A Tragic New Year's Eve

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Like most American boys, I was a baseball fan.

I'm not as much of a baseball fan today as I was then, but there was a time in my life when I collected baseball cards and I knew the names of the starting lineups of every major league club.

That was in the days before cable TV and the internet, before you could watch a baseball game every night of the week.

There was a "game of the week" televised every Saturday afternoon, and the all–star game was always an excuse for a special baseball broadcast. But, most of the time, I had to try to find a baseball broadcast on the radio if I wanted the experience of a major league game on a summer night.

Even though I couldn't watch much major league baseball when I was a child, I still felt fortunate to be living at a time when so many truly gifted players were playing — guys like Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Lou Brock, Harmon Killebrew, Reggie Jackson, etc.

Where I grew up, the St. Louis Cardinals were the primary team of interest. There were fewer teams in those days, and, although I didn't live in Missouri, I did live close enough to get there in a day — and my family did go to St. Louis to see the Cardinals play a few times.

One of the Cardinals' division rivals when I was growing up was Pittsburgh, and the Pirates had one of my favorite ball players of all time — Roberto Clemente — so I always made a special effort to pick up the Cardinals broadcast when St. Louis played Pittsburgh.

I almost never got to see Clemente play. Once a year, I could usually count on seeing him in the all–star game — he made 15 all–star appearances in his career — and he played in two World Series, winning the MVP in the 1971 Fall Classic.

But I have few memories of seeing him play in the game of the week. That's a shame because he really was a great player — and a truly generous man.

That's what led to his death on this night 40 years ago.

While most of his teammates were celebrating the dawn of a new year, Clemente was trying to make sure that aid for earthquake victims in Nicaragua reached the people who needed it. Three previous flights carrying emergency relief aid had been diverted by corrupt government officials and had never reached their intended destination.

So Clemente decided to accompany the fourth shipment, apparently hoping that his status as a major–league baseball star would guarantee that the aid would get to the survivors. He chartered an airplane for a New Year's Eve flight.

The plane, however, had a history of mechanical problems and was overloaded by about 4,000 pounds. It crashed off the coast of Puerto Rico shortly after takeoff. A two–week search of the Atlantic Ocean failed to produce a body.

I remember hearing the reports that his plane had gone down. I was spending New Year's Eve at a friend's house, and his parents had told us we could stay up to watch the inaugural broadcast of Dick Clark's "New Year's Rockin' Eve," which became an annual event — and, presumably, will remain so even though Clark died earlier this year.

As the name would imply, there were many musical guests slated to appear on the show, one of which was Three Dog Night. My friend and I were big fans of Three Dog Night in those days, and, if Clemente's plane had not gone down a few hours earlier, that would have drawn all our attention that night.

But we were both baseball fans, and we both liked Clemente. I remember the two of us sitting in front of the TV, all thoughts of Three Dog Night and New Year's Eve driven from our minds as we hoped against hope that Clemente might be found alive.

But his body was never recovered.

We went ahead and watched Dick Clark's special that night, but the excitement was gone. I remember falling asleep thinking not of the new year that had dawned but of the lives — especially Clemente's — that had been lost.

Christmas Eve

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When I was a child, there was a certain sameness to every Christmas and every Christmas Eve.

We lived about 330 miles from Dallas, where my parents grew up and where my grandparents lived until they died. My father was a college professor so, as soon as his school dismissed for the holidays and my brother and I were dismissed from our schools for the holidays, the family would pack up the car and hit the road for Dallas.

Both of my grandfathers died before I reached the age of 10, but we always stayed with my mother's mother when we were in town and we always visited my father's mother.

In addition to the family obligations, Christmas in Dallas always involved visiting all my parents' friends who were still in the area — and there were quite a few. Sometimes we planned group outings; if a good movie was showing, we might assemble for lunch and a matinee. If a Pink Panther movie was showing, seeing it was a sure thing.

The friends frequently gathered on Christmas Eve to drink wine and nibble on snacks. When I got a little older, I was allowed to join the festivity. I wasn't allowed to drink the wine until I was old enough to do so legally, but I drank soft drinks and enjoyed the snacks.

Well, that was how the holidays typically played out when I was growing up.

But I remember one special Christmas Eve — 40 years ago today — that I spent watching football with my father's mother.

Since I was a child, I have been a Green Bay Packers fan, and I guess I became a fan of the Packers in much the same way that most others do. They were the top team when I was little and I saw football on TV for the first time.

