As a kid thinking about a career as an adult, I figured I'd either start at quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys - this was when Danny White proved inferior when following in Roger Staubach's footsteps - or play shooting guard for the Lakers. If either of those goals failed, I planned on a career at NFL Films. When we first got ESPN, it seemed half of the network's programming consisted of shows courtesy of NFL Films, whether it was Steve Sabol relaxing in a chair and introducing a Super Bowl film about the battle between the Niners and Dolphins, or a Follies program that was complete with the voice of Elmer Fudd (the NFL took itself a lot less seriously back then).
Every so often you saw into the NFL Films building, where row after row of canisters filled the rooms. Imagine watching NFL highlights all day long. That's the existence I dreamed about.
The music of NFL Films was a major reason the shows appealed to me and millions of other football fans. Composer Sam Spence put together many of the famous NFL Films songs and the sounds became synonymous with the images, from the Steel Curtain's dominance to Lombardi's fury. Even today, hearing an old-school NF Films song - you usually only hear them today when they're used ironically in commercials that are selling fashionable pants or comfortable shoes - makes me want to run out on the street with a Nerf football and play two-on-two passing games against friends.
A YouTube poster who probably also grew up dreaming about serving as Steve Sabol's assistant compiled dozens of famous NFL Films song. They're all here. Some classics, starting with "The Classic Battle." I picture the Cowboys digging in at the goal-line in Lambeau, moments before Bart Starr's game-winning sneak.
For lovers of the trombone and video of John Riggins gaining 5 yards a pop behind the Redkins' hogs, here's "Roundup."
"Salute to Courage." Perhaps you think it'd be a song composed for a feature on World War II veterans, or the embassy hostages in Iran. Instead it's something to use while watching shots of Terry Bradshaw throw bombs to Lynn Swann.
"The Final Quest." Break this one out before showing the Super Bowl teams slowly running out for pregame introductions, perhaps the Cowboys before the 1993 Super Bowl or the Giants before their destruction of the Broncos in 1987. If used by NFL Films, it has to be used while showing the winning team. Because music this inspirational is not built for losers. Sorry, Bills.
"West Side Rumble." With a name like that and a song like this, it had to be used during a film about rivals, a game between two teams that hated each other. Maybe during the Steelers-Raiders game that ended with Franco's Immaculate Reception. Or a good Redskins-Cowboys game during the George Allen era in Washington.
The names are as entertaining as the song. Here's "The Pony Soldiers," and it sounds like something that Eastwood would have used in one of his Westerns. I think this would best be used with a Joe Montana film, perhaps during the drive that ended with The Catch. I picture him dissecting a defense as the music begins, before it ends with a flourish and a fist pump.
The Raiders were so tough, and notorious, in the '60s and '70s that NFL Films gave them their own song, "Autumn Wind." Spence wrote the song, while Sabol himself wrote a poem about the franchise. Vikings fans can listen to this while picturing Old Man Willie racing down the sidelines with an interception return in the Super Bowl.
"Up She Rises." Another one where I don't know whether to avenge the sinking of the Maine or sit back and watch Bob Griese lead the Dolphins to an unbeaten season. All of these are famous NFL Films songs, but the part in this one that kicks in at around 40 seconds is among the most well-known sections.
I no longer think I'll grow up to quarterback the Cowboys and I don't think I'll make it as shooting guard for the Lakers. I also don't want to work for NFL Films, as I'm sure the technology would only confuse me, and I'm much more comfortable with words than pictures. Still, I could listen to their songs all day.The only thing missing from these? A little John Facenda:
Showing posts with label NFL. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NFL. Show all posts
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Hail Mary and the Vikings
The Vikings start the season a week from Thursday and it begins where everything ended so horribly in January: New Orleans. That loss in the NFC title game was simply the latest chapter in a heartbreaking book that's become a serialized novel. The story will apparently never conclude and none of the chapters will end in happiness.
There have been highlights of course, games that didn't end with tears and conspiracy theories. It's just that those games take place in the regular season.
Here's perhaps the most famous play in Vikings history, at least for games they won. It came in December 1980 at Met Stadium, and clinched the division title for the Vikings. The Vikings trailed the Browns 23-22 when Tommy Kramer hooked up with Michael Jordan's future spokesman, Ahmad Rashad, for a 47-yard touchdown as time expired. Kramer finished with 456 yards passing on the day. One play earlier, the Vikings had reached the Cleveland 47 thanks to a hook and lateral play between Joe Senser and Teddy Brown. Rashad's catch is one of the coolest Hail Mary completions in football history. He's practically an afterthought on the play, right up until he reaches out and makes the one-handed grab.
