As we walked out, I caught BBF giving a surreptitious fist bump to a dude wearing an orange Peyton Manning jersey. C’est la vie.

I suppose I’ll still watch the Super Bowl, sans Patriots. After all, it’s hard not to root for Manning, who is almost as old as I am. Maybe I’ll find something orange to wear on Sunday.

After all, orange IS an Irish color too!  

Sports Oldsters

SPORTS OLDSTERS

All the hoopla surrounding Sunday's Peyton Manning-Tom Brady “gunfight” in Denver makes for some compelling story lines and also touch on two things that most of us seriously ponder—often excessively.

Aging and mortality.

So we celebrate the spectacle of a 39-year-old future Hall-of-Fame quarterback taking on a 38-year-old future Hall-of-Fame quarterback—with a Super Bowl berth at stake.

The aging process brings humility to every athlete, sooner or later. So when someone like Brady cheats both Mother Nature and Father Time—as he did this past season—it not only brings joy to Patriot fans but it also gives us ALL hope that maybe one CAN stay young forever in a sports Shangri-La.

Who has never dreamed such dreams? Think of Ponce de Leon’s tragic quest for the mythical “Fountain of Youth,” or Oscar Wilde’s novel “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

Dorian Gray sold his soul in exchange for eternal youth. Rather than age himself, a picture instead reflected the ravages of time and personal choices. Of course, as with Ponce de Leon, it all ended badly for Dorian Gray.

Still, we rejoice when oldsters triumph. Think Mariano Rivera. Adam Vinitiari. David Oritz. Do you recall Jack Nicklaus winning the Masters Golf Tournament at age 46? Or better yet, Tom Watson falling just a stroke short of a sixth British Open title at the age of 60, in 2009?

How about Ted Williams winning a batting title by hitting .388 at almost 40 years of age? Or Babe Ruth hitting three tape measure home runs in a single game in Pittsburgh, also at age 40? Or Michael Jordan racking up triple doubles at the same age?

And you have to love long distance swimmer Diana Nyad, who at the age of 64 completed a 110 mile swim from Cuba to Florida. It took her 53 hours.

Or Gordie Howe. The NHL legend made his debut with the Detroit Red Wings in 1946. In 1969, the 40-year-old-Howe scored 100 points for Detroit—44 goals and 59 assists. He later played for the Houston Aeros of the World Hockey Association, winning the WHA’s MVP award in 1974. Later, back in the NHL with the Hartford Whalers, Howe played on a line that included his sons Mark and Marty. Howe concluded his career in 1980, when at age 51 he played in all of the Whalers’ 80 regular season games, scoring 15 goals to help Hartford make the NHL playoffs.

The aforementioned stars—and others like them—created excitement which sports fans converted to passion, an ingredient for eternal youth. Or at least youthful outlooks.

So Tom Brady, whatever you’re doing, please keep it up. Perhaps it’s your supermodel wife that helps keep you young—along with diet and exercise, of course!

But I can’t help but wonder if somewhere there is a “Picture of Tom Brady” that is aging, while Tom stays forever young. Whether or not Tom made some Faustian bargain, only he knows. But if such a picture exists, may it stay under lock and key.

Forever.

Cold Sports

COLD SPORTS

The bitter Minnesota cold during the Vikings/Seahawks NFL playoff game  made for extremely uncomfortable conditions for players and attendees at U.S. Bank Stadium in Minneapolis, but it was fun viewing for fans watching in the comfort of their living rooms.

Thank heavens the Vikings weren’t playing indoors at the old Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. We wouldn’t have been able to see their frosty breaths or listen to commentators discuss how the cold was affecting the contest. Indoor gridiron games truly lack something primal, elemental, and essential. Football needs real grass, wind and rain, snow and mud.

Yes, I love watching football games where the elements are part of the story. Preferably snow, ice, sleet, and mud. Yes, I loved watching the Ice Bowl, where in 1967 the host Green Bay Packers beat the shivering Dallas Cowboys 21-17 for the NFL title. The temperature was 17 degrees below zero.

An even colder game, if you factor in the wind, was the San Diego at Cincinnati playoff game in January, 1982. Wind chill made it feel like 30 below zero. (The Bengals won to advance to the Super Bowl.)

You have to love snow. Like in 1982, when the Dolphins and Patriots were tied at 0-0 with less than five minutes to play in a Foxboro snowstorm. During a time-out before a field goal attempt, a stadium snowplow operator named Mark Henderson drove on to the snowy field to clear the area where John Smith’s kick would be spotted. The kick was good and the Pats won 3-0. Miami coach Don Shula is still mad about it, but the little snow plow/ploy holds a place of honor in Foxboro.

My favorite New England game of all time remains the Foxboro Stadium finale in January of 2002, when the Pats won a playoff game against Oakland. That was the Tom Brady “tuck” game, but what I really remember is all the snow, and Adam Vinatiari’s successful 45-yard field goal through the swirling flakes to send things to overtime.