My family didn't have a TV until after the Vince Lombardi era, but our neighbors did, and that was where I saw football for the first time and became a Packers fan.

The Packers were terrible when I began following them and calling them my favorite team, but things changed — or seemed to — 40 years ago when Green Bay took the NFC Central crown from the Minnesota Vikings, who usually won that division in those years.

And on this day 40 years ago, the Packers played the Washington Redskins in the playoffs.

I remember little about that day except that I was excited about the Packers being in the playoffs. My mother and father and brother wanted to do some last–minute Christmas shopping, but I wanted to watch the football game. So my grandmother offered to stay with me that afternoon and watch the game while the rest of the family went shopping.

The Packers were never really in that game — the Redskins went on to lose to the undefeated Miami Dolphins in the Super Bowl — but I remember sharing the experience of watching that game with my grandmother.

There weren't many times in my life when I got to share something with her like that, and she died less than four years later. It is a cherished memory for me now — even though I can't remember anything we said that afternoon. I just remember that she cheered when something good happened for the Packers, even though not much did.

Grandmother was a Cowboys fan — and her Cowboys went on to lose to the Redskins the next week — but she cheered for the Packers that day just because they were my favorite team.

The Immaculate Reception

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When I was growing up, the Pittsburgh Steelers were the bottom feeders of the NFL.

But all that changed rather suddenly in 1972.

The Steelers won their division and appeared in a postseason game for the first time in a quarter of a century.

That game was against the Oakland Raiders, at the time the most successful team in the NFL, 40 years ago today, and it seemed that the Steelers, who had been shut out in their only previous postseason appearance, would have to wait at least another year for their first postseason victory.

Neither team managed a score in the first half. The Steelers got two Roy Gerela field goals in the second half before the Raiders took a 7–6 lead on Kenny Stabler's 30–yard touchdown run and George Blanda's extra point late in the game.

Then the most wildly, improbable thing happened.

With time running out, Terry Bradshaw faced a fourth down 60 yards from Oakland's end zone. He scrambled around and flung a pass in the direction of John Fuqua. The pass ricocheted off defender Jack Tatum into the hands of rookie Franco Harris, who scooped it out of the air only inches from the ground and ran down the sidelines for the game–winning score.

Almost immediately, it was dubbed the Immaculate Reception.

And, almost immediately, critics claimed the Raiders had been robbed. It was, one wag suggested, the Immaculate Deception.

Well, yesterday, I watched programming on the NFL Network about the Immaculate Reception. I watched the replays that have been enhanced as much as possible by the technological advances of the last four decades.

And I have concluded that it was a legitimately completed pass.

It was, to be sure, a bizarre play, perhaps the most bizarre play I have seen in a lifetime of watching football.

It has been a source of debate for 40 years, and it probably will be a source of debate for another 40 years.

There will always be folks on either side of the issue who will never be persuaded that the other side might be right.

And that is one of the things that makes sports so special. You never know when an unforgettable moment is about to occur.

Murder in Munich

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When the Summer Olympic Games opened in Munich 40 years ago today, its motto was "the Happy Games."

Germany — which was divided into East and West in 1972 — was hosting its first Olympics since Nazi Germany hosted the 1936 Games in Berlin. West Germany was eager to provide a contrasting image to the world, reassuring all who watched that the Germany of 1972 was not the Germany of 1936. It was a place where people of all races and religions could come and compete peacefully.

More than 7,000 athletes from 121 nations participated in those Summer Games, and there were, as always, memorable moments.

• American swimmer Mark Spitz won seven gold medals, setting a standard that stood for more than 35 years.

• Soviet gymnast Olga Korbut captured the hearts of viewers around the world — as well as a few medals.

• America's basketball team lost the gold medal to the Soviets in a controversial finish. The Americans refused to accept the silver medal, which is still in Switzerland.

But the 1972 Olympic Games are not really remembered for any of those things. They are remembered mostly for acts of unbelievable barbarism and cruelty.

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The image that emerged from the 1972 Games was not one of joy and optimism. It was more accurately summed up in a photograph by Kurt Strumpf of the Associated Press showing an Arab terrorist — a member of a group calling itself "Black September" — wearing a ski mask at the living quarters of the Israeli athletes.

The members of Black September broke into the Olympic Village on Sept. 5, 1972, and took 11 Israeli hostages. Two resisted and were killed on the spot; the rest were executed later.

A West German police officer and five terrorists were killed as well.

Initially, Olympic events were suspended, but then the International Olympic Committee's president declared, "The Games must go on!"

And so they did.

