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.

 

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!