The playoffs that year? A 31-16 loss to Philadelphia. Of course.
It's a testament to the tortured history of the franchise that the Vikings could be involved in one of the most famous Hail Mary finishes in league history, but it's not even the most memorable one in team history.
That, of course, came in the 1975 NFC playoffs against the Cowboys, when Roger Staubach connected with Drew Pearson on the play that continues to enrage Vikings fans 35 years later. Actually, it's not just Pearson's winning catch. Two players earlier, Staubach and Pearson came through on a fourth-and-17 play, as Pearson made a catch on the sidelines that, according to Purple fans, should have been ruled incomplete. Here's the whole mess. Pay special attention to the security guard on the Vikings sideline. After Pearson falls to the ground after his fourth down catch, this keeper of the peace throws a little kick at the Cowboys receiver. Maybe the guy knew what was coming.
Even today, there are probably some Viking fans who watch this and throw a beer bottle across the living room, in a homage to the moron who drilled Armen Terzian in the head with one following the game.
Many people expect the Saints to hammer the Vikings in the opening week. Maybe. But there's a decent chance the Vikings will go in there, Favre will look like he's 25 years old, the defense will dominate and Adrian Peterson will manage to run over defenders while holding onto the ball. Regular season games have never been a problem for the Vikings. True debacles come in the playoffs. The countdown to January begins. And the ghosts of Stram, Pearson, Nelson, Anderson and 12 men on the field will be along for the ride, just waiting for the newest chapter to be written.
There have been highlights of course, games that didn't end with tears and conspiracy theories. It's just that those games take place in the regular season.
Here's perhaps the most famous play in Vikings history, at least for games they won. It came in December 1980 at Met Stadium, and clinched the division title for the Vikings. The Vikings trailed the Browns 23-22 when Tommy Kramer hooked up with Michael Jordan's future spokesman, Ahmad Rashad, for a 47-yard touchdown as time expired. Kramer finished with 456 yards passing on the day. One play earlier, the Vikings had reached the Cleveland 47 thanks to a hook and lateral play between Joe Senser and Teddy Brown. Rashad's catch is one of the coolest Hail Mary completions in football history. He's practically an afterthought on the play, right up until he reaches out and makes the one-handed grab.
The playoffs that year? A 31-16 loss to Philadelphia. Of course.
It's a testament to the tortured history of the franchise that the Vikings could be involved in one of the most famous Hail Mary finishes in league history, but it's not even the most memorable one in team history.
That, of course, came in the 1975 NFC playoffs against the Cowboys, when Roger Staubach connected with Drew Pearson on the play that continues to enrage Vikings fans 35 years later. Actually, it's not just Pearson's winning catch. Two players earlier, Staubach and Pearson came through on a fourth-and-17 play, as Pearson made a catch on the sidelines that, according to Purple fans, should have been ruled incomplete. Here's the whole mess. Pay special attention to the security guard on the Vikings sideline. After Pearson falls to the ground after his fourth down catch, this keeper of the peace throws a little kick at the Cowboys receiver. Maybe the guy knew what was coming.
Even today, there are probably some Viking fans who watch this and throw a beer bottle across the living room, in a homage to the moron who drilled Armen Terzian in the head with one following the game.
Many people expect the Saints to hammer the Vikings in the opening week. Maybe. But there's a decent chance the Vikings will go in there, Favre will look like he's 25 years old, the defense will dominate and Adrian Peterson will manage to run over defenders while holding onto the ball. Regular season games have never been a problem for the Vikings. True debacles come in the playoffs. The countdown to January begins. And the ghosts of Stram, Pearson, Nelson, Anderson and 12 men on the field will be along for the ride, just waiting for the newest chapter to be written.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The only thing worse than the Pro Bowl
Two days ago, while killing time before dinner, my brother-in-law Anthony turned the channel to a replay of the NFL Pro Bowl. Sensing my need for a dose of American sports in the sea of cricket, rugby and soccer, he stopped on the game for about 10 minutes. He asked if it was an All-Star type game and I said it was, though I then added three minutes of qualifiers relating to injuries, dropouts, players being kicked out and teams who play in fear of an injury in a meaningless contest that could ruin the games that count in 2010. It's tough explaining the ludicrousness of the Pro Bowl in a hundred words or less. It's more difficult than explaining the electoral college to a foreigner.
