amthoughtsintowords

[amthoughtsintowords]

One Shot At Forever

We’re counting down to a crossroads in hoop history; a collision of the present and the past; a Monday night drive in the ol’ time machine. Gonzaga 2021 and Indiana 1976. Unbeaten to this point against unbeaten forever.

Sure, tonight’s game is Gonzaga against Baylor in what should be a great matchup.  But it’s the outcome of this contest that has the implications. Nothing against Baylor – it’s their first men’s Final Four since 1948 – but they carry not only the weight of that 73 years of nada, but also of the most cherished jewel in the proud history of Indiana basketball.

 +++++ 

I can still see the April 5, 1976 cover of Sports Illustrated:  Great Scott, It’s Indiana! Admittedly, that issue contains one of my favorite articles, John Underwood’s profile of Missouri’s Jim Kennedy. Kennedy and the Tigers had surprised everyone that season and clawed their way to the regional finals, where despite 43 points from guard Willie Smith they fell short against Michigan. Underwood painted a portrait of the juggling act a student-athlete had in that time; a really nice bit of reporting in what S-I called their ”takeout” piece.  But those Hoosiers were the cover story for a reason – unbeaten, unrivaled and unfazed by achieving perfection. Coached by the enfant terrible Bobby Knight, they capped a 32-0 season by beating that very same Michigan team in the championship game. Several teams had come close to perfection in later years but didn’t get there. It is a mark that has grown in stature and risen in its unreachability. In today’s age of one-and-done players, the notion of a group of 18-year-olds melding into a championship team and not just catching regular season lightning in a bottle was becoming less and less likely to ever happen again.

Gonzaga has now reached the precipice; and wouldn’t you know it? The Zags are beating the odds in this unprecedented COVID cloud we’re all living under.  It is a program that has grown from the quiet 152 acres in Spokane, Washington, from the cute underdog to the perennial tournament participant to annually among the elite.

Mark Few’s team has practically run the table – picked as number one to begin the season, they haven’t had a slip up.  45 years ago, Indiana began the year at the top and marched into the final without a stumble. A year earlier, Knight’s team was in the process of doing the same thing; they were even deeper and more formidable than the team that followed. Leading scorer May broke his arm late in the regular season, tried to come back in the regional final against Kentucky, but wasn’t the same and with the chemistry off just a tick the Wildcats won by two. With May and three other starters returning, Knight set the tone right from the get-go; he told his squad on the first day of practice that the bar certainly wasn’t the Big Ten title, it wasn’t even the championship that had slipped away seven months earlier – it was perfection.

+++++ 

Few hasn’t disclosed what the message was to his team, but the Bulldogs have been just that going through the season. In fact, they have won virtually all of their games by double digits. As we saw on Saturday night, it took a surface-to-air missile from Jalen Suggs to avoid a second overtime against UCLA. Otherwise, they trampled their other four opponents by an average of 24 points. Conversely, the Hoosiers had to pass through a gauntlet to get to the finals in ’76. The NCAA built their bracket much differently then as opposed to now, where saving the best matchups for the end is the priority.  To win their regional, Indiana had to beat 23-5 St. John’s, 23-4 Alabama, 27-1 Marquette, and then defending champion UCLA, 28-3 in the first year after the retirement of John Wooden; St. John’s and UCLA were repeat victims, but the average margin of victory in the tournament for Indiana to that point was 12 points.

Gonzaga has won with a trio of All-Americans: senior Corey Kispert was a first teamer, while Suggs and sophomore Drew Timme made the second team. Indiana featured two All-Americans in May and center Kent Benson but the unsung heroes of that team were senior guards Quinn Buckner and Bobby Wilkerson.  Wilkerson was nicknamed “Spiderman” for his long arms and ability to guard anyone on the floor – from the post to the point. Buckner was athletic enough to lead the football Hoosiers in interceptions as a freshman and sophomore. It was Buckner’s leadership abilities that made him an essential component for the basketball Hoosiers; Knight used Buckner’s example to define leadership for every Indiana team after he graduated.

So while the Zags are now set up to face the “other” number one team in the land, Baylor – the Bears weathered their own COVID storm to go 27-2 – Indiana had to beat Michigan in the finals. The Wolverines had lost twice to Indiana in the conference season by a combined eleven points – once in overtime. The adage remains that it is hard to beat a team a third time in a season, and that seemed to be the case at the Spectrum in Philadelphia on Monday, March 29, 1976. One of the reasons is familiarity but another is unknown adversity. Early in the game Wilkerson was toppled over and landed on his head; he was taken to a hospital with a concussion and subsequently Michigan had Indiana in dire straits, leading by six at the half.  At that point, Knight told his now-suddenly vulnerable team if they wanted to be considered one of the greatest in basketball history they had twenty minutes to prove it. Otherwise, they had wasted what they had spent six months working toward.

Sixth man Jim Crews, who later coached at Saint Louis U., put it more succinctly: “We had one shot at forever.”

+++++ 

Gonzaga seemed to be in that spot against UCLA. The Bruins played a sensational game, never letting the Zags get out of sight and responding with a grit and determination of their own. It took Suggs and his 40-footer to pull his team out of the fire. A freshman had shown them the way.

Back in Philadelphia it was a group of seniors – May, Buckner, Crews, Tom Abernethy – and junior center Kent Benson that took their coach’s words back on to the court.  Even without Wilkerson it was as dominating a second half as you might ever see.  The Hoosiers set a record by scoring 57 points in the second twenty minutes, winning the game by 18. As Knight and his captains, Buckner and May, stood on the podium to accept the championship trophy, the coach was certainly relieved and gratified – but this was Bobby Knight – he reminded everyone listening that “it should have been two (titles).”

Indiana made good on their one shot at forever.  Since then, even the great Larry Bird and his ’79 Indiana State team couldn’t finish the job, losing in the finals.  UNLV, Kentucky, Wichita State – they all had shots, too, but lost in the semifinals. And now Gonzaga takes their shot.

Unlike the 1972 Miami Dolphins, unmatched in their perfection for a half-century now and very public in drinking a toast when the last undefeated NFL team goes down each season, the ’76 Hoosiers are much more sedate but just as proud of their achievement.

Perfection happened in college basketball six times in a 17-year span, from the San Franciso Dons in 1956 to UCLA in 1973; the Bruins did it three times under Wooden. Now, with a span of nearly fifty years gone by since the last time, can Gonzaga make history?

If so, “One Shining Moment” takes on special meaning tonight in Indianapolis.

[amthoughtsintowords]

Remembering Stan the Man

(From January 2013)

Thoughts on Stan Musial

  January 22, 2013

 You never forget your first time.

Certainly it was true in this case; the case being my initial meeting with Stan Musial.

I was born a year before he retired as a player, so my recollections of his on-field exploits were built from highlight clips and baseball cards, as well as through the eyes of others.  But what struck me about this man – no, THE Man –was how important he became to people in the generations AFTER he played.  You just can’t say that about many people.  Growing up, and in the years that followed, it’s amazing to me that, sports fans or not, multitudes of people are familiar with and have grown to love Stan Musial.

I worked on a lengthy piece for television with Mike Bush several years ago – long enough ago that Stan still occupied an office at his old restaurant on Oakland Avenue; a building that is nothing more than a faint recollection to anyone born after 1970. In any event, I had interviewed Jack Buck about Stan, and I heard him affirm aloud that while he may have seemed too good to be true as a man apart from his sport, he indeed “may have been about the nicest man on the face of the earth.”  I also interviewed Harry Caray, who described Musial’s heroics to Cardinals fans over the airwaves for 17 of Stan’s 22 seasons.  Harry could be downright unfair toward some players, but he was nothing but reverent when he spoke about Musial that day; in fact, his voice rose into a feverish pitch as he described the day 32 years earlier when Stan the Man hit five home runs in a doubleheader --and nearly hit more!, he exclaimed like a little kid.

I went with Mike the day he interviewed Stan.  My head was filled with his achievements:  the 3,630 career hits – amazingly, 1,815 at home and 1,815 on the road – the 24 All-Star games, the homer to win the 1955 Classic, the swan song base hits past a rookie named Pete Rose in 1963.  And I was aware of the way others felt about him, but meeting him only affirmed what a decent man he was:  engaging, a smile that never left his face, filled with stories, and though we were there for a while he never once looked at his watch or gave any indication that he had more important things to do.  And when we left, it was if we left the company of an old friend, one you couldn’t wait to see again.

My favorite story that he told involved his milestone 3000th career hit.  He went on to say that there were only about ten thousand people in attendance at Wrigley Field that day, but since then probably three times as many folks had come up and told him they were there.  And then he reared his head back and laughed at his own joke as if someone was telling it to him for the first time.

The comparisons to his contemporaries were inevitable; with Williams, with DiMaggio, with Mays. Willie was flash and boyish enthusiasm but “The Say Hey Kid” could also be prickly with outsiders.  Williams may have been a more explosive hitter but he didn’t limit that explosiveness to hitting a baseball:  his hate-hate relationship with the Boston media was well known.  And the great DiMag, the man revered in literature and song, was aloof and kept his distance from the admiring throng, as if he walked on a higher plane than mere mortals.  But Stan – that man, The Man, embraced everyone in his midst.  He made us all as much a part of him as he was a part of us. Those other megastars may have flashed more brightly or more keenly, but not one of them – no one, perhaps – carved out heroics as consistently, as steadily, and yes, as decently, as our Stan. Nothing speaks more to his perfection in knighthood as does his 71-year – let that sink in for a minute – 71-year marriage to his fair lady, Lil.  And less than a year after her passing, Stan decided it was time for him, too, to go. He had been away from her too long, perhaps.  Don’t we all aspire to, and so many of us fall well short of, such a tender bond enriched by so many years together?

Whether in giving out autographs by the pen-load, serenading thousands on the harmonica, or greeting everyone in his path with a trademark, “Whaddayasay, whaddayasay, whaddayasay?!,” Stan Musial lifted us up to his level as opposed to deigning us with his presence.  It was no wonder that this man, The Man, who lived through the terms of 17 U.S. presidents and rubbed elbows with twelve of them, was embraced by succeeding generations of St. Louisans who learned the legend of his baseball feats from their elders but carried him in their hearts merely by what he did..and was..long after he retired.

