George Brett and the Pine Tar Incident

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Baseball Hall of Famer George Brett turned 60 earlier this year.

That's kind of hard for me to wrap my mind around. I remember watching him play ball when I was a kid.

Well, we're all older now.

But I mention Brett's age because when he was exactly half his current age — 30 years ago today — he was involved in perhaps the most notorious incident of his time.

They called it the "pine tar incident" then, and I presume they still do today.

Brett's original major–league team, the Kansas City Royals, was playing the New York Yankees in Yankee Stadium on that day. Brett started playing in the major leagues in 1973. A decade later, the Royals and Yankees had met in the American League Championship Series four times, and they had kind of developed an animosity toward each other.

Now, I say that knowing that just about every team in baseball loathes the Yankees. They've won more championships than any other team — by far. The Royals were no different than any other team in baseball, but, since they didn't exist until 1969, they were just a little later to the party than the others.

Anyway, as I was saying, the teams were playing each other on this day in 1983. The Royals trailed by a single run with two outs in the top of the ninth, and Brett came to the plate. Hall of Fame reliever Goose Gossage was on the mound. Gossage delivered the pitch, Brett connected and the ball sailed over the fence. Home run. Two runs scored. Royals led, 5–4.

But when Brett crossed the plate with the apparent go–ahead run, Yankee manager Billy Martin left the New York dugout and walked up to the home plate umpire. Martin said he wanted Brett's bat examined. He had observed what he thought was an excessive amount of pine tar on the bat.

Now, at this point, it is probably useful to explain the relevance of pine tar in baseball. Pine tar is a sticky material that has several applications, one of which is to make a baseball bat easier for a player to grip and helps keep a bat from slipping out of a player's hands when he swings.

According to the rules of major league baseball, players may only apply pine tar from the handle of the bat up 18 inches. Martin believed the pine tar on Brett's bat exceeded the 18–inch restriction.

Actually, players are allowed to use any substance or material to improve the grip as long as it does not exceed 18 inches. If it exceeds 18 inches, the rules call for the bat to be removed from play. If a player made a hit with such a bat, it was termed at the time an "illegally hit ball" — resulting in an out.

So, the home plate umpire and the rest of the umpiring crew gathered at home plate to examine Brett's bat — with Brett and the rest of the Royals watching from their dugout. Apparently unable to make an eyeball assessment, the umpires measured the pine tar on the bat against the width of home plate, which is 17 inches, and they determined that Martin was right.

Brett was ruled out, giving the Yankees the victory.

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Infuriated by the ruling, Brett ran from the dugout and vigorously objected. He had to be restrained by his manager and teammates, but his protest made no difference. The ruling stood.

(Memorably, a commentator on the scene said that Brett was the first player in history to hit a "game–losing home run.")

The Royals challenged the ruling, and American League President Lee MacPhail overruled it, awarding the victory to the Royals. He explained that the "spirit" of the rule had nothing to do with an unfair advantage for one player or team over another. Rather, it was based on economics. Pine tar that is any higher than 18 inches on a bat runs the risk of smearing the ball and rendering it unfit for use in a game. Home teams are required to provide the balls for games, and that would raise the home team's expenses.

MacPhail believed Brett had not violated the spirit of the rule and that the ball had not come in contact with the pine tar. He decided that the game should be resumed with the Royals leading, 5–4, and Brett was not to play. He was ejected for arguing with the umpire.

So the game was resumed nearly a month later on a scheduled off–day for both squads. Brett, his manager and two of his teammates were ejected per MacPhail's decision. There were additional maneuvers by the Yankees, made necessary by various things that had happened since the July 24 encounter (one of the Yankee players who was in the lineup that day was injured and another had been traded) but, in the end, Kansas City reliever Dan Quisenberry retired the side, and the Royals won the game.

And the pine tar incident took its place in baseball's history.

Shocking Phi Slama Jama

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"Sure, 15–footers are fine, but I like to dunk."

Clyde Drexler

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I've seen a few really noteworthy upsets in championship settings in my life.

Most of the time they seem to come in baseball — the Amazin' New York Mets of 1969 and the Kirk Gibson—led Los Angeles Dodgers of 1988 come to mind — and, occasionally, they come in football — when the Miami Hurricanes knocked off top–ranked Nebraska in the 1984 Orange Bowl, for example, or when Joe Namath took the New York Jets to a triumph in the third Super Bowl.