Anthony watched one play - a run by Chris Johnson that ended with the defensive players standing as motionless as a sculpture at the Met - and said, "That was the slowest play I've ever seen." Anthony's probably seen 50 American football plays in his life, but even he could spot an inferior product.
I then explained that in addition to everything else I had mentioned, the game's often played at half-speed, as teams display the intensity they usually reserve for a flag football game with the relatives at Easter. We watched the AFC score the winning points in their thrilling 41-34 victory, a result that was erased from everyone's mind about three seconds after it entered the official record book.
The Pro Bowl's wretchedness is nothing new, even if the NFL somehow managed to make it even more irrelevant by playing it the week before the Super Bowl, ensuring that even more stars than normal will be missing. At least those players sport a legitimate excuse that doesn't require a handwritten note from a doctor that talks about a nagging hamstring injury or a lingering ankle problem that recently flared up. High school seniors with a week left of classes are the only people with worse attendance marks than stars picked for the Pro Bowl.
Despite all that, I still don't think the Pro Bowl is the worst of the Big Three's all-star games. That designation belongs to baseball. While the Pro Bowl suffers because of what happens on the field, MLB's All-Star game earns its spot at the bottom because of what's at stake on the field. Namely, way too much. Baseball's insistence on using the All-Star Game to determine homefield advantage for the World Series is much more absurd than watching the seventh-best quarterback in the NFC play in the Pro Bowl in front of a stadium that's filled with bored paying customers and prisoners shipped in to stock the remaining seats. All-Star games should be meaningless exhibitions where the top players show off, or at least show up.
Homefield advantage in baseball certainly isn't as crucial as it is in basketball and football, but it does mean quite a bit. And the previous method of deciding homefield - alternating it every year between AL and NL - didn't make much more sense. However, that system receives 86 percent of the credit for the Twins's World Series titles in 1987 and 1991, so no one from Minnesota will ever badmouth the way things were done before.
Baseball's All-Star game provides memorable moments, whether it's Pete Rose's psychotic collison with Ray Fosse or Reggie Jackson's blast at Tiger Stadium. In comparison, the only thing I remember about any Pro Bowl game was when Barry Switzer ate a hot dog on the sidelines in 1995, which somehow led to criticism from those who thought the good old boy wasn't taking the game seriously enough.
The NBA All-Star game remains my favorite. There's no defense, of course, but who cares? The Jeff Van Gundy's of the world can get their fill of weak-side rotations every other day of the season. The NBA's exhibition at least welcomes the top players. It lets them do things that make them great, namely dunk, throw no-look passes and shoot 25-foot three-pointers. The points come in bunches. And at the end of the 48-minute affair, everyone forgets the game and moves on, just like with the Pro Bowl.
But baseball's All-Star Game? Instead of being left in the past, baseball's premier exhibition haunts the rest of the season. Come October, everyone's again reminded that the reason the Series is beginning on a cold night in Yankee Stadium is because of what happened on a warm evening in July, in a game that should have been meaningless to everyone except wide-eyed children and degenerate gamblers.
Anthony watched one play - a run by Chris Johnson that ended with the defensive players standing as motionless as a sculpture at the Met - and said, "That was the slowest play I've ever seen." Anthony's probably seen 50 American football plays in his life, but even he could spot an inferior product.
I then explained that in addition to everything else I had mentioned, the game's often played at half-speed, as teams display the intensity they usually reserve for a flag football game with the relatives at Easter. We watched the AFC score the winning points in their thrilling 41-34 victory, a result that was erased from everyone's mind about three seconds after it entered the official record book.
The Pro Bowl's wretchedness is nothing new, even if the NFL somehow managed to make it even more irrelevant by playing it the week before the Super Bowl, ensuring that even more stars than normal will be missing. At least those players sport a legitimate excuse that doesn't require a handwritten note from a doctor that talks about a nagging hamstring injury or a lingering ankle problem that recently flared up. High school seniors with a week left of classes are the only people with worse attendance marks than stars picked for the Pro Bowl.
