Old-time hockey

"Boys; were' going to play old-time hockey, eh?"

-The Buffalo Crowd cheering on the hometown Sabres-

-I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out-

Given the paltry interest that professional hockey currently generates in the United States, one could be forgiven with the usual New Year’s glut of second rate college football, for missing one of the more intriguing sporting events I’ve witnessed in awhile.

The National Hockey League, hoping to do something to stop its downward slide in popularity, decided to stage an outdoor game on New Year’s Day, in snowy Buffalo, New York. Featuring the hometown Sabres and the Pittsburgh Penguins, the club that boasts the league’s top young superstar, Sidney Crosby, the league is pinning faint hopes that the second ever outdoor professional hockey game helps generate new interest in a sport that now lags NASCAR, nationally.

The game is being held on a specially constructed rink, built in the middle of Rich Stadium, the home field of the NFL’s Buffalo Bills. This is an interesting venue, given that the stadium resides near Lake Erie and is prone to bursts of lake effect snow. Billed as the Winter Classic and televised by NBC, it’s one of the television events that if you happened to be channel surfing and saw the rink, snow banks flanking the boards and snow and sleet obscuring the usually graphic-driven visuals of modern televised sports, you thought, “what the heck? Did I fall into a time hole and get transported back to 1965?”

You ‘gotta give the NHL credit. This format was fraught with a variety of obstacles and a potential nightmare scenario of being snowed out and having to be replayed. Instead, it was one of the most intriguing televised sporting events I’ve ever witnessed in awhile. The announcers, including longtime NHL play-by-play man, Mike Emrick, are being stationed out in the elements, on one of the camera stands. Several times you heard the banter about the cold and the sleet that was blowing sideways and hitting them in the face. Watching the players trying to deal with snow building up on the ice, some uneven ice and at times, near blizzard conditions during the third period, I think this was a real win for the league and the sport. Certainly the fact that 73,000 fans turned out, many beginning the day with a parking lot tailgate, shows that there are still pockets of fervor for the game imported from north of the border.

One of the best aspects of the game, for me, was the between period interplay between Bob Costas, one of my favorite sports announcers and former NHL tough guy and coach, Mike Milbury, who is well-known to Boston hockey fans. Costas talked a lot about “old-time hockey” with Milbury, who was known more for his fighting than anything else. Costas’ bit about the real life Ogie Oglethorpe, from Slapshot fame, was a classic.

Apparently the character from the movie, was closely based on the exploits of a former rough-and-tumble player for the Syracuse Blazers, Bill “Goldie” Goldthorpe, back in the days of the old North American Hockey League. Costas talked about being the Blazers’ play-by-play man, during the 73-74 season, when he had a run-in, or two with Goldthorpe, just as surly off the ice, as was his reported on-ice demeanor. Costas related a story about reading the New York Times on the team bus (the NAHL was known for its long bus rides from outposts like Johnstown, PA, to Lewiston, ME, home of the old Maine Nordiques) and Oglethorpe apparently took offence. According to Costas, after Goldthorpe made a comment about Costas’ reading material, he said to Goldthorpe, “it’s ok Goldie, I’ll help you learn to read, if you’d like.” That was the wrong thing to say to a guy who is purported to have registered 25 fights before Christmas, during his rookie season. As Costas told the story, Goldthorpe ripped up the newspaper and let it fall like confetti on Costas’ head and then made some menacing gestures and threats toward Costas and it required the coach and several Blazer players to intervene, rescuing him from immediate harm. Some classic stuff and the kind of history that professional sports was known for, when it was played by men, more out of love, or even desperation, rather than the size of their paycheck.

Actually, the concept probably wasn’t that foreign to many of the Canadian players and possibly some of the others, who undoubtedly learned the game, playing a version of “shinny,” or pond hockey, on cold outdoor rinks, in their hometowns. I’m sure many of the fans, either at the game, or those watching on television remember skating on an outdoor rink, either under the lights, on a weeknight, or a weekend afternoon.

Growing up in Lisbon Falls, I remember Saturday and Sunday afternoon outdoor grudge matches, behind the late Dr. Mendes’ house, on Pleasant Street. This was a rite of winter for many of us, as we’d congregate in Doc’s breezeway, to put on our skate and hit the ice. I remember the teams to be made up of a diverse mix of younger players, as young as eight, or nine, older players in their teens, as well as a handful of parents. It wasn’t uncommon for one of the dads, to get a little too aggressive and knock one of the younger players on their backside with an errant elbow. True to the nature of our games, that same dad might find himself the object of a cross-check from behind, or a well-placed hip check courtesy of one of the youngsters.

