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Socrates, R.I.P.

December 18, 2011 By Leave a Comment

I read with sadness about the recent passing of Brazilian soccer legend Socrates Brasileiro Sampaio Vieira de Oliveira. Or, Socrates for short.

He has been adequately eulogized already (a decent one can be found here) and I’ve had difficulty for the last couple of weeks gathering my thoughts to celebrate his life.

For one thing, I’m quite certain I’ve already written at some length about him (either on this blog or in an e-mail thread, likely the latter) but I can’t find it. Very annoying.

So: I’ll simply say that it was a combination of this player’s exquisite and alluring play and simple random chance that turned a young soccer fanatic on to the glory of joga bonito.

Back in the great old days of the late ’70s there was a weekly TV show called “Soccer Made in Germany” (check out some vintage footage including commentary by the suave Toby Charles and the epic theme song here).

I seem to recall you could get a free trial subscription to a neat little magazine called “The Globe Kicker” (check it), and all you had to do was sign up over and over to get it free, forever. The little magazine would feature certain players each issue, and I suspect I’m not the only American who developed an otherwise inexplicable affinity for German and South American soccer players, especially the ones that played in the Bundesliga (the league covered by Soccer Made in Germany…get it?).

Anyway, in one of these I saw a two-page overview of one of the game’s rock stars: Socrates. As a ten year old, I naturally had no idea who the philosopher was and yes, I did think it was pronounced So-crates. This, since I already had grown up idolozing his countryman Edson Arantes do Nascimento (also known as Pele), made me a default fan of both the German and Brazilian national teams. I only regret I was not able to tape action from the ’82 World Cup (pound for pound the best action to my memory) and that I was stupid enough to discard my taped coverage of the ’86 action (but then, I had a Betamax). Fortunately, that is what YouTube is for:

By ’86 I was certain Brazil was going to win the Cup (and I know I was not alone). Aside from Socrates the team had the mighty Zico and the team was an offensive powerhouse. They just overwhelmed teams. Of course, just like in all sports, especially college basketball come March Madness, it’s not always the quickest and prettiest teams that succeed; in fact, those teams usually have a crucial weakness that gets exposed. In any event, when it came to penalty kicks –which it never should have and is always a bad sign in World Cup matches– I happened to be on my shift as a bus-boy (having just turned 16 and upgrading myself from cashier at Church’s Fried Chicken to waitress-ogling, tips-making flunky –far and away one of the best and most enjoyable jobs I’ve ever had), and I conveniently pretended to attend to important business in the bar as the action unfolded on the projection screen TV.

When Socrates, who was always cool to the point of nonchalance and graceful as a figure skater on the pitch, strolled up to take the first kick for Brazil it was a statement: this is an automatic. When he missed, it was not only shocking, it could be argued that Brazil’s ploy backfired and instead of psyching out France, they inadvertantly spooked themselves. (’86 turned out to be a festival of disillusionment for me as a sports fan: less than a month earlier Len Bias died and less than four months later the Red Sox would do the unthinkable.) This was a soccer equivalent of finding out there was no Santa Claus, or worse, that God was French.

Many years later when much a much less exciting (and necessarily conservative; they learnt their lesson) Brazil team won it all, it was decidedly bittersweet. The team(s) that should have won didn’t. Worse, we had to see Italy and then Argentina win. And if you think I remain salty, just mention Maradonna and the “Hand of God” goal to an England fan…

So what did I like so much about him? Well, you have to be a soccer (i.e., football) fan to understand in the first place. You also probably had to be young and in love with the game. As a soccer freak, I was consistently at awe with how he managed the field. As I got older and understood he got his nickname because of his inconceivable temerity to actually read books, he became a hero on an entirely other level. He also was a chainsmoker. Suffice it to say, those were different days, my friends. More, he was a big drinker. Not celebrating this (indeed, the smoking and drinking undoubtedly led indirectly, if not directly, to his awfully premature death), but just putting it out there: the man knew how to live on and off the field. Oh, did I mention that he actually became a doctor after his playing days? Or that he was very progressive politically? Finally, and perhaps most importantly, this motherfucker rocked the beard.

That shirt above is indeed mine and I wear it sparingly with pride and humility. Now I will wear it with an added touch of honor and sadness. Another one of the great ones has left our playing field.

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The Boogeyman, Goonery and Five for Fighting

December 5, 2011 By Leave a Comment

 

The ongoing three-part series of the life and untimely death of NHL enforcer Derek Boogaard is an essential piece of reading for any hockey fan. And it’s a timely bit of sociological insight for a culture obsessed with sports, violence and a slowly-awakening awareness of concussions.

Not sure I have too much to add (for now) but I’ll revisit this topic once the third (and final) installment of the Boogaard piece goes live.

For now, here are some extended thoughts from 2011 regarding hockey, violence and cognitive dissonance.

After my post yesterday, “Back To The Future With Old Time Hockey?”, wherein I acknowledged –and celebrated– the recent trend of accountability and team-toughness in our most misunderstood sport, it was inevitable that at least one of my well-meaning friends would take exception. It was my good luck that it turned out to be one of my most intelligent and savvy amigos, who knows a lot about sports (soccer in particular) and life (in general); a dude whose opinion I always appreciate. And so, with gratitude, I will take his comments as an opportunity to say more about my feelings toward hockey (in general) and hockey fighting (in particular). I hope in the process I at least address some of his remarks to his satisfaction, and stimulate some thoughts from others, especially non-hockey fans.

2/12/2011, 8:50pm:

Seany-boy, I remember when I was in High School, someone said to me: “Why don’t you like hockey? It’s actually a lot like soccer.” My response was: “Oh, bullshit. In soccer I can dribble around someone with skill. If I beat them, I beat them. If I don’t, I don’t. We pit our skills against one another and see who comes out on top. Not so in hockey. In hockey, if I beat someone on skill they can just knock me on my ass. Or someone else can knock me on my ass. It’s redneck soccer – a crass, hollow husk of a sport.”

I hate to say it, but my opinion stands. All this emphasis on fighting is exactly what I expect from NASCAR fans, who, when faced with a couple consecutive accident-free races stare slackjawed and complain about the lack of carnage, instantly forced to confront how inherently boring their sport is.

Hahahaha!

2/13/2011, 10:21am

Sensh,

Needless to say, I violently (ha!) disagree.

However, I have heard similar sentiment expressed by friends (who love and understand other sports) over the years. I think it’s more than a little ironic, yet for purposes of this discussion, wonderfully appropriate, that you advocate soccer at the expense of hockey. Indeed, if there is one sport more unfairly maligned than soccer, I can’t think of it (I would say hockey, but as I readily concede, no one actually watches hockey!). Having found myself, on too many occasions to count, defending the great sport of soccer from simpletons who consider it “boring”, I can’t help but be amused by the fact that, of all things, you use the word “boring” to describe the one sport where there are no timeouts, no diving, and no malingering (hello baseball!)

Doesn’t it drive you nuts when bozo-Americans say “nothing *happens* in soccer?” The only answer, which could never satisfy the unimpressed fan (who probably prefers the wrong type of football) is that *everything* happens in soccer, it just happens in its own way, at its own pace, by its own logic, and in a fashion that should not –and cannot– be compared to other sports. Since we are simpatico on this, I won’t belabor the point; I suspect we probably have used similar arguments, however futilely, to try and enlighten non-soccer fans. That said, I also have to acknowledge some of the issues non-fans have with the game (even, if especially the game at its highest level: during world cup competition). The diving and drama has long-since gotten way out of hand; it denigrates the game to a considerable extent and drives me nuts. The (understandable, but infuriating) tendency of teams, if they happen to score first, to shut everything down and play ultra-conservative in the hopes of maintaining their lead. The embarrassing savagery of the fans (ever read Among the Thugs? by Bill Buford? Highly recommended).

And, I suspect, any serious fan of soccer with a modicum of sociological perspective innately understands that even the hooliganism is rooted in class and economic context; in other words, even that indefensible aspect of the game is more complicated, historically inculcated and, yes, explicable than a casual assessment would suggest. (Lest that sound like I am in any way defending or advocating soccer-related shenanigans, I am not; only recognizing that it has a lot more to do with things aside from a taste for “a bit of the old ultraviolence”…which, in another discussion, could conceivably bring us back to hockey and its origins which are not unlike lacrosse, a game initially played—in very brutal fashion—by the Native Americans. More on that later, as well as the socioeconomic elements of hockey’s origins and ongoing association with a very blue-blood—and blue collar—populace in the Great White North also called Canada.)

That said, when people claim soccer players are soft, I like to say the same things I tell people when they make fun of tennis: try running around for 90 minutes. Not even in the context of a game; just the simple fact of RUNNING AROUND for 90 min. Ah yes, but that just means they are in shape, the people inexorably say. Okay, try and maneuver a soccer ball, while running and having people stick their feet, arms, shoulders, and torsos at and around you. (Just like it’s always humbling, to this day, to think I’ve got some game when I play b-ball and shoot around with myself, draining all my shots; then get into some on-court action vs. actual people and I realize, instantly how short, weak and white I am).