Despite all that, I still don't think the Pro Bowl is the worst of the Big Three's all-star games. That designation belongs to baseball. While the Pro Bowl suffers because of what happens on the field, MLB's All-Star game earns its spot at the bottom because of what's at stake on the field. Namely, way too much. Baseball's insistence on using the All-Star Game to determine homefield advantage for the World Series is much more absurd than watching the seventh-best quarterback in the NFC play in the Pro Bowl in front of a stadium that's filled with bored paying customers and prisoners shipped in to stock the remaining seats. All-Star games should be meaningless exhibitions where the top players show off, or at least show up.
Homefield advantage in baseball certainly isn't as crucial as it is in basketball and football, but it does mean quite a bit. And the previous method of deciding homefield - alternating it every year between AL and NL - didn't make much more sense. However, that system receives 86 percent of the credit for the Twins's World Series titles in 1987 and 1991, so no one from Minnesota will ever badmouth the way things were done before.
Baseball's All-Star game provides memorable moments, whether it's Pete Rose's psychotic collison with Ray Fosse or Reggie Jackson's blast at Tiger Stadium. In comparison, the only thing I remember about any Pro Bowl game was when Barry Switzer ate a hot dog on the sidelines in 1995, which somehow led to criticism from those who thought the good old boy wasn't taking the game seriously enough.
The NBA All-Star game remains my favorite. There's no defense, of course, but who cares? The Jeff Van Gundy's of the world can get their fill of weak-side rotations every other day of the season. The NBA's exhibition at least welcomes the top players. It lets them do things that make them great, namely dunk, throw no-look passes and shoot 25-foot three-pointers. The points come in bunches. And at the end of the 48-minute affair, everyone forgets the game and moves on, just like with the Pro Bowl.
But baseball's All-Star Game? Instead of being left in the past, baseball's premier exhibition haunts the rest of the season. Come October, everyone's again reminded that the reason the Series is beginning on a cold night in Yankee Stadium is because of what happened on a warm evening in July, in a game that should have been meaningless to everyone except wide-eyed children and degenerate gamblers.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Don't be the retiring type
Sometime within the next two months Brett Favre will choose to either retire from the NFL or return to the Vikings in 2010. A few months after that he'll change his mind, before making his final decision in late July. Each of those decisions will spawn dozens of columns and online stories. Some will applaud the decision, others will deride the change of heart. The rest will advise old No. 4 to finally retire.
That final category is one I really hope to avoid reading.
There's nothing worse than writers or fans who demand an athlete retire. Strike that. There's nothing worse than writers or fans who demand an athlete retire at the top of their game, so they can leave the sport while our memories of their abilities remain as pure and poignant as our memories of a first kiss.
I want the opposite. If an athlete retires, fine. But if they want to cling to a career with every last bit of savvy and dwindling ability in their arsenal, even better. Athletes should only quit when it's their call or when no team wants them. If that means their skills decline 75 percent, so be it. If that means they have to switch franchises three times in their late 30s and can only be used as a DH or a pinch-hitter, great. Keep playing as long possible. The guy's a former All-star guard but is now a 12th man on an NBA team that finishes six games under .500? Great. Keep getting beat on defense and airballing those three-pointers.
And don't worry about ruining a legacy.
Protecting their legacy. That's the phrase often used when talking about legendary athletes who hang on too long or retire at a young age. Magic Johnson hurt his legacy by coming back in 1996 as a beefy power forward who clashed with younger teammates. Michael Jordan damaged his legacy by returning with the Wizards in 2001 as an overweight shooting guard with a bum knee and an oversize ego.
The most famous example of an athlete damaging his legacy is probably Willie Mays. The phrase "stumbling around like Willie Mays with the Mets" has become as heinous a sports cliche as "we're just going to take things one game at a time." If the sports world insists on dragging an athlete's failing skills out for comparison every time a player is encouraged to hang up the cleats, this phrase should at least be updated with the times. Maybe, "it's more painful than watching Emmitt Smith stumble around with the Arizona Cardinals." Emmitt. There's another one who supposedly damaged his legacy by refusing to leave the sport when it was deemed appropriate by the masses.