But the atmosphere was different. There was no longer a joyful feeling of brotherhood. Back here in the United States, it seemed that people were watching with their collective breath held and their fingers crossed, just hoping to finish the Games without anyone else being hurt or killed.

And it was with a sense of relief — and a collective release of held breath — that the world witnessed the comparatively peaceful conclusion of the 1972 Summer Olympics.

Fortunately, the Olympics have not been disrupted by violence — just politics — in the four decades since.

But, sadly, the threat has not diminished.

I don't know what the answer is.

We can continue to pretend that nothing like that can possibly happen again — until it does.

Or greater steps can be taken to truly promote the concepts of brotherhood and friendly competition.

That may be nearly impossible to achieve, given the vast differences and ancient animosities between some cultures. The Hatfields and McCoys had nothing some of these disputes.

But it may be the only plausible goal. Terrorism in the 20th century was bad enough with automatic weapons, but terrorism in the 21st century might involve nuclear weapons — the so–called "dirty bombs".

Still largely theoretical, these bombs wouldn't be as efficient as conventional nuclear weapons, but they could be capable of contaminating everything within a certain range of ground zero with high doses of radioactive material.

The detonation of such a bomb certainly would get the world's attention — and that is what terrorists crave.

They can also achieve attention through an invitation to negotiate, which may not be preferable, but it usually involves a lot less violence.

The time may be coming when the officials of the Olympics have to decide how they will continue to pursue their own goals while co–existing with those who wish to do them harm.

The Olympic Spirit

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Like most Americans, I guess, I have been watching the Summer Olympics these last two weeks, rooting for the USA and all that.

And, as we near the conclusion of the 2012 Games, we have had some memorable moments but not necessarily iconic ones.

Well, I'll make a couple of exceptions on that one.

Although I already knew the outcome, last night I watched the women's beach volleyball gold–medal game — and applauded Kerri Walsh and Misty May on winning their third consecutive gold in the event.

After all, everyone knew it would be their final match together. It was a special moment.

I would say that watching them in that match, knowing it was the last one, was comparable to watching Michael Jordan play his final game of basketball or Babe Ruth play in his final game of baseball.

Except that, with only two athletes per team, it probably had more in common with tennis. So watching them play was probably like watching the final championship match between Martina Navratilova and Chris Evert.

They are legends of their sport — even if their sport, like so many Olympic sports, grabs our attention for a few days every four years.

Between now and 2016, if I watch beach volleyball at all, it probably will be accidental, a case of stumbling onto a broadcast while looking for something else to watch.

And I may stop and watch it for a few minutes — until I remember that there are other channels to check and, after making a mental note to return to the broadcast if I don't find something else to watch (which I probably will not do, settling instead for something that is vastly inferior), I will move on.

The Olympics make us temporary fans of sports we seldom watch at any other time.

I've seen nothing on the field to compare with the final seconds of the U.S.–U.S.S.R. hockey game of 1980 or the American gold rush at the 1984 Games in Los Angeles.

Or Kerri Strug's one–foot landing to secure the all–around gold medal for the U.S. gymnastics team in 1996.

Fortunately, though, we've had nothing similar to the killings of the Israeli athletes by terrorists at the 1972 Games in Munich — an event that has been rarely mentioned, at least in the TV coverage I have seen.

Maybe I have missed it, but I was sure that someone would say something about it since 2012 is the 40th anniversary of that indisputably dark chapter in Olympic history.

But it has been all but ignored at these Games.

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Well, others may have overlooked the anniversary — either intentionally or unintentionally — but Aly Raisman did not.

Raisman, an 18–year–old American gymnast and "official Jewish heroine of the 2012 Olympic Games," in the words of Haaretz Israeli News' Allison Kaplan Sommer, saluted the "Munich 11" on the occasion of what must be considered her greatest personal triumph to date — her gold medal–winning performance in the floor exercise.

Leonard Greene of the New York Post put it this way:

"The martyrs were remembered this week during a London ceremony filled with sadness and reflection," Greene wrote. "But not a peep about them has been said publicly in the one place where it counts — at the Summer Games on Olympic soil."

Until Raisman.

Dream Fulfilled

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In two days, the 2012 Summer Olympics will begin, and most sports fans will turn their attention to London for two weeks.

But it is worth remembering that 20 years ago today, America's professional "Dream Team" basketball squad made its debut at the Summer Olympics in Barcelona.