I remember seeing Stan hit a home run in a Sunday Old Timers’ game at Busch Stadium – in the highlights on television; my best friend got to see it in person.  He was over 50 when he did it, a poke over the right field wall, and I still recall the thrill I had in seeing it.  To my young eyes, it was if this great baseball player could be retired but still come back and hit a homer any time he wanted to.  If I was more in touch with my thoughts at that young age (I was ten), I might have had a similar notion to the one Mr. Buck did after he witnessed that five-homer day in Jack’s first year in calling major league games:  “Does he do this every Sunday?”

Outside of this area, there had to be reminders to his greatness in later years:  Baseball commissioner Bud Selig had to use the powers of his office to add Musial to the All-Century team in 1999, for example. Writer Joe Posnanski wrote a terrific cover story on Stan in Sports Illustrated a few years ago, letting the rest of the world in on our little secret – the greatness and sheer decency that was, is, and forever will be, Stan Musial.  He painted a loving portrait, enhanced with stories such as the time the veteran Musial rapped a late-inning, bases-loaded double against the Cubs that was wrongly called foul.  Two Cardinals were thrown out of the game for vehemently arguing the call, and nearly a third.  Musial calmly asked what the hubbub was about, shrugged his shoulders, and went back to the plate and stroked an identical double, a ball hit mere inches and yet, obviously more fair than the last.  Posnanski added keen brushstrokes, such as the amazing note that in over three thousand big league games, Musial was never ejected.  People from in and out of the game of baseball shared to the writer what we in St. Louis have never taken for granted:  Stan was a treasure to meet, to know, to be with.  It was a painting that we in St. Louis had in our mind’s eye all along, but millions more were allowed in to see and appreciate the masterpiece that had always been in our very midst.

I got to see and talk to Stan several more times over the years; always an honor, never taken for granted, and every time as special as the first.  But never quite like the first.

People who have never called St. Louis home wonder how a man can mean so much to one city.  Perhaps it will be a secret we’ll keep from those outsiders – how The Man will always be so important to this city.

[amthoughtsintowords]

Ten Takeaways While on Summer Vacation

 The St. Louis Blues are a fun organization, typical NHL subterfuge aside.  In a league where “lower-body injury” is expected to sufficiently describe an injury, Doug Armstrong and Ken Hitchcock are refreshingly revealing by comparison. A scheduled end-of-year news conference today was anything but superficial, starting with the first of ten takeaways:

1.       2016-2017 will be Ken Hitchcock’s coaching finale.  The best sound bite in the STL said he has one more enthusiastic offseason left in his 64-year-old soul.  “If you’re not getting better, you’re getting worse,” the coach said today, and the offseason preparation is where coaches get better.  “I don’t want to be a guy who’s just going to rely on my experiences.  I want to be current on everything, and if I’m not prepared to do the work I don’t deserve to coach.”

2.      2016-2017 has Hitch fired up. He praised the team’s buy-in to the faster pace that got the team within six games of the franchise’s first Stanley Cup. That was the hardest ceiling to go through; now the potential, Hitch feels, is unlimited.  “For ten years I haven’t seen anything like this and it was really exciting…a tremendous, structured, defined leadership inside that locker room. Very selfishly, when you coach a team that’s not afraid to win, it’s a great feeling.”

3.      That team will likely have a new captain.  Both David Backes and the team he’s been with for ten years would like the relationship to continue.  But that’s not reality.  Backes has set himself up for a big, long payday with a gritty playoff performance and he’ll surely get it - just not in St. Louis.  G.M. Doug Armstrong cited the faster tempo does not necessarily mix with the captain’s 32-year-old body, miles on the tread, and a static team salary cap in insinuating that they won’t be offering top dollars.  “It has to work out for David and his family first and foremost, and then it has to work into our math equation.”

4.      Jaden Schwartz will be the top signing priority.  That’s not overly surprising; the Blues still control the forward’s status for three more years.  But how they do it, long term or through arbitration, will certainly affect how they go forward.  Here’s Armstrong: “If that doesn’t add up to a long-term deal, that probably adds a little bit more money to next year’s team.”

5.      Big things are expected for Robby Fabbri going forward.  Both Hitchcock and Armstrong gushed over the 20-year-old forward for his competitiveness and point production, with the G.M. saying he could be an elite player.  But all that comes with a caveat:  Fabbri will have to amp up his conditioning and add pounds to compensate for the target he’s put on his back.  “Sophomore slumps are, you get your number circled (by the opposition) and you don’t know how to deal with it,” Armstrong said.  “He’s going to get his eyes wide-opened, and not in a good fashion.”

6.      The goalie situation could remain status quo.  Armstrong still has high hopes for Jake Allen, who he feels will ratchet up his efforts to unseat Brian Elliott.    And he quoted former coach Pat Burns in emphasizing having a goalie battle isn’t so bad: “Goaltending is eighty-percent of the game unless you don’t have it; then it’s a hundred.”

7.      The prospect of Troy Brouwer leaving is also real, but that’s okay.  I’m paraphrasing, of course.  Brouwer added needed grit, leadership and guidance, one of the core group that, according to the coach, “allowed us to get through difficult times much quicker.”  Yet big free agent offers from teams wanting to duplicate the Blues’ success will make keeping Brouwer a tough proposition.  But with young players ready to be ingrained into the big club Armstrong is quick to add, “I feel comfortable I can get out in that market and sell a great story about the St. Louis Blues…for the next five or six years.”

8.      The bonus from today’s festivities was a contrite Vladimir Tarasenko.  There was enough fallout about Vlad’s unwillingness to meet the media with the rest of the players on Saturday, that he sheepishly appeared as the leadoff man today.  “I was pissed off,” he said, not wanting to say anything in anger he would later regret. While he didn’t come out and say he had to be focused on being better conditioned come September, Tarasenko did say he would be vacationing first, introducing his new son to the folks in his homeland next, and then “start doing the same (training) I do every summer, but even more.”  Tarasenko and both Hitchcock and Armstrong denied any kind of rift between the budding superstar and the team, but did address the frustration over his slump against the Sharks and then the growing process that follows: “The only thing that can change the level of frustration is maturity,” Hitch said, adding that “We want them to score but we want them to grow up.  It’s hard to do.”  A linemate to take some of the attention away from Tarasenko was also discussed.  A name wasn’t.   (Fabbri?)

9.      Hitch’s decision loosened him up into showing off comedic talents.  Hitch has nurtured a thrust-and-parry relationship with the media, typified by a one-answer-and-walk-away meet-and-greet before the series with the Blackhawks. He really didn’t disappoint today:

  --  On a potential next career: “I’m going to set up a company, and my job is going to be to analyze the job that you guys do and if you do a bad job I’m going to put you all on notice and tell you you’re on the firing line.  So I’m going to do the same thing you guys do to me.”

  --  That a loss of competitiveness might be why he’s stepping down.  (It isn’t): “I don’t think that’s something I have to worry about.  I want to win every race down I-40.  I don’t care.”

  --  On facing the prospect of being celebrated as he winds through the league next season: “There will be no god damned farewell tour.”

(It is worth noting, courtesy of the great Randy Karraker of 101-ESPN in St. Louis, that the last two St. Louis coaches who announced retirements (Dick Vermeil and Tony La Russa) did so with championships.)

10.  Expectations will be accompanying the Blues during Hitch’s swan song season. Big expectations.  Hitchcock glowed about the winning atmosphere in the locker room, but I’ll let Armstrong take it from there: “I think these guys know how to win, but they’ve got to be taught how to win again because the same group’s not coming back.”  And this: “We started this year telling our players our players don’t worry about last year (first round playoff flameout).  We’re nuts not to start next year telling our players not to worry about last year.”

And with that, summer.

�Qa��և�{

[amthoughtsintowords]

Game Seven as it happened

The NBA is not very compelling to me until the playoffs.  Tonight though, it's a special occasion.

Game Seven.  Warriors and Thunder.  

Sports is the greatest theatre because there is no script, no libretto; you don't know how it will end.  And a Game Seven only ramps up the drama.

Winner takes all.  Everything, particularly pride, is on the line.

An NHL Game Seven is probably the height of sports drama, followed by Game Seven of the World Series.  But this matchup of the two Western Conference heavyweights has all the theatre you could want.

Kevin and Russ, Durant and Westbrook, versus the record-breaking feel-good team from The Bay Area.  And that - THAT - is why the NBA is drawing four times the viewership that the NHL can muster, even though the Stanley Cup chase is more compelling in and of itself:  Personalities and storylines.

NBC was sweating bullets watching top market NHL teams get eliminated.  Canadian media was compelled to follow the playoff run even though not one of its native franchises made the dance card, while casting an eye but maybe not its lot on the NBA Raptors.  The comparison of St. Louis, San Jose, Pittsburgh and Tampa Bay  to Toronto,  Cleveland, Oakland and Oklahoma City is a wash to network execs at best.  But Lebron's quest to end 52 years of no titles, the national phenomenon that the Warriors have created with Steph Curry and their transcendental play, OKC with two of the top five players in the game- any are more attractive than anything the NHL is marketing.

The way this series has played out to this point has already made it compelling to watch.  Oklahoma City made the Warriors look outmatched in running out to a three games to one lead.  Two of the wins were such blowouts that the question was being asked:  Is Golden State's 73 regular season wins record not so glitzy by falling short of a championship?  

But then they rallied to take Game Five at home, with Durant and Westbrook haughtily dismissing it with the feeling they'd wrap up the series at home.  It looked that way, until the final eight minutes when Klay Thompson and the Warriors closing the game out on a 19-5 run.  That was no shot over the bow - it was a direct hit at the Thunder's manhood.  So here we are.

The intensity was palpable during the national anthem, with the faces taut, the eyes closed and bodies swaying back and forth churning nervous energy.

