Half a Century Since the Ice Bowl

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"I'm going to take a bite of my coffee."

Frank Gifford, CBS color commentator

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I have written here before of the legendary Ice Bowl of 1967. I am a lifelong student of history so I often write in my blogs about historic events — but my policy has been not to write about events I have written about before.

As my grandfather would say, I don't like to chew my cabbage twice.

But today is the 50th anniversary of that NFL championship game played between the Dallas Cowboys and the Green Bay Packers at Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisc., and on this milestone occasion, it deserves more than a cursory examination.

The game got its moniker from the extreme conditions in which it was played. The game-time temperature was about –15°. Under standards in use at the time, the wind chill was –48°. (National Weather Service standards have since been revised; under those standards, the wind chill would be a comparatively balmy –36°.)

Lambeau Field had a heating system installed beneath the playing surface, which was supposed to keep it in good condition in inclement weather, but the system failed. When the tarp was removed before game time, moisture was left on the field that froze instantly.

That gave rise to the rumor that Green Bay coach Vince Lombardi had manipulated the system in some way so that the brunt of the conditions would be more difficult on the visitors from Texas than the hometown Packers. That rumor was fueled by the perception that Dallas' players were more athletic than the aging Packers.

But it wasn't just the weather that contributed to the game's almost mythical status. In the few short years of the Cowboys' existence, the teams had developed a rivalry that persists to this day, which included a down–to–the–wire battle in Dallas for the NFL championship the year before. That added to the drama going into the game; it was punctuated by a thrilling conclusion.

Once, when I was working on the sports desk of the Denton, Texas newspaper, the sports editor and I had lunch with a friend of his — sportscaster Bill Mercer, a local icon who covered the Ice Bowl for Dallas radio station KLIF. My memory of that lunch conversation is that Mercer was a virtual walking encyclopedia of North Texas sports history. Much of it he had witnessed personally — and much of it focused on the Ice Bowl.

Now retired and living on the East Coast, Mercer reflected on the game for a new documentary about it.

"I can still see that game in my mind," Mercer said. "I'm 91 years old now and it's like it was yesterday. ... I can imagine it's going to go on and on. That game will live forever."

In such brutal weather, many myths gained traction. If they weren't entirely true, they had at least a nugget of truth in them — unlike the allegations about Lombardi.

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Most of those allegations were made in jest, though. Even Lombardi's players joked about Vince's influence on the weather and the field conditions.

"I figure Lombardi got on his knees to pray for cold weather," said Green Bay defensive tackle Henry Jordan, "and stayed down too long."

The Packers and Cowboys brought decidedly different histories into the game.

The Packers had been fixtures in the National Football League for nearly half a century. They were two–time defending NFL champions and winners of more NFL championships than any other franchise.

The Cowboys began as an expansion team in 1960, but Dallas coach Tom Landry built them into Super Bowl contenders in less than a decade.

And they had plenty of motivation to win this time. They lost the NFL championship game the previous year in Dallas to those same Packers.

Adding to the intrigue was the fact that Lombardi and Landry had served together on Jim Lee Howell's New York Giants coaching staff in the 1950s.

Dallas had not played in Green Bay since its first year of existence. When the Cowboys arrived in Green Bay a couple of days before the game, the temperature was in the 50s, and quarterback Don Meredith mugged for the cameras, cupping his hands and saying the championship game was going to be "easy money."

The Cowboys knew a cold front was coming, but it was not expected until after the game was over.

It wasn't the first time meteorologists got it wrong.

The Packers scored first, capping a nine–minute drive with an eight–yard touchdown pass from Bart Starr to Boyd Dowler in the first quarter.

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The conditions seemed to have put the Dallas offense in the deep freeze as it continued sputtering, but the Packers kept rolling.

In the second quarter, Green Bay took a 14–0 lead when Starr hit Dowler for another touchdown, this time from 46 yards.

It looked like the Cowboys were in trouble. In fact, it looked like the Cowboys would rather be anywhere else than Green Bay. As cold as it was, who could blame them?

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And, indeed, the offense continued to struggle against the Packers' defense.

But now the Packers' offense began to struggle, too.

Later in the second quarter, as Starr went back to pass, the Cowboys' pass rush trapped him behind the line and stripped him of the ball. George Andrie picked it up and ran seven yards for a touchdown, cutting the deficit in half with about four minutes remaining before intermission.

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After recovering a fumbled punt on Green Bay's end of the field with less than two minutes to play, the Cowboys added a field goal.

In keeping with the freakish nature of the game, Dallas did not get a single first down in the second quarter yet scored 10 points and trailed by only four at halftime.

The Cowboys' offense performed much better in the third quarter but still failed to generate a touchdown. The Packers were the ones who were sputtering, and the third period was scoreless. Going into the final quarter, Green Bay still led 14–10.

That would soon change.

On a halfback option, Dan Reeves hit Lance Rentzel for a 50–yard touchdown strike, and Dallas had its first lead of the game 17–14 with only eight seconds gone from the final period.

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Finally staked to a lead, the Dallas defense appeared to have new life while the Green Bay offense seemed to have none.

The score remained 17–14 until the game was nearly over.

With just under five minutes to go, the Packers fielded a punt and started their final offensive possession of the game at their own 32. Field conditions were deteriorating by the minute.

All things considered, the Packers' effort in that final drive may never be matched in terms of execution or heroism.

The drive seemed to stall in the final minute with the Packers in the shadow of the Cowboys' goal post. Green Bay called its last timeout with 16 seconds remaining and the Packers a yard away from the end zone on fourth down.

Green Bay could have kicked a field goal and hoped to win the game in overtime. That would have been in character for Lombardi, who was not known as a gambler — in fact, he was noted for saying that "everybody loves a gambler until he loses" — and the field goal certainly would have been the conservative option. But apparently, it was never seriously considered.

"I didn't figure all those people up there in the stands could take the cold for an overtime game," Lombardi said. There was probably more to it than that, but he told Starr to take it in for the touchdown. And he did.

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Fullback Chuck Mercein, a late–season acquisition for the Packers, played a key role in the winning drive — and is the person you can see with his hands raised in the photos of Starr after he scored the winning touchdown (he is number 30 in the photo at the top of this post).

Many people assume Mercein was signaling that Starr had scored, but he said he was trying to show the referees that he hadn't pushed Starr into the end zone. That would have resulted in a penalty, and the Packers almost surely would have had to settle for a field goal.

"I realized that was a singular moment in my career," Mercein, who made some important gains to set up Starr's game–winning play, said. "It means more to me because I was able to pay it forward, the faith that Vince Lombardi had in me. There were plenty of other backs he could have picked up. Seldom does it happen where you can repay someone for their faith in you."

For half a century the Ice Bowl has remained vivid in memories and no doubt would continue to do so with little help, but Meredith's son Michael, who was only a few months old when his father played in the game, has made a film about it that premiered recently on the NFL Network.

Sadly there is no known complete copy of the Ice Bowl telecast in existence. Radio broadcasts do still exist, including the one of Mercer calling the game for KLIF. Meredith used video clips that do exist and interviews with participants to tell the story.