But are the legacies really damaged, except in the minds of 40-year-olds who apparently have the reasoning skills and emotional maturity of 4-year-olds? Take Magic and Jordan, two players who have a permanent spot on every list made when ranking the top 5 players in NBA history. Magic didn't lose his slot to Isiah Thomas or Doc Rivers simply because his final season in the NBA ended with him being suspended for bumping a ref, followed by the Lakers flaming out in the playoffs against Houston. When people reflect on Magic's career, that season is now part of the discussion. So is The Magic Hour. And? Does that one season erase everything that happened between 1980 and 1991? Certainly not. In his career biography, it's simply another chapter, albeit one filled with slow trots up the court and off-the-mark jumpers instead of fastbreaks and on-the-mark passes. But why would that concern anyone? Same thing with Jordan. Michael Leahy's book When Nothing Else Matters superbly dissects Jordan's disastrous two-year stint in Washington, where the player who could once do no wrong suffered more failures than a one-term president. Those two years are now part of his permanent record, neatly filed away in a manila folder somewhere. But do those two years damage what he accomplished between 1985 and 1998? Certainly not.
I'm glad both players returned for those respective stints, no matter how different they were to the rest of their careers. I want to watch great athletes play as long as possible and it doesn't really matter to me whether they're as powerful as ever or as weak as a YMCA Sunday night gym warrior.
And while athletes are criticized for sticking around past their expiration date, they're often applauded if they supposedly have a good sense of timing when it comes to retirement. Jim Brown, Barry Sanders. Two guys who went out while still the best at what they did. Jordan accomplished this the first time he retired from the Bulls in 1993. And he did it again the second time he retired after the 1998 season. Such a perfect ending, sealing his legacy and a sixth title with that push-off and jumper against the Jazz in Game 6 of the Finals. It was the type of ending poets could have written about for another century. Then he had to go and ruin it by signing with the Wizards. For guys like Sanders and Brown, retiring when they did was right for them. That doesn't mean it's right for any other athlete and it certainly doesn't mean their way should be the standard for every other professional.
Sometimes retirement concerns focus on health, specifically in boxing and football. No one wants to see damaged or injured players become more damaged by refusing to retire. One more punch or one more sack and concussion apparently weigh heavy on the minds of those who chronicle the games. But even with these I'm a bit reluctant to ever say someone should stop. In the end, what knowledge do I have about a situation that the player and his doctors and team don't have? Does my ability to Google the effects of concussions provide an insight that's otherwise missing? Former Senator Bill Frist once took some much-deserved criticism for diagnosing Terri Schiavo by watching a video. He was actually at least a doctor, if an overly ambitious and politicized one. It was ridiculous for him to offer up a medical opinion on someone he'd never checked and never knew. So I'd also feel slightly foolish demanding that an athlete retire, simply because my medical opinion is it'd be his best option for maintaining his good health.
This phenomenon seems unique to sports. Is anyone upset that Spielberg didn't retire after Schindler's List, when he was at the top of his game? Shouldn't Sully have grounded himself after landing in the Hudson, instead of returning to the air a few months later? He has as much chance of topping that performance as Jordan did of besting his shot against the Jazz. Yet obviously no one cares. J.D. Salinger died Wednesday. He hadn't published anything since 1965 and The Catcher in The Rye came out in 1951. Was the world better off because he sealed his literary legacy by refusing to publish second-rate material the past 45 years? Certainly his detachment from public life added layers of intrigue to his life, but millions would have been content to watch him damage his reputation as a writer, if that would have meant being able to read a few more novels or short stories from a legendary author.
At the same time, there are some occupations where people should quit before their skills suffer. Like, say, brain surgeons.
But sports are what fascinate. Fans and writers feel a connection that's unique to athletes. We demand that players love their sport and the competition, but express surprise when they're unwilling and unable to give up the only thing they've known for 20 years. We act disappointed that they linger on the bench and on our screens, as if anyone should be expected to say goodbye to millions of dollars and millions of cheers simply because it'd be convenient for our own psyches. Hang on until someone says it's time to go.
An athlete should retire when they believe it's time to be done, and not a moment sooner. No one has the right to tell them when to quit. It's always their choice, no matter how many great memories they've provided in the past and no matter how few memories they provide in their twilight years.
That final category is one I really hope to avoid reading.
There's nothing worse than writers or fans who demand an athlete retire. Strike that. There's nothing worse than writers or fans who demand an athlete retire at the top of their game, so they can leave the sport while our memories of their abilities remain as pure and poignant as our memories of a first kiss.