With the teams trading opening love taps, the first pivotal exchange came with under four minutes to go in the first quarter.  OKC's Dion Waiters drove on Thompson and laid a pretty finger roll off the glass, but the basket was waved off for an offensive foul; You couldn't hear Waiters yelling back at the official over the crowd, but his lips weren't hard to read.  Meanwhile, Steph Curry came down and laid in an equally gorgeous reverse layin that did count and sent the crowd into a frenzy.  Still, the Thunder led by five after twelve minutes.

Thompson, who had that glorious Game Six with a record 11 threes, went to the bench tonight having missed his first four shots.  

TNT sideline reporter Craig Sager didn't disappoint on this Memorial Day, with a star-spangled sartorial selection that looked like a fireworks display of red, white and blue.  I would have liked to have heard what birthday boy Billy Donovan (happy 51st!) had to tell him during the timeout interview, but the outfit drowned Donovan out.

10:01, second quarter, and Thompson gets his shot rejected at the basket; still not on the board.  Meanwhile, OKC moved out by nine.

Despite lackluster shooting, the Thunder extended the lead to thirteen at 35-22.  Big Enes Kanter supplied a couple of big buckets off the bench.  On the other bench, Warriors coach Steve Kerr was calm, reminding his team of the similar deficit they overcame two nights ago.  "We're gonna be here all night," he said.  

5:25 of the second, and Thompson is finally off the schneid, dropping in a three from the far corner.  A minute later, after the Thunder missed a pair of shots, Andre Iguodala fed Thompson and the shooter was feeling it.  Another trey, and the Warriors raised the decibel level to deafening heights while lowering the deficit to four, 37-33.

With 3:18 to go before the half, Westbrook made a stunning move to the basket and drew the foul.  OKC moved the lead back up to eleven as Steven Adams headlocked Draymond Green to the floor in a way that two Aleve aren't going to help much.  Green, the attitudinal compass of the Warriors, stayed in the game.  But fouls would be a different thing altogether.

At the 1:55 mark Thompson dropped another three, his fourth of the quarter, a rainbow over the outstretched Adams.  He has a shooter's forgetfulness for misses:  shoot 'til you're hot, and shoot 'til you're not.

The final three possessions electrified the final fifteen seconds before the break; Curry's layin attempt blocked by Serge Ibaka, then at the other end a Westbrook three-point play off a dish from Waiters boosted the lead to eight.  It then took The unanimous MVP 5.3 of the 5.4 seconds left on the clock to drive to the other end and lay a delicate shot off the top of the glass, where it fell majestically into the embrace of the net as the horn sounded.

48-42 Thunder, and there's still 24 minutes of this.  (Eyes roll on the outside, but a kid at the carnival is saying, "Yes, please!" on the inside.  And it's still daylight in Oakland.)

9:17, third quarter and Curry throws up one of his transcontinental "Oh yeah, let's shoot this" - flick.  Three-pointer.  Thompson and Iguodala each connect in the next 90 seconds and the Thunder lead is down to four.  OKC has been workman-like building the lead, while Golden State has been more spectacular in trying to keep it close.  Is any thought of Saturday night's late-game collapse eking into the collective Oklahoma City minds?

Curry rippled the cords on two more threes to put the Warriors up by three.  After starting out 3-for-11 behind the arc, GS has since gone 9-for-12.  Serious shooting chutzpah.

4:16 left in the third, and Iguodala twists his body like a piece of taffy, rolling in the finish of a drive and looking for perfect tens from all the judges - his look of incredulity, arms outstretched, means he only got a 9.9 from the French judge.  GS by three.

At the 2:40 mark, Shawn Livingston adds to the amplitude inside Oracle Arena; he follows up a badly missed shot by Durant with a driving dunk while being fouled.  It's a six-point lead, and Steve Kerr may not have to worry about staying all night.

At 1:58 Leandro Barbosa benefits as the Warriors perimeter passing spreads out the Thunder, leaving Barbosa a lane to the basket.  Harrison Barnes followed with two e next time down, and then it was Anderson Varejao breaking into the scoring column.  It's. 12-0 run to boost the lead to eleven.  That's a 24-point turnaround, kids.

Eleven Warriors have scored to only seven members of the Thunder.  Curry (21) and Thompson (16) have out scored their counterpart duo Durant (15) and Westbrook (14), 37-29.  Durant is an elite player, but he's had a very quiet fifteen points.

Kerr tells David Aldridge they'll need defense and rebounding to close it out.  A back-iron clank of a Westbrook layin attempt isn't good defense, but it's one fewer possession the Thunder will have.

9:55 to go, and an off-balance shot by Durant looks forced...and desperate.

Thirty seconds later, life for the Thunder as they halt the momentum Golden State built up; Marreese Speights can't convert off of a delicious behind-the-back pass by Livingston and then at the other end Ibaka cashed in on the pick-and-roll to narrow their deficit to seven, but he misses the subsequent free throw.

8:32, and Ibaka had time to meditate before dropping a three, but then Curry nullified that with a three of his own; he then connected for three more to make the lead nine.

6:55, and Curry makes it an eight-point spurt with a layin, to which Durant answered with a pretty three from the next door Coliseum.  

6:19, and Green, missing much of the half saddled with fouls, lays it in and follows by pumping fist into palm.   The pace of the game has gone full throttle, with sloppiness added into the mix.

It doesn't feel like a classic at this point, but it has the intensity and fear of a Game Seven; make no mistake.  Westbrook, for his part, has only connected on six of 19 shooting, but he has twelve assists.  

I wonder what Lebron and the Cavaliers are thinking as they're laying back and relaxing as they have three more days of rest ahead?

5:10 left in the season for one of these teams, but Thompson and then Green each drop down three that it's not going the them; the lead is now eleven.

Just over three minutes left, and Curry does a churning change of direction to the bucket, dropping in two more to give hm 30 f the night.  If the Thunder players look closely to the horizon, they can see the bus leaving for the finals without them.

But Durant isn't conceding anything.  His long three makes it an eight-point deficit.  They still have time.

1:52 to go, and it's down to six.  Durant connects again and now it's Oklahoma City trying to turn the tables.  K-D now with 27; the Warriors lead is 90-86.

After a timeout, Golden State tries to milk some clock.  Green drives off a pick-and-roll and loses he ball.  He and Westbrook dive to the floor in a key moment and - and - and -  the Warriors call time out before the officials can whistle a held ball.

Curry has an answer.  He goes to the line, chewing on his mouthpiece, and routinely knocks down three free throws, and just in case you weren't paying attention when the MVP was announced, he then sends in a 27-footer for perhaps the dagger that will be the blow the Thunder won't get up from.

It was only fitting that the he final sixteen ticks of the clock came with the ball in Curry's hands, mindlessly chomping on the mouthpiece, victory conceded by the Thunder.  But if you’re the Thunder and there’s still time on the clock, why are you not fighting right down to the last second?  That shows bowing to a superior foe when you give away those seconds.

96-88 will go down as the final score (*), but's what will be remembered will be that Golden State became the first team since 1981 to come back from being down three games to one.  It's another layer that the Dubs are putting on an historic season.

It wasn't an artistic success, but Golden State wins this Game Seven nonetheless.  

There is nothing like the drama of a seventh game. ------------- (*) How do those Vegas oddsmakers do it?  Yeah, they lose money if they don't get it right but they still HAVE TO GET IT RIGHT, right?  The margin was eight; Vegas was giving seven.

[amthoughtsintowords]

Mind Games

               “So keep on playing those mind games together.”     -John Lennon

        Game Six-and-a-half between the Blues and Blackhawks has been played out over the last 40-plus hours not on the ice, but in the 200-by-85 space of the mind.

It’s the last place a player wants his opponent to get into, or anyone else for that matter.  But as important as it is for a hockey player to win the battles played out in the corners of the rink, so too is the importance of winning the battle of the mind.

The human mind is truly the last frontier.

There are so many layers to the psychology of sport; so many philosophies; so many scenarios.  Some players and coaches have minds of iron, while other minds are made of jelly, and the rest are somewhere in between.

As this series started, and all the way through the first two periods of Game Three, the Blues carried around the baggage of not having the proper playoff mentality.  What is that, exactly?  An 82-game regular season is already a grind, but then tack on the possibility of 28 more games played every other day, played at a level (or seven, or twelve; who knows?) higher than that 82-game challenge.  Coaches want a single-minded focus, minimal (or no) distractions, and complete tunnel vision on getting the necessary 16 wins to hoist Lord Stanley’s Cup.

Then there is the task of simply getting out of the first round, which the Blues haven’t done in four years.  Two of those times St. Louis won the first two games at home, only to hit a wall and get eliminated.  After last season’s fizzle against Minnesota, general manager Doug Armstrong talked about his team’s lack of a killer instinct; an ability to put an opponent away when they had them down.  This year’s team, comprised mostly of players returning from the failures of the past but now including the energy of some key rookies and the experience and toughness of veteran pickups, marched through a season where injury was a routine issue, lengthy injuries were common (seven key players missed at least ten games; forward Jaden Schwartz sat out 49; fellow forward Steve Ott missed all 82; both goalies missed significant time), and the depth of the organization was tested in every game.  That resilience was expected to make the Blues much more battle-tough.

So beating the Blackhawks in overtime of Game One was supposed to be a testament to this newfound mindset. A loss in the next game when the breaks were beating the boys (apologies to the Gipper) raised the doubts over again, but then inspirational wins at the United Center put the Blues in the driver’s seat:  up three games to one and a chance to close it out at home.

Game Five was a thriller in every sense:  a heroic comeback fueled by incessant effort at taking the play to the Hawks.  Glorious chances set up by yeoman work, willingness to put the body through more pain and discomfort, and a locked-in mindset to finish off the opponent – put them away.

Ssssssssssssss.  

That was the sound of the air rushing out of the balloon after Patrick Kane’s artistic game-winner in the second overtime.

And then there was Game Six: the three-goal blitz to answer an initial Hawks’ goal, and then a flameout – Chicago responded to the response with five unanswered goals, and their fans turned the United Center into a sonic boom lasting for the final thirty minutes.  

Reminder:  Three times in the past six years the Blackhawks have emerged from the postseason struggle with those necessary 16 wins.  You don’t do that without dealing in heavy doses of adversity.