That should heat up those memories of an already memorable day.

The End of Miami's Reign

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In the early '70s, the team of the decade seemed to be the Miami Dolphins. Mostly, that was due to the Dolphins' perfect season in 1972. It seemed to set them up for a long stretch of success, one that might extend through the entire decade.

As great as the '72 team was, though, I always thought the '73 team was better because it had to defend the '72 team's legacy. The '73 team came into the season with a gigantic target painted squarely on each player's chest. For every team that played the Dolphins in '73, that was the game of the year.

The '73 team stood up to that challenge, going 12–2 and returning to the Super Bowl and winning. Thus, over that two–year span, Miami won 32 of 34 games.

So, when the 1974 season began, Miami was a two–time defending Super Bowl champion with a .941 winning percentage over the previous two seasons. The Dolphins started the season with a loss to New England, then won 11 of the next 13 games. It looked like the Dolphins might get the chance to win their third straight Super Bowl.

Standing in their way, though, were the Oakland Raiders, the same bunch who snapped their legendary winning streak in the second week of the season after the history–making 17–0 campaign. In the AFC semifinals on this date in 1974, the 11–3 Dolphins took the field against the 12–2 Raiders in Oakland.

It was widely assumed that, with the winner slated to face either the Pittsburgh Steelers or the Buffalo Bills in the AFC championship game the following week, the winner of this game would represent the AFC in the Super Bowl. At halftime, it appeared it would be Miami. The Dolphins led, 10–7.

But the Raiders outscored the Dolphins, 21–16, in the second half and won on Clarence Davis' eight–yard touchdown run in the fourth quarter.

The Raiders advanced to the AFC title game against the Steelers. Everyone thought the Raiders would win. The Steelers had never been to a Super Bowl before. Of course, the Raiders had only been to one at that time, but they had come close frequently. Their time had come. That was what the conventional wisdom said.

But times changed. The Raiders lost to the Steelers, and Terry Bradshaw went on to lead Pittsburgh to the first of four Super Bowl titles in six years.

The 'Pretty Big' One

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Does it seem strange to be writing about the anniversary of perhaps the most notorious earthquake to strike the North American continent in the last 50 years — on a sports blog?

Well, I guess it is — but that is how I remember that event.

It was a Tuesday night, just after 7 p.m. in north Texas. I was enrolled in graduate school, and those classes almost always met at night, but I didn't have a class that night. My brother was at my apartment, and we were settling in to watch Game 3 of the World Series between the San Francisco Giants and the Oakland A's.

Because the teams were in twin cities — separated only by the bay and linked by the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge — it was dubbed a "subway series." To accommodate viewers in the large Eastern media markets, the World Series games were scheduled to start around 5:30 p.m. California time; apparently, in the Bay Area, many people either left work early (to attend the games or attend watch parties) or stayed late for office watch parties. Consequently, the result was that the typical rush hour was not nearly as heavy as it would have under typical circumstances.

That meant that fewer people were on the bridge when the earthquake struck at 5:04 local time. If it had been a normal day, we were told later, the casualties would have been virtually incomprehensible.

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What could be seen on the TV screen was bad enough.

And I became very concerned about the safety of my friends, Mike and Jane, who had been living there for about a year or so. I tried to call them whenever I could, but I kept getting the same recorded message that my call could not be completed.

Finally, three days later, I got a call from Jane. It was the first opportunity she had had to contact friends and family to let them know she and Mike were all right.

She told me that she typically commuted across that bridge — and, on an ordinary day, she would have been right in the middle of the bridge when the earthquake struck. Because of the World Series, though, she told me she had already been off the bridge for five or 10 minutes when the earthquake happened.

I was really glad I didn't know her usual routine at the time of the earthquake. I would have been worried sick.

Mike, as it turned out, was home when the earthquake hit. They were living in a solid house — it survived the infamous 1906 earthquake with its 7.9 magnitude so the 7.1–magnitude "Lomo Prieta earthquake" (so named for the location of its epicenter) was no match for it. Mike said all that really happened was a few pictures were shaken from the wall.

Initially, there were reports that casualties numbered in the hundreds — but it turned out that only 63 people died. That is still 63 too many, but it was better than originally feared.

Action in the World Series was suspended for 10 days while the Bay Area cleaned up and started trying to return to normal. I was two time zones away, but I followed developments via TV. It was inspiring to see so many members of both baseball teams helping out in any way they could, shoulder to shoulder with many of their fans.

Of course, there are always those who look for ways to make money off other people's misfortune, and Mike and Jane told me that some enterprising folks printed up T–shirts that read, "I Survived the Pretty Big One."

I wouldn't have wanted to buy one of them and contribute to the guy who printed them — but I would have liked to have seen one. I've searched the internet, too, by the way, but I haven't found a photo of one yet.

Maybe it wasn't as much of a thriving cottage industry as Mike and Jane thought it was. Maybe their impression was fueled by seeing those shirts from time to time — and mistaking that for all the time. I don't know.

I just know I was glad to know my friends hadn't been hurt.

The Consensus Grows: Pete Rose Deserves His Shot at Cooperstown

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When he was playing baseball, Pete Rose knew only one speed. He went all out, every day. He wanted to win.

I guess that tenacious drive to win — which was so admired by baseball fans — was what got him in trouble 25 years ago. On this day in 1989, Commissioner Bart Giamatti accepted what was called Rose's "voluntary ineligibility" from baseball for violating its prohibition on gambling.

What that meant, in simple language, was a lifetime ban from major–league baseball.

And a lifetime ban from baseball is exactly what it sounds like, too. It's for someone's lifetime — and then some. Nearly all the time, he has been prohibited from even being in a major–league ballpark. In one of the rare exceptions that comes to my mind was in the summer of 1999, he was part of the All–Century squad that was honored prior to the All–Star game at Fenway Park.

Rose was given a standing ovation from the fans that evening, by the way.

Why is gambling such a serious matter? Well, it has to do with the integrity of the game, the sport's assurance to its fans that the games are on the level. And the penalty isn't as severe if the player or coach bets on a game involving two other teams, but if a bet involves the team for whom the player plays or the coach coaches, it is much worse because such individuals are in a position to influence the outcome.

Rose was alleged to have made bets on games involving his own team, a charge he denied for 15 years — but finally admitted in 2004.

There's been considerable debate over the years over whether Shoeless Joe Jackson participated in the conspiracy to throw the 1919 World Series; if he did, his performance in the Series didn't show it (at the plate, he had 12 base hits and the only home run for either team; in the field, he committed no errors). Yet his ban remains in effect, nearly 100 years later — and more than 60 years after his death.

Shoeless Joe went to his grave insisting that he wasn't involved in the conspiracy — but you won't see his bust at Cooperstown.

Rose, now 73, knows there is virtually no chance that he will be reinstated, that even though he is still the all–time hits leader (and likely to remain so — his closest active competition is 40–year–old Derek Jeter, who is retiring at the end of this season and should still be at least 750 hits behind Rose when he does), he will never be enshrined in baseball's Hall of Fame.