The current professional sports landscape tends to make me cynical and more likely to avoid the hype and hoopla altogether. On the other hand, NBC’s coverage and the drama of a sporting event that was a nod to the past and some of the best things about the sport might make me come back and watch NBC’s weekly, nationally-televised games during January.

[Postscript-Sydney Crosby, the young man with the weight of the NHL on his young shoulders, scored a shootout goal, shoveling the puck past Sabres goalie, Ryan Miller, with snow swirling, to lift his Pittsburgh Penguins past hometown Buffalo, 2-1. Here's a good article capturing the spectacle that was the Ice Bowl, in Buffalo, from Bucky Gleason, of the Buffalo News. --JB]

Goals, not resolutions

Each year, countless people around the globe propose New Year’s resolutions. Particularly in the U.S., these proposals fixate on the physical—to lose weight, join the gym, eat healthy—while often falling short of their intent.

According to USA.gov (glad to know my tax dollars are being put to good use—studying my fellow American’s top resolutions for the New Year), some of the most popular New Year’s resolutions are losing weight, paying off debt, eating right and drinking less booze.

Like many good intentions, these so-called resolutions will be long forgotten by the end of January. Like the co-worker who says he/she hopes to lose weight and then, over the cubicle wall, you regularly hear them rustling the paper of another fast food meal and smell the waft of French fried potatoes, these resolutions are born in weakness.

While I can’t say honestly that I’ve never failed to achieve success in my own resolutions, I can say in all honesty that I no longer make resolutions. Rather, I’m given to writing down goals, which serve as signposts for me along the road, during the upcoming year.

The practice of setting goals, versus making resolutions, might seem semantic to some. For me, however, it has been empowering. I can’t pinpoint the year I made this transition, but I think it was probably either 2004, or 2005. More than just speaking forth my goals, I’ve made a habit of writing them down, in a notebook, where I regularly refer to them. These provide regular feedback and help me to gauge my success, or help me to step back and reassess where I’m headed. A case in point—in 2004, I set forth a goal of researching and writing a book. In September, 2005, When Towns Had Teams was released. The book was well-received, won a national award in 2006 (an IPPY for best regional non-fiction title in the Northeast) and still continues to sell copies.

2007 has been a great year for me. In my personal life, relationships, work and writing, I’ve been able to maintain a focus in my life that wasn’t the norm, even five years ago.

Setting goals can be tricky, if you’ve never experienced success. That’s why it’s best to set realistic goals for yourself, so you can start achieving success, rather than setting yourself up for failure.

While life is rarely perfect and even in the midst of a good year, there have been disappointments and setbacks, I am confident that 2008 will be an even better year and that I’ll find success in hitting my targets on several fronts. That confidence helps breed further success. In fact, once more, I have a goal of getting a new book to market. I’ve tentatively set a July release date and have begun researching my subject and have already made some solid progress on the writing side. I may have to adjust the release date, but 2008 will see my second book in print.

In looking back over my life, I haven’t always felt this confident. Too often, I would be caught up in bitterness, resentment and blame others for my own shortcomings. Now, I’m much more likely, when confronted with a setback, to ask the question, “what are you not doing right,” or better, “what adjustments do I need to make in my approach?”

I encourage you to abandon playing “resolution roulette” and start practicing something more practical. Get a notebook, or a notepad and set down five practical goals to get you started in 2008. Periodically (after two weeks, one month and after six weeks) check back with those goals and see where you stand. If you’re not hitting your targets, what’s preventing you from doing so? If you are honest and accept responsibility for your own success, I assure you that you’ll start seeing some positive results.

Happy Holiday to all!

It's Christmas morn, the sun is shining and I'm just back from a brisk walk with Bernie, my 13-year-old Sheltie.

Soon, my wife, as well as our son and his girlfriend, will be opening our presents.

In the background, the Vince Guaraldi Trio is playing the familiar "Christmastime Is Here" (via Irene Trudel and WFMU). The cinnamon rolls are in the oven and all is well in our little corner of the world.

Wherever you are reading this and recognizing that hard times and tragedies strike, even during the Christmas season, I hope you all are able to have a joyful and peaceful day, with friends, family and other special people in your lives.

Regular posting will resume at some point, but I wanted to send out my heartfelt thanks to my regular readers for being here in 2007 and for others that may stop by occasionally and also, for new readers who might be passing by while surfing the web.

Wink

John Winkin’s college coaching resume stretches all the way back to 1954. The legendary college coach, who piloted six UMaine teams to the college world series, suffered a stroke last Thursday. The latest reports are that Winkin is out of intensive care and is in fair condition at Eastern Maine Medical Center.