It is a tale of two locker rooms.

               “…Some call it magic, the search for the grail.”  

Joel Quenneville’s bunch of Blackhawks had (hockey cliché alert) their backs to the wall, playing without key cog Andrew Shaw and against a team that had the momentum of two big road wins going for them.  Their two best players, Kane and captain Jonathan Toews, had been largely silent. They were winless as a franchise when on the dark side of a 3-1 series deficit.  They got a heaping helping of an opponent taking the play to them; Robby Fabbri, one of those rookies that knew nothing of the bitter taste of the Blues’ previous failures, sparked the way back from being down by a pair of goals in the third period and turned the Scottrade Center into the aural equivalent of a group of jet engines. Again, momentum was on the side of the ‘Note.

Yet, in one of those sports intangibles, the Blackhawks kept the ship afloat, played steadily, found an opening and stared down two swings of the Blues’ sword.

Don’t say Blues coach Ken Hitchcock didn’t offer up a warning.  He reminded anyone who would listen that Chicago was playing well in spite of the series deficit; each of the four games (now five)have been decided by a single goal.  He said both teams were playing at an “A” level, and the winner would be the one who raised the level to A-plus.

Champions do that.

               “…Faith in the future, outta the now.”

For the past ten days the Blues have been unanimous in their belief that they pay no heed to what happened in 2013, 2014, or 2015 – or even on Thursday and Saturday nights.  It’s about this team, this time, this game, this moment, and only that.  Strong, secure words; words founded by enduring the crucible of a season of injury and setback; of not only enduring but overcoming and succeeding.  

Then came a seam-split in the cohesion, or so it appeared; Vladimir Tarasenko seeming to slap away his coach’s hand at the end of Saturday’s second period.  Hitch carries a past reputation for wearing out his welcome with his players. Was this where the Blues unraveled, through their most electric player and budding superstar’s frustration over a lack of ice time?  The coach quickly doused any such notion, saying it was a heat-of-the-moment moment; he then added that he loved Tarasenko’s competitive fire and will to win. The timing of the flareup couldn’t be what the Blues want; to have to put out fires outside the locker room while observers are left to question what’s burning in the room.  For a team that can’t clear the first hurdle didn’t do itself any favors by erecting a speed bump at the entrance to a winner-take-all game.

The Blackhawks have built a legacy of being better than the situation and rising to the occasion. They’ve done three times in six years what the Blues’ franchise has yet to do in fifty.  They know how to get there.  

The Blues think, and believe, they do, too.  Or do they?

Game Sevens are where heroes are discovered, and where resilience is put to the most extreme test.

So in this battle of wills and minds, who comes out on top?

That’s what makes sports such great theater.  It’s not scripted, played out in front of thousands, albeit millions, of eyes.  The irresistible force colliding with the immovable object , with the deciding factor being perhaps the slightest mistake, or the grandest of efforts, under the most intensive heat that sports has to offer.

Yuri Geller once proved that you could bend a spoon with nothing more than his mind.  Who will bend the series to the desired ending?

               “Yeah we’re playing those mind games forever.”  

[amthoughtsintowords]

"Game Time Is On Time"

You have no idea what those words have come to mean.

 For many years in my house, it was the punch line to “The Marvin Story”.  My kids learned it to be a long story about someone they knew nothing about – they got that from their mother, who wasn’t much of a sports fan and patiently tolerated me telling the story many times over – with a roll of the eyes.

But that story meant an awful lot to me.  

 It was about a guy I knew about growing up, yet I later learned I didn’t know nearly enough about him until I got to college.   And there’s always been a soft spot there..right there..for him with me. 

 Marvin Barnes.

 Movin’ Marvin.  Bad News Barnes.  BB.  THE Spirit of the Spirits of St. Louis.

He had several nicknames, and that was apropos, given how large of a life he lived.

 And I don’t necessarily mean that as a compliment.

 Marvin Barnes died Monday.  He was 62. 

 Chronologically.  If you cut him in half and counted the rings, like you do to determine the age of a tree, he would probably have been about 115.

+++

 My first recollection of him was when his college team, Providence, came to town for the 1973 Final Four at the old St. Louis Arena.  He and Ernie D(iGregorio) were the centerpieces of a free-wheeling Friars team that lit up scoreboards out East.  They may very well have gotten to the finals against UCLA (think Bill Walton, 21-of-22 shooting, 44 points, national championship win over Memphis) had Barnes not gotten hurt in the semifinals, and the Friars came up short.  That was around the time Barnes got the nickname “Bad News” when I read that he had gone after a teammate with a tire iron.

 Anyway, when it was announced that the Carolina Cougars of the ABA were moving to St. Louis and taking the name The Spirits (think Lindbergh plane, trans-Atlantic flight, circa 1927), I was excited.  I loved what I saw of the ABA, mostly in my old basketball card collection, since their games weren’t often televised:  The red, white and blue ball.  The 3-point shot.  The colorful uniforms.  While the NBA of the early 1970’s was okay for a young sports fan, the drab, brown basketball made me think of them as corporate, establishment, old – but the ABA…the ABA; Man, that was cool!

 So, who do the Spirits bring to town as their top draft pick in 1974?  Yep, Marvin Barnes.  He was the marquee guy in a young lineup that was colorfully broadcast by their 22-year-old play-by-play announcer, Bob Costas, though Costas will be the first to tell you that that team didn’t need much in the way of colorful descriptions -- their play did enough of that.  I think I heard him refer to The Spirits once as a menagerie.  And in the center ring of the circus was Movin’ Marvin.

 My friends and I followed The Spirits religiously.  The team was appropriately named, as Costas would also tell you:  Fly Williams, who once dribbled off the court to get a drink of water at Austin Peay – when the game was in progress.  Gus Gerard (“Double G from 22 – Bang!”, Costas would exclaim), Maurice Lucas (who sent 7-foot-2 Artis Gilmore to the floor with one punch), Goo Kennedy, Don Adams (not the “Get Smart” comedian, but a no-nonsense guy who looked like someone’s uncle, what with his receding hairline and less-than-svelte physique), and head coach Bob McKinnon, who lasted but only a year with that team; probably so he could check himself into a sanitarium.  There was a table basketball game (I think called “Bas-Ket”…maybe?) that came with a ping-pong ball you used as the game ball.  I found red, blue and black magic markers to color the ball and I drew three-point lines on the court so my game would be the ABA, and my team was The Spirits.  So what if they lost more than they won in that first season?  My friend’s dad took us to a game, and I didn’t pay any attention to the fact that we seemed to be the only fans in our section – it was The Spirits!  I collected all the cards from that year’s Topps set (and ABA players made up only about a third of the cards in that set), and getting Marvin Barnes was like hitting the jackpot!  They hit their peak when they beat Dr. J and the mighty New York Nets (not Brooklyn, or even New Jersey for you youngsters) in the playoffs that first year.  As a 12-year-old, I ate it all up.

 Meanwhile, Marvin Barnes was already establishing a reputation; as a dynamic scorer and rugged rebounder on the court – but he often wasn’t on the court.  There was that time he vanished for several days in a contract holdout; he was eventually found in a pool hall on Dayton, Ohio, of all places.  Of course, he was holding out because he was already blowing through his large contract.  Following the exploits of Marvin and the Spirits was like reading about the Wild West.  When the Spirits (by the way, did I mention they had THE greatest logo in the history of logos?) crashed and burned after two seasons (even after adding a very young Moses Malone), it was a sad day.  With some great memories.

 The memories only got better whenever Costas would get to tell Spirits tales; sometimes on KMOX Radio, and later, on a show with Roy Firestone that I taped when I was in college.  (Is the statute of limitations up on skipping afternoon classes to sit around and listen to the Costas tape?  I won’t mention any other names.)  It was like finding a beloved toy after not playing with it for ten years.  Later, I read Terry Pluto’s classic, Loose Balls, and it opened up a whole new vista into this team, and Marvin Barnes:

 On flying out of Louisville, Kentucky at 7:00 a.m. and arriving in St. Louis at 6:59:  “I ain’t gettin’ on no time machine, man.

 Consoling Bob Costas, after the young broadcaster thought he was going to be fired:  “Don‘t worry, bro’.  I been lookin’ for a little dude like you to drive me around in my Rolls (-Royce)”

 And of course, the classic story of the chartered airplane.  The Marvin Story.

 +++

 How many of us say we hit our professional peak when we were 22?  Marvin could.  Late nights, bags of fast food, little or no sleep, candles burned on both ends, and money tossed around like candy all added pounds to his waistline and took away the sharpness of his reflexes and quickness under the basket.  And then there were the drugs.

 Cocaine was beginning to make its mark on pro basketball, and it took its toll on Marvin.  He went to the NBA for big(ger) money when the ABA folded, but soon the secret was out – Marvin didn’t have it any more, and he began residing on the far end of benches around the league – just he and his coke.  He’d gone from the apex to the zenith by the time he was 27.

 There is another must-read book on pro basketball during that period:  David Halberstam’s The Breaks of the Game.  In it, Bill Walton talks about his teammate with the L.A. Clippers, Marvin Barnes.  He said that Marvin, if he was sitting in a car with guys who had just robbed a bank and had gotten pulled over by the cops, would be the one to volunteer to hold the money and the gun.

 The years after he left the league were spent in a cycle of drugs, arrest, rehab, prison, and back around again.  I saw several years ago that he had gotten married, and that he had attended an ABA reunion; that he was turning his life around (again) and was doing some counseling. 

 I think I also read he was approached about doing an in-depth interview, and he wanted to know how much he was getting paid for it.  When he was told he wouldn’t be paid, he asked if the reporter could take he and his family out to dinner instead.

 That sums up Marvin pretty well – not malicious, but always working an angle.  A sweet con man, if you will, conning himself into believing he was okay and then falling back off the wagon.

 Marvin was always this larger-than-life character in my mind, certainly a reminder of my younger days; but that was the ABA as a whole.  There is very little video, or audio play-by-play, to document those times.  Costas has often said that vacuum the ABA existed in takes its life, antics, and talents-on-display to an almost-mythological state – “Did you see Doc take off from midcourt and do a 360-reverse?” -- all you left have is what’s in the mind’s eye of those who witnessed it; and then, like the old kids’ game of Telephone, stories get passed down from generation to generation, increasing in the hyperbole of the tale.