The best part, to me, is that of all the sports, soccer and hockey are most similar. If you watch a hockey game you’ll see the similarities are astonishing: it’s just that everything is faster and (sorry) much more intense. The “field” is smaller so there is less space, therefore more contact, and in this regard, it’s like (American) football. ON SKATES. Interestingly, for a person like yourself, you might be pleased, or at least surprised to know that the skill-set (similar to most sports) has increased incalculably over the years. Not unlike other sports (football in particular), looking back at footage even 20 years ago makes it seem that, by comparison, it used to be in black and white and slo-mo; even the fourth line players these days are in top shape, cut out of marble and fast: they are, in a sense, like linebackers, ON SKATES.

I feel, in the end, much like I do when people ask me why I listen to jazz music: because it’s great. That’s the easiest (and most truthful) answer. I have no interest in trying to convince or convert anyone; but I will say, if you are the least bit intrigued, check out hockey during the playoffs: that is BY FAR the most intense and exciting sports action you’ll see. Or, let me pull that back: certainly March Madness is tough to top; and (sigh) even NBA playoffs eventually elevate the game (where, for the duration of the regular season, most players seem to phone it in). I would say, respectfully and as a huge fan of soccer: as excited as I get for the World Cup, I’m disappointed by at least half the games (for many of the reasons listed above); I’m never, ever, disappointed during ANY games during hockey playoffs, and I could care less which teams are playing– a sentiment that exposes me as a true fan, or a hopeless case (or really, when it comes to hockey, those are the same thing).

Notice we didn’t even get into the fighting aspect yet?

I realize I could/should say more, but I already offered some opinions on this controversial aspect of the game this past July on the unfortunate occasion of Bob Probert’s passing. Probie was arguably the consensus all-time heavyweight champion enforcer (or goon, if you must) and any discussion of his life—and impact—necessarily touches on several aspects of an element of the game that entices some and appalls other. I’ll repost, below. And I definitely welcome comments, opinions and the inevitable assumption by some/many that the only thing more inexplicable than watching hockey is taking time to discuss it.

This hurts.

R.I.P. Probie.

Quick tally: #24, over 3,000 penalty minutes. Member, along with Joe Kocur, of the legendary “Bruise Brothers” tandem back in the days when the Detroit Red Wings were more feared for what they could do after the whistle stopped play. Participant in a handful of the all-time classic fights in hockey history. Man who inspired t-shirts that read “Give Blood. Fight Probert.” Simply put, if one were to try and create the ideal enforcer (especially for an era that may not have been the toughest or most iconic era but was one of the most enjoyable), one could hardly imagine a more suitable cartoon character than Bob Probert.

As The Kinks once sang, Let’s All Drink To The Death Of A Clown.

And lest anyone think I’m using the word clown carelessly or disrespectfully, it is in fact chosen with the aim of being both accurate and approbatory. (A Probie-tory, if you like.)

Think about what a clown does: he is the minor but essential character who shows up at a circus with the objective of instigating misconduct. Above all, his purpose is to entertain with a mixture of mischief and cheer. A superficial assessment might conclude that a clown is simply doing, in make-up, what any drunk idiot might do. But of course whether it is juggling, dancing or doing tricks, not just anyone could be (or would want to be) a clown. It’s a job.

Think about what a hockey enforcer (what we used to call a goon just like we used to call escorts hookers or stockbrokers sociopaths) does: he is the minor but essential figure who shows up in an arena with the object of instigating misconduct (hopefully without receiving a game misconduct). Above all, his purpose is to settle scores and entertain a crowd while invigorating his teammates. A superficial assessment might conclude that an enforcer is simply doing, in a colorful costume, what any drunk idiot might do. But needless to say, trading bare-fisted blows (sober or especially drunk) in a bar is considerably different than standing on skates and going toe to toe with an opponent who is well-prepared (and in some cases, well-paid) to kick your ass in front of thousands of people. Many people without athletic ability are very capable goons; only an extremely select group of individuals are able (much less willing) to abide by “The Code”. It’s a job.

It’s difficult to talk intelligently with anyone about hockey because so few people watch (or care) about it. That goes double when trying to articulate the science of sanctioned pugilism. How can one possibly rationalize or defend the spectacle of adults engaging in behavior that would get them arrested out in the streets? (Indeed, fans are arrested nightly at hockey rinks all over the continent for imitating, albeit often drunkenly and with far less flair, the very behavior occurring in real time below them.) The answer is at once easy and complicated, like all truths tend to be. The easy part: there is no need to explain it. If you’re not a hockey player, you can’t hope to comprehend it; unless you are a fan, you have no hope of understanding or appreciating it. It’s really that simple. Seriously. Just ask a hockey player. (And, as perspicacious commentators have pointed out for decades, one notices how nobody gets up to grab popcorn once a fight breaks out. While that may speak volumes about the distressing devolution of our species and our insatiable appetite for violence, there is something a bit more sophisticated going on.)

So what is complicated about it? For starters, hockey fighting remains a diversion that people who genuinely deplore violence (like this writer) endorse and get excited about. What does that say about us? I’m not certain. But I do know that unlike the “real” world, it is exceedingly rare for two hockey combatants to enter the fray unwillingly. Yes but, doesn’t that make it a great deal worse, if they do it because they get paid? (Well, is boxing beatiful? Brutal? Your opinion here will go a decent way toward explaining your ability, or willingness, to negotiate the enigmatic charm of the expression “five minutes for fighting”.) That gets to the not-so-easily explained sensibility of athletes (in general) and hockey players (in particular). Hockey players have traditionally been paid a great deal less than other athletes in more popular sports. It is, therefore, a bit ironic to consider that these players are more immune to pain and prone to play a regular season game like the world is on the line. It is, for hockey fans, refreshing that the players have an integrity that has been ingrained from generations and is remarkably resilient against the corrupting forces of salary, fame and product endorsements. Put in less exalted terms, people tend to get (understandably) cynical when, say, a baseball player with a multi-million dollar annual contract goes on the D.L. with a strained hamstring. That type of commonplace indifference is especially noticeable –and appalling– when one realizes that hockey players routinely return to the ice moments after receiving stitches, or losing teeth, or suffering bruised (and in some cases, broken) bones. Google it if you don’t believe me.

None of this is to say that one might enjoy the sport more if one learned more about it, but a casual viewer (or hater) might be genuinely surprised to learn a few things about the history of hockey fighting. For starters, the opposing players seldom hate each other and in it is not uncommon for them to be friends off the ice (particularly if they are old teammates). Also, the aforementioned code does have a rather elaborate –and universally endorsed– system for the rules of engagement. Finally, and perhaps most significantly: not only are enforcers generally the most popular players (amongst the fans; amongst the teams), they tend to be some of the more thoughtful and soft-spoken ones. (For two obvious examples, consider the ever-humble Craig Berube –”The Chief”– who toiled many seasons in the NHL including for my hometown Capitals and now is an assistant coach for the Flyers; then there is George McPhee who happens to be one of the more respected and successful GMs in the game.)

Of course, not all of them are model citizens, and for a variety of reasons (some understandable, some inscrutable), some of them have had very challenging and troubled lives.

Enter Bob Probert. Though it is debatable whether or not he (or any particular player) was “the best” enforcer in the history of organized hockey, not many people would argue with any credibility that he is not at least in the Top 10. For my money, pound for pound and in terms of longevity, respect, quality of opponents and success, Probert is the preeminent knuckle artist of the modern era.

Let the cliched encomiums unfurl: he feared nobody. He fought everyone. Ultimate warrior. Ideal teammate. Crowd pleaser. Accomplished actor? Well, see below:

As Detroit (and Chicago) residents know, and as fans of the game remember, Probert battled the proverbial demons off the ice as well. His struggles with alcohol and substance abuse is amply documented. His occasional escapades drew the attention of law enforcement officials. He was, in short, a troubled man in certain ways, but he was always resilient, and never let his addictions keep him down (or out).

(The actual history of his difficulties is sufficiently reported that folks interested in more can easily find out with the click of a mouse. I also acknowledge that his livelihood may have done as much to exacerbate his issues as it did to ameliorate them. In other words, he quite possibly may have gone down certain roads whether or not he played hockey or threw a single punch. But I readily concede that there is an ugly side to sports, just like there is a sinister side to life, and all of us are constantly pushed and pulled by the momentum of necessity and choice, and the inexorable reality that we have to pay bills and obey laws. A more sustained –and serious– discussion of sports, hockey, hockey fighting and some of the casualties of this game (think John “Rambo” Kordic’s tragic story) should occur at another time.)

For now, in addition to wishing him a fond adieu and sincerely sending out support and goodwill to his family and friends, I’d like to celebrate some of the most memorable instances of him doing what he did better than just about anyone who ever laced up the skates.

1. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round One):

2. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round Two):

3. Bob Probert vs. Dave Semenko:

4. Bob Probert vs. Troy Crowder:

5. Bob Probert vs. Tie Domi (The Epic Saga):

**Bonus: It might make sense to go ahead and include, just for the heck of it, THE BEST HOCKEY FIGHT OF ALL TIME**

Bob Probert vs. Marty McSorley (Two of the best of their generation in a game called by the best hockey announcers of their generation, Gary Thorne and the immortal and inimitable Bill Clement):

If he had kept his act together a little better, he would have retired a Red Wing, possibly kissed the Cup, and pretty much owned the Motor City. Somebody could make a movie like that. Of course, somebody already did: his name was Bob Probert and the movie was his life. Not all movies have happy endings, alas. And like anyone who will be missed once they are gone, he gave us far more than we ever gave him.

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Joe Frazier, R.I.P.

November 10, 2011 By Leave a Comment

In typical 21st Century American fashion, the sad news of Joe Frazier’s passing was quickly eclipsed by other big news; this week the unfolding –and sickening– Penn State scandal.

R.I.P., Smokin’ Joe. Another casualty of The Big C; yet another instance where even the toughest amongst us can’t overcome that greedy and too often indomitable disease.

In the day or so after the announcement of his death (which, his cancer prognosis having only been announced recently, I hope was relatively quick and as painless as possible) I came across several stories and tributes.

Most unfortunate, if inevitable, comment I’ve read: Down goes Frazier!

Most controversial, and poorly timed, comment: Joe Frazier was the better fighter. And the better man. Wow. Who died and made you Don King? Full article from the New York Times here.

Most intriguing and worthwhile piece: The Lonesome Death of Smokin’ Joe Frazier, courtesy of the always reliable Tom Junod at GQ, here. Junod does the near impossible and sums up his career and life, here:

“Hey Joe!” I said, and walked up to him as my father had 25 years earlier. He  held out his hand horizontally, and held it still. “Hey Joe!” I repeated, and  Joe, looking at his hand and then at me, said with a familiar smile: “Still  steady.”

He was saying that he had won. He was saying that while Ali was a rattling  relic with Parkinson’s Syndrome, he, Joe Frazier, was still steady, and capable  of keeping his hand still. He was saying, above all, that wherever Ali was, he,  Joe Frazier, put him there, and that he was vindicated by the split decision  handed down by the fullness of time.

Now Joe Frazier is dead, and Muhammad Ali has once again miraculously  outlasted him. But that’s the thing about fighting your battles over the  fullness of time: You fight when you’re a young man, and you fight until the  final bell. You keep fighting when you’re an old man, and you keep fighting to  the death.

There is a bizarre, more than merely ironic symmetry to the fact that once again, Ali managed to outlast Frazier.

Ali, who has been in notoriously difficult shape for over two decades now, keeps on keeping on (and we can hope he is leading as “normal” and/or happy life as his inner circle insists he is), and once again, Frazier gets counted out, this time permanently.

There is not much I can, or would want to try to add to the remarkable life story of Smokin’ Joe. Whether it’s the made-for-the-movies image of Joe pounding slabs of meat in a Philadelphia factory (see: Rocky Balboa), or the way-better-than-fiction melodrama of his relationship with Ali (the fights, the hype, the acrimony, the endurance, the bitterness, the not-fully-resolved antipathy), there has never been anything quite like Joe Frazier. And his relationship with Ali which, well….just watch the HBO documentary The Thriller in Manila. Beyond Sophocles; beyond Shakespeare. No bullshit.

Ali is rightly renowned for his courageous stand against Vietnam and the obvious inspiration he provided for countless black Americans (and white Americans; everyone). What not a lot of people are unaware of is that once Ali was out of boxing (during the “draft-dodging” controversy) Frazier rallied around his (then) friend, lent him money, and spoke out on Ali’s behalf. It could be argued that Ali would not have gotten reinstated, or at least as soon as he did, without Joe’s help. Of course, upon his return, who was Ali’s first fight against? You really can’t make this stuff up. You also can’t overstate the almost sadistic cruelty Ali inflicted upon the man who assisted him, using unspeakable and totally out-of-bounds slurs like “Uncle Tom” and “gorilla”. Of course, without the hostility this ensured, we may not have gotten that epic third fight; the fight that defined both men’s life in profound ways.

Check it out:

When I watch that, and think about what each man experienced, I have little option but concede I have no clue. For mere mortals like the rest of us, how could we begin to understand what it feels like to come that close to death in what could accurately be described as blood sport? In front of millions of eyeballs in real time. Preserved forever on tape. And that’s just the (inconceivable) brutality that was inflicted and endured. What must it have been like for Frazier to know that he could and perhaps should have won that fight? You think you’ve had regrets in your life? How about knowing that Ali had no intention to come out for the 15th? I can scarcely comprehend how Frazier got out of bed each day with this thought gnawing at him like a rat feasts on a cold bone. It’s likely that the same thing that defined him is what redeemed him: the stubborn, unflinching, brave and single-minded drive. To survive. To be the best. To be true to himself.

One need not denigrate Ali to elevate Frazier. It comes dangerously close to cliche, but it must be said that Frazier was a true champion. In many senses of the word. He was a fighter, but his biggest bouts always took place outside the ring.

It is a shame it did not happen while he was alive to see it, but it’s long past the appropriate time for the city of Philadelphia to erect a statue for its favorite son. The one created in the dank, reeking gym where they build legends, as opposed to the bright, plastic city where they make movies. If there is a statue for Rocky, there damn well should be a statue for the man who inspired him.

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Bill Buckner, Mookie Wilson and Me

October 30, 2011 By Leave a Comment

I’ve never been able to appreciate the aesthetic perfection (that is to say, the perfection of baseball’s most imperfect play; it’s most jarringly incongruous moment) because it was too painful. I was too invested in the response to that stimulus and what it signified: game (and, we knew, series) over.

A lot of people forgot, or never knew, that this was only Game Six. It was not the end of the actual series; they had one more game to play even if everyone understood that it wasn’t necessary. This was the Red Sox, after all.

Is there any doubt in any Red Sox fan’s mind that if Oil Can Boyd had (been allowed to) pitch(ed) he would have won? I say that as someone who was 100% in support of the decision to pitch Bruce Hurst on short rest, once the Sunday game got rained out (yet another rung in the hellish labyrinth of Red Sox horrors: what seemed like a blessing turned out to be a …well I’m not going to use that word). Of course, pitching Hurst did work wonderfully, until he was understandably out of gas half-way through the game, when John McNamara, part of the unholy triptych of imbecilic Sox managers along with Don “The Gerbil” Zimmer and Grady “Gump” Little, went (too late) to the dugout. I thought (and think): why not Oil Can? I’ve always assumed that harsh words were exchanged when Mac told Can he was not getting the call (Can allegedly wept when he received the news). The reason all sensible Sox fans were relieved when Hurst got the nod is because we recalled Game 3, when Oil Can labored through about 300 pitches to get through the first inning: even though Can settled down, the Sox lost 4-0. At best, the question of whether he was suited for prime time was not yet answered. On the other hand, we knew Calvin Schiraldi was not. When, after leaving poor Calvin in the night before even as he looked like he was about to cry on the mound; after soiling his shorts on national TV, Mac went to him again, there was no doubt. The man who had been one strike away from baseball (and Beantown) immortality spit the bit when it mattered most. To redeem himself, of course he promptely surrendered the go-ahead run to the insufferable Ray Knight. (If the Sox were not so worthless and weak at this point, someone, anyone would have taken a run at Daryl Strawberry when his cherry-on-top homerun prompted the most egregiously disrespectful slow-circle of the bases in the history of the sport.) The rest, as they say is history.

But it couldn’t simply be history, because it was history. I literally could not count the number of times I saw replays of Buckner’s bungle, or the subsequent footage of the insufferable Knight crossing home plate (into the waiting arms of the equally loathed Gary “Camera” Carter). Or the penultimate indignity, Jesse Orosco’s histrionics after striking out Marty Barrett for the final out (in Game 7). I can’t tell you the intolerable pain these images caused, one million times worse than the shot of Bucky “Bleeping” Dent’s soul-to-the-devil shot over the Monster. All the way up to ’03 they were ubiquitous until, as it seemed, Satan conjured up the final insult by having the Sox’s eternally overdue beatdown of the Yankees (in Game 7 of the ALCS) mutate into a comeback only slightly less improbable –and painful– than the Mets’ second miracle.

(Sidenote: I was with my old man in ’86 and I was with my old man in ’03. On the other hand, I was with him in ’04 and ’07, so we got that goin’ for us…which is nice.)

This was what it was like to be a fan. It was not merely a matter of expecting the worst; all sports fans are acquainted with that (some more than others: Hello Cleveland!). It was that the worst was about to happen at the worst possible moment in the worst possible way.

And so, all together now: Thank God for 2004!

2004 cemented my already-existing penchant for underdogs. 2004 solidified my solidarity with teams and their longest-suffering fan-bases (except for Philadelphia).

Just as it’s difficult to articulate the unique and acute distress the events of ’86 (and ’03) caused, it’s similarly challenging to relate what 2004 felt like. A glacier dissolved to the final tear drop after thousands of years and riding the crest of a forever fever breaking; a billion babies’ burps; burnt-out batteries firing with life; the sports fanatics’ equivalent of the golden glow at the end of the dugout tunnel…

But before we got there we had to walk through that long and illogical darkness.