I want the opposite. If an athlete retires, fine. But if they want to cling to a career with every last bit of savvy and dwindling ability in their arsenal, even better. Athletes should only quit when it's their call or when no team wants them. If that means their skills decline 75 percent, so be it. If that means they have to switch franchises three times in their late 30s and can only be used as a DH or a pinch-hitter, great. Keep playing as long possible. The guy's a former All-star guard but is now a 12th man on an NBA team that finishes six games under .500? Great. Keep getting beat on defense and airballing those three-pointers.
And don't worry about ruining a legacy.
Protecting their legacy. That's the phrase often used when talking about legendary athletes who hang on too long or retire at a young age. Magic Johnson hurt his legacy by coming back in 1996 as a beefy power forward who clashed with younger teammates. Michael Jordan damaged his legacy by returning with the Wizards in 2001 as an overweight shooting guard with a bum knee and an oversize ego.
The most famous example of an athlete damaging his legacy is probably Willie Mays. The phrase "stumbling around like Willie Mays with the Mets" has become as heinous a sports cliche as "we're just going to take things one game at a time." If the sports world insists on dragging an athlete's failing skills out for comparison every time a player is encouraged to hang up the cleats, this phrase should at least be updated with the times. Maybe, "it's more painful than watching Emmitt Smith stumble around with the Arizona Cardinals." Emmitt. There's another one who supposedly damaged his legacy by refusing to leave the sport when it was deemed appropriate by the masses.
But are the legacies really damaged, except in the minds of 40-year-olds who apparently have the reasoning skills and emotional maturity of 4-year-olds? Take Magic and Jordan, two players who have a permanent spot on every list made when ranking the top 5 players in NBA history. Magic didn't lose his slot to Isiah Thomas or Doc Rivers simply because his final season in the NBA ended with him being suspended for bumping a ref, followed by the Lakers flaming out in the playoffs against Houston. When people reflect on Magic's career, that season is now part of the discussion. So is The Magic Hour. And? Does that one season erase everything that happened between 1980 and 1991? Certainly not. In his career biography, it's simply another chapter, albeit one filled with slow trots up the court and off-the-mark jumpers instead of fastbreaks and on-the-mark passes. But why would that concern anyone? Same thing with Jordan. Michael Leahy's book When Nothing Else Matters superbly dissects Jordan's disastrous two-year stint in Washington, where the player who could once do no wrong suffered more failures than a one-term president. Those two years are now part of his permanent record, neatly filed away in a manila folder somewhere. But do those two years damage what he accomplished between 1985 and 1998? Certainly not.
I'm glad both players returned for those respective stints, no matter how different they were to the rest of their careers. I want to watch great athletes play as long as possible and it doesn't really matter to me whether they're as powerful as ever or as weak as a YMCA Sunday night gym warrior.
And while athletes are criticized for sticking around past their expiration date, they're often applauded if they supposedly have a good sense of timing when it comes to retirement. Jim Brown, Barry Sanders. Two guys who went out while still the best at what they did. Jordan accomplished this the first time he retired from the Bulls in 1993. And he did it again the second time he retired after the 1998 season. Such a perfect ending, sealing his legacy and a sixth title with that push-off and jumper against the Jazz in Game 6 of the Finals. It was the type of ending poets could have written about for another century. Then he had to go and ruin it by signing with the Wizards. For guys like Sanders and Brown, retiring when they did was right for them. That doesn't mean it's right for any other athlete and it certainly doesn't mean their way should be the standard for every other professional.
Sometimes retirement concerns focus on health, specifically in boxing and football. No one wants to see damaged or injured players become more damaged by refusing to retire. One more punch or one more sack and concussion apparently weigh heavy on the minds of those who chronicle the games. But even with these I'm a bit reluctant to ever say someone should stop. In the end, what knowledge do I have about a situation that the player and his doctors and team don't have? Does my ability to Google the effects of concussions provide an insight that's otherwise missing? Former Senator Bill Frist once took some much-deserved criticism for diagnosing Terri Schiavo by watching a video. He was actually at least a doctor, if an overly ambitious and politicized one. It was ridiculous for him to offer up a medical opinion on someone he'd never checked and never knew. So I'd also feel slightly foolish demanding that an athlete retire, simply because my medical opinion is it'd be his best option for maintaining his good health.