And he appears to be at peace with that.

"I'm the one that screwed up," he told Keith Olbermann during last year's World Series. "I'm not mad at anybody. I'm not mad at [present Commissioner] Bud [Selig] or Bart [Giamatti]. I haven't given up on Bud giving me a second chance. I know he's retiring after [the current season], but I'll continue to be a great ambassador for the game of baseball and try to keep selling the game of baseball because I love the game."

Giamatti died a week to the day after Rose's ban went into effect.

ESPN recently reported that Rose still hasn't given up on being reinstated. At least, he says he hasn't.

My thoughts on Pete Rose have changed over the years. When the ban was put into effect, I was fully in favor of it. I remember saying to a friend, "When Shoeless Joe Jackson is allowed into the Hall of Fame, we can talk about Pete Rose."

I guess I still feel that way — to a certain extent. I don't think it would be right for Rose to be eligible to be enshrined at Cooperstown and Shoeless Joe not to be. I wanted Rose to admit what he had done, and I was angry that he did not when all the evidence pointed to his guilt. But he has since admitted betting on his team, and I'm willing to accept the last decade as his penalty for that.

I was primarily opposed to enshrining Rose, not continuing to ban Jackson, and my position today is that both should be enshrined — or, at least, they should be eligible for it. Whether they are or not should depend upon their body of work as baseball players; on that, I think we can all agree that they not only meet but exceed requirements. Their contributions to the game should be recognized, not denied because of a mistake that one made and unsupported allegations against the other.

Enough is enough.

I don't know how everyone in the sports media feels about Shoeless Joe, but I can report that there is a growing consensus that Rose should be eligible for a spot in Cooperstown.

Briana Altergott of the Atlanta Journal–Constitution takes no sides but summarizes what has been written recently in the sports press. The headline on Altergott's piece asked the question many in sports media are asking: "Does Pete Rose deserve a second chance?"

"If Selig wanted Rose's banishment to serve as a deterrent for those inside the game who were thinking about betting on it," writes John Erardi of USA Today, "Selig got it — a quarter of a century's worth."

Kevin Sherrington of the Dallas Morning News writes, "Rose has admitted mistakes and served his time. Twenty–five years. Time to make him eligible for the Hall of Fame. Leave it up to the process to determine if he's worthy.

"Frankly, I think he's deserving, just as I did 35 years ago and 25 years ago and last week. For better or worse, there's never been another player like him."

I'll go along with that. I saw him play in person once when I was a kid. He was electrifying to watch, whether you were pulling for him or against him. He wants to be part of baseball again. I believe he has learned from his years in the wilderness. "The last thing in the world I'd do now is bet on baseball," he told ESPN. "I would be the cleanest guy in the world when it comes to that because of the scrutiny I would go through. You may think I'm crazy, but I think baseball is in a better place if I'm in it."

I agree.

Pete Rose has paid his debt to baseball for gambling. Baseball has a chance to be generous and forgiving now.

The Cheshire Cat Strikes Olympic Gold

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The 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles were noteworthy before they began. Most of the world's communist–bloc nations declined to participate because the United States had led a boycott of the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow.

So the Games were noteworthy for who was not there.

But it was also noteworthy for who was there.

President Ronald Reagan, who served as governor of California for eight years, was there to open the Games. Track and field star Carl Lewis was there, and he won four gold medals, matching the 1936 performance of Jesse Owens. Michael Jordan, Patrick Ewing and Chris Mullin were there, and they participated on the U.S. basketball team that won the gold medal.

And Mary Lou Retton was there. Thirty years ago today, she became the first gymnast outside Eastern Europe to win the all–around competition.

Even with all those big names at the Games, Retton often seemed to be the only attraction. She had one of those smiles that was so big it seemed to exist all by itself — kind of like Lewis Carroll's Cheshire Cat.

Jordan, Ewing and Mullin had not yet begun their professional careers; Jordan, in particular, was not as famous as he would become. Eight years later, all three would be members of the so–called "Dream Team."

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Mary Lou was America's sweetheart that summer. I don't think I have seen another U.S. female Olympian who was as adored as Mary Lou — with the possible exception of Dorothy Hamill.

In fact, it was during the '76 Summer Games — a few months after Hamill won her gold medal in figure skating — that Nadia Comaneci became the first gymnast to score a perfect 10.0 in Olympic competition. It was an achievement that most Americans probably dreamed — but dared not believe — one of their countrymen would match someday.

But Retton outdid Comaneci in 1984, scoring two perfect 10s, on the floor exercise and vault. The latter was particularly dramatic, given that Retton had knee surgery five weeks before the Games began.

Reagan, who was seeking a second term as president in 1984, enjoyed an approval rating of 52–54% during the Olympics — he accepted the Republican nomination in Dallas later that month — but my guess would be that Retton's approval far exceeded the president's that summer.

I don't know of any polls that were conducted at that time, but I'm reasonably sure Retton was the most popular person in America that year — at least in July and August.

Reagan went on to win 49 states in November, but, that summer, Retton might have been the only person in America who could have beaten him.

And she was only 16 years old.

Retton, now living in Houston with her husband and four daughters, recently attended a reunion of Team USA '84. A wistful time appears to have been had by all. Retton recalled that one of the highlights of her Olympic experience was riding on the bus to the Opening Ceremony with members of the U.S. basketball team.

Those '84 Olympic Games were, in the words of the Murfreesboro (Tenn.) Post, "one for the ages" — although I'm not sure where writer David Hunter heard that the Olympics in 1984 saved the Games.

(I know the Americans boycotted the 1980 Games in Moscow, and the Russians boycotted the '84 Games, but the Post's reasoning was too simplistic. Technically, Mr. Hunter was correct when he said that was "because of the Cold War," but that is really too general. The Americans and dozens of other countries boycotted because of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan.)

A Memorable Victory

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I'm not a soccer fan. Really. I've been writing this blog for about six years now, and I believe this is only my second entry about soccer. Here is my first — written four years ago. Not too complimentary, is it?

One of my complaints then (as now) was the randomness — and infrequency — of scoring in soccer. If you watched the Germans score seven goals on Brazil in their historic World Cup semifinal, that might be hard to comprehend — although you really don't have to look any farther than the other semifinal, in which Argentina and the Netherlands fought through a scoreless match that was finally won by Argentina in the penalty shootout.

That is the kind of match that comes to my mind when I think of soccer, and it just doesn't appeal to me.

But today is the 15th anniversary of a soccer milestone that I just feel compelled to observe — even though it, too, was quite light on scoring. On this day in 1999, the U.S. women's soccer team won the World Cup. They won the World Cup in 1991, too, but they finished third in 1995. Norway won it that year.

Sixteen teams competed for the 1999 Women's World Cup. When the United States and China met for the championship in the Rose Bowl, more than 90,000 people were there to watch.

It was the highest attendance ever for a women's sports event.