And what bothered me most was not the losses or the regret, but the fact that one figure unfairly came to bear the brunt of all of this pent-up rage and resentment.

This week marked the 25th anniversary of Game Six and the most (in)famous error in post-season (if not all-time) history.

(Real time edit: perhaps the baseball gods have both humor, perspective and perversity to burn, because we just witnessed another Game Six that might do the unthinkable and supplant the previous Game Six as the Game Six…time will tell and more on that later.)

I always knew, from October 1986 until October 2004 (and even now, really) who the real Red Sox fans are. If you blamed Bill Buckner for the loss it conclusively proved three things: you weren’t a real Sox fan, you didn’t understand baseball and most importantly, you were an asshole.

I’m not going to recount the play-by-play, just like I’m not going to embed any video (ugh), but suffice it to say, there was plenty of blame to go around. Much more egregious than Buckner’s error was the wild throw by Bob “The Steamer” Stanley who, that night, opened his name up to more scatalogical associations. (Plus, for anyone who happened to catch his post-game interview, the ease and disgrace with which he threw Buckner under the bus earns him eternal enmity.) Much (too much) has been made of the fact that Buckner should not have been on the field at all; that he should have been pulled for defensive wiz Dave Stapleton. Horseshit. If Schiraldi had done his job (or Boggs had charged that harmless grounder and made a play before it went foul) Stanley would never have been needed, Gedman’s fat ass would never have had to make the (lame) attempt to cover the wild pitch, and Buckner would have rightly been on the field to celebrate with his teammates after the winning out was recorded, and Bruce Hurst would have remained the series MVP (as he was prematurely declared when the game was presumably seconds from concluding…).

Coincidentally, watching the recent ESPN special “Catching Hell”, I was reminded how irrational fans can be, and how as Americans we insist on easy –if unfair– solutions to complex problems. That poor Steve Bartman was blamed for his team’s epic and embarrassing collapse (we are not talking about a one-run turn of events, we are talking about a collective meltdown that makes Calvin Schiraldi look like Bob Gibson) is enough to make you wish the Cubs never win another playoff game. Of course that is not fair to the organization, or the authentic fans, and human beings, who are unable to pin their own frustrations and real-world impotencies on an anonymous, unlucky fan. But watching that feature, which I highly recommend to even non sports fans, I understood that any sane person, seeing or hearing the way Buckner was treated and excoriated, would –and should– have hoped that the Red Sox would never win a World Series. Or more, that a city that could act so ignobly never deserved to win anything, as some type of atonement.

Again, thank God for 2004. Of course, Buckner has long since put the past behind him (although he was still very understandably bitter when, in 2004, idiotic sports reporters were asking him “do you feel forgiven now?” and other offensive questions). By 2008, after the Sox had won, again, enough water had, at long last, swept under the bridge that Buckner was willing to get his long overdue serenade.  I kind of love the fact that Bill (and his partner in crime, Mookie Wilson), have managed to make money off of this play over the years. For all the grief he got, he damn well should have got paid. You go Bill. Decent story from this week’s Boston Globe here.

And that is some video I will be happy to share (although I can’t help noting, even the person good enough to record this was moronic enough to make sarcastic/disparaging comments even as Buckner strode to the mound).

There was, of course, nothing to forgive. But in the spirit of a quarter-century of misunderstanding, misplaced ire, recrimination and redemption, the last few, rocking, minutes of this delectable recording should resonate from the snowy environs of Boston to the lush fields of Idaho.

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We’ll Always Have Pedro…

September 29, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Yes, that hurt.

I mean, I shelled out the necessary cabbage to get the MLB ticket so I could catch as many Red Sox games as I desired.

How could I not? It was, after all, going to be a historic season.

Little did I know; little did anyone know (how could anyone know?) it would be historic all right, for all the wrong reasons.

Watching this group of overpaid, under-motivated, oddly heartless and more than a little soulless athletes (never forget: these are grown men playing a little boy’s game and getting paid handsomely, and in the case of Carl Crawford –who might face the indignity of being known henceforth as Carl Crawfraud in New England– paid extravagantly) stumble and lurch toward the inevitable these past 30 days has been many things. Maddening, inexplicable, comical, cringeworthy, embarrassing, futile and more than a few times bordering on masochistic. Why would someone endure such mediocrity night after excruciating night? Because that is what fans do. Because the people who jump ship never understand what it’s like to experience the joys and pains of loyalty. Certainly with the Sox there has been more pain than joy for the better part of a century, but this past decade has done much to make amends for the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune so celebrated in the media (Curse of the Bambino, anyone?). And I know there are few who would (or could bring themselves to) admit it, but even the die-hard folks who jumped ship after Game 3 in 2004 will never understand how truly miraculous and redemptory it was to experience the greatest comeback in all of sports history.

See, nothing will ever be the same after 2004 (not to mention the amazing digestif of 2007). Younger or incredibly myopic fans comparing last night (and this past month) to 2003, or 1986 or 1978 or 1975 have no idea how devastating those not-so-grand finales were, each in their own way. Books could be written and books in fact have been written about it. (Just like books will be written about what we witnessed last night across both leagues in a night that was as close to genuinely surreal as any in baseball history.) To lose in ’86 and then again in ’03 wasn’t just the pain of losing (itself unbearable under the circumstances of each scenario), it was the continuation of a seemingly preordained ritual: all the injustice and awful karma of the universe –athletically speaking, because only the most ill-adjusted fanatics will ever compare sports woes to real life tragedies– seemed aligned against this long-suffering, often pathetic franchise. There were several amazing players who helped change this, but the one man who forever changed the atmosphere in Boston is Pedro Martinez, arguably the dominant pitcher of his generation. Even when he played on mediocre teams (and it was his misfortune to do so when he was at the very height of his inhuman powers circa ’99-’01), he brought the air of possibility to Fenway. Anything could happen. Along with Manny, Schilling and a core group of “idiots” the impossible did happen.

So, what that beloved team accomplished (and the squads in ’04 and ’07 were definitely easy to love, just like the ’03 and, for the most part, ’86 teams) forever provided perspective for real Red Sox fans.

Let’s not kid ourselves: last night was an epic collapse and more than slightly surreal the way it unfolded. Worse, it brought back pre-’04 memories of the sinking feeling, the gradual acknowledgement of the inevitable: We’re going to blow this. And it hurts; it never doesn’t hurt. But not like it did; this past month, without the hindsight of the recent titles, would have been an apocalypse of sorts for all but the bravest or most impregnable Sox aficionados.

(And sidenote: the Sox practically begged the Rays to steal the wild-card slot; the way they played this past month and especially this past week, they not only had no right to assume things would go their way, the more grounded fans understood that even if the Sox were lucky enough to make it to October, their exit was likely to be quick and ugly. Then again, you never know what’s going to happen, in any sport, once the playoffs begin. And speaking of the Rays…it’s pretty hard to dislike a squad that has about one-fourth the Sox payroll, gets little media attention and can’t even come close to selling out its shithole of a stadium, yet still plays as if their fates depended upon it. Even after being down 7-0 in the 8th inning, they kept coming. They were, in many regards, the anti-Sox. If the Boston front office is wise, they will take copious notes.)

Simply put: although it was anything but pleasant to see the Sox sent meekly into the night (and the long, cold winter of Beantown’s discontent), the events of last evening did not make me hate the team or the sport. In fact, last night made me love baseball even more than I already did. This is what you watch for and this is what you hope for: win or lose, something memorable will happen. Just because Sox fans won’t soon forget this recent disgrace, Rays fans, including the ones who didn’t actually exit the stadium during the earlier innings, will remember that comeback for the rest of their lives. And the memory of Longoria hitting his second home run of the night to keep the dream alive will perhaps be invoked as comfort down the road if/when the Rays see a season come to too-early of an end.

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Bird and Magic (Revisited)

March 26, 2011 By Leave a Comment

1979.

It’s been so well documented, and remains such a touchstone (it is still the most widely watched NCAA final ever, which–considering the inconceivably successful hype college and pro sports have promulgated in the last three decades–is genuinely astounding), yet it endures mostly as the introduction of Bird/Magic. Only two words, two names, have ever been necessary to sum up an entire rivalry. Michael Wilbon wrote a wonderful remembrance of this the other week; the piece is well worth reading, but here is the heart of the matter:

Michigan State cruised, more or less. Bird narrowly avoided losing to both Sidney Moncrief and Arkansas and Aguirre and DePaul. The most memorable scene from the title game is Bird, having lost for the first time as a senior, sitting with the white towel over his head, sobbing underneath it. That and Magic’s smile while he hugged Heathcote after the 75-64 Spartans win.

More than 35 percent of all TV sets turned on that night were tuned to Magic and Bird. It was like a Christmas present in March, and it’s something that could never happen today. We’d know everything about an undefeated team featuring any player as talented as Bird. A 6-foot-9 white kid from small-town Indiana who had driven a garbage truck and who had run from Bob Knight during a freshman year spent briefly at Indiana? Are you kidding?

And then it was on. On to the pros. East vs. West. Celtics vs. Lakers. The Green vs. The Gold.