Sometime the outcome hinges on an obvious mistake. Perhaps it is a bad call, like the one that turned things around for the Kansas City Royals against the St. Louis Cardinals in 1985. Other times, it may be a poor strategic decision by a coach or a player.

And sometimes the upset occurs in an individual sport, not a team one — like when Mike Tyson lost his heavyweight title to Buster Douglas.

But of all the team sport championships in my memory that were not decided by a blown call or a blatantly poor decision by a coach or a player, there was one really epic upset, the NCAA Tournament finale between the University of Houston and North Carolina State played 30 years ago tonight.

Houston's Cougars were widely regarded as just too good to lose. The roster had Hakeem Olajuwon and Clyde Drexler, the best and probably best–known members of "Texas' Tallest Fraternity" — Phi Slama Jama — but they had plenty of talented support from guys like Benny Anders, Larry Micheaux and Michael Young.

Phi Slama Jama specialized in dunking the ball. The players were big and physical, and they played in the last years when neither the shot clock nor the three–point shot existed in college basketball. If the game's pace had been faster or if making a long shot had been rewarded with an additional point, Phi Slama Jama might not have been as successful as it was.

But in its time, Houston went to back–to–back NCAA finals and lost both. In their second appearance, the Cougars went up against a pretty strong Georgetown team led by Patrick Ewing. My memory is that Houston's loss in that game really didn't surprise me. The Hoyas and the Cougars were considered to be evenly matched.

But the same could not be said of Houston's foe 30 years ago tonight, the North Carolina State Wolfpack. N.C. State barely managed to get in to the NCAA Tournament that year; the Wolfpack were seeded sixth in the West but won three cliffhangers en route to the Final Four.

Cliffhangers weren't anything new for the Wolfpack. They had to endure seven of them in their last nine games just to qualify for the NCAA Tournament. In so doing, they had earned the nickname "Cardiac Pack."

Top–ranked Houston, by comparison, had cruised through the tournament. In their national semifinal with #2 Louisville 48 hours earlier, the Cougars won by 13 points.

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It was probably the greatest Cinderella story in my lifetime — so far, anyway.

N.C. State was a huge underdog that night. I remember that, at the time, I was working for a small–town newspaper in central Arkansas, and I was covering a county government meeting that night. I covered these meetings on a regular basis, and I knew that, even though they tended to draw very small crowds, the officials tended to get into long–winded arguments about damn near everything.

In my experience, if one of those meetings was over in less than two hours, it was a miracle.

I was disheartened by this knowledge because I really wanted to see the game, and I was convinced that I would miss most, if not all, of it.

But fate seemed to be on my side. The meeting ended early. I asked a few of the officials some questions, and I left, certain that I could be home before tipoff.

As I walked out, a county police officer who always attended the meetings called out to me. We chatted for a few minutes, then I excused myself, explaining that I wanted to see the game.

"Who do you think will win?" he asked me as I started walking down the hall.

"Houston," I said, without hesitation. I simply couldn't imagine North Carolina State winning the game.

But I was wrong.

N.C. State led by eight points at halftime, then squandered the lead in the second half but rallied by exploiting Houston's Achilles' heel — free–throw shooting.

The Wolfpack frustrated the Cougars, fouling them every time they had their hands on the ball. Olajuwon fared pretty well, hitting six of seven attempts, but, as a team, Houston barely managed to sink half its free throws.

Phi Slama Jama's reputation was built on power ball. As Drexler said, he liked to dunk — as did the rest of the Cougars. Free throws weren't something on which they spent a lot of time.

Still, it took a slam dunk by Lorenzo Charles just before the buzzer to lift the Wolfpack to that improbable triumph.

Charles died nearly two years ago when the bus he was driving crashed.

Real Clear Sports recently named Charles as the top player who found fame in the NCAA Tournament.

The Wolfpack didn't find fame in the 1983 championship game. N.C. State had won a national crown before.

But the title they won 30 years ago tonight was their most memorable.

A Super Super Bowl

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They've been playing the Super Bowl for nearly half a century now.

There have been a handful of Super Bowls in which two teams met for the second time. The Super Bowl that was played 30 years ago on this day was one of those occasions.