The match went all the way through regulation and two overtimes with neither team scoring a goal so it went to a penalty shootout. On the fifth kick, 30–year–old Brandi Chastain scored to give the United States the victory.

Chastain spontaneously pulled off her jersey — as victorious male soccer players have been known to do — and, clad in a sports bra, waved her jersey in her clenched right fist.

"Momentary insanity, nothing more, nothing less," Chastain explained later. "I wasn't thinking about anything. I thought, 'This is the greatest moment of my life on the soccer field.'"

The image, which landed on the covers of several magazines, is regarded by many as one of the best–known images of a woman celebrating a sports victory.

Early on, 33–year–old Michelle Akers kept the United States in the game by blocking nearly every shot that came her way, but she and the U.S. goalkeeper collided late in regulation, and she had to leave the match.

After two scoreless overtimes, it came down to the penalty shootout, which the U.S. won on Chastain's goal.

As I mentioned four years ago, I'm just not a fan of soccer — and I didn't see the U.S.–China match. July 10 was a Saturday in 1999 so I suppose I could have. I just didn't. I don't remember why.

But I do remember seeing highlights of the match, and Chastain ripping off her jersey in exultation.

The United States has not won the World Cup since.

The Luckiest Man on the Face of the Earth

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"Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about a bad break I got. Yet today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. I have been in ballparks for 17 years, and I have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans. Look at these grand men. Which of you wouldn't consider it the highlight of his career just to associate with them for even one day?"

Lou Gehrig
July 4, 1939

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Seventy–five years ago today, Lou Gehrig delivered what may be the most famous farewell address in history.

For sure, it's the most famous farewell address in sports history.

Diagnosed less than a month earlier with the incurable disease that took his life and now informally bears his name, Gehrig was the subject of a July 4 tribute at Yankee Stadium. New York played a doubleheader with the Washington Senators that day, losing the first game and winning the second.

Between games, Gehrig was honored with "perhaps as colorful and dramatic a pageant as ever was enacted on a baseball field," reported the New York Times. He was reunited with the legendary '27 Yankees, also known as "Murderer's Row," including Babe Ruth.

It was an emotional occasion for everyone.

Yankees manager Joe McCarthy said Gehrig was "the finest example of a ballplayer, sportsman and citizen that baseball has ever known." Openly emotional, McCarthy turned to Gehrig and said, "Lou, what else can I say except that it was a sad day in the life of everybody who knew you when you came into my hotel room that day in Detroit and told me you were quitting as a ballplayer because you felt yourself a hindrance to the team. My God, man, you were never that."

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And, in return, Gehrig gave baseball a moment to savor. Appropriately, the Yankees' publicist recently told USA Today it is "baseball's Gettysburg Address."

"I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth," he said, and he meant it. He knew he had been given a "bad break," but he practically bubbled over with gratitude for his career and the people in his life.

"I've got an awful lot to live for," he said. And he meant that, too.

It's hard not to admire a guy like that.

Hail to the Beothuks

What's in a name?

Shakespeare asked that question in "Romeo and Juliet" more than 400 years ago. His answer ("That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet") may have mollified folks in his own time, but it isn't adequate for most modern discussions on the subject.

(I have long believed that George Carlin made an excellent point about a company's name needing to be appropriate for the product it makes. "If Janitor in a Drum made a douche," he pointed out, "no one would buy it" — and, I might add, with good reason.)

Case in point would be the current debate over whether the Washington Redskins should change their team nickname. (I italicize the word current because this really isn't a new debate. I've heard it all before.)

Incredibly, in an election year in which polls clearly indicate that Americans are focused on the economy and jobs, 50 senators signed a letter to team owner Daniel Snyder urging him to change the nickname.

Really? Don't they have more important things to do — like passing legislation that encourages job creation and doesn't restrict it? Or maybe figuring out a way to make the health care policies they are forcing all Americans to buy truly affordable — and making sure Americans don't die while waiting for the care they need, like the veterans in Phoenix? Or coming up with plans that really do make America less dependent on foreign oil?

And that just scratches the surface.

If I were a politician running against one of the senators who signed the letter, I would be sure to point out that, with all the problems facing this country, my opponent had been obsessing about a football team nickname — and, unless he/she represented Washington, D.C., in the Senate (which is impossible because D.C. has no senators), the nickname has no bearing on his/her constituents (unless, of course, they happen to be Redskins fans).

This obsession is a knee–jerk reaction because, unlike the word nigger or similar words that are known to offend most members of a demographic group, there exists considerable doubt about whether redskin really does offend native Americans.

The knee–jerk reaction is that Redskins is a racial term and/or a reference to the blood that was spilled. The latter is a little closer to the truth, but it isn't precise. In fact, it was a reference to the red paint that the warriors from a particular tribe put on themselves prior to battle.

Not really different from the colonists' use of the term redcoats to describe British soldiers — which is much less offensive, in my opinion, than some of the terms that were used by soldiers in 20th–century wars to describe their foes.

Why not tell the Kansas City Chiefs to change their nickname?

That one is a little tricky. While their onfield mascot is an Indian, and they play their games in Arrowhead Stadium, the fact is that the Chiefs got their name because the Kansas City mayor, Harold Roe Bartle, was instrumental in getting the team moved there from Dallas. The mayor's nickname was Chief (a name he acquired, apparently, from his habit of responding to all two–alarm fires wearing firefighter's garb — hat, coat and boots — when he was mayor).

Can you handle a little more history? I'm talking about the real stuff here, not the stuff that folks have manufactured to support their political biases, and I know that most people have an aversion to history (i.e., facts) so, if you need to take a breather, feel free to do so. Get yourself a cup of coffee. Take a deep breath. Then come back. I'll still be here.

Ready? Good. Let's proceed.

It is ironic to me that the term redskin is believed to be offensive to native Americans — because it doesn't refer to a tribe that lived on American soil. It referred to a tribe called the Beothuks, who lived in Canada on the island of Newfoundland.

Their story really is a sad one. When the Beothuks came in contact with European settlers in the 15th and 16th centuries, they relocated to other coastal areas on the island to avoid contact with the Europeans, who set up their fishing camps in ever–increasing numbers.

Eventually, the Beothuks moved to inland Newfoundland, which created new problems. The biggest one was that their main sources for food were fish, seals and caribou. Moving inland robbed them of two, and the caribou population declined due to overhunting. That, in turn, led to a severe food shortage.

Eventually, many of the Beothuks starved to death, but many also fell victim to diseases they acquired through exposure to the Europeans, and others were killed in violent conflicts with the Europeans — conflicts in which, no doubt, many of the Beothuks painted themselves with red war paint.

I've heard some people argue that Redskins is an offensive word. Such an argument needs proof to support it. America, after all, is a land of laws, one of which is that proof is necessary to support an allegation. While it doesn't qualify as the kind of proof that could be offered in a courtroom, the only proof of whether the term offends native Americans seems to be available through surveys.

Surveys aren't 100% reliable, I know, but, nevertheless, last year CBS conducted a survey of native Americans asking them if they were offended by Redskins; nine out of 10 were not.