How often do two players, particularly ones so indelibly linked from the start of their careers, have the opportunity not only to revive their respective franchises, but an entire professional sport? Approximately never. It’s never happened before and it will never happen again. I’m not inclined to recap the entire Bird & Magic saga because everyone is already familiar with it (those that are not simply don’t like sports). What a difference a year made: the Celtics went from worst to almost-first, with Bird taking Rookie of the Year honors, and Magic bookended his NCAA championship with the first of his five NBA titles. To say these guys took things to another level is like saying The Beatles made some pretty good albums. Simply put, nothing was ever the same once Bird and Magic made the NBA their personal playground.

So all of this ancient sports history is ambrosia for stat dorks obsessed with the great old days. But imagine if you actually loved one of those teams? I don’t have to imagine; I was there. Learning to be a Red Sox and Celtics fan from my Boston-bred father (which is ironic because at the time the local Washington Bullets were coming off back-to-back appearances in the NBA finals and the Celtics were the joke of the league; following the Red Sox would be a masochistic family ritual countless souls from New England endured for another few decades), I remember being on board with Bird from the second he suited up. If you ever want to find out who actually followed the Celtics back in the day, wait until they finish name dropping McHale, Parrish, Dennis Johnson (R.I.P.) and Danny Ainge (the most hated athlete in the world in his day), and see if they have any idea who Cedric “Cornbread” Maxwell and Nate “Tiny” Archibald are. Then drop Quinn Buckner and Gerald Henderson (whose nifty hands secured the third most famous steal in Celtics history, after Havlicek and Bird–of which more, shortly).

So I loved Bird and the Celtics. And I loathed Magic and the Lakers.

As has been adequately documented elsewhere (and incessantly), it was a clash of two styles, two coasts, two philosophies. The Lakers were Hollywood (Showtime!), quick, flashy and their coach wore Armani suits. The Celtics were blue collar, methodical, stoic and crucially, quite possibly the most ugly assortment of atheltes ever assembled on one team.

So when the Celtics edged out the Lakers in the seventh game of their epic 1984 championship series, it was the ultimate triumph of Good over Evil. Redemption for Bird! East coast over West coast! Substance over Style! Rocky vs. Apollo. You get the picture.

Did I mention that I detested Magic? The intensity of the disdain escalated exponentially in 1985 when Magic’s Lakers got their revenge, on the sacred parquet floor no less, taking back the crown on the Celtics’ home court. That hurt. What a bunch of punks the Lakers were: Michael Cooper with his rolled up socks, James Worthy with his Kareem-Lite goggles, Kareem himself, that big whining sissy, Kurt Rambis, the resident honky who did the unthinkable and made Kevin McHale the second goofiest looking professional athlete of the ’80s. And leading them all, Magic. I hated him. And Bird hated him, too. Seriously. That rivalry was for real. Look at the barely-disguised animosity in this commercial.

Of course, the ’86 Celtics were far and away the best team that ever suited up, and that subject is not open for discussion. It was the kind of year (the Celtics lost one home game over the course of the entire regular season) where Celtics fans were looking forward to the eventual Lakers rematch. There is no chance the Lakers would have won. None. It was therefore comical when the Lakers were upset in the western conference finals by the upstart Rockets (a young Hakeem Olajuwan and Ralph Sampson), but it was almost immediately anticlimactic; we wanted the Lakers that year and we needed the Lakers. It was not just going to be our turn on top of the revenge see-saw, it was going to be a bloodletting, a reckoning. It wasn’t meant to be, and some of us actually felt cheated. But boy did the Celtics beat up on the Rockets, cementing their status as the big kids on the block.

No one had any doubt the two designated teams would meet again in 1987, and everyone was correct. It was not a finals so much as a formality. The Celtics were almost crippled by injuries throughout the season (especially the porcelain-kneed Bill Walton), and at times it appeared that Ainge and Parrish might come apart at mid-court. Famously, McHale played most of the post-season on a broken ankle: it undoubtedly shortened his career, but also earns him all-time stud status (normally only hockey players exhibit that type of grit and lunacy). And so the Celtics quite literally limped into the playoffs and the hungry young teams took their shots (including a sneak-peak at the increasingly explosive Michael Jordan, who dropped 63 points on the Celtics in the Garden). They barely beat the Bucks and it looked like the obnoxious, upstart Pistons (led by the always insufferable Isiah Thomas) might have too much juice for the suddenly torpid Celtics. Flash forward to Game Five, series tied 2-2: with seconds left on the clock and the ref (dubiously) awarding an out of bounds ball to the Pistons, the Celtics needed a miracle. And Bird provided one. This is it, for me: the most unexpected, sublime few seconds I’ve ever witnessed in sports. There are games that rank higher, achievements ultimately more significant, but in terms of the shock factor combined with the gratification, it was as though one of the Greek gods descended from Olympus just for my amusement.

Two unthinkable things occurred in the ’87 finals: The Lakers won, and I (and many other Celtics fans) found myself unable to suppress a grudging admiration for how unbelievably great Magic Johnson was. Beyond appreciation, I was actually almost starting to like him. He won me over, not merely by the way he willed his team to win, but because he really did make watching the game more exciting. There was seldom any debate about whether Magic radiated more joy through the act of playing a sport than anyone else who has ever played at a high level. What he did in Game 4 with his improbable, and devastating, “junior” sky hook was a barbed wire ripping out the entrails of every Celtic fan’s gut. But you had to admire it; you had no choice. Bird hit the three as if to say “That’s what I have to say, what have you got?” And Magic responded. With two seconds left on the clock, Bird did get that last shot, and damn if it didn’t just rim out (that is already one of the best endings of all time; if Bird had nailed that Hail Mary it would be considered the best playoff basketball game ever played).

We consoled ourselves knowing that we could count on many more years on the see-saw. Alas, that was it. The Celtics, slowed by injuries and derailed by the sudden and shocking death of Len Bias (that tragedy remains unendurable to this day), started to show their age, while younger, faster teams stepped into the spotlight. And I found myself ambivalent, in ’88, watching the Pistons (who we hated so much, it’s probable some of us would have done jail time in order for the opportunity to bitch slap Bill Laimbeer) and Lakers square off. I couldn’t root for the Pistons, but I couldn’t root for the Lakers. So I rooted for Magic. Well, I allowed myself to accept that it was better for Bird’s rival to win. Or something like that.

In the meantime, Bird and Magic had gone from tolerating one another to building a genuine bond. So much so, when Magic realized he’d contracted HIV, Bird was one of the first people he phoned. Allegedly, Bird broke down and sobbed when he received the news. One more season and Bird, his body battered and his back an unrelenting source of misery, hung up the Weapons. They needed one another, and for Celtics fans, it was like Batman had lost his Joker; it was time to walk away. Fortunately they did have the chance to play together on the “Dream Team” during the ’92 Olympics. Watching the two of them talk about each other, in the years since (which they’ve done often) is always enjoyable and, no other word will do, heartwarming. They love the game and they love each other.

To consider that thirty years have passed since the night that changed everything is difficult to reconcile. On the other hand, it would be churlish to feel any emotion more than gratitude for having had the opportunity to watch that story unfold, in real time, savoring every second of it along the way.

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33 Thoughts About Villanova vs. Georgetown, 1985

March 25, 2011 By 2 Comments

March Madness, indeed. It seemed more than fortuitous that as I was flipping around last night I stumbled upon MASN, which was just beginning a repeat of the Georgetown/Villanova ’85 final, which I had not seen (or even seen many highlights of) since it played live…gulp, 26 years ago! On April Fool’s day, naturally.

Prompted equal parts by nostalgia and genuine fascination, I could not help but compile some thoughts. Here is one of the greatest college basketball finals (and certainly the biggest upset) seen through the eyes of a fan who may not be wiser, but is most definitely older.

1. I had sort of misremembered it being a fairly slow, sloppy game; not the case. It was quick(er) paced but controlled, all due to Villanova and their brilliant game plan. Rollie Massimino gets full props for outcoaching John Thompson. JT had his guys playing full-court from the get-go but Villanova was too savvy (their senior leadership was crucial) and beat it throughout. I kept thinking: a lesser team, any other team would just collapse under this relentless pressure.

2. Not only did Ed Pinckney (future Celtic) have a great game, he outplayed Ewing.

3. Ewing, as he sort of did vs. UNC and definitely did a few times in the NBA, came up smaller than expected (or hoped) in the biggest games (it hurts but it’s true). He should have dominated because of his size advantage but Pinckney somehow outhustled and outsmarted him throughout the game. There is a notable moment when Thompson briefly benches Ewing and can be seen exhorting him to get under the basket and get busy; it works, and Ewing comes out with some rafter-shaking dunks. But then he picks up 3 quick fouls, which changed the momentum (which I totally remember that from when I was a freshman in high school watching it…). Things worked out OK for Ewing, but if you had told me in 1984 that this would be his only championship on the college or pro level, I would not have believed it.

4. The players all look like they are wearing speedos.

5. It’s astonishing how tiny/thin they all are (with the notable exception of man-child Ewing). Obviously not a lot of weight lifting back then. Reggie Williams is a stick.