 +++

 But the Marvin story is true as it is told.

 Not wanting to end his night/begin his day with a team flight from Long Island to Norfolk, Virginia, and having missed all commercial flights that would get him to the game on time, Marvin once decided to charter his own plane.  Even still, he was going to cut it pretty close in getting to the arena, so he put on the burnt orange, swooshing plane-logoed road uniform, and then a floor-length, en vogue mink coat over the uni.  He cabs to the airport as tipoff nears, with Bob McKinnon and the team going over strategy, sans Marvin.  As they break the team huddle before going out on the floor, the doors to the visitor’s locker room open, and there stands Marvin, opening the coat to reveal the uniform, who then smiled and said, “Have no fear, BB (a nickname for the shape of his head) is here.  Game time is on time!”

 And then he went out and scored 48 points and grabbed 19 rebounds.

 Game time is on time.

 That phrase was always worth a chuckle for me every time I’d tell the story, or hear, or read about it.  And it was worth three rolls of the eyes when the request for The Marvin Story came up every so often – mostly when it was late and my kids didn’t want to go to sleep.

 It also brought back some bittersweet thoughts – about what was, but oh, what could have been.

 RIP, Marvin.  I hope you are at rest now.

 And don’t worry -- You may be gone, but as long as the stories live, so will you.

[amthoughtsintowords]

Roger, Roger

As a society, we sure do love to topple our idols, don’t we?

Today’s news conference in New York wasn’t quite the equivalent of yanking down Saddam Hussein-in-bronze in the public square, but seeing Roger Goodell run screaming from the podium still might not have been enough to satisfy people.

Don’t count me among the Goodell apologists, but there sure was a feeding frenzy among the media weighing in on Ol’ Rog’s long-overdue appearance from whatever secret location he’s been tucked away at.  And the front man of the monolithic NFL did himself no favors.

He showed up late for his reckoning.  Not the way any image-brander would tell you to get off on the right foot.

He apologized and took responsibility – sort of – for the lack of handling the wave of domestic violence incidents that have put more than a few pock marks on that storied NFL shield.  But for all the effectiveness with which he delivered said apology, he might has well have released a statement.  The words felt delivered on auto-pilot -- like it was what he was supposed to do, instead of what he felt he needed to do.

Roger Goodell could never pass for Bill Clinton, but he even outperformed himself in terms of dullness.

This is a man who makes 44 million dollars a year.  That’s forty-four.  Million.  Dollars.  He sure would have made a p. r. splash if he’d have said he was fining himself a year’s salary and donating that money to either of the two women’s groups that the league is aligning itself with.  But there was no splash.  Not even a ripple.  Just as there seemed to be a lack of real angst, or contrition, or buying into his apology.

Worse yet, when Goodell was called on to answer about his lack of knowledge over the recently-uncovered Ray Rice knockout video, the man who castigated Sean Payton over his lack of knowledge in the Bountygate scandal with “Ignorance is not a defense” fell back on his apology and that he needed to do better.

As one player opined on Twitter, isn’t that the defense he’s dismissed from the personnel he’s disciplined?

Did he ever consider resigning over this P.R. nightmare?  “No.  I’ve been too busy focusing on the job.”

Well that’s a dead-end; let’s move on.  What dramatic new policy was he going to unveil?  What broad-sweeping legislation would now be the standard for the players to have to think about before raising a hand to a wife/girlfriend/date?  What came out of nine days where the sound of crickets was the only thing coming out of the offices at 345 Park Avenue? 

Note:  Be ready to be underwhelmed.

A committee is going to be formed. 

Goodell is going to talk to Players’ Union chief DeMaurice Smith next week. 

“Transparent rules” will be in place by the Super Bowl.

Yawn.

The NFL makes money hand over fist, billions of dollars churning into the league’s coffers, and yet there’s nothing in the budget for some good, sensible, advice?  Like, “you’ve got to come out of that apology with some hard-hitting headline-maker that will get you back in positive public favor.”  Forming a committee is lingo for “we’re looking into it”.  You still haven’t talked to the head of your players’ union about how to ramp up discipline for player-involved incidents?  That doesn’t show that domestic violence is up there on the priority list.  New rules won’t be in place for another four months?  What’s the rush?

But let’s face it:  This wasn’t a news conference, it was, show up, take a take a few-shots, and go on to business as usual.  As ESPN has reported, Ravens owner Steve Bisciotti is a good friend of Goodell’s.  John Mara of the Giants and Art Rooney III of the Steelers head the “independent” investigation into the handling of Rice’s (lack of?) disciplining, and are allies of the commissioner.  Goodell’s position is an elected one, but voted by the owners, not the fans.

And so you see, there’s the conundrum.  The league is such an enormous beast that public relations is the last thing it needs.  There’s not a lot of accountability to act – until public outcry becomes loud enough to force action – as little as it will take to quiet the protests.

Rice gets a two-game suspension months after the league looks into the incident?  Then, when the backlash began, Goodell fell on the sword, saying he didn’t do enough.  And when that nasty video came out and splattered egg all over his thousand-dollar suit, Goodell had to backtrack again; backtrack and slam the indefinite suspension on Rice. 

It sure seems the thought there wasn’t, “Did we do enough?” but more like, “Did we do enough to get by?”  That’s not the way of the iron-fisted disciplinarian that the fair-haired Goodell has been previously portrayed to be.

The commissioner of a major sports league isn’t getting paid an eight-figure salary to react to news.  He’s supposed to be out in front of it.  Remember how he graced magazine covers and web pages for being the strong visionary that brought the league long-term labor peace, huge television deals, and a global reach?

Like I said, we love to see our authority figures take a tumble.  But in reality, nothing is going to change.

Goodell, no doubt, has seen the numbers.  Stadiums are still filling up.  TV ratings remain strong.  Other than a public tongue-lashing from Anheuser-Busch (but no pulling of their massive ad revenue) and the pulling out of Procter & Gamble’s partnership in Breast Cancer Awareness Week, ad money is still rolling in.  Attention to fantasy football hasn’t changed.  Betting money still cycles through Las Vegas. 

If Goodell was really in trouble, that question about him resigning might not have seemed so ridiculous.  But like the heads of most corporate giants, as long as the money continues to pour in and the stockholders (read:  owners) aren’t upset (read:  profits continue to swell), then all is good.

Yes, Roger Goodell came out and saw his shadow today in the bright lights of the television.  And like the groundhog, he’s indicated his league is due for another six weeks of winter.  But since it is 134 days until Super Bowl 50, winter’s going to go on for a whole lot longer.

But will it really matter?  After all, we’ve seen winter before.

[amthoughtsintowords]

A Tale Of Two Clocks

Ah, the life of a television sports producer.  

It’s day one back after working for the past couple of weeks on our Cardinals season preview show.  (If you saw it and liked it, great.  If you didn’t see it or didn’t like it, we’ll move on.)  Anyway, the thought that hit me today is that making the switch back to producing the three daily evening sportscasts is a huge jolt to my inner calm.

Especially a day like today.

You see, what I’m used to is having deadlines come in threes:  generally 5:25, 6:25 and 10:25.  And so my internal work clock is set to ring an alarm leading up to those three daily times.  A Pavlovian reaction minus the heavy salivating – so far.  By now, after doing this for more than 25 years, my system knows just how long it takes to get the material ready we’re going to present to the viewers; if I get sidetracked (like writing a blog, for example) or my mind is diverted (Squirrel!), my inner system rings that alarm that it’s time to focus to get the work done.  Yeah, it’s a concept commonly referred to as deadline pressure, but I thought I would give it a little depth.

So, roughly 40-45 weeks a year, my clock is set to that tempo.

The other weeks, sans vacation, I get to work on special projects, like the aforementioned Cardinal preview.  I really enjoy the break from the norm, specifically because I get to take my creativity for a long walk.  Don’t get me wrong – I get to be creative during my normal routine, but in much smaller chunks.  And so, with an hour show to work with, I get to do some long-form stuff – a breath of fresh air for me, to be sure.

So, for the past couple of weeks, that inner clock gets shoved in the drawer, and out comes the extended deadline clock.  The first week was in Florida when we (we being Rene Knott and photojournalist John Kelly) gather material, based on my mental picture of what we need and what happens of the unplanned nature – the young pitching trio of Wacha, Kelly and Maness having a paper-airplane tossing contest one morning, for example.  So, like most people who come back from the Sunshine State with more in their suitcase than they had when they left home, I came back with about six or seven hours of video to go along with the 15-20 hours of material already compiled by Frank Cusumano and Katie Felts on their trips down south.

So that brings us to the second week, which began as soon as the plane rolled to the gate.  Week?  More like five days.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

TickticktickticktickticktickTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK.

Log that video, put a star by the best stuff, boil it down to an hour (okay, more like 45 minutes plus commercials) and then determine a rundown.  And then the extended deadline clock starts clanging in my head like Big Ben; write, find the video to match, leave the editor with a detailed map of how to put it all together, all the while thinking that the deadline is going to come and go while the editor is still working on the first segment.  It’s a head rush of one huge oncoming freight train deadline that will be met only with a set of circumstances that are way beyond my control.

Thanks to a large supporting cast that met all those circumstances and made the product better than I pictured, the deadline came and went with seven completed segments instead of one, an hour of programming filled, and a large audience of viewers that tuned in.

Success.

I got to separate myself from that project and breathe for a few days.

And then today came.

Put the extended deadline clock away for now and pull the typical little deadlines clock out of the drawer.

Oh, but did I mention it was Opening Day of the baseball season?

Cardinal Baseball.  Nothing like what we’ll experience next week when the Cards come home, but it’s still a big deal.  Rene reporting from Cincinnati in the opening segment of the news, and then highlights for Frank in the sports block.  So take those little deadlines and double them.

Welcome back.

I’ve been blessed with a good memory, able to pull obscure facts out of the deeper recesses of my brain on the spur of the moment; so why do I never retain that memory of how to not put those deadlines into play?  Beats me.