The Miami Dolphins and the Washington Redskins met 10 years after they met the first time — in January 1973 when the Dolphins capped a perfect season with their victory over the Redskins.

(The record for the most matches between the same two teams belongs to the Dallas Cowboys and the Pittsburgh Steelers, who have squared off in three Super Bowls.)

In the decade that had passed, the Dolphins had returned to the Super Bowl once and the Redskins had not been back at all. I do not recall either team being the favorite to play in the Super Bowl before the season began.

Maybe the Dolphins were. In those days, the Dolphins were sort of like the Patriots are today. They ruled the AFC East and, thus, were always in the playoffs. I imagine, though, that, if I could go back in time and read the preseason assessments, Miami would have ranked below several other AFC teams.

And the Redskins had rarely been a factor in the NFC East in the previous 10 years. Perhaps expectations were higher than I remember, but Tom Landry and the Dallas Cowboys still commanded a lot of respect in their division. Not content merely to qualify for the playoffs, the Cowboys had been in six NFC championship games since the last time the Redskins had played in the Super Bowl — and had advanced to three Super Bowls.

Anyway, I had my doubts that Super Bowl XVII really brought together the two best teams — in large part because an eight–week players' strike wiped out nearly half of the regular season.

The teams played only nine games each; under normal circumstances, they would have played 16.

And that, I always felt, skewed the final results.

The Dolphins and Redskins might have wound up in Super Bowl XVII, anyway, but I always doubted it, especially with the playoff system that the NFL used to compensate.

The NFL seeded the top eight teams in each conference — and two of the teams who made it to the playoffs through this system, the Detroit Lions and the Cleveland Browns, had losing records.

Their records were 4–5; if they had played the full schedule, they might well have finished with winning records — but they might not. The Browns had four winning seasons in the previous decade so they were pretty good possibilities, but the Lions had only one winning season in the previous 10.

A pretty good case can be made that neither would have been in the 1982 playoffs if the full schedule had been played. But, as it was, those teams became the first sub–.500 teams to make the playoffs.

No team with a losing record had ever made the NFL postseason before, and it would be nearly three decades before another one did. That is a pretty compelling argument that the entire strike–shortened season deserves an asterisk.

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In spite of my misgivings, though, I have to admit that the game was rather entertaining.

The Dolphins led by a touchdown at intermission, thanks to a 98–yard kickoff return by Fulton Walker, but the Redskins put a clamp on Miami in the second half, and the Washington offense, behind a line nicknamed "The Hogs," scored 17 unanswered points in the second half.

MVP John Riggins, who rushed for 166 yards, scored the fourth–quarter touchdown that put Washington in front for good.

And I'll say this for Super Bowl XVII.

Even if neither team really belonged in the game, as I say, I have to admit that it was entertaining, especially with all the nicknames for groups (like "Killer Bees," "Smurfs" and "Fun Bunch") and individuals (like "Diesel" for Riggins and "Downtown" for teammate Charlile Brown).

Interestingly, the next time Washington won a Super Bowl was in another strike–altered season five years later.

There Was No One Like the Bear

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"His nickname was Bear. Now imagine a guy that can carry the nickname Bear."

Joe Namath

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Until I breathe my last breath, I will remember watching football games on TV with my father when I was growing up.

We didn't have a TV until I was in elementary school, but once we got one, my memory is that we always watched college football on Saturdays and pro football on Sundays — and then, when Monday Night Football came along, I watched those games with my father, too.

(Well, I watched the first halves. When the game reached halftime, I knew it was time for me to go to bed — and I would drift off to sleep listening to the banter from the broadcast booth coming from the TV in our living room.

(On rare occasions, my parents would permit me to stay up and watch a game to the end. I always felt a little more grown up at those times, the same as I did whenever my parents allowed me to stay up to watch Johnny Carson.)

I guess one of the nice things — one of the reassuring truths — of life in those days was the certainty that some things never changed.

Tom Landry was always the coach of the Dallas Cowboys. Woody Hayes was always the coach of Ohio State. Joe Paterno was always the coach of Penn State.