In the current debate, I suppose it would be a good idea to find out how the Beothuks feel about the Redskins nickname, but that isn't possible. The last known living member of the tribe died of tuberculosis almost 185 years ago.

What I and anyone else may think — or even what those 50 senators may think — has no real bearing on it. As far as I know, none is descended, even partially, from native Americans (Elizabeth Warren's claim notwithstanding).

Team nicknames are typically things that evoke pride in fans. Sometimes it is a name that has historic or regional significance — nicknames like Seminoles, Utes, Warriors, etc., fall in this category.

Granted, sometimes nicknames are absurd; sometimes they make no sense (unless you know the whole story behind them).

But, unless the name is truly offensive, this is carrying political correctness to an extreme.

Save your outrage for teams called the Terrorists or the Klansmen.

The Brown Bomber's 100th Birthday

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"This was an hour before midnight of October 26, 1951. It was the evening of a day that dawned July 4, 1934, when Joe Louis became a professional fistfighter and knocked out Jack Kracken in Chicago for a $50 purse. The night was a long time on the way, but it had to come."

Red Smith

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I've been following boxing most of my life, and I have come to the conclusion that selecting the best who ever fought in a division is a matter that — for the most part — is in the eye of the beholder.

It is easier for me to compare fighters from different eras than it is to compare teams or individual athletes in other sports, though, because boxing is largely unchanged since the introduction of gloves. There have been some rule changes, and bouts typically aren't scheduled for as many rounds as they once were, but the length of those rounds hasn't changed, and the ring is the same size as it has been for God knows how long.

In other sports, the equipment has changed — and perhaps the playing surfaces are different. That is especially true, I believe, of baseball, which has seen the introduction of indoor games, artificial turf and protective batting helmets, among other things, as well as changes in rules designed to level the playing field for hitters or pitchers.

Comparatively, boxing is unchanged, and, when you look at Joe Louis' career, it is difficult for any beholder to say that anyone else was better.

Most Americans of the 21st century probably regard Louis as a figure from a bygone era — like Babe Ruth or Jim Thorpe — someone they know only through flickering images on movie screens. If they think of someone breaking racial barriers, they probably think of baseball's Jackie Robinson.

But Louis was more than a barrier buster. The Florida Times–Union writes that Louis, who was born 100 years ago tomorrow, was an American hero.

So he was.

Louis didn't break the racial championship barrier in professional boxing's heavyweight division. That distinction belonged to Jack Johnson, the "Galveston Giant" who won the heavyweight title more than a decade before Louis was born and lost it when Louis was a toddler but never really won over white Americans.

(There was more to it, of course — mostly having to do with allegations of Johnson violating the Mann Act, allegations that were clearly racially motivated — but that is a subject for another discussion. My point is, Louis was not the first black heavyweight champ.)

Louis was a popular figure from coast to coast, though, and he was talented. Among the heavyweights of all time, ESPN ranks him behind only Muhammad Ali, just ahead of Johnson and a couple of slots ahead of Rocky Marciano, who knocked Louis out in 1951 in his final fight.

Marciano, of course, is the only heavyweight champion in history to retire undefeated. But when Marciano met Joe Louis in 1951, Louis was 37 years old. Marciano was nearly 10 years his junior. One can only wonder what might have been if they had been the same age when they faced each other.

The year that Louis was 28 (Marciano's age when he fought Louis), Louis successfully defended the heavyweight title twice within a couple of months, winning the first in a one–round knockout, the second in a six–round TKO.

The year before, he defended his title four times — including the famed bout with Billy Conn, the "Fight of the Year" in 1941.

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He didn't fight in 1943 or in most of 1944 because he served in World War II, but he experienced a surge in popularity when he was quoted as saying, "We'll win (the war) 'cause we're on God's side."

I've seen several lists that have Louis rated the best heavyweight of all time. That is appropriate, considering that his reign as the heavyweight division's champion was longer than any other.

At times, he was criticized for the quality of his opposition. The lineup of his opponents was known as the "Bum of the Month Club" when he was defending his title (in spite of their nickname, most of those fighters were ranked in the top 10 among heavyweights). But he did face some very good fighters, too, some of the best of his day — Conn (twice), Max Schmeling (twice), Jersey Joe Walcott (twice), Ezzard Charles, James J. Braddock.

In many ways, Louis was produced and presented for mass consumption. His image was tightly managed — he had certain rules he had to live by, one of which was that he could not be photographed with white women — and his handlers were even responsible for coming up with his nickname, the "Brown Bomber."

(Several other nicknames were floated, but "Brown Bomber" seemed to be preferred by most.)

Louis' triumphs in the ring were greeted as symbolic strides for the black community. There weren't many black figures for black Americans to admire in those days, but they didn't admire him just because of his race. He was a heroic figure for all Americans.

"Each time Joe Louis won a fight in those depression years, even before he became champion, thousands of black Americans on relief or W.P.A., and poor, would throng out into the streets all across the land to march and cheer and yell and cry because of Joe's one–man triumphs," wrote noted author Langston Hughes.

"No one else in the United States has ever had such an effect on Negro emotions — or on mine. I marched and cheered and yelled and cried, too."

"What my father did was enable white America to think of him as an American, not as a black," said his son, Joe Jr. "By winning, he became white America's first black hero."

And paved the way for those who followed.

The End of Lou Gehrig's Consecutive Games Streak

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Lou Gehrig, baseball's "Iron Horse," played in his final baseball game 75 years ago today.

Appropriately, the game was played in Yankee Stadium, and more than 23,000 people were on hand to see it. It was a Sunday afternoon — no one was playing hookey from work or school — and the Yankees were facing the Washington Senators.

Gehrig was hitless in four at–bats, and his batting average fell to .143. He wasn't the only Yankee who struggled that day. New York had only four hits — all singles.

It wasn't as if the Senators had a future Hall of Famer on the mound that day, either. The starting pitcher for Washington was Joe Krakauskas, a 24–year–old southpaw whose major–league career would be over only a few years later.

But no one knew it was Gehrig's final game. He was such a fixture in the lineup that my guess is no one could imagine a Yankee game without him.

I suppose everyone knew he had been playing poorly in spring training and through the first week of major–league play. It was probably the worst–kept secret of all time, and it was perplexing. But few, if any, thought his career would soon be over. They probably figured he would shake it off at some point.

"I have seen ballplayers 'go' overnight, as Gehrig seems to have done," wrote James Kahn in the New York Sun. "But they were simply washed up as ballplayers. It's something deeper than that in this case, though. I have watched him closely and this is what I have seen: I have seen him time a ball perfectly, swing on it as hard as he can, meet it squarely — and drive a soft, looping fly over the infield. ... He is meeting the ball, time after time, and it isn't going anywhere."

The next day, Monday, May 1, 1939, was an off day for the Yankees. On Tuesday, May 2, Gehrig came up to manager Joe McCarthy just before a game in Detroit and announced that he was benching himself — after playing in 2,130 consecutive games — "for the good of the team."