All I know is that at 4:45 this afternoon I looked at the clock and felt uncomfortable with what I had left to do before Frank hit the air.  It’s a feeling I’ve had many times before and you would think I would be able to move seamlessly from one work scenario to the next.

Not so much.

Fortunately, the anxious moments came and went, shows were put together, information was passed to the viewer, and now the day is done.

Oh, but I’ll be ready the next time.

The NEXT next time.

[amthoughtsintowords]

At the end of the day…it’s good to go back

(From May 25, 2013)

When I got to Alton, Illinois this morning the sun was shining.  On my way out of town in the afternoon it was cloudy and raining.

It’s not the first time Western Military Academy has experienced the winds of change.

I went back to my hometown today to see a monument dedicated to a legacy left behind; of drills, discipline and duty, fostered by a once-prestigious institution.

Heck, it wasn’t just going back to my hometown; I went back to my neighborhood.  I grew up three blocks from Western’s main gate.  Today I got to see familiar faces and long-ago places through the eyes of a much different person than I was when I left.  But it enriches one’s life to go back.  To remember.  To reflect.  And to smile about an innocence I let go of a long time ago.

Western Military Academy sat on fifty acres at the junction of Seminary and Bostwick Avenues.  For 92 years the school welcomed boys, shaped cadets, and then sent out nearly four thousand young me into the world – yes, many served in the armed forces, such as Gen. Paul Tibbets, the pilot of the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima, and Butch O’Hare, a World War Two fighter pilot for whom the airport in Chicago is named.  But for every mark a WMA grad left through the military, there was also a Johnny Londoff, who sold a few automobiles in his day through a dealership that still bears his name and a man behind raising thousands of dollars for charity; a William Paley, a pillar of the broadcast industry as the head of CBS; Hollywood screenwriter Jerry Mayer; and award-winning photographer Robert Ellison, who chronicled the early days of the civil rights movement and whose images of the Siege of Khe Sanh during the Vietnam conflict appeared on the cover of Newsweek shortly after his death in the fighting.  It seemed that while Western may have taught its students about combat arms, among other things, it was also arming them for success in whatever diverse endeavor they would ultimately choose out of uniform.

All I know and remember were weekends with Academy cadets marching in formation past a little boy’s house on their way to Upper Alton.  Of a summer camp, run for a couple of years by the Jackson family to help keep the school afloat, where a growing boy learned to swim, stayed in the barracks and ate in the mess hall, got his first taste of Spanish, drama, archery and basketball, and learned how to snap a wet towel to leave a red mark – from both ends of the wet towel.  Of a playground for my teenage friends and me that was disguised as a slowly decaying landmark; many times we would sneak into the gym, and though it allowed in the seasonal heat or cold through its broken windows, it protected us from rain or snow or pounding summer sun while we shot endless baskets.

It had probably been 35 years since I had last walked the Academy grounds, but from the first time I heard about the memorial ceremony, I knew I had to be there; to connect to those people and that place that helped shape those formative years for me.  The cadets that returned today still carried pride from a time before I even knew what pride was, and each speaker that came from the school talked with reverence about their experiences, the people that led them and grew up with, and how those years helped shape them for success.

But as you look back, you also find sadness about times and friends lost.  There was an emotional recollection about the late photographer Ellison, among others, and as one speaker recounted WMA grads lost in the two World Wars and in Korea, he then noted Vietnam, “which took four lives from here and the school itself.”

You see, for all its good, Western also became a symbol of a military presence that the American public began to turn its back on.  While the tumultuous ‘60’s and ‘70���s were as much about freedom as in past decades, it was a different kind of freedom that was craved – or so we thought.  The times became less about discipline and order and more about experimenting and expression and peace…man.

The school died a slow death in 1971.

All of that was lost on me in my innocence.  I didn’t connect the closing of the school and subsequent erosion of the buildings as symbolic of a country that wanted no more war, though in looking back it could have been a documentary of images; but through my young eyes I only saw a rec center at my disposal, and I kept the secret from the world, I think.  If the Jackson family knew about our youthful escapades that could have been perceived as trespassing, they never confronted us.  And for that, I am thankful.

Ultimately, as I was transitioning from high school to college, the property was sold and turned into Mississippi Valley Christian School.  The sale was bittersweet to me at the time, but perhaps in some way it was a simultaneous evolution, me and Western, on our way to becoming more useful and productive pieces of society.

And we continue to evolve.  I moved away from the area in 1988, the Christian school seemed to thrive, the neighborhood and the people in and around it changed, and life went on.  We go so fast and yet nothing gets done.  Life can be such a blur, and when that is allowed to happen, important things tend to be forgotten in the immediacy of the present.

The property was recently put up for sale again, and Western’s legacy seemed destined to become merely a blip in Alton’s history, but thanks to the dedication of folks like Michael Doucleff, and C.B. and Bo Jackson (the one that didn’t play two pro sports), that isn’t going to happen.  First came the website (www.saveWestern.com), with a truckload of school history and memories, along with the push for a memorial.  And with a lot of work and cooperation from the right people, there is not a lasting tribute to a school that many people probably didn’t even know existed.  But now all can see that not only did it exist, but it mattered.  There are many graduates, those you may know and those who quietly made a difference in other meaningful ways, that took what they learned there and made the world a better place.

And the efforts of these dedicated few have been rewarded, and can now be put to other things.  Doucleff told his wife today that he can start tackling projects closer to home.  And now, bo Jackson can concentrate on getting married in five weeks.

(My congratulations, Bo; for your recent efforts, your present reward, and your future happiness.)

It was fitting that this should come to fruition on Memorial Day weekend.  Today was about remembering.  And in my case, I want to remember those days before innocence became overwhelmed by the rush to grow up; when we give in to the winds of change and forget where we came from.

[amthoughtsintowords]

The Irish, a Bear, and a whole lotta Sugar

(Editor’s Note:  It’s that time of year again; time to debate who is number one in college football.  With the BCS system in its final days, the NCAA edges closer and closer to determining a finite champion, though I suspect that even the four-team playoff system that will begin in 2015 will still have a large number of fans screaming for a better system.

But what of the days gone by, when so many questions about who was the best in a particular season often went unanswered?  That bygone era led to rare instances when the acknowledged two best teams in a given year met head-to-head.  And when talk of such games turns to rabid debate over which was the most memorable, several instances spring to mind:  Army-Notre Dame (1946), Alabama-Penn State (1979), and Nebraska-Miami (1984) are three examples.  Michael Weinreb did an excellent series of articles on the most impactful of those clashes for the website Grantland over this past summer.  I strongly recommend it.

But as I read on, one game from my youth struck me as being noticeable in its absence from the discussion.  And today is the 40th anniversary of the date of that game.  So indulge me, hop in the time machine with me, and let’s celebrate what, in my mind, was the most memorable college football summit meeting of all time, with selected footnotes.  And Happy New Year!)

  “If it’s the ultimate game, why are they playing it again next year?”                                                           -Duane Thomas

“An atheist is a guy who goes to a Notre Dame-SMU game and doesn’t care who wins.”              -Dwight D. Eisenhower

  December 31, 1973 may have marked the most heralded Northern invasion of the South since Grant rode out of Appomattox.

Notre Dame’s Sugar Bowl matchup with Alabama came two years after the most recent Game of the Century, Nebraska’s 35-31 win over Oklahoma on Thanksgiving Day, 1971.  While that battle of #1 and #2 produced an epic contest that has stood the test of time, it was played within a conference; a rivalry that was played out every year; See Texas v. Arkansas, 1969, USC v. UCLA, 1967.

This was a contest that broke that trend, crossing regional, socio-political, cultural and religious bounds, and in the end had redemptive overtones. 

And it was the first of a kind.

You see, for each of their glorious gridiron legacies, the Fighting Irish and Crimson Tide had never met on the opposite sides of a pigskin.

We as a society are quick to label a game as part of the buildup:  Clash of the Titans, Game of the Century; certainly because we truly believe such a game will turn out that way, but just as enthusiastically, we label because we hope such a game will be epic.  It so rarely turns out that way.

This one, if it is possible to do so, exceeded the hype.

There was an 11-year-old football fan at the time growing up in the Midwest weaned on Notre Dame recaps on Sunday mornings, with Lindsey Nelson and Paul Hornung at the microphones.  With the strains of the Victory March as a soundtrack, I awoke to the echoes of Nelson’s added-in voice track:  “With no change in the score, we move ahead to further action in the second quarter.” 

And then, for the 1973 season, C.D. Chesley’s productions went in a different direction, with the venerable voice of the Green Bay Packers, Ray Scott, describing the action instead of Nelson.  For these young ears, highlights described as “Clements.  Demmerle.  Touchdown, Notre Dame” by the staccato Scott just didn’t do it for me like what poured out of the lyrical Tennessean’s pipes: “Theismann rolling out.  Throws to Gatewood, and it’s a touchdown!  Gatewood, Tom Gatewood, and it’s a Notre Dame touchdown”, delivered with the twang these ears had become accustomed to.(1)

As for the Crimson Tide, I was familiar with the age-lined face and granite jaw of head coach Bear Bryant:  he coached Joe Namath, my first sports idol.  The Tide had recently featured running back Johnny Musso, the original Italian Stallion, whose exploits I read about in Sports Illustrated; shreds of his (pick a number-maybe third or fourth?) tearaway jersey of the day flapping in the breeze as he rambled for yards in the highlights clips we got to see on ABC Saturdays.  And they won a lot.  But as far as I knew, Alabama was a million miles away from where I was in the heartland.

Neither Ara Parseghian’s Irish nor Bryant’s Crimson Tide were expected to be factors for the national championship in 1973.  SI had them ranked 5th and 7th, respectively, in their preseason issue (2), and the Associated Press listed them 6th and 8th.  Yet, by November 26th, Alabama had ascended to the top of the polls with their 481 yards of total offense per game; Notre Dame had moved into 4th (AP) and 5th (UPI) with a defense allowing only about 200 yards a game.  But with number two Oklahoma on NCAA probation, and Ohio State and Michigan canceling each other out after a 10-10 head-to-head deadlock, it was clear that the Tide and the Irish were choices A and B to decide who would be best in the land.