In Arkansas, where I grew up, Frank Broyles was always the coach of the Razorbacks. When he announced his retirement in 1976, I was shocked. Who would coach the Hogs? I wondered. Broyles had been the Razorbacks' only coach in my lifetime — and I was in my teens when he stepped down.

I simply could not imagine anyone else walking the sidelines that Broyles had walked all those years.

(Ironically, one of the things I always enjoyed as a student at the University of Arkansas when I attended football games was being able to watch Broyles' hand–picked successor, the hyperactive Lou Holtz, doing precisely that — but in his own Woody Allen–like fashion.)

Bear Bryant was much the same way. He wasn't the only man to coach Alabama's football team, but he was Alabama when I was growing up. I'm sure there were thousands of people in Alabama who grew up in those days who believed — to some extent — that the 'Bama coaching job was created for Bear Bryant — and would cease to exist without him.

He was always easy to spot, even if one was seated a great distance from the field — and I speak from experience on that. Once, I attended a Sugar Bowl in which Alabama participated. My seat was in the nosebleed section, but I could still spot Bear Bryant.

He was an imposing figure, and he always wore his trademark houndstooth hat — sometimes with a matching jacket — to football games. Well, there were exceptions. He didn't wear his hat when Alabama played in a domed stadium. Once, I recall, he was asked about that, and he said his mother raised him to take off his hat when he was inside.

Because of that, I didn't get to see him wearing that hat in person. That Sugar Bowl was played in the Superdome.

There were other Southern coaches who wore hats to games — in the pros, for example, Landry did and so did Bum Phillips. Like the Bear, though, most of them wouldn't wear a hat when a game was being played indoors, either.

But I believe Bryant was the first.

When I was a child in the 1960s, George Wallace was the state's most prominent, most popular (and most notorious) politician. Bear Bryant was probably the only man in Alabama who could have beaten Wallace in a race for anything.

In the long and storied history of college football, there was never anyone like the Bear. He coached Alabama for a quarter of a century and averaged a national title about every four years. When he retired at the end of the 1982 season, he had won more games than any other college football coach.

In the last 30 years, Bryant has been surpassed in total victories by a handful of coaches who had the good fortune of playing more games in a given year and who really only needed to break even to receive a bowl bid.

The team Bryant took over in 1958 had won only eight games in the previous four seasons. Bryant led the Crimson Tide to five wins in his first season alone and then proceeded to take the Tide to bowl games in 24 consecutive seasons (1959–1982) — at a time when bowl bids really meant something.

Bowl bids were more precious in the Bear's day. There must be three or four times as many bowls today as there were then. Today's bar is ridiculously low.

Yet winning was even more routine at Alabama in those days than it is today. Whenever a Bryant–coached Alabama team lost — to anyone — it was big news. Stop the presses news.

Bear Bryant died 30 years ago today. That was big news, too.

But it probably wouldn't have surprised the Bear, had he known of it.

The night of his final game, a 21–15 Liberty Bowl victory over Illinois, he was asked what he would do in retirement. "Probably croak in a week," he replied.

It was actually a month later, but his words were prophetic. He passed a routine physical on Jan. 25, 1983 but died the next day.

His cause of death was given as a heart attack, but it was actually a combination of health issues he had been battling for three years. His doctor said Bryant's battle had been "heroic," TIME magazine reported — but his motives for staying at Alabama weren't entirely altruistic.

About the only reason he stayed was to complete his pursuit of the title of winningest college football coach of all time.

He did reach that pinnacle in 1981, and he stayed on to coach another season, but he felt his performance was sub–par.

"[I]n my opinion, they deserved better coaching than they have been getting from me this year," Bryant said of his players. And he chose to step down.

A month after his last game, he was dead.

I will always remember when I heard that Bryant had died. I was working for a small newspaper in central Arkansas where the custom was for the most junior staffer to cover the police and fire beats, which occasionally meant covering trials in the county courthouse.

I was the most junior staffer in January 1983.

On this day in 1983, I was sitting in a courtroom. I don't recall now what kind of trial was being conducted, but I remember there was some kind of break, and I was sitting in the courtroom with a few other people when the bailiff came in and, with an ashen look on his face, said simply, "Bear Bryant died today."

The news was delivered in the same somber tones that are often reserved for the announcement of the death of a president or a pope.