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McCarthy went along with Gehrig and inserted Babe Dahlgren in his place in the lineup but told Gehrig the job was still his whenever he was ready. When it was announced to the Detroit fans that Gehrig had removed himself from the lineup after playing in more than 2,100 games, they gave him a standing ovation.

(Dahlgren went two for five with a home run and a double as New York crushed Detroit, 22–2.)

Most folks probably thought Gehrig's absence would only be temporary. Friend and teammate Lefty Gomez said, "It took them 15 years to get [him] out of the game. Sometimes I'm out of there in 15 minutes."

Gehrig's wife, Eleanor, observed, "[The public] had marveled for 13 years at his sublime strength; now they were marveling at his stunning weakness."

A month and a half later, on his 36th birthday, Gehrig was diagnosed with the disease that would kill him two years later — amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

Bill Dickey, Gehrig's best friend and teammate, said, "I knew there was something seriously wrong with him. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it was serious."

On the Fourth of July, an appreciation day was held for Gehrig (who had retired after the diagnosis) at Yankee Stadium. It was on that occasion that he said he was the "luckiest man on the face of the earth."

It came out later that sometimes Gehrig kept the streak going because he made a pinch–hitting appearance or through sheer luck (when an off day happened to coincide with an illness or an injury); other times he played when he probably shouldn't have.

On one occasion, he was hit in the head by a pitch but remained in the game. He was hit in the head on another occasion and was knocked unconscious for five minutes. He left the game but played the next day.

Yet another time, Gehrig was having problems with his back. He singled and was replaced by a pinch runner so he could rest his back.

Moreover, X–rays revealed that he had suffered several fractures during his playing days, but, in his stoic way, he played through the pain.

It probably seemed to most that Gehrig's streak would never be equaled — but Cal Ripken Jr. finally matched Gehrig in September 1995. Ripken played 500 more games before retiring in 1998; his record of 2,632 consecutive games played really might never be matched.

Well, probably not in my lifetime.

Prince Fielder of the Texas Rangers has the closest active streak, and the 29–year–old would need to play every game for the next 13 years to pass Ripken.

Everything Old Is New Again

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One hundred years ago today, Wrigley Field (known then as Weeghman Park) hosted its first baseball game. It was the home of the Chicago Whales of the Federal League.

In the first half of the 1920s, it was known as Cubs Park, and it was the home of the National League's Chicago Cubs — as it still is today. In November 1926, it was renamed Wrigley Field after chewing gum bigwig William Wrigley Jr., who owned the Cubs at the time.

"Most of what we know of Wrigley Field came to be in 1937," writes Tim Newcomb for Sports Illustrated, "when then–owner P.K. Wrigley urged Cubs general manager Bill Veeck to spruce up the stadium, which had already been renovated in 1921 and 1926. ... The owner wanted a park–like setting, similar to what he'd seen in trips to ballparks in California. That vision gave us the park we know today, complete with ivy, a brick outfield wall and a scoreboard."

When a sports venue has existed for a century, it is to be expected that it has hosted its share of luminaries, but Wrigley may have had more than its share in that time. Many stadiums have doubled as homes for baseball and football. Wrigley has truly been an all–purpose facility.

"Wrigley has also hosted professional boxing, professional soccer, college football (Northwestern and DePaul have both called it home) and even a ski jump competition from the upper deck in 1943," Newcomb writes. "All those events, not to mention a visit from every National League team since 1916 (and Michael Jordan once during his baseball days, the only big–league stadium he played in), have brought a who's who of visitors through the locker room."

Only Fenway Park, which observed its centennial a couple of years ago, is older, but Fenway is home to an American League club. In the National League, no stadium is as old as Wrigley Field. Not even close.

In a season that has already saluted the 40th anniversary of Hank Aaron's record–setting home run, baseball has another milestone in Chicago today — and lots of folks will be on hand to celebrate.

The game will match the Cubs and the Arizona Diamondbacks. This may be the brightest the spotlight will shine on these teams all year. After last Sunday's games, both teams were already eight games behind their divisions' leaders.

The teams are unimportant. A game must be played, and Commissioner Bud Selig will be there to see it, as will several noteworthy Cubs, such as Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, Andre Dawson, Fergie Jenkins.

"The first 30,000 fans will receive a replica 1914 Chicago Federals jersey," reports MLB.com, "and the first 10,000 fans will get a birthday cupcake."

WGN will be on hand to provide coverage of the big event — which, appropriately, will take place during the day. Until 1988, all the games that were played in Wrigley Field were played in the day. But lights finally were installed in 1988, and the ballpark joined the rest of the baseball world and began scheduling night games.

Day games are still played at Wrigley Field, and today's game will be played in chilly but sunny conditions, according to the forecasters.

It's funny, but I never realized before that Wrigley Field and Harry Caray, the longtime announcer for Cubs games, were born less than two months apart. Caray was born in March 1914.

It does seem appropriate, though.

2003: A Juice Odyssey

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Forty years ago today, my father was finishing up his sabbatical in Nashville, and my family was about to return to my hometown in Arkansas.

I remember that my brother and I had just finished school and been dismissed for the Christmas holiday, and we had been withdrawn from school by my mother. We would enroll in school for the spring term in my hometown in January.

Most of our furniture (except for our beds) was rented because we knew we would only be there four months, but we had many personal possessions to pack.

The plan was to leave Nashville around Monday or Tuesday, drive home and unload all our personal possessions, then (after returning the U–Haul trailer) hit the road for Dallas to spend Christmas with my grandmothers.

We were making progress in packing our things, but on this day, which was a Sunday in 1973, we stopped what we were doing to watch O.J. Simpson of the Buffalo Bills try to do what no one had ever been able to do before — run for 2,000 yards in a season.

Actually, the emphasis was on setting a single–season rushing record. Finishing the season with 2,000 yards was viewed, right up to kickoff, as a still possible but far from probable outcome.

No matter how it may seem from the perspective of 40 years later, Simpson needed nearly 200 yards in the final game of the season to make it to 2,000. He had done that before during the 1973 season but not in his earlier match with the New York Jets, one of the Bills' division rivals and their opponent that day. Two hundred yards didn't seem a realistic goal. His realistic objective that day was to pass the legendary Jim Brown, who ran for 1,863 yards in a single season 10 years earlier.

Simpson needed only 60 yards to match Brown, and common sense said he could get that with ease. Simpson ran for twice as many yards when the teams met back in the third week of the season. Only the defending Super Bowl champion Miami Dolphins and their no–name defense had held Simpson to fewer than 60 yards in a game.

Momentum was clearly on Simpson's side. He had run for more than 100 yards in each of the last four games (would have been five, but he fell a single yard short against the Cincinnati Bengals in mid–November).

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As I say, he needed nearly 200 yards to break the 2,000–yard barrier, and most observers dismissed that as unrealistic. True, he had run for more than 200 yards the week before, but that was against another division rival, the New England Patriots, and Simpson had run for more than 200 yards against the Patriots in the season opener as well — but he hadn't managed to do it against anyone else.