6. Reggie Williams had sick game. Smooth as silk but hard as nails (just as I remember), and he arguably had the most maturity/poise –and heart—on the team, as a sophomore; Wingate and Martin each had so-so games but Williams was tight on both ends–just as I remember.

7. Sad but true: my fellow South Lakes Seahawk Michael Jackson did not have a very good game. He certainly ran the floor well, but a few bricks and bad passes did not help the cause; a better performance and he could have gone out a two-time champ (Sidenote: I recall still being in grade school when he was the man at South Lakes: we went to those Friday night games and cheered for the team, and him. It was big news, huge news when he decided to go to Georgetown because back in those days we would not have been able to follow his college career nearly as closely had he gone out of state.)

8. I hadn’t thought in quite a while about Thompson and his big white towel that he kept slung over his shoulder. Genius.

9. If Michael Graham hadn’t sabotaged his career (and the team’s dynasty, when, after blowing off his studies, Thompson proved why he was the man and kicked him off the team), Georgetown would have not only won in ’85, but ’86 as well. Remember him? That was a scary dude, and he rocked the shaved head way before it was remotely fashionable.

10. Villanova’s poise is astonishing. Yes, the ball kept dropping but as I watch, they were just taking high percentage shots and using their senior smarts to its full advantage.

11. If there had a been a shot clock in ’85, 100% Georgetown wins.

12. If there had been a shot clock in ’82, for that matter, 100% Georgetown wins. 

13. No tats.

14. It’s an alarming commentary on how annoying announcers are these days that Brent Musberger –whom i loathed in the ’80s– sounds remarkably restrained and reasonable to my ears in 2011.

15. As much hype as the Big East gets these days (although they obviously took a warranted hit for their collective lameness in this year’s tournament, memorably being dissed by the ever-amusing Charles Barkley), it was the realest of deals from early to late ’80s –as local fans will recall. St. Johns was also in the final 4 this year (’85). Think about that.

16. The ’80s was by far the best decade for sports, and for me in particular. As a (then) fanatic Celtics fan, ‘nuff said. As a college b-ball fan, we had playoff-like games every week with these big east rivalries (I still remember it was like Ali-Foreman redux, each weekend: Carrier Dome, Madison Square, Cap Centre (!); G-town/V-nova/St.Johns/Providence/Syracuse. Of course the NFC East, and the real glory days of a great Redskins team (The hogs, the rings, etc.) and we still had the Patrick Division in the NHL (sigh). Oh, and the Yankees sucked.

17. Not saying this is a good thing, but ESPN (and modernity in general) changed everything: even in this final game, there were few in-game replays and much fewer TV time-outs/commercials/nonsense. Again, not saying the hi-def, 15 multiple angle replays is a bad thing, but there is something quaint and –yes authentic– about this.

18. Georgetown did not choke, Villanova deserved to win. They were undeniably fortunate (22 of 28 from the floor for a 78.6% shooting percentage; are you kidding me?) but they were not lucky.

19. Gary Mclean had the weirdest, most unorthodox shot ever.

20. Remember the days when players stayed all 4 years?

21. Michael Jackson and Billy Martin on same team? And both of those (more) famous associations were still very popular circa 1985.

22. Exactly two weeks after this game the most exciting round of boxing ever took place in the most surreal title bout ever: Hagler/Hearns. I vaguely recall the Miracle On Ice; I remember every detail of that epic brawl, of which more another time.

23. Is it possible that Georgetown did not take Villanova seriously enough?

24. Having just seen the Fab 5 documentary, we can attest and confirm that the Hoyas were the real deal: these were all dark-skin brothers and you know huge chunks of our country hated them and rooted against them on principle (I knew it, and saw it, then). Fab 5 were more notorious for their sheer talent and trash talking (and, of course, lack of discipline which certainly cost them at least one title game), but if we are going to talk about influence and legendary us vs. them sociology, it was embodied by this era’s team.

25. Seriously: Ed Pinckney outplayed Ewing. That was the difference right there.

26. There was one white guy on the floor the entire game. And he was good (Pressley).

27. St. Elmo’s Fire was not released for another 6 months.

28. You can never, ever underestimate how crucial it is to hit your free throws. (Villanova had 2 one-and-ones in the final 2 minutes to stay in the lead and hit all 4 shots. HUGE.)

29. John Thompson looked utterly defeated with at least 3 minutes left. Who would have guessed he would never get to another title game?

30. Billy Packer (the young/er Billy Packer who had not succumbed to the prissy arrogance and negativity that almost overwhelemed his final years) was all but openly rooting for Villanova in the final moments.

31. OMG: the most surreal thing I’ve ever seen: during Georgetown’s last time-out, they show the bench and the school’s academic advisor (Mary Fenlon) is sitting at the end of the bench…she is a middle-aged white woman wearing a garish 19th C style dress…a middle-aged white woman ON THE BENCH with all these tall African Americans. Surreal.

32. Michael Jackson scored the final two baskets for Georgetown. Just sayin’.

33. This list has 33 items. Respect for #33.

*Bonus: The only NCAA final I’ve ever missed (before last year, when I was on a cross country flight) was the 1987 final, because I had tickets to see The Pretenders (at the Cap Centre, of course). It was, of course, worth it. Iggy Pop was the opening act.

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Do You Believe In Miracles? (Revisited)

February 22, 2011 By Leave a Comment

On Feb. 22, 1980, in a stunning upset, the United States Olympic hockey team defeated the Soviets at Lake Placid, N.Y., 4-to-3. (The U.S. team went on to win the gold medal.) NYT story here.

If I’m not mistaken, this is the only cover in Sports Illustrated history that does not have a headline, or text of any sort. Naturally, it doesn’t need any. There were certainly magnificent (semi-miraculous?) upsets in sports before (The Jets beating the Colts in Super Bowl III) and after (Rulon Gardner beating the unbeatable Alexander Karelin in the 2000 Olympics), but the import of this victory has to be considered within the context of the times. Pre-Internet (pre-VCRs, really), pre-ESPN (pre-cable, really), in an era when you really did get news on the radio. As in, driving in the car with your parents, during a commercial. Because in 1980 most Americans actually listened to the radio in the car (pre-Satellite, pre-CD changer, pre-cassette, really). 8-tracks were entering the last stage of their ascendancy, not even aware that they were already dead and subsisting on the last gasps of their magnetic fumes. And how many 8-tracks could one family own? How many could one family fit in a car? And so, by default, the radio still ruled. Some people may even have listened to that epic game on the radio, in their cars, in real time. That was just over three decades ago.

Arguably, being nine years old, I was the ideal demographic to be fully impacted by this event. Not old enough to appropriate (or be unduly influenced by) the political implications, but old enough to understand that in winter Olympics games, the U.S.S.R. (and Eastern Europe) still held sway. We could not appreciate, or care too much about the irony of the big, bad U.S.A. casting themselves as underdogs, in any capacity. Two unavoidable facts: it was just a sporting event, and pure and simple, the U.S.A. were underdogs. Did this unanticipated and inexplicable victory tilt the scales in the escalating cold war?

Arguably, if you measure political history by such standards as Rocky Balboa defeating Ivan Drago in Rocky IV, it makes all the sense in the world. More, if you are of the opinion (aided by propagandist historical revisions by certain, influential right-leaning folk) that the cold war was an even battle between two socially and economically equal parties, this cartoonish perception of Good vs. Evil is resonant, and revelatory. For younger, less politically impressionable viewers, this victory did, unironically; reinforce the genuine (if mythical) notion inherent in the American Dream: if you worked hard and played fair, anything was possible. It’s not merely the ability to believe this claptrap that underscores the naiveté we lament losing as we get older and wiser, it’s the ways in which real events, however fictionally applicable to real life, can occasionally inspire kids to believe in miracles.

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On Hockey, Hooligans, Soccer and The Death of a Clown

February 13, 2011 By Leave a Comment

After my post yesterday, “Back To The Future With Old Time Hockey?”, wherein I acknowledged –and celebrated– the recent trend of accountability and team-toughness in our most misunderstood sport, it was inevitable that at least one of my well-meaning friends would take exception. It was my good luck that it turned out to be one of my most intelligent and savvy amigos, who knows a lot about sports (soccer in particular) and life (in general); a dude whose opinion I always appreciate. And so, with gratitude, I will take his comments as an opportunity to say more about my feelings toward hockey (in general) and hockey fighting (in particular). I hope in the process I at least address some of his remarks to his satisfaction, and stimulate some thoughts from others, especially non-hockey fans.

2/12/2011, 8:50pm:

Seany-boy, I remember when I was in High School, someone said to me: “Why don’t you like hockey?  It’s actually a lot like soccer.”  My response was: “Oh, bullshit.  In soccer I can dribble around someone with skill.  If I beat them, I beat them.  If I don’t, I don’t.  We pit our skills against one another and see who comes out on top.  Not so in hockey.  In hockey, if I beat someone on skill they can just knock me on my ass.  Or someone else can knock me on my ass.  It’s redneck soccer – a crass, hollow husk of a sport.”