Bring on foul football weather, especially for the playoffs. How about a soggy Super Bowl? SB 50 goes on Feb. 7 at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, California. Now while baseball’s Dodgers, Padres, and Angels are never rained out, it DOES rain in California in the winter. I’ve always longed for a Super Bowl where there is mud and rain. Let the heavens release downpours on the halftime show, which this year ironically features the British rock band COLDPLAY. Perfect!

(Prediction: The Patriots win the first-ever overtime Super Bowl game when Stephen Gostkowski kicks a 40-yard field goal in the rain.)

Soccer is played in all sorts of weather, especially high school championship matches, which invariably occur under freezing November skies. But for some reason baseball games just don’t happen if it rains. What’s up with that? Unlike soccer players, baseball players wear extra clothes and even caps—but when the rain starts, the umpire departs.

Sissies.

Hockey is generally an indoor sport, but the recent Winter Classics have been immensely popular. Sixty-eight thousand fans showed up at Gillette Stadium to see an outdoor contest between les Canadiens and the Bruins. Unfortunately, Montreal prevailed 4-1. If only there would have been a blizzard. How fun that would have been—maybe even for the fans in attendance.

Occasionally an indoor hockey game WILL be held up due to foggy conditions, which is cool.

Now as a basketball guy, I must admit that I pretty much avoided rain and mud while playing hoop. C’est la vie. But a proposal is in the works to have a basketball game—maybe a Celtics pre-season game—at Fenway Park, inspired, no doubt by the success of the Winter Classic. I’m all for it. Olympic basketball used to be played outdoors, after all.

So bring the parquet floor to Fenway and hope that it doesn’t rain.

But if the fog rolls in, just keep on playing!

Number Retirements

RETIRED NUMBERS

NEWS ITEM: The Boston Red Sox announced that they will retire Wade Boggs’ number 26.

Congratulations to Monsieur Boggs on a well-deserved honor. The third baseman won five batting titles during his 11 years with the Red Sox. That he later played with the New York Yankees and the Tampa Bay Devil Rays shouldn’t be held against him. Boggs is also bound for baseball’s Hall-of-Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., which happens to be a criterion to have the BoSox retire one’s number—Johnny Pesky (#7) being the lone exception, understandably.

Number retirements by sports teams are a relatively recent phenomenon. Consider that George Selkirk and Cliff Mapes wore number 3 for the Yankees long after Babe Ruth had left the team.

Some teams are more promiscuous with their number retirements than others. The Boston Celtics are a prime example of a team with a generous retirement policy, having retired 21 numbers. Yes, TWENTY-ONE! Plus Johnny Most’s microphone and the nickname (Loscy) for the late Jim Loscutoff.

Paul Pierce’s number 34 will certainly be the 22^nd number to be retired. But does Kevin Garnett’s number 5 deserve the royal treatment, as some propose? Garnett only played for Boston for six seasons, one less than Dennis Johnson, who had his number 3 retired by the team.

Of course there was special Celtic sentiment for the likes of Reggie Lewis (#35) and Easy Ed Macauley (#22) but do those numbers deserve to be displayed alongside Bill Russell’s number 6 or Larry Bird’s number 33? Teams can dilute the honor by making it too routine. Yes, I’m talking about Cedric Maxwell’s number 31. As Red Auerbach said, “He wasn’t that good!”

College teams retire numbers as well. The University of North Carolina Tar Heel men’s team has such a storied tradition that they developed strict requirements for uniform retirements. To be so-honored a Tar Heel must be more than special. He must be MVP of a national title team, an ACC “Player-of-the-Year,” a first-team All-American, and/or a member of a Gold Medal Winning Olympic team.

Which brings us to Plymouth State University and Joe Dudek, its All-America running back back in the early 80’s. Dudek scored more touchdowns than any college player in history, set numerous rushing records for several championship teams, finished in the top-ten of the Heisman Trophy voting, and then spent two years with the Denver Broncos. His number 22 was informally retired by Plymouth State, and in 1989 the college decided to make it official by having a Joe Dudek Day at Currier Field. Unfortunately, several faculty members chose to make a public issue over the fact that Dudek had not yet satisfied graduation requirements. (He has since earned his diploma.) A local paper ran a story about the faculty concerns and a wire service account made it a national story. The undesired attention created a regrettable distraction which perhaps diminished the recognition. To his credit, Plymouth State President William Farrell made it a point to be on the field with Dudek for the ceremony.

The attention given to Dudek’s graduation status was almost certainly he reason that some college teams chose to retire player numbers after their final season ended, but before graduation, or non-graduation. For example, Indiana University’s superstar running back Anthony Thompson had his number retired right after his last 1989 home game with the Hoosiers. IU apparently knew he wasn’t going to graduate and learned from the Dudek experience not to mess with faculty who might be jealous of the attention given to football players.

Anyway, congrats again to Wade Boggs. And upon further review, let’s keep Cornbread Maxwell’s number 31 retired. I’ll never forget his Game 7 heroics against the Lakers in 1984, and I think Auerbach was kidding when he said Max wasn’t that good.

Happy New Year!