In a steady snowfall, it was clear early that Simpson would set a new single–season rushing record. The next obvious question was whether he could reach the barrier of 2,000 yards against the Jets, who were 4–9.

Simpson was more dramatic on that one, going down to the wire before finally notching his 2,000th yard late in the fourth quarter of the last regular–season game.

The argument can be made that the Jets had nothing for which to play, but the same could be said of the Bills.

And, mind you, I make no excuses for anything Simpson may have done since his playing career ended. Forty years ago, he was the hottest thing in football, virtually the Johnny Football of his day. Whatever role he may or may not have played in the murders of his ex–wife and her friend and the crimes of which he was convicted in Nevada, they were still more than 20 years in the future.

Others have broken that 2,000–yard barrier since then. But Simpson is the only one to achieve it in 14 games. All the others ran for 2,000–plus yards in 16–game seasons.

O.J.'s is an accomplishment that may never be duplicated.

It Ain't Over Until It's Over

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Yogi Berra was credited with saying "It ain't over until it's over."

Yogi played — and then managed — in major league baseball, but the saying is appropriate for football, too.

It certainly was appropriate 45 years ago today.

On this day in 1968, the New York Jets and the Oakland Raiders were playing a football game. Joe Namath and the Jets went on to play in — and win — the Super Bowl in January. And, late in the game that was played 45 years ago today, it sure looked like the Jets were going to beat the Raiders.

Except that they didn't.

It had been a back–and–forth affair in Oakland that day, but, with 1:05 remaining, the Jets took a three–point lead. Worried NBC executives cut away from the game, and the network began its regularly scheduled broadcast of a made–for–TV movie that was based on the children's book "Heidi."

What happened next changed the relationship between professional football and television.

The Raiders scored not one but two improbable touchdowns and won the game, 43–32. The western half of the United States saw the full game; the eastern half was watching a little girl on a Swiss mountain and had no idea the Raiders had won.

"Television missed one of football's most exciting and exhausting minutes of emotion," wrote Bob Valli in the Oakland Tribune. "In that minute, Oakland fans saw despair turn to delirium."

Football fans were enraged when they learned what they missed. Viewers who tuned in for the movie were enraged when NBC ran the score on the screen in the middle of one of the movie's most dramatic moments. "Short of pre–empting Heidi for a skin flick," wrote sportswriter Jack Clary, "NBC could not have managed to alienate more viewers that evening."

As a result, television changed its football broadcast policy.

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Future contracts would include explicit language pledging that all games would be shown to their completion. If a game ran long, regularly scheduled programming would be delayed.

NBC implemented that policy immediately. It is standard procedure with all commercial networks today.

To its credit, NBC poked fun at itself over the incident. Three weeks later, when the network was scheduled to show "Pinocchio" on a Sunday night, NBC's promotional advertising showed Pinocchio assuring football fans that he would rather cut off his nose than "have them cut off" the game before it was over.

And a week after that, when a game ran late, NBC announced that the regularly scheduled program, an episode of The New Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, would be delayed.

When Seabiscuit Won the Match of the Century

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Perhaps you saw the movie about Seabiscuit that was in the theaters a few years back.

It was an inspiring movie. It pushed all the right buttons, and it landed on the American Film Institute's list of the Top 100 inspirational movies of all time. Smack dab in the middle, in fact, at #50.

I'm not sure if it was that inspirational, though. I'm not sure that there weren't exaggerations if not downright falsehoods told in that movie. I guess that's true of most movies, even the ones that supposedly are telling true stories. You've got to exaggerate some things to maintain that level of drama.

You can't tell the truth all the time, can you?

Sometimes, though, it strikes me that the truth is dramatic enough, and so it is with the real story of Seabiscuit.

I realize that Seabiscuit was a horse (of course, of course), but his was really the story of Everyman, the ordinary individual, the underdog facing extraordinary circumstances.

That was Seabiscuit's story. He was a small horse, undersized and underestimated by many, even though he was the grandson of the great Man O' War (who might have won the 1920 Triple Crown if his owner had permitted him to run in the Kentucky Derby).

War Admiral — Seabiscuit's uncle even though he was a year younger — did win the Triple Crown. War Admiral was taller and looked like a race horse whereas Seabiscuit looked like more of a plow horse with his stubby legs.

Seabiscuit's career got off to a shaky start, most likely because his original owner put him through a punishing racing schedule in his early years. He was eventually sold to businessman Charles Howard, who put him in the hands of trainer Tom Smith. Smith put jockey Red Pollard on board the horse, and a winning combination was formed.

Seabiscuit didn't win the Triple Crown because his first owner, feeling the horse was too lazy, pushed a different horse instead. But Seabiscuit's reputation grew with each triumph under Howard, Smith and Pollard, and, by 1938, a debate was raging in the racing world. Which horse was better — Seabiscuit, who raced primarily in the West, or Triple Crown winner War Admiral, who raced primarily in the East?

In 1937, Seabiscuit had been the leading money winner, but War Admiral, having won the Triple Crown, was voted Horse of the Year.

It was decided that the matter would be settled on Nov. 1, 1938, at Pimlico in Baltimore.

In true Everyman fashion, Seabiscuit endured setbacks along the way. His successful relationship with Pollard was derailed in early 1938 when Pollard was injured racing another horse. Another jockey, George Woolf, stepped in for him and enjoyed mixed results before Pollard was able to return to action.

Pollard's return was short lived, though. While working a young colt, Pollard was thrown and his leg was shattered. His career appeared to be over; it would be up to Woolf to ride Seabiscuit in what is remembered as the match of the century — Seabiscuit's match race with War Admiral 75 years ago today.

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Conventional wisdom in horse racing holds that, in a head–to–head race, the advantage is with the horse that has the fastest start, and Seabiscuit was notorious for habitually hanging back at the start and then springing to the lead at the end. To a great extent, that was how he had earned a reputation for being lazy.

War Admiral, on the other hand, was known to be a front runner; consequently, War Admiral was a 1–to–4 favorite.

But what most people didn't know was that Smith had adjusted his training methods specifically for the race with War Admiral. He conditioned Seabiscuit to have a Pavlovian response to the sound of the starting bell (through the use of the whip), and Seabiscuit practically exploded from the gate.

It was a dramatic race. War Admiral closed the gap between the two near the midway point, and most observers probably thought he would win as expected. But Seabiscuit seemed to find something within himself — the equine equivalent of another gear, I suppose — and pulled away again.

The result was that Seabiscuit won the race by four lengths and, not long after, was voted the Horse of the Year for 1938 — with War Admiral finishing second again.

The stubby grandson of Man O' War had become an unlikely hero for a Depression–weary nation.

Kirk Gibson's Walk-off Home Run

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I'm a Los Angeles Dodgers fan. Always have been. I don't really know why. I've never lived in Los Angeles. In fact, I've only been there twice in my life.

