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!

Brady Blessings

TOM BRADY BLESSINGS

 

Americans should find time on Thanksgiving Day, 2015, to count blessings, big and small. And a big blessing for which New England Patriot fans should be grateful is a 6-foot-4, 230-pound quarterback named Tom Brady.

And in this, Brady’s 16^th season as a Patriot, Tom is having his most terrific season yet. Contrast the 38-year-old Patriot quarterback’s stats with those of Denver Bronco Peyton Manning—a 2015 version of “The One Hoss Shay.” (Just Google it.)

Always a competitor, Brady seems to be enthralled by the challenge of maintaining All-Star form for years to come. His disciplined training regimen and diet are designed to extend his gridiron longevity in record ways.

So when WILL he retire? Not for a while, yet.

Might he retire next February after a Super Bowl win? There is that temptation to go out on top, like Norm Van Brocklin did after the Philadelphia Eagles won the 1960 NFL title. But look for Brady to return next year, so we can again include him among the blessings counted during Thanksgiving-2016.

It’s tough to pick the right time to quit. Running backs Jim Brown and Barry Sanders retired when they were at the tops of their games. Did they ever regret it? Brown probably did. He toyed with returning to the NFL with the Oakland Raiders when he was well past 40.

But quitting too late might be worse than quitting too early, because that extra season usually results in injury and a tarnished legacy. Think Y.A. Tittle, Johnny Unitas, O.J Simpson, Joe Namath, Dan Fouts, Troy Aikman, Dan Marino, Jim Kelly, and Brett Favre.

And “One Hoss Shay” Manning.

May Brady never suffer such a fate.

Then there is Green Bay’s Aaron Rodgers, who may be on the precipice of oblivion. The 36-year-old Packer quarterback looked terrible during a recent home loss to DETROIT, his team’s third straight loss.

Interestingly, many Packer fans blamed Rodgers’ woes not on age, but on distractions created by his Hollywood actress/girlfriend Olivia Munn. This follows a tradition of blaming quarterback woes on lady friends. Recall the extraordinary attention paid to Dallas Cowboy quarterback Tony Romo’s then-girlfriend Jessica Simpson. Eventually their relationship couldn’t take the pressure and dissolved, much as did the relationship between Cowboy predecessor Troy Aikman and country singer Lorrie Morgan.

Certainly Brady’s wife, supermodel Gisele Bundchen, took some blame for previous Patriot problems, but with New England currently atop the football world, Gisele is now feeling the love from Patriot Nation.

This raises a question. When does a supermodel retire? Gisele seems to be going strong. Her discipline vis-à-vis exercise and diet may in fact complement and support Brady’s, and help account for his longevity. Give the girl some credit!

Beyond superstars and supermodels, what about supercoaches? What about New England head coach Bill Belichick? The 63-year-old Pats mentor is the third oldest in the NFL, behind N.Y. Giant Tom Coughlin and Seattle Seahawk Pete Carroll. What if Bill decides to go out on top like San Francisco’s Bill Walsh did? We can only hope that Belichick is staying fit, ala Brady and Bundchen. May he wear his hoody on the sidelines for years to come.

And when Turkey Day comes a year from now, may we continue to count our Blessings that start with B … Brady, Bundchen, and Belichik.

And Butler (Malcolm). Always and forever.

Happy Thanksgiving!

MISSOURI MACHINATIONS

MISSOURI MACHINATIONS

 

NEWS ITEM — University of Missouri president Tim Wolfe recently resigned in the face of growing protests by African-American students, the threat of a walkout by faculty, and a strike by football players who said his administration failed to combat campus racism.

Ousted!

I was going to write about Tom Brady, but events in the “Show Me State” compelled otherwise.

The first headlines re: Wolfe’s resignation raised questions about what egregious conduct had required him to step down. It turns out that his crime was “inadequate responsiveness” to campus activists on the issue of combatting racism at the University of Missouri in Columbia. And the tipping point came when the African-American gridsters at Mizzou threatened not to play football unless Wolfe quit.

There are fascinating aspects to all this.

Is there rampant racism at Mizzou? I don’t know. No doubt there have been incidents of bad behavior. That’s inevitable at any large university campus. Let light be shined on the whole situation and let the truths emerge. And a measure of skepticism is often appropriate when dealing with emotional campus activists, including those in Columbia.

The football component of the Mizzou equation underscores the power that scholarship athletes can wield when they so-choose. Faculty activists had earlier called for Wolfe’s resignation, to no avail, but when the football Tigers weighed in, Wolfe walked out.

Mizzou Coach Gary Pinkel tweeted his support for his players, but according to USA TODAY that support did not mean he wanted Wolfe to resign.

With Missouri in last place in the Southeastern Conference, Pinkel surely didn’t need the distraction. Time will tell if getting involved in campus politics unites or divides the Tiger gridsters.

But the events in Columbia affirm the potential power that football players can wield, and athletes (and coaches!) around the country certainly took notice.