This phenomenon seems unique to sports. Is anyone upset that Spielberg didn't retire after Schindler's List, when he was at the top of his game? Shouldn't Sully have grounded himself after landing in the Hudson, instead of returning to the air a few months later? He has as much chance of topping that performance as Jordan did of besting his shot against the Jazz. Yet obviously no one cares. J.D. Salinger died Wednesday. He hadn't published anything since 1965 and The Catcher in The Rye came out in 1951. Was the world better off because he sealed his literary legacy by refusing to publish second-rate material the past 45 years? Certainly his detachment from public life added layers of intrigue to his life, but millions would have been content to watch him damage his reputation as a writer, if that would have meant being able to read a few more novels or short stories from a legendary author.
At the same time, there are some occupations where people should quit before their skills suffer. Like, say, brain surgeons.
But sports are what fascinate. Fans and writers feel a connection that's unique to athletes. We demand that players love their sport and the competition, but express surprise when they're unwilling and unable to give up the only thing they've known for 20 years. We act disappointed that they linger on the bench and on our screens, as if anyone should be expected to say goodbye to millions of dollars and millions of cheers simply because it'd be convenient for our own psyches. Hang on until someone says it's time to go.
An athlete should retire when they believe it's time to be done, and not a moment sooner. No one has the right to tell them when to quit. It's always their choice, no matter how many great memories they've provided in the past and no matter how few memories they provide in their twilight years.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The greatest Vikings torment: Stram, Armen and Drew, Nelson or Gary?
With the Vikings prepared to host the Cowboys this week, there have been several stories written about the playoff history between the two teams.
Before their win over Philadelphia last week, the Cowboys' last playoff victory was against the Vikings, during the 1996 season. Troy and Emmitt and Irvin were still around for the Cowboys. Barry Switzer roamed the sidelines. The Vikings trounced them a few years later behind Jeff George and Randy Moss. But the game everyone still remembers came in 1975, also in a Divisional game. That game goes by several aliases. Sometimes called the Hail Mary game, sometimes called the Drew Pearson game, I prefer to think of it as the Armen Terzian game. No matter the name, the pain remains for Vikings fans. I was only six months old, but my family's screams from that day must have left an impression, as the details from the game are as vivid as they would have been if I'd sat in Met Stadium, tossing a beer bottle at Armen Terzian's head.
But was that the most infuriating moment in team history, which is perhaps a bit different than the most heartbreaking? Vikings fans, your thoughts?
The other nominees:
* I say infuriating because one of the possibilities didn't really involve a last-second heartbreak, just three hours of ineptitude. Super Bowl IV. The Vikings, favored by 13 points against the Kansas City Chiefs, came into the game with one of the strongest teams in franchise history. They had a 12-2 record, led the league in points scored and allowed the fewest points in the league. They lost the first and last games of the season, but won 12 in a row in between. Because Super Bowl III lives on in football history, thanks to Joe Namath's guarantee and the Jets upset over the Colts, the Chiefs' dominance the following year sometimes gets lost, but it was just as shocking as the previous year's game. People thought the AFL's win in 1969 was a fluke or a passing fad. Kansas City showed it wasn't, controlling the game throughout, winning 23-7.
But that was only the beginning of the misery. For fans, the true horror came later, with the NFL Films production of the game. For the first time, a coach wore a wire. The coach was the chatty Hank Stram. Forty years later, Stram's words and that voice - that voice - still play on a loop in the nightmares of Minnesotans.
When talking about legendary Vikings defensive end Jim Marshall, the cocky Stram said "it looks like he's in a Chinese fire drill." Politically incorrect, but also accurate. He laughed as the Chiefs ran the "65 toss power trap. What'd I tell ya boys? 65 toss power trap!" He complimented the officials. He criticized them. Perhaps most famously, he bizarrely implored, "Keep matriculating the ball down the field, boys!" At various times he cackled maniacally, like someone performing a parody of a movie madman. Today, reality TV has taught us that otherwise normal people will debase themselves and play to the camera if there's one within 100 feet. Stram might have been the first sports figure who couldn't resist the allure of the camera, or the microphone. Some of his lines almost sounded scripted. Picture Steve Sabol feeding Stram suggestions through an earpiece, helping him find just the right words to infuriate thousands. And now his words live on in the archives of NFL Films, and the damaged psyches of Vikings fans.