I hate to say it, but my opinion stands.  All this emphasis on fighting is exactly what I expect from NASCAR fans, who, when faced with a couple consecutive accident-free races stare slackjawed and complain about the lack of carnage, instantly forced to confront how inherently boring their sport is.

Hahahaha!

2/13/2011, 10:21am

Sensh,

Needless to say, I violently (ha!) disagree.

However, I have heard similar sentiment expressed by friends (who love and understand other sports) over the years. I think it’s more than a little ironic, yet for purposes of this discussion, wonderfully appropriate, that you advocate soccer at the expense of hockey. Indeed, if there is one sport more unfairly maligned than soccer, I can’t think of it (I would say hockey, but as I readily concede, no one actually watches hockey!). Having found myself, on too many occasions to count, defending the great sport of soccer from simpletons who consider it “boring”, I can’t help but be amused by the fact that, of all things, you use the word “boring” to describe the one sport where there are no timeouts, no diving, and no malingering (hello baseball!)

Doesn’t it drive you nuts when bozo-Americans say “nothing *happens* in soccer?” The only answer, which could never satisfy the unimpressed fan (who probably prefers the wrong type of football) is that *everything* happens in soccer, it just happens in its own way, at its own pace, by its own logic, and in a fashion that should not –and cannot– be compared to other sports. Since we are simpatico on this, I won’t belabor the point; I suspect we probably have used similar arguments, however futilely, to try and enlighten non-soccer fans. That said, I also have to acknowledge some of the issues non-fans have with the game (even, if especially the game at its highest level: during world cup competition). The diving and drama has long-since gotten way out of hand; it denigrates the game to a considerable extent and drives me nuts. The (understandable, but infuriating) tendency of teams, if they happen to score first, to shut everything down and play ultra-conservative in the hopes of maintaining their lead. The embarrassing savagery of the fans (ever read Among the Thugs? by Bill Buford? Highly recommended).  

And, I suspect, any serious fan of soccer with a modicum of sociological perspective innately understands that even the hooliganism is rooted in class and economic context; in other words, even that indefensible aspect of the game is more complicated, historically inculcated and, yes, explicable than a casual assessment would suggest. (Lest that sound like I am in any way defending or advocating  soccer-related shenanigans, I am not; only recognizing that it has a lot more to do with things aside from a taste for “a bit of the old ultraviolence”…which, in another discussion, could conceivably bring us back to hockey and its origins which are not unlike lacrosse, a game initially played—in very brutal fashion—by the Native Americans. More on that later, as well as the socioeconomic elements of hockey’s origins and ongoing association with a very blue-blood—and blue collar—populace in the Great White North also called Canada.)

 

That said, when people claim soccer players are soft, I like to say the same things I tell people when they make fun of tennis: try running around for 90 minutes. Not even in the context of a game; just the simple fact of RUNNING AROUND for 90 min. Ah yes, but that just means they are in shape, the people inexorably say. Okay, try and maneuver a soccer ball, while running and having people stick their feet, arms, shoulders, and torsos at and around you. (Just like it’s always humbling, to this day, to think I’ve got some game when I play b-ball and shoot around with myself, draining all my shots; then get into some on-court action vs. actual people and I realize, instantly how short, weak and white I am).

The best part, to me, is that of all the sports, soccer and hockey are most similar. If you watch a hockey game you’ll see the similarities are astonishing: it’s just that everything is faster and (sorry) much more intense. The “field” is smaller so there is less space, therefore more contact, and in this regard, it’s like (American) football. ON SKATES. Interestingly, for a person like yourself, you might be pleased, or at least surprised to know that the skill-set (similar to most sports) has increased incalculably over the years. Not unlike other sports (football in particular), looking back at footage even 20 years ago makes it seem that, by comparison, it used to be in black and white and slo-mo; even the fourth line players these days are in top shape, cut out of marble and fast: they are, in a sense, like linebackers, ON SKATES.

I feel, in the end, much like I do when people ask me why I listen to jazz music: because it’s great. That’s the easiest (and most truthful) answer. I have no interest in trying to convince or convert anyone; but I will say, if you are the least bit intrigued, check out hockey during the playoffs: that is BY FAR the most intense and exciting sports action you’ll see. Or, let me pull that back: certainly March Madness is tough to top; and (sigh) even NBA playoffs eventually elevate the game (where, for the duration of the regular season, most players seem to phone it in). I would say, respectfully and as a huge fan of soccer: as excited as I get for the World Cup, I’m disappointed by at least half the games (for many of the reasons listed above); I’m never, ever, disappointed during ANY games during hockey playoffs, and I could care less which teams are playing– a sentiment that exposes me as a true fan, or a hopeless case (or really, when it comes to hockey, those are the same thing).

Notice we didn’t even get into the fighting aspect yet?

I realize I could/should say more, but I already offered some opinions on this controversial aspect of the game this past July on the unfortunate occasion of Bob Probert’s passing. Probie was arguably the consensus all-time heavyweight champion enforcer (or goon, if you must) and any discussion of his life—and impact—necessarily touches on several aspects of an element of the game that entices some and appalls other. I’ll repost, below. And I definitely welcome comments, opinions and the inevitable assumption by some/many that the only thing more inexplicable than watching hockey is taking time to discuss it.

This hurts.

R.I.P. Probie.

Quick tally: #24, over 3,000 penalty minutes. Member, along with Joe Kocur, of the legendary “Bruise Brothers” tandem back in the days when the Detroit Red Wings were more feared for what they could do after the whistle stopped play. Participant in a handful of the all-time classic fights in hockey history. Man who inspired t-shirts that read “Give Blood. Fight Probert.” Simply put, if one were to try and create the ideal enforcer (especially for an era that may not have been the toughest or most iconic era but was one of the most enjoyable), one could hardly imagine a more suitable cartoon character than Bob Probert.

As The Kinks once sang, Let’s All Drink To The Death Of A Clown.

And lest anyone think I’m using the word clown carelessly or disrespectfully, it is in fact chosen with the aim of being both accurate and approbatory. (A Probie-tory, if you like.)

Think about what a clown does: he is the minor but essential character who shows up at a circus with the objective of instigating misconduct. Above all, his purpose is to entertain with a mixture of mischief and cheer. A superficial assessment might conclude that a clown is simply doing, in make-up, what any drunk idiot might do. But of course whether it is juggling, dancing or doing tricks, not just anyone could be (or would want to be) a clown. It’s a job.

Think about what a hockey enforcer (what we used to call a goon just like we used to call escorts hookers or stockbrokers sociopaths) does: he is the minor but essential figure who shows up in an arena with the object of instigating misconduct (hopefully without receiving a game misconduct). Above all, his purpose is to settle scores and entertain a crowd while invigorating his teammates. A superficial assessment might conclude that an enforcer is simply doing, in a colorful costume, what any drunk idiot might do. But needless to say, trading bare-fisted blows (sober or especially drunk) in a bar is considerably different than standing on skates and going toe to toe with an opponent who is well-prepared (and in some cases, well-paid) to kick your ass in front of thousands of people. Many people without athletic ability are very capable goons; only an extremely select group of individuals are able (much less willing) to abide by “The Code”. It’s a job.

It’s difficult to talk intelligently with anyone about hockey because so few people watch (or care) about it. That goes double when trying to articulate the science of sanctioned pugilism. How can one possibly rationalize or defend the spectacle of adults engaging in behavior that would get them arrested out in the streets? (Indeed, fans are arrested nightly at hockey rinks all over the continent for imitating, albeit often drunkenly and with far less flair, the very behavior occurring in real time below them.) The answer is at once easy and complicated, like all truths tend to be. The easy part: there is no need to explain it. If you’re not a hockey player, you can’t hope to comprehend it; unless you are a fan, you have no hope of understanding or appreciating it. It’s really that simple. Seriously. Just ask a hockey player. (And, as perspicacious commentators have pointed out for decades, one notices how nobody gets up to grab popcorn once a fight breaks out. While that may speak volumes about the distressing devolution of our species and our insatiable appetite for violence, there is something a bit more sophisticated going on.)

So what is complicated about it? For starters, hockey fighting remains a diversion that people who genuinely deplore violence (like this writer) endorse and get excited about. What does that say about us? I’m not certain. But I do know that unlike the “real” world, it is exceedingly rare for two hockey combatants to enter the fray unwillingly. Yes but, doesn’t that make it a great deal worse, if they do it because they get paid? (Well, is boxing beatiful? Brutal? Your opinion here will go a decent way toward explaining your ability, or willingness, to negotiate the enigmatic charm of the expression “five minutes for fighting”.) That gets to the not-so-easily explained sensibility of athletes (in general) and hockey players (in particular). Hockey players have traditionally been paid a great deal less than other athletes in more popular sports. It is, therefore, a bit ironic to consider that these players are more immune to pain and prone to play a regular season game like the world is on the line. It is, for hockey fans, refreshing that the players have an integrity that has been ingrained from generations and is remarkably resilient against the corrupting forces of salary, fame and product endorsements. Put in less exalted terms, people tend to get (understandably) cynical when, say, a baseball player with a multi-million dollar annual contract goes on the D.L. with a strained hamstring. That type of commonplace indifference is especially noticeable –and appalling– when one realizes that hockey players routinely return to the ice moments after receiving stitches, or losing teeth, or suffering bruised (and in some cases, broken) bones. Google it if you don’t believe me.