Last year the football players at Northwestern University sought (unsuccessfully) to unionize, and that may have inspired whoever led the Tiger players to revolt.

The Missouri machinations probably revived wistful memories for grey-haired activists who came of age during the sixties, when student strikes were commonplace. As many of these liberal activists often lamented the extent of university resources invested in a violent male-only sport like football, it’s ironic that a FOOTBALL team achieved the campus activist dream—ousting a university president.

Speaking of the power that football has over presidents, consider that no U.S. President would EVER give a prime time speech or national address if it conflicted with Monday Night Football. Such a President would likely end up like President Wolfe.

Ousted!

Raffio and Racing

RAFFIO AND RACING

Long-time commuters often develop a kinship of sorts with other commuters—fellow travelers who take the same routes to and from work each day. And so it is with runners, who inherently relate to other runners who compete in our region’s racing circuit, mostly 5K events that produce not just endorphins but also fellowship.

Over many years of road racing, I’ve come to recognize familiar faces at each event, regulars on the annual 5K tour. One such stalwart is Tom Raffio, the estimable CEO of Northeast Delta Dental, who among other things is also an author and a member of the state Board of Education.

A decade or so ago, Tom and I competed in the “Clydesdale” division—for male runners who weigh 190 pounds or more. I usually finished ahead of Tom, as I always took notice of how I measured up against other Clydesdales.

But then Raffio stopped qualifying as a Clydesdale, meaning his weight dropped below 190 pounds. Concurrently, his run times improved and he regularly finished ahead of me. The passing years saw my run times incrementally get worse—but there was never a chance I’d lose my Clydesdale status as Tom did.

I wasn’t happy about this turn of events, and had some private angst about the unfairness of having to carry over 200 pounds around a race course, competing against lithe runners who had much less to carry around.

“Runners who weigh only 150 pounds should have to carry a 50 pound weight, to make it fair,” I once suggested. That proposal went over like a “lead balloon,” so to speak.

Still, my competitive juices still flowed, like at the Angels 5K Road Race in Penacook in May. Coming down the home stretch I could see Tom ahead of me, and I went into a sprint and edged him out at the finish line. (Even Venus Williams occasionally wins a match against Serena!)

I hoped for a similar result at the NHTI 50^th Anniversary 5K on Oct. 3. I kept Raffio in my sights, trying to stay within 20 yards so I could kick it in at the end and steal another victory from the former Clydesdale. But as I kicked it in, Tom did likewise and I couldn’t catch him. I was going to congratulate him but he ran straight from the finish line to the parking lot, where he jumped in his car and sped off.

“He’s got another 5K to go to,” explained a fellow runner. “He’s off to do the Lions 5K in Hopkinton.”

“But he’s already run two races this morning,” said another. “He ran the Girls Inc. race before coming here for the NHTI race!”

Aye carumba! No wonder he wasn’t a Clydesdale anymore. Three 5K races in one morning! A friend of Raffio’s bet that Tom couldn’t do the three morning 5K’s in under 75 minutes, cumulatively. Raffio’s times in the three races were 20:56, 26:20, and 26:10 respectively, for a total of 73:26—which won the bet.

But there was more.

That evening Tom danced the night away at the NHTI 50^th Anniversary Gala and then got up the next morning and ran a 13-mile half marathon from Loudon to Concord. That was his 82^nd race of the year, as he closed in on a goal of 100 road races in 2015.

I saw Tom again at the Granite State Ten-Miler in Concord on Oct.17. I stayed ahead of the 55-year-old CEO for about a half mile but after he passed me I knew I wouldn’t catch him. He finished the race in 81:56. It took me 89:48 to get my 205 pound body to the finish line. But having just turned (gulp) 60, I figured I might finish near the top of the 60+ age category.

Not so. I was only 10^th out of 20 geezers. Raffio’s personal trainer, 68-year-old Tom Walton, finished with a time of 75:51. And as fast as Walton’s time was, it still trailed the 74:30 turned in by my 62-year-old NHTI colleague, Professor Perry Seagroves.

I guess I need to take up dancing.

WRITER RAFFIO

In addition to all the aforementioned, runner Raffio is also writer Raffio, having co-authored a book with Boston Celtic Hall-of-Famer Dave Cowens—THERE ARE NO DO-OVERS.

“Success in business is like success in sports,” said Raffio. “Leadership traits that work in athletics also work in business. I interviewed and researched many people while working on the book—from successful athletes to successful billionaires—and the overarching themes included outworking the competition and taking care of people. And by the way, Dave Cowens was wonderful to work with, a great athlete and a great human being.”

MORE ON COWENS

I once worked as a counselor at the Don Nelson/Tom Sanders Basketball School at N.H. College. Cowens concurrently had his own basketball camp at Regis College, and he challenged the Nelson/Sanders counselors to come down and take on his counselors on the basketball court. A fellow counselor from Concord named Mark Bergeron broke away for a slam dunk and hung briefly on the rim. Cowens grabbed the ball and flung it at Bergeron’s head and yelled “Quit hanging on my rim!” Cowens’ competitive juices were always flowing.