Listen, and watch here, Vikings fans.
* Another Super Bowl, another rout. In fact, the final Super Bowl debacle for the Vikings, who had also lost to Miami and Pittsburgh. In 1977, the Raiders did the honors, trouncing the Vikings 32-14. Again, not much in the way of heartbreak in this one. But thanks again to NFL Films, one moment from that game stands out above all others. No, not Jack Tatum's vicious hit on Sammy White, which decimated the Vikings receiver. The image that lives is Willie Brown's interception return for a touchdown in the fourth quarter. Go to the 5:25 mark.
Old Man Willie. The close-up on Brown as he sprints down the field after picking off Tarkenton. The slow-motion. The giddy Raiders announcer, narrating the destruction as he escorts Old Man Willie to the end zone. That shot of Brown became the image that would play on NFL Films recaps for decades to come, the final piece on the soundtrack documenting the Vikings' Super Bowl misery.
* The Vikings plodded along for the next decade, with the only real excitement coming with the hiring of tough guy Les Steckel, followed by his subsequent firing and the return of Bud Grant for one season. But in 1987 a talented team led by Wade Wilson, Keith Millard and Chris Doleman surged at the end of a strike-shortened season. They crushed New Orleans and San Francisco in the playoffs, meeting Washington in the NFC title game. The Redskins dismantled the Broncos in the Super Bowl, but the Vikings played them right to the end.
And in the end it came down to one play, 56 seconds left, fourth down.
It's become known locally as The Drop, since it appeared that Darrin Nelson dropped a potential game-tying pass. But it was a hell of a tough catch and the defender was right there. And not only was a defender there, superstar receiver Anthony Carter loitered nearby, clogging up the area. Still, that game lives on in Vikings infamy, partly because it had been a decade since the Vikings had been that good and also because it would be another decade before they returned to the NFC title game. Those years of futility, both before and after the non-drop, simply added to the misery, since it was the one chance the team had to advance to the Super Bowl, where they could have gone for an unprecedented fifth loss. In between came a handful of arrests, the Herschel trade, Burnsie's departure, a new Sheriff in town and a bunch of first-round exits from the playoffs.
* About that game a decade after the 1987 title loss. There's not much need to recite the details from that NFC title game in January of 1999. Between shots of liquor to drown the pain, all Vikings fans can probably recite the key plays from that day off the top of their Viking-horn-adorned heads. From Denny's call for a kneel down to Morten Andersen's game-winning field goal. But one play stands out above - or would it be below? - all the rest. Gary Anderson's missed field. It stands out because it would have all but clinched the game, giving the Vikings a 10-point lead. Fans remember it because after the miss a feeling of dread invaded the stadium and households throughout the state, as it felt like something had been lost, even if the game hadn't yet been surrendered. But mostly it stands out because it was the first and only blemish on an otherwise perfect season, adding a new layer to the agony. Anderson and his ridiculous helmet made every field goal and extra point that year, until the time when he couldn't afford to miss.
A 38-yarder, one he could have normally made with his left foot. I could not find a single video of that kick anywhere online. Such is the power of the NFL's copyright lawyers, and, perhaps, the reach of former owner Red McCombs, who was certain he was going to hee-haw all the way to the Super Bowl that year. Red's ownership ended without a Super Bowl appearance or a new stadium. Anderson's kick would have ensured the former, and perhaps helped bring about the latter.
There is this: A video-game re-enactment, with the audio from Summerall and Madden. The weirdest thing about the video is that the person who took the time to set the stage and to post it, screwed up the most important detail. Instead of booting a 38-yard field goal, the guy has Anderson trying for an 80-yard field goal. No wonder the kid from South Africa missed.
So which was the most infuriating? Probably Anderson's kick, and that loss following the 15-1 season. Pearson's (alleged) push-off in the 1975 game still enrages diehards, but at least that was a play made by the opposition. Also, a win there would have only put Minnesota in the NFC title game. Anderson's kick meant the Super Bowl, where they would have faced the Broncos. All season the Vikings felt like a team of destiny, right up until the moment they fulfilled the franchise's destiny.
This amusing piece, a parody of the NBA Where Amazing Happens commercials, sums up much of the Vikings' tortured existence. The biggest question for Vikings fans is, will a new chapter be added to their book of torment this week?
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