The 1992 Summer Games are remembered for many reasons:

• They were the last Summer Olympics to be held in the same year as the Winter Olympics.
• For the first time in more than 30 years, South Africa was allowed to compete.
• For the first time in nearly 30 years, Germany competed as a united country.
• The countries that had formed the Soviet Union until the year before were allowed to compete as a Unified Team.
  
  Under that banner, they won more medals than any other country.

And it was the first time that pro basketball players were allowed to compete; the United States formed its team from the very best the NBA had — Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, Magic Johnson.

The 1988 Olympic squad had been quite talented, too, but all the players were college players, and they finished third. Hopes were high in America in 1992, higher than they had been in, perhaps, 20 years — ever since the United States lost a controversial gold–medal game to the Soviet Union at the 1972 Games and refused to accept the silver medal.

For 20 years, that loss to the Soviets had gnawed at the American psyche. Prior to that day, the United States had not lost an Olympic basketball game since the sport was added to Olympic competition in 1936. The Americans had practically sailed through their first eight games, but they found themselves trailing the Russians at halftime and struggling in the final minutes.

With three seconds showing on the clock, the Americans were fouled and a player was awarded two free throws. He made the first and was in the process of shooting the second when the buzzer sounded; the Soviets had called a timeout. The player continued with his shot and made it, giving the Americans a one–point lead.

Under the rules that existed at the time, the ball was live, but play was stopped when the Soviets insisted they had called a timeout. There was some commotion at the scorers' table, play resumed and, eventually, the Soviets scored and won the game. The timeout and the ensuing sequence of events was a sore spot that never completely healed.

Even when the U.S. hockey team beat the mighty Soviet team in the 1980 Winter Games, the loss by the 1972 basketball team lingered and festered.

The Dream Team avenged the 1972 defeat and the disappointing 1988 finish in a big way — they went undefeated at Barcelona, winning every game by an average margin of 44 points. The Americans beat the Croatians twice, including in the gold–medal game, and Croatia did manage to hold the United States to its two lowest winning margins — 32 and 33 points.

The Americans' most lopsided victory came in the opener, a 116–48 win over Angola. The United States never scored fewer than 103 points, and its opposition never scored more than 85. And neither happened in the same game.

The Dream Team was kind of anticlimactic, though.

I mean, with all that talent, all that star power, it was practically regarded as a foregone conclusion that the U.S. basketball team would win the gold medal — and that none of the games would be close.

It all went as expected, too. There was no real suspense, no real drama. Only a diehard basketball fan could probably tell you who the Americans defeated in the gold–medal game.

But, for a true sports enthusiast, the absence of even a hint of uncertainty about the eventual outcomes, rendered the games mildly interesting. The only real issues to be settled were which player(s) would lead the team in scoring and rebounds.

Few championship games in any sport, amateur or professional, have been as lopsided as the U.S.'s game with Croatia. The U.S. did trail Croatia — briefly — in the first half, but that was about as much suspense as there was in any of the Dream Team's games.

When it was over, Sports Illustrated suggested that the Dream Team had been the most dominant team ever assembled in any sport.

I doubt that anyone argued the point.

The Remarkable Riva Ridge

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Next year will be the 40th anniversary of the great Secretariat's Triple Crown run of 1973.

I expect that all of horse racing will pay homage to that extraordinary champion — and rightfully so.

But today is the 40th anniversary of the emergence of the last super horse before Secretariat came along — his stablemate, Riva Ridge.

There were other links between Secretariat and Riva Ridge. Both were owned and trained by the same stable. Both were ridden by the same jockey. They even faced off in a match race sponsored by the Philip Morris company.

In the 25 years between Citation's Triple Crown in 1948 and Secretariat's in 1973, 15 horses won two of the three races.

By far the most common of the victorious two–race combinations was the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness Stakes (the first two races), and the reason for that is simple. The Derby and the Preakness, although separated by only two weeks, are shorter races that tend to favor speed horses; the much longer Belmont Stakes, which is held three weeks after the Preakness, favors endurance over speed.

Over the years, many a speedster has jumped to a fast lead at the Belmont only to fade and burn out long before reaching the finish line. It is indeed a rare horse that possesses both speed and endurance.

But Riva Ridge, like Secretariat, seems to have been that rare horse. And he might have won the Triple Crown except for what turned out to be his Achilles' heel. He couldn't run well on a sloppy track, and rain at Pimlico prior to the Preakness made the track too sloppy for him.

That cleared the way for Bee Bee Bee, a 19–to–1 shot, to win.

Bee Bee Bee wasn't in the fields for the Kentucky Derby or the Belmont Stakes, and I still hear people arguing that, if he had, he might have been the Triple Crown winner.