Bear Bryant had set the wheels in motion early in November when he publicly stated that he wanted Notre Dame; and not just in any bowl game, but specifically the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans.  Notre Dame was wooed by the Orange Bowl committee, which was offering up a much heftier payday. (3)  But it was thus, and it came to pass:  The first-ever Alabama-Notre Dame matchup would take place on New Year’s Eve.

Now before we get to the game, some perspective.

For many, a New Year’s resolution for 1974 would have been for America to get out of the tangle of turmoil she was in up to her star-spangled neck.  We were stuck in the dying days of the Vietnam conflict, anti-war protests raging on campuses and commons, divided families in all corners of the nation.  Closer to home, the battle against raging inflation was at another standstill, and the growing Watergate scandal was greasing the skid into (more of?) a distrust of government in general and the Presidency in particular; though Richard Nixon had only recently hoped to assure us all by declaring “I am not a crook.”  Adding to the discord was the state of race relations; though mandated by federal and state governments to be inclusionary, relations between black and white were anything but in many pockets of the country.  The South, in particular, contained many boroughs that defiantly carried on the social standing of centuries past, but that region was not alone in ignoring the notion that blacks and whites should be, could be, or even would ever be, equal.

While the country plodded forward, Alabama and Notre Dame were basking in the resurgence of their once-mighty football programs.  Under Bryant, the Crimson Tide had been in the discussion for Team of the Sixties.  Yet by the end of that decade, Bryant knew that it was growing ever more difficult to compete on a national scale with an all-white squad of 200-pound boys “that come from good mommas and papas.”(4)  In a state in which segregationist governor George Wallace shared equal popularity with The Bear, Bryant was either a visionary of racial equality or, more likely, a sublime opportunist when he scheduled a game in Birmingham against the integrated Southern Cal squad in 1970, knowing he’d get whooped for all to see.  But lose the battle, win the war, as soon Bryant got the reluctant go-ahead to stock his roster with African-Americans; by 1973, nearly one-third of the Alabama roster consisted of black players.  That move, coupled with the installation of the yardage-gobbling wishbone offense that had helped schools like Texas and Oklahoma become powerhouses again, turned the Tide and made them roll once more. 

Relevant, but still not champions.  Alabama hadn’t even won a bowl game since 1966.

That year was also but a distant memory for Parseghian and the Fighting Irish – both good and bad.  Yes, the Irish had been anointed champions that year, but a tie against number two Michigan State cast an ugly shadow over the title; a tie borne out of Parseghian’s willingness to play for evens after an injury to his starting quarterback and the team fighting back from a 10-nothing deficit on the road.(5)  Bryant and Alabama had been directly affected by that tie; at number three in the land, the Tide stood poised to leapfrog to the top.  But the United Press International, still awarding their championship before the bowl season, kept Notre Dame on top, and even ‘Bama’s decisive 34-7 Sugar Bowl win over Nebraska couldn’t sway the Associated Press voters in their season-ending poll.  The Irish were still three years away from ending their decades-long disdain for participating in season-capping bowls.

As the “Era of Ara” played on, the Irish produced some good, but not elite teams and Parseghian had to hear the persistent catcalls and whispers about that tie-driven championship, while he silently burned – and yearned – for the perfect season that would silence his critics.  He had put together a typically brawny Irish team in 1973, but he was able to add a dimension of speed on offense that he hadn’t had before, and he used the new freshman eligibility rule to his advantage.(6)  The Irish squeaked by Michigan State in Week Three, but after ending Southern Cal’s 23-game unbeaten streak three weeks later they weren’t challenged the rest of the way.  Alabama, meanwhile, didn’t have a margin of victory closer than two touchdowns, both on the road, with a talented LSU squad “holding” the Tide to three touchdowns before ultimately losing.

So while Parseghian was now a step away from the perfection he craved, Bryant was at the threshold of ending his collection of near-misses(7), and they were set to collide in prime time.  The national spotlight focused directly on Tulane Stadium as the only game on the night before the New Year’s bowl bonanza.

ABC Sports president Roone Arledge, deciding the game needed more bombast, more oomph, coming from the broadcast booth, assigned Howard Cosell to join the understated tandem of Chris Schenkel and Bud Wilkinson.  And so, in this game of unbeatens, Catholic vs. Protestant (8), North vs. South, and Ara vs. Bear (9), it was Cosell putting the exclamation stamp on the game as it was winding down to its climax.

“At Notre Dame, football is a religion,” intoned Cosell.  “At Alabama, it is a way of life.”

Even Bryant, who could be as understated as Humble Howard couldn’t, particularly when talking about his own team, took a departure and lifted the hyperbole to another level when he called it, “the biggest game in the South’s history.”

Amidst all the hoopla surrounding the game, it was still a turbulent time and it would have been unrealistic to think that the South of decades and generations past wouldn’t have a presence that night:  Alabama increased security for their African-American players when they received death threats in the mail, warning those players not to take part in the game.

But play they would.  And the storms of racial hatred soon gave way to a more tangible storm.

With thunder booming and lightning crackling around the old stadium as kickoff neared, even an atheist would have sensed a celestial presence.  Tornado warnings had been issued earlier for the area, and a torrential rain had soaked a worn artificial turf so completely that both teams decided the shoes they had brought for the game weren’t going to cut it.  Puma had commissioned gold shoes to complement the Irish uniforms, but only one of them actually made it into play:  on the right foot of placekicker Bob Thomas.(10)

85,161 fans crowded into the stadium (11), and the game drew a Nielsen rating of 25.3.  Such a rating would get a network programmer coronated these days, and it was a substantial audience even in those times of more limited television choices.

As the game progressed and the time ticked nearer to 1974, this was the countdown to a national champion:

Six! 

As in lead changes.  Three by each team.

Five! 

As in the key blocks running back Al Hunter, embodying the speed and freshman standing that became so key to the Notre Dame season, got on his way to an untouched 93-yard kickoff return in the second quarter.  Hunter ran the final forty yards with ‘Bama’s coverage team losing ground in the footrace.

Four! 

As in the fourth, and final, Alabama third-down conversion of the game.  With under ten minutes to go, fullback Mike Stock, one of the few Alabama players from the other side of the Mason-Dixon Line (12), swept towards the outside, stopped, turned, and threw a pass back to the far side of the field where quarterback Richard Todd was waiting for it all alone.  Todd took it the rest of the way to give Alabama their final lead of the game.  It was a play that Wilkinson referred to as “The Transcontinental” from the days of the old single-wing formation.  It was a play Bryant called “his”.(13)

Four was also the number of men from a family named Davis, a father and three sons, who played for Bryant at Alabama.  The last in the line, kicker Bill, shanked the ensuing extra point wide right.  It was only Davis’s second miss in 53 conversion tries, and it kept the Crimson Tide lead at two points, ultimately forcing a final sequence of crucial decisions.

Three! 

As in the 19-yard field goal by Bob Thomas and his golden shoe.   After a 79-yard Notre Dame drive, it was a kick that barely squeezed past the right upright, thisclose to being a miss.  Nonetheless, it was 24-23 Irish with four minutes to go.

Two! 

As in those key decisions in the waning minutes.   With ‘Bama facing a fourth down-and-20 situation at their own 30, punter Greg Gantt, who led the nation with a 48.7 yard average, pinned the Irish back at their own one-yard line.  But Ross Browner ran into Gantt on the play, so The Bear had a choice:  take the 15-yard penalty and then roll the dice on converting a fourth-and-5, or take the punt and the field position and hope for (a) a safety that would give them the lead, or (b) the short field resulting from an Irish three-and-out with time left to drive for a field goal try.

Cosell, used to trampling over the words of his Monday Night football partners, had no problem doing the same to the mild-mannered Schenkel and the grandfatherly Wilkinson:  “They decline the penalty,” Cosell exclaimed.  “They’re going for field position!”

There were three minutes left on the clock.

After a pair of runs into the line and then, an offside penalty, the Irish were left with third down-and-eight from their own three.

Now it was Parseghian with the mantle of decision upon him.  The percentages leaned toward another run into the line to get some breathing room for a punt, and then entrusting his defense to keep the Tide out of field goal range.  While everyone with an opinion expected that the Ara of ’66 would play it safe, this was a new day; this Parseghian knew that the field crowned at its center, and that his punter would be kicking uphill out of the end zone.(14)  The inevitably shorter punt would make Alabama’s drive to a winning kick that much easier.  So the Irish had to make the first down if they were going to win, the coach decided, and he pulled out a trick of his own from up the sleeve of his navy Notre Dame sweatshirt.

One! 

The play. 

Power I Right, Tackle Trap, Pass Left.

It was the same play that got the Irish a two-point conversion earlier in the game, a pass from quarterback Tom Clements to split end Pete Demmerle.  This time the Irish line bunched together, as they did before, but with an added wrinkle; the Irish had to sell the run, and Alabama had to buy in, so Demmerle came out in favor of a second tight end for additional blocking.

A three-hour game came down to the next eight-and-a-half seconds. 

The Irish line pushed right at the snap as Clements faked a counter handoff to tailback Eric Penick, and then the junior backpedaled into the end zone to throw.

He looked for his primary target – heck, seemingly the only target now -- tight end Dave Casper.   But the future NFL Hall of Famer was briefly held up at the line and wasn’t in a position to make a play.

Clements threw only eleven passes in the game, 113 coming into the game, but he was cool in the face of the oncoming rush.  He quickly shifted his eyes left and then fired the ball over a leaping ‘Bama lineman and deep toward the Crimson Tide sideline.

The Irish player running under the ball had only caught one pass all season.  He hadn’t practiced for two days because of a balky knee but now he was the additional tight end on the play, given the task to draw a defender and clear out the area for Casper.  Instead, the run fake had worked so well that now Robin Weber was left all alone and suddenly had glory in his reach.

He looked up through his lineman’s facemask at the first pass Tom Clements had ever thrown his way – game, practice, or even warm-up.  The ball was headed right toward the Alabama coach standing on the sideline.  “I could have knocked the ball down myself,” Bryant said.