None of this is to say that one might enjoy the sport more if one learned more about it, but a casual viewer (or hater) might be genuinely surprised to learn a few things about the history of hockey fighting. For starters, the opposing players seldom hate each other and in it is not uncommon for them to be friends off the ice (particularly if they are old teammates). Also, the aforementioned code does have a rather elaborate –and universally endorsed– system for the rules of engagement. Finally, and perhaps most significantly: not only are enforcers generally the most popular players (amongst the fans; amongst the teams), they tend to be some of the more thoughtful and soft-spoken ones. (For two obvious examples, consider the ever-humble Craig Berube –”The Chief”– who toiled many seasons in the NHL including for my hometown Capitals and now is an assistant coach for the Flyers; then there is George McPhee who happens to be one of the more respected and successful GMs in the game.)

Of course, not all of them are model citizens, and for a variety of reasons (some understandable, some inscrutable), some of them have had very challenging and troubled lives.

Enter Bob Probert. Though it is debatable whether or not he (or any particular player) was “the best” enforcer in the history of organized hockey, not many people would argue with any credibility that he is not at least in the Top 10. For my money, pound for pound and in terms of longevity, respect, quality of opponents and success, Probert is the preeminent knuckle artist of the modern era.

Let the cliched encomiums unfurl: he feared nobody. He fought everyone. Ultimate warrior. Ideal teammate. Crowd pleaser. Accomplished actor? Well, see below:

As Detroit (and Chicago) residents know, and as fans of the game remember, Probert battled the proverbial demons off the ice as well. His struggles with alcohol and substance abuse is amply documented. His occasional escapades drew the attention of law enforcement officials. He was, in short, a troubled man in certain ways, but he was always resilient, and never let his addictions keep him down (or out).

(The actual history of his difficulties is sufficiently reported that folks interested in more can easily find out with the click of a mouse. I also acknowledge that his livelihood may have done as much to exacerbate his issues as it did to ameliorate them. In other words, he quite possibly may have gone down certain roads whether or not he played hockey or threw a single punch. But I readily concede that there is an ugly side to sports, just like there is a sinister side to life, and all of us are constantly pushed and pulled by the momentum of necessity and choice, and the inexorable reality that we have to pay bills and obey laws. A more sustained –and serious– discussion of sports, hockey, hockey fighting and some of the casualties of this game (think John “Rambo” Kordic’s tragic story) should occur at another time.)

For now, in addition to wishing him a fond adieu and sincerely sending out support and goodwill to his family and friends, I’d like to celebrate some of the most memorable instances of him doing what he did better than just about anyone who ever laced up the skates.

1. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round One):

2. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round Two):

3. Bob Probert vs. Dave Semenko:

4. Bob Probert vs. Troy Crowder:

5. Bob Probert vs. Tie Domi (The Epic Saga):

**Bonus: It might make sense to go ahead and include, just for the heck of it, THE BEST HOCKEY FIGHT OF ALL TIME**

Bob Probert vs. Marty McSorley (Two of the best of their generation in a game called by the best hockey announcers of their generation, Gary Thorne and the immortal and inimitable Bill Clement):

If he had kept his act together a little better, he would have retired a Red Wing, possibly kissed the Cup, and pretty much owned the Motor City. Somebody could make a movie like that. Of course, somebody already did: his name was Bob Probert and the movie was his life. Not all movies have happy endings, alas. And like anyone who will be missed once they are gone, he gave us far more than we ever gave him.

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Back To The Future With Old Time Hockey?

February 12, 2011 By 1 Comment

I’m not sure what is going on here, but I like it.

The biggest beating that has occurred in hockey the last two decades has involved its popularity. Always the neglected stepchild in the American sports scene (a distant fourth behind the holy trinity of football, baseball and basketball), hockey almost did not recover from an ill-advised lockout during the 2004-2005 season. Until then the sport received coveted prime time coverage on ESPN (and ESPN 2); once the NHL imploded as a result of myopia and greed –two things all pro sports do not suffer from a shortage of, but have sufficient funds and popularity to lure fans back– ESPN came to realize that replays of poker games and women’s basketball got higher ratings. Seriously.

Since then hockey has struggled, most of its games being shown on the Versus network. Fortunately, perhaps miraculously the league still gets occasional bones thrown its way via NBC games of the week and the Stanely Cup finals do get big-time coverage. What this means is that there are fewer games shown each week (at least for those without a full cable buffet of sports offerings), and hockey has receded even further in the national consciousness.

So what? For me, I still get to see games on Versus and, of course, we get all the Caps games. Still, it’s kind of sad to consider that the late ’90s are golden years by comparison. I still lament the dissolution of the Gary Thorne/Bill Clement partnership, for my money the best hockey annoucing tandem in modern history. I don’t just miss them in a nostalgic sense; I really miss Bill Clement calling games and his absence makes the already-grating Mike “Doc” Emrick and the ever-insufferable Pierre McGuire that much more difficult to stomach. (Not one to look askance at good fortune, I still count my blessings that Caps fans have the indispensable Joe Beninati and local treasure –and ex-Cap– Craig Laughlin calling each game. It is also a source of considerable good fortune that Caps hockey is quite relevant and, thanks to the impeccable stewardship of Ted Leonsis –the anti-Dan Snyder– should remain viable for the foreseeable future.)

 

One reason (arguably) that hockey has stumbled in the last ten-to-twenty years is because of the very controversial oversight of commissioner Gary Bettman. In case you were wondering, there is in fact a site called firebettman.com; you can see some widely-held opinions here. One issue that has been a constant topic during his tenure has been the efforts to eliminate fighting from the game. Interestingly, and tellingly, it’s invariably former players who disdain this approach, pointing out that “back in the day” enforcers had a role, and their ability to police the ice kept a lot of the cheap shots out, and kept accountability in. What has happened, in the ostensible effort to “clean up” the game and make it more appealing to the casual fan (Bettman apparently not understanding that when it comes to pro hockey there is no such thing) is that we’ve had more injuries, more dirty play and a general carte blanche for teams to rough it up without having to pay a price. Ignorant ranters who know nothing about the game (and there are many of them employed by major American media outlets) claim that getting rid of the “goonery” has made hockey a better game. Veterans, real fans and ratings say otherwise.

All of which brings us to the past two weeks, a period of intensity, bad blood and old-school frontier justice not seen much, if at all, since the late ’80s. The Bruins have, seemingly overnight, gone from being a fairly soft team to the reincarnation of the Broad Street Bullies. Avenging some unfinished business from a game several years ago (!), Boston engaged in an epic throwdown the other week with Dallas. Then, the other night, they rekindled a half-century old grudge with Montreal. The videos below show the highlights. Appropriately, it begins with the end of the Penguins/Islanders game the other week where the cocky superstar goalie Rick DePietro brought nothing but a smirk into a pas de deux he instigated with (ex Cap) Brent Johnson. It was quick, ugly and wonderful. The frequently injured (soft?) DePietro, humiliatingly, is out for several weeks as a result of the fight he never should have picked. As it happens, there was a dirty hit (shocker) by a Penguin that night so between that, the DePietro smackdown and the merriment on the Pittsburgh bench afterward, a reckoning was all but preordained for the rematch on Long Island.

Brent Johnson TKOs Rick DePietro:

The Bruins and The Stars: some unfinished business prompts three fights in four seconds. As you can see, the fans are appalled by this, and to quote the great Barry Melrose, you never see a spectator leave to grab popcorn during a hockey fight. This team toughness may turn around Boston’s season.

Old school? This is ancient school when it comes to the love lost between Montreal and Boston. The fact that Boston is obviously a scrappier, bigger and tougher time would almost leave a less-than-savory taste in a knowledgeable fan’s mouth, but it turns out that Montreal is perhaps the team in the league most overdue for some old-fashioned comeuppance. Eager to cheap-shot, talk smack and skate away, Montreal is an excellent example of the type of hockey that has been tolerated (encouraged?) on Bettman’s watch: lots of chirping, stick-work and less-than-clean nonsense, the instigator rules and general crackdowns prohibit other teams from squashing it. What went down the other night could be considered a decade and change of pent-up frustration spilling out, and I guarantee few, if any, players in the league shed any tears for The Habs. (For my money the Penguins are the dirtiest team by far, but they at least have players that, for the most part, answer the bell and stand up for one another when necessary. More on that in a moment.)

The much-anticipated rematch last night. Even Gordie Howe would have been surprised, and delighted, by the extent of the carnage. Pens fans are up in arms about how the Islanders went after their smaller players. I suspect this will be revisited in April when the teams meet up again, back in Pittsburgh. (It’s a shame the gutless punk Matt Cooke was not on the ice; as it happened he was serving a suspension for one of his myriad cheap hits. Boston’s Shawn Thornton gained some measure of revenge last season, but it will be a happy day when someone is able to give Cooke a fair and final taste of his own medicine.)

Last night’s festivities between The Penguins and The Islanders:

To be continued, hopefully.

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