A few minutes later, the judge came in and told us, in the same somber tones, that the court would adjourn for the remainder of the day. As I walked out of the courthouse, I saw some folks lowering the American flag to half staff.

Ordinarily, the courthouse wouldn't lower the flag unless a former president or governor had died. But they lowered the flag that day in honor of a football coach who coached and died in another state.

I suppose it helped that he was born and raised in Arkansas. Nevertheless, that is the kind of respect Bryant enjoyed.

There was no one like the Bear.

The Dunk Heard 'Round the World

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Ever since I heard the news of Lorenzo Charles' death in a one–vehicle accident Monday in North Carolina, I have been thinking of the spring night in 1983 when his upstart North Carolina State Wolfpack upset the heavily favored Houston Cougars in the national championship.

I remember the night vividly. I was working as a reporter for a newspaper in central Arkansas — my first job out of college.

One of my standing assignments was to cover city and county government meetings (I wasn't alone in that; it was a small newspaper staff so everyone — even those whose job titles might make you think they were above such routine duties, like managing editor — had to cover some city and county government meetings) ...

... and such a meeting was being held that night.

But the meeting was scheduled to begin at 6:30, as I remember, and the game wasn't supposed to begin until two hours later.

I had been following the NCAA Tournament closely that year, as I tended to do at that time in my life, and I was interested in seeing the championship game — even though I was sure I knew how it would turn out.

When the meeting wrapped up earlier than I expected, I was elated. It meant I could go home and see most, if not all, of the game.

As I was walking down the hallway of the building in the direction of the exit, I recall a brief conversation I had with a city police officer who was on hand (why he was there, I do not know, unless he was assigned to provide routine security that night).

I told him I was on my way home to watch the game. He wanted to know which team I thought would win.

"Houston," I told him. "No way N.C. State can win."

But I was wrong.

Oh, Houston did race to the lead, but the Cougars squandered it with terrible free throw shooting in the second half. The game was still anyone's to win as the final seconds ticked off.

That was when one of the most iconic moments in modern sports history occurred.

With the score tied at 52–52, one of Charles' teammates fired a shot from 30 feet (it would have been a three–point shot under modern rules, but the three–pointer was still a few years away).

The shot appeared to be coming up just short of its mark when, seemingly from nowhere, Charles came into view, grabbed the ball in the air and dunked it for the winning points.

It was one of those moments when the entire world seemed to stop for maybe a split second — and tried to absorb what had just happened. I have only experienced a couple of these moments in my life, and they are never merely upsets or the unexpected.

They are unthinkable.

It was a time when 12 teams were seeded in each region (the 12th seeds had to win the equivalents of play–in games), and N.C. State had been seeded eighth in its region. That season, the Wolfpack (who lost 10 games in all) had earned the nickname of the "Cardiac Pack" for winning seven nail–biters in their last nine games just to get into the tournament.

Houston, meanwhile, was ranked #1 in the nation, was making its second consecutive Final Four appearance and had the look of a dynasty.

The 1982–83 Cougars went undefeated in the Southwest Conference, losing only three games all season — and, in fact, they returned to the national championship game the following year (but lost to Georgetown).

Six members of the team eventually were drafted into the NBA.

A stunned N.C. State coach Jim Valvano dashed madly around the court, looking for someone to hug, some way to express his delight at winning the upset of a lifetime.

It was for such a moment that the song "The Impossible Dream" was written.

Some of N.C. State's players might have ended up in the NBA, anyway, even if the Wolfpack had not won that game. But the fact is that three players were drafted into the NBA later that year, including the fellow whose lob Charles plucked out of the air and dunked for the winning points — and it is possible that some or all might not have been chosen had it not been for their victory over Houston.

Later, Charles and another teammate were drafted into the NBA as well, bringing to 11 the number of future NBA draftees who were on the court that night.

Charles' NBA career was brief, however, and the Brooklyn native had short stints with some European teams, but his basketball career had been over for more than 20 years. He was operating a bus for the rental company for which he apparently worked when it crashed in Raleigh, N.C.

Sadly, it seems, great things did not happen for Charles after that evening of almost unimaginable glory.

But if you have ever watched an NCAA Tournament game, you are almost sure to have seen in the archival footage Charles' sublime, almost tentative, dunk that clinched a championship ...

... and seized a slice of immortality.