Instead, Weber pulled the ball in, gaining 35 precious yards as he was knocked out of bounds.

First down Irish with 1:56 to go.

Seeing no penalty flags, Weber half-leaped and half-skipped back towards his teammates.

Bryant quietly strode his sideline while Parseghian, now vindicated, tried to keep the Notre Dame bench from spilling out on to the field.

With Alabama out of timeouts, Clements then ran out the clock.

Notre Dame 24, Alabama 23.

“The great name in football is now the national champion,” Schenkel proclaimed.  “By one…point.”

The drama was such that Birmingham Post-Herald sportswriter Herby Kirby wrote and filed his game story – and then suffered a fatal stroke in the press box.

The locker room atmospheres were in complete contrast; silence mixed with quiet sobbing in the Alabama room, while the Irish players loudly celebrated in theirs.  Amidst the ruckus, The Bear came in (as was his custom) to congratulate the winning coach and then asked to see Clements, shaking his hand and telling him that he was “a great quarterback.”

Happy New Year!

After the ringing in of 1974, the final Associated Press poll came out and Notre Dame had vaulted to the top, ahead of Ohio State and Oklahoma.  Alabama came in fourth.  As was their annual rite, UPI had taken their final vote and crowned the Tide as champions before the bowls.  With embarrassment as the likely motivator, it was also the last year they did.(15)

Several players from that game, including Ross Browner, Dave Casper, and Richard Todd, went on to careers in the NFL; Casper crafting a Hall of Fame resume.  Clements, who was named the game’s MVP, became a Hall of Fame quarterback in the Canadian Football League before embarking on a second career as a longtime college and NFL assistant coach.  The kickers in the game, one a hero and one not, moved on to distinguished careers outside of football; Bill Davis is a dentist in Alabama, while Bob Thomas became an Illinois Supreme Court justice.  And Robin Weber?  Though injuries plagued him in each of his final two Fighting Irish seasons, he went on to success in Dallas real estate, and continues to live out his fifteen minutes of fame, thanks to the long reach of fans and alumni of Notre Dame.

Ara Parseghian said after the game that he “wanted to enjoy this year for a while.”  But coaching in South Bend doesn’t much allow for basking in past achievements as long as there is a next year.  And next year came all too soon.  Expectations were high with many of the players returning in 1974, but injuries and suspensions, and shocking losses to Purdue and Southern Cal derailed hopes of a repeat championship and increased clamor critical of the coach.  Parseghian took stock of his health and announced that at age 51, he would step down — but not before depriving Bryant of another bowl game win and possible championship; Notre Dame sent Ara out in style, 13-11, in a rematch with second-ranked Alabama in the Orange Bowl.  Parseghian never took another coaching job, spending several seasons in the broadcast booth and founding two charitable foundations. 

Bryant pressed on despite the disappointing losses to the Irish.  His Alabama teams continued to rack up wins, with the Bear becoming the winningest coach in NCAA history.  He also found the Holy Grail again not once, but twice; his teams won the final two of his six national championships in 1978 and 1979.  He retired in 1982, and scarcely a month later died of a heart attack at age 69.  Many of his most ardent followers simply felt he couldn’t live without coaching college football.

While the Sugar Bowl loss to Notre Dame ate at him for years afterward (16), Bryant never had to stamp his legacy with just one game; there was always a next big game for Alabama, he said.  And he always had other priorities, like maintaining superiority over heated/hated state rival Auburn.  “Sure, I’d love to beat Notre Dame,” Bryant said in the days leading up to that classic Sugar Bowl, “but nothing matters more than beating that cow college on the other side of the state.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(1)   And apparently I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.  Despite a long connection with the New York Mets, Nelson told author Curt Smith in the epic, “Voices of the Game”, that he was more identified for those Notre Dame broadcasts than anything.  Plus, Scott’s choice of sportcoats was a lot more sedate than Nelson's Technicolor Collection.

(2)   September 10, 1973, SI said of ‘Bama, “Much as Bear would like to…win his fourth national title, it would take more winners and surprises than even he is likely to come up with.”  And of ND:  “Associates say Parseghian will never be happy until he coaches the Irish to a perfect season, but this year’s golden helmets are unlikely to provide such blessed relief.”

(3)   About $100,000, or roughly half a million of today’s dollars.  According to Marty Mule’, in his “Sugar Bowl Classic:  A History”, Parseghian said, “We will select the competition first and the site second.”  Easy to do when you’re Notre Dame, the independent private school, and you’re not sharing your bowl revenue.

(4)   The 60-year-old Bryant had a thing about parenthood.  In 1958 he explained his reason for leaving Texas A&M to go coach at Alabama, his alma mater, simply as “Mama called.”  And one of the things he insisted that his players do, in addition to going to class, was to be sure and write (and later, call) their parents often.

(5)   Jim Murray, the fabled Los Angeles Times’ sportswriter, channeled Grantland Rice’s immortal prose when he wrote in part:  “Outlined against a blue-gray October sky, the Four Mice went into hiding again today…may George Gipp never hear of it.”

(6)   Both Eric Penick and backfield mate Art Best ran the 100-yard dash in under ten seconds, offsetting the power running of fullback Wayne Bullock.  Defensive ends Ross Browner and Willie Fry utilized speed and quickness as freshmen starters for the Notre Dame defense.  As seniors four years later, they were key players for the 1977 National Champion Irish.

(7)   Alabama had risen to number two in the polls in 1971, and was matched against fellow unbeaten Nebraska in the Orange Bowl.  That Cornhuskers team, considered to be one of college football’s all-time juggernauts, thrashed the Tide, 38-6.

(8)   Though Parseghian, as a Presbyterian, was an accepted exception in that comparison.

(9)   Bryant did cast a hierarchical shadow over the South.  Dave LaGarde of the New Orleans Times-Picayune added that the game matched “The Bear against the Pope.”

(10)  As the story was reported, Alabama players wore Tulane’s game shoes, while Notre Dame wore Tulane’s practice shoes.  What wasn’t reported was how they decided which team got what. 

(11)  Though the attendance exceeded the listed capacity of 80,965, it was far from being the largest in the stadium’s long history.  86,598 had witnessed the Tulane’s Green Wave upset longtime rival LSU there just four weeks earlier.

(12)  Stock actually was from Elkhart, Indiana, just a handful of miles from the Golden Dome of the Notre Dame campus.

(13)  Bo Schembechler of Michigan related the story in his book, “Bo”, of Bryant insisting they run “his” play in the 1972 Coaches All-American game.  It worked then, too.

 (14)  An accepted practice for better field drainage, the Tulane Stadium field angled even more severely in the end Notre Dame defended.  Parseghian had conversed with his punter, Brian Doherty, during pregame warm-ups, and it was Doherty who pointed out that kicking from that end zone would be a huge disadvantage.

(15)   Alabama receiver Wayne Wheeler told the New York Times in 2012 that, “We received national championship rings, and that was nice, but we knew the Sugar Bowl was the national championship.”

(16)   In fact, The Bear’s Tide never beat Notre Dame.  The Irish beat Alabama in 1976 and again in 1980, making Bryant’s record against the Fighting Irish a less-than-gaudy 0-4.

[amthoughtsintowords]

Reflections While Being Dogsat

(Editor’s note:  This was written to the family of my oldest friend, when I stayed at their house while they vacationed - well, all but the four-legged member of the clan.  I tried to imagine what he was thinking and then jotted off a letter to them from him.  I hope I got Toby’s words right; he’s pretty smart, but my “Doglish” was a little rusty.  I think I have his permission to share what he wrote with you.)

Dear Family,

I miss you all -- even that big lug that does all that grilling.  I hold him responsible for this other family you have staying with me.  There isn't many of him like there are of you, so the house is pretty quiet.  (I'd like to tell you about the dancing girls that came by the other night, but I think my supply of treats hinges on my silence -- so that's all you'll get out of me...until you get back.)

The first thing I've learned is that noise can be a good thing.  I think of the sounds of everyday family life as happy noise, because with all the laughter and activity that goes on when you're here, I'm happy, too.

The next thing I've learned is a whole new day schedule, which I hope to teach you when you get home.  I stay up late, go for walks 'Round Midnight (I always wondered what that song was about and now I know!), watch golf on the tee vee, and do a lot of reading when no one's here.  I'm only on Level 3 of Verbal Advantage, but it takes me a long time to get the book back on the shelf before he comes back - I've got no thumbs you know, and don't get me started on turning pages!  How do you humans do that?

He kind of scared me the first night.  I went to check on him in the dark, and when I got close he had this hose coming from his face that made him look like an elephant.  I did a fast backpedal then, but I'm used to it now so I'm not scared.  But really people, how about a warning next time?!!

I've taken to nap upstairs when I'm by myself, and I rush down the steps before he gets in the door so he doesn't see where I've been.  But I can get more of your smells up there, and it helps me not miss you so much.

It hasn't been all bad.  I get two squares and all the water I want, we walk all around the neighborhood (and the...shhhh!...(doggie whisper) golf course!  I have learned to appreciate the smell of the fairway, the buzzing of the insects, the water that comes shooting out of the ground at night, and the roar of the passing trains!  He says we'll get out earlier some night so we can see the train from the cart bridge.  I'd like that.  I think the sounds of the train make me think of you all, since you guys all like trains, too.

I also want you to know I've learned what good parents you are, because you have taught this new person really well:  he already brings in the mail without being told, he's watered the grass when it hasn't rained, he keeps things on the couch so I can't lay on it, he doesn't give me people food (but he has let me have a second beer at night after our walk - it helps me sleep), and he's really careful to have me on my leash when we're outside so I don't run off.  Don't worry, I'll work on his trust issues this week.

I hope you hurry up and have your fun so you'll come back soon.  Don't tell this new guy I said that -- he's trying hard and I sit with him in the family room and keep him company, and I've let him brush me so he doesn't get lonely.  But he's not you guys.  Come back soon so I can let you hug me.

Until then, I'll just stay on the lookout for you.

Love, Toby

Sent from (his) iPhone