I grew up in central Arkansas, which was kind of an extension of St. Louis Cardinals territory. There was a minor league team in Little Rock that was affiliated with the Cardinals for a long time, and, when I was a child, I could always get Cardinals games on my radio. When folks in my hometown went on a summer vacation, nine times out of 10 they went to St. Louis to see a game or two. Heck, even my family did that a couple of times — and no one in my family could be called a Cardinals fan.

It would have been so easy to do as most of my friends did and take the Cardinals as my team. But I guess I wanted to assert my individuality so I picked the Dodgers.

And I have been loyal to the Dodgers ever since.

They haven't always made it easy. Many times, they haven't come close to being in the playoffs. Then, when they have been in the playoffs, they've often found some way to blow it.

They're in the playoffs again this yearm currently facing the St. Louis Cardinals for the National League championship. The Cardinals won the first two games during the weekend, but the Dodgers won Game 3 last night and are hoping to even the series tonight.

I discovered it was a small club, too. that list of Dodger loyalists. I didn't know any other Dodger fans when I was growing up. I met one or two in college, and I met one or two after I finished work on my bachelor's degree so I know that Dodger fans did exist in Arkansas when I lived there. They were just few and far between.

The last time the Dodgers were in the World Series, 25 years ago, I was certain they were going to lose it. They had had a spectacular run that year, beating the favored New York Mets for the National League title, and pitcher Orel Hershiser had had a remarkable year, setting a record for consecutive scoreless innings pitched in the waning weeks of the regular season.

But the foe in the World Series would be the Oakland A's, an intimidating team that had rolled through their American League competition behind the exploits of the so–called "Bash Brothers," Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire. Oakland swept the Boston Red Sox in the AL playoffs that year.

The A's won four more games that season than the Mets did. Their 104–victory total was greater than any American League team except one in nearly 20 years — the 1984 Detroit Tigers, who also won 104 games.

I just felt like the Dodgers couldn't compete with the A's. Neither did most sports observers.

In those days, I was working on the sports staff of a modestly sized afternoon newspaper in north Texas. Game 1 of the World Series was on a Saturday night, the one day of the week that a morning edition was prepared — for delivery on Sunday morning. Everyone on the staff was at work from about 3 in the afternoon until midnight.

The game began around 7 that night, and I timed my dinner break so I could run home and start my VCR with the first pitch. That way, I knew I could watch the game later.

As it was being played, though, I tried to monitor it from my desk, which was in view of the newsroom TV (there was no commercial internet to consult in 1988 — I had access to the sports wire, of course, and it provided score updates, but details were sketchy until game accounts began to move). From time to time, people came in from the backshop to ask about the score, and, for much of the evening, it seemed things were going to play out about as expected.

Things weren't going well for the Dodgers. They took a 2–0 lead in the first inning but immediately surrendered it to Oakland when the A's scored four runs in the top of the second.

The Dodgers added a run in the sixth but trailed, 4–3, in the bottom of the ninth.

Kirk Gibson had been the offensive star of the season for the Dodgers, but he was hobbled by injuries to both legs and had not started the game that night. However, in the ninth inning, he decided to make himself available for pinch–hitting duty and came to bat with one on and two out.

What followed was so implausible, so dramatic that no novelist or screen writer could have gotten away with writing it.

Oakland's ace reliever, Dennis Eckersley, was on the mound. No other reliever in the majors had as many saves as Eckersley did that year. Oakland fans regarded him as automatic — and rightfully so.

The count was full, there was a runner at second, and Eckersley threw a slider. Gibson swung, connected and drilled it over the fence.

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Most people, when asked what they remember about that moment, will tell you they remember Gibson pumping his right arm in jubilation as he circled the bases.

And I remember that, too. (It was the crowning touch on a moment in baseball history that has truly become iconic in the last quarter of a century. It is always shown in baseball's postseason, along with the clip that is arguably the Dodgers' lowest moment as a team — the Giants' Bobby Thomson's walk–off homer in the deciding game of the National League playoffs against the Dodgers in 1951.)

But what I remember most about that moment is watching Gibson's painful run around the bases. And I use the word run generously here. It wasn't really a run. It was more of a walk that was intended to be a run, but it just didn't work out. Sometimes it was a limp.

Kind of gave a new meaning to the term walk–off. Gibson's spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.

But, when you hit a home run, you don't get extra points — or credit — for running around the bases at a record clip. All you've got to do is touch each base — especially the last one.

And that's what Gibson did. The fact that it took him longer than usual to do it simply meant Dodger fans had more time to savor the moment — and A's fans had to suffer through it longer.

By the way, Gibson played for the '84 Tigers.

Muhammad Ali's Third Heavyweight Crown

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Thirty–five years ago today, Muhammad Ali did something no one else has ever done. He won the heavyweight title for the third time.

Seven months earlier, Ali got sloppy and lost his title to Leon Spinks, a newcomer fighting in only his eighth professional fight. The 36–year–old Ali clearly expected an easy time with Spinks, but he wound up losing a 15–round decision.

Ali took the rematch seriously and came into it in much better shape. In many ways, he looked like the Ali of a few years earlier when he won bouts with George Foreman and Joe Frazier.

The Spinks fights were televised in those pre–cable days by one of the networks. That was one of the great things about the years when Ali was the champ. He made boxing accessible to everyone. Before and after Ali's championship years, heavyweight title fights were televised in that era's version of pay–per–view telecasts. They were shown via closed circuit in theaters, and, as I recall, tickets definitely were not cheap (in the financial context of the times).

But Joe Six–Pack could watch heavyweight title fights from the comfort of his own living room — and without paying a penny for the privilege — when Ali was champ.

I didn't get to see Ali lose his title to Spinks in February 1978. It was regarded as a foregone conclusion that Ali would win, and I accepted a social invitation of some kind — and, as a result, missed one of the great upsets in boxing history.

Seven months later, when the two of them met in a rematch, I was in front of the TV watching. I wasn't about to miss it. The Rumble in the Jungle and the Thrilla in Manila get all the attention in the Ali story, but, for me, the fight that took place 35 years ago tonight was the most anticipated fight of my life.

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As I watched the rematch, it was hard for me to believe Ali could have lost to Spinks in that first fight. Ali was sharp. He was crisp. He was in charge of the fight from the beginning.

Long before the final bell sounded, I knew Ali would recapture his title that night — barring some totally unexpected development. Not only did Ali look like he was in charge of the fight, but Spinks appeared hesitant, sluggish, even confused at times. In the later rounds, maybe that confusion was due to all the blows Spinks had taken from Ali. But I could not explain why he was that way in the early rounds.

I thought it was a mismatch. It was hard for me to believe the fight went the distance. True, it resulted in a unanimous decision for Ali, but his age was catching up to him. The Ali of even two years prior would have finished off Spinks in a few rounds, as he did Jean–Pierre Coopman and Richard Dunn (with a 15–round decision over a more highly regarded challenger, Jimmy Young, in between) in a three—month span in 1976.

But, after beating Spinks, Ali went more than two years before unsuccessfully defending his title against Larry Holmes in October 1980.

The Era of Ali was over.