(For the record, our Nelson/Sanders team triumphed and Cowens had to buy beer for the winners. I still have a can of that PBR somewhere, one of my most prized trophies!)

 

 

BASKETBALL, GOLF, AND NANTUCKET

BASKETBALL, GOLF, AND NANTUCKET

 

Sports bring people together.

The Olympic Games unite countries. High school tournaments unite towns. And golf can reunite college alums, friends, and teammates―also affectionately known as “cronies.”

Such a reunion occurred for me during Columbus Day weekend. The common denominator was basketball and the common destination was Nantucket Island, where an old hoop teammate named Billy runs a successful business. The common mission included talking sports, watching sports, and playing golf.

Nantucket’s location in the North Atlantic necessitated a lengthy boat trip. So for me the first leg meant a Thursday trip to Cape Cod and a night with my friend John, another hoop “crony,” in keeping with the weekend theme of connecting with former basketball players.

A crowded Friday ferry trip brought me to the famous island―once a center for the whaling industry, but now a tourist destination for the bourgeoisie. Billy met me at the dock, along with Matt and Storm, who’d arrived earlier. These hoop “cronies” were inconveniently (for Billy) arriving at six different times, so Billy had to remain on call in downtown Nantucket village, where he gave subsequent arrivals tours of his favorite social establishments, where he seemed to know every waitress and bartender―confirming the notion that he was indeed a successful Nantucket businessman.

Eventually we were joined by Darryll, Neil, Richie, and Jeff. Billy then brought us to a wonderful establishment with a friendly, non-pretentious clientele, as well as good food, great libations, and multiple large flat screen televisions to watch the baseball playoffs. One might assume that we all were Red Sox fans, but Jeff was a Yankee fan, Darryl an Orioles fan, and Matt was a free agent. But we all agreed that we wanted the Cubs to beat the Cardinals!

Golf Adventures

Saturday was golf day. In preparation I’d moved my important golf clubs from my big golf bag to my smaller “travel” golf bag. But in so-doing, I‘d forgotten my pitching wedge. Rats!

We adopted a “scramble” format―foursome against foursome. I was with Jeff, Neil, and Richie. I didn’t contribute much to our team effort, perhaps because I was tired from sleeping on a couch at Billy’s house. Also, I didn’t have my wedge.

Finally, in desperation I borrowed Jeff’s wedge and hit an almost perfect approach shot.

“How much do you want for the wedge?” I asked Jeff.

“Not for sale,” he replied.

The golf carts at Nantucket’s pricey Miacomet Golf Course were nothing like I was used to in New Hampshire. They were computerized and had screens that described each hole in detail, how far it was to the pin, regardless of where you were on the course. Unbelievable!

They also warned against driving carts in the rough.

In New Hampshire, I always drive my cart into the rough, because that’s where most of my balls go. But on Nantucket, if you strayed from the approved golf cart areas, your golf cart would automatically stop. It’s true.

I drove my cart into the rough to find my ball and the cart stopped. The computer screen told me I could only go in reverse until I returned to approved golf cart territory. Talk about Big Brother/GPS watching you! We all eventually gave in to the Golf Cart Gods. We had no choice.

MAGIC WEDGE

Miacomet had no water hazards, unlike my home course in Loudon, but there was sand everywhere. I borrowed Jeff’s wedge to get out of a trap and put the ball six feet from the pin. Then on the next hole, a short par 3, I used Jeff’s magic wedge for a tee-shot and hit my shot onto the green, for an eight foot birdie putt.

“How much do you want for the wedge?” I asked Jeff.

“Not for sale,” he replied.

COWBOYS AND PATRIOTS

On Sunday, Billy took us to a downtown sports bar to watch NFL football―four games simultaneously on big flat screens. As he walked into the establishment, a Miller Lite was immediately placed into his hand―Billy being a well-known, successful Nantucket businessman.

New England was playing at Dallas, and the Patriots were obviously the local favorite. But of course, our group had a Cowboys fan. As with Yankee fans, there’s always one in every crowd. Matt rolled up his sleeve to display a Cowboy tattoo, and then he shared that he had a son named Troy (as in Troy Aikman). He predicted a Cowboy win.

But the history was soon written―New England 30, Dallas 6.

BACK TO N.H.

The ferry boat ride back to Hyannis was not as crowded as it was on the trip over. Maybe some folks just decided to stay in Nantucket. (There are worse places to be!)

The long drive from the Cape back to Loudon was uneventful, and as much as I enjoyed the frenzied sports weekend on Nantucket, I was happy to be back in the more familiar Granite State. It was late when I got home and I just fell into bed.

I unpacked the next morning, and as I returned my golf clubs from my travel bag to my regular bag, I saw that I had the magic wedge! I must have inadvertently put it into my bag instead of Jeff’s on the 18^th hole.

It was an honest mistake!

“Crony honor!”