That is one of those what–if questions, though. The fact remains that Riva Ridge won two of the Triple Crown races in 1972, and he won the first of those races 40 years ago today.

A moment in thoroughbred racing that is worth remembering today.

Winning the Big One ... Finally

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As they began the 1971 season, the Dallas Cowboys had been known as the team that couldn't win it all for a long time.

Well, it was a long time by Texas standards.

The Cowboys had actually been in existence for a little more than a decade when they finally won the conference title in January 1971 and went on to play in their first Super Bowl ever. As expansion teams go, that's a pretty rapid ascension, but they lost that Super Bowl to the Baltimore Colts on a last–second field goal — and, once again, fell short of Texas–sized expectations.

That did not happen on this date in 1972.

I don't know how — or, for that matter, precisely when — it started, but sometime in the late 1960s the Dallas defense acquired the nickname "Doomsday."

The Cowboys of those days always seemed to have talented players on offense, but the defense was the team's foundation.

And it was frequently the failure of the offense that kept the team from advancing to the next level.

In January 1972, though, Roger Staubach had been the starting quarterback most of the year and enjoyed what may have been his best season as a pro. With Staubach in charge on the field, the offense finally matched the defense, and the rest of the league was powerless to do anything about it.

Certainly, Miami appeared powerless on this day 40 years ago.

Most Super Bowl teams have scored at least one touchdown, but, on that day, Miami did not. Even the few teams that failed to score a touchdown got more points than the Dolphins did — and, unless a future Super Bowl participant is held to a safety or shut out completely, Miami's standard for scoring futility is going to remain on the record books.

Doomsday held Miami to a single Garo Yepremian field goal in the first half, essentially smothering the Dolphins' key offensive weapons — receiver Paul Warfield and running backs Larry Csonka and Jim Kiick.

When the Cowboys had the ball, Staubach completed nearly two–thirds of his passes, two of which went for touchdowns as Dallas prevailed, 24–3. Staubach was named the game's MVP and was jubilant, recalling on the 25th anniversary of that triumph that "I don't think I ever felt any better as an athlete than ... I felt after that game."

And why shouldn't he? Staubach and his teammates shook a monkey the size of King Kong from their backs that day.

The Immaculate Reception

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On this day in 1972, Terry Bradshaw completed a pass to Franco Harris that scored the game–winning touchdown against the Oakland Raiders in the first round of the AFC playoffs.

Over the years, Bradshaw probably completed dozens of passes to Harris. But what made that play so memorable was the fact that Bradshaw hadn't been throwing to Harris. His target, based on the play that had been sent in from the sideline, was meant to be a fellow named Barry Pearson, a rookie receiver.

Oakland led, 7–6. It was Pittsburgh's ball, fourth–and–10 on the Pittsburgh 40. There were 22 seconds left. After the ball was snapped, Bradshaw was almost immediately under considerable pressure by Oakland's linemen, and he scrambled around a bit, then threw the ball in the direction of John Fuqua.

Fuqua collided with the Raiders' hard–hitting safety, Jack Tatum, and the ball ricocheted in Harris' direction. Harris scooped up the ball before it could hit the ground and ran in with what wound up being the winning touchdown.

It may be the most famous play in NFL history. NFL Films chose it as both the greatest play and the most controversial play of all time.

It is called "The Immaculate Reception," a name it apparently was given that very day.

The story I've heard is that the nickname was used first by a Pittsburgh sportscaster, who was reporting on the game. A Pittsburgh woman called him and suggested it. He used it, and it has been in use ever since.

I've heard lots of nicknames for games, plays and players over the years, and that one may be the most perfect I've ever heard.

What makes it perfect is knowledge of the Steelers' history — and how that play really changed things for them forever.

The 1972 season was the Steelers' 40th in the NFL. More than 75% of the time, the Steelers had finished seasons with losing records. As they entered their game with the Raiders on this day 38 years ago, they had never won a playoff game. But Harris' catch heralded the changing of the guard in the NFL.

The Steelers didn't win the Super Bowl that year. Instead, they lost the AFC Championship to Miami the next week, and Miami went on to cap its 17–0 season with a Super Bowl triumph over Washington.

But the Steelers wound up being the dominant team of the decade, winning four Super Bowls with Bradshaw, Harris, Lynn Swann and the Steel Curtain defense.

And the seeds for that great run could truly be said to have been planted in Three Rivers Stadium on this day in 1972.

That was what made it the Immaculate Reception.