At the age of 87, Winkin is the oldest college baseball coach in the country. Now piloting the Husson Eagles, a Division III program based in Bangor. Maine baseball fans best remember this baseball legend as the man who put Maine college baseball on the national map. Winkin’s Black Bear squads made six appearances in a ten year span at the College World Series in Omaha, beginning in 1976, twice finishing third, during his 22-year tenure at Maine, which unceremoniously ended in 1996, when unpopular Athletic Director, Susan Tyler, chose not to renew Winkin’s contract. There are a myriad of stories and much conjecture about what transpired at the time. Some cited Winkin’s age at the time (76) as the primary reason. Others speculated that Tyler and Winkin didn’t hit it off and this ultimately led to his not being asked back. Whatever the reasons, Winkin’s dismissal was poorly handled.

If you’ve never been to Orono, Maine in the spring, you can’t appreciate having a Division I program located so far north, let alone one that was a national power during the Winkin era. Forced to practice indoors until they boarded a plane and headed to Florida, where they usually faced the elite programs in the country, Maine regularly took their lumps on their southern swing. Yet Winkin knew that the soul of his clubs would be forged during those trips and pay dividends once they began their conference schedule back on the frozen diamonds of New England.

Winkin, who hailed from New Jersey, before coming to Colby College in 1954, quickly came to appreciate the baseball talent that resided in the far-flung reaches of the Pine Tree State. Winkin recognized that Maine’s shortened window of opportunity for playing baseball wasn’t a detriment and that anyone who is willing to play baseball in April, in Maine, when temperatures are regularly in the 30s and snow delays are not uncommon, had a special toughness that a kid from Florida, or California couldn’t possess.

Each and every summer, while at Colby and then later, when he held the Black Bear job, Winkin would scour the diamonds of Maine, showing up to watch American Legion prospects and evaluate their potential to play Division I caliber baseball. Many a former high school star remembers the butterflies in the stomach and the whispers and nods that accompanied a Winkin appearance at a summer ballgame.

I remember seeing the slight of stature and deeply tanned Winkin, during the summer between my junior and senior year of high school. I was a 17-year-old hard-throwing right-hander, logging some serious innings for a very good and sometimes great Coombs-Mountfort Post 158 squad, during the summer of 1979. We had just won a Class B state championship at Lisbon High School I had gone 8-0. Winkin had obviously heard about my exploits and he came to see what the buzz was about.

I remember that first audition like it was yesterday. We were playing a very tough Topsham squad, made up of a combination of two Class A high schools in Mt. Ararat, of Topsham and Brunswick High. Our Lisbon squad, with a few additions from Oak Hill High School, in Sabattus, could hold our own with any squad in Maine that summer.

Trying to impress Winkin, I got off to an inauspicious start, giving up a leadoff home run to lefty slugger, Jimmy Thibault. Later, trying to throw, instead of pitch, I’d give up a solo shot to Amherst-bound Kyle O’Brien, who would one day play minor league ball. I finally settled down, however and started mixing my pitches. In the fifth, with runners at second and third, I blew a 2-2 fastball past O’Brien and pumped my fist on the way to our bench on the third base side of the diamond. My teammates would rally and I’d leave with a 3-2 win and heard Winkin say to with his typically understated style, “you did a nice job keeping your team in the game, young man.” For a Maine baseball prospect that was like hearing the voice of God.

At that point, other schools, like the University of Vermont, coached at the time by one of Winkin’s former players, Jack Leggett and Amherst, coached by another legendary coach, Bill Thurston, had shown much more interest than Coach Winkin. The baseball scuttlebutt was that he was interested in a couple of other pitchers from larger schools, which was typical of Winkin. He liked his Class A players and stud pitchers from Massachusetts. That would all change late in the summer, at Edwards Field in Brunswick.

Our summer club was talented, but for some reason, we were either red hot (two seven game winning streaks), or ice cold (two five game losing skids). In late August, not only were we looking at a second place finish in our zone, but we were in danger of not even making the state tournament, in Togus. Tied with Caldwest Post of Portland (Deering High players), we would take part in a one game playoff, to see who got the wild card slot for Central/Southern Maine.

The Caldwell team was stocked with some good high school hitters, including left-handed slugger, Anthony Cimino, himself headed to UMaine.

After a long summer and too many innings and a stretch where I had experienced a “dead” arm, the weather turned fall-like and warming up, my arm felt rejuvenated. I told my catcher, Mike Sawyer, that he wouldn’t need to be putting down anything but a single finger, for fastballs.

We lost the coin flip and would lead off as the visitors. We went down in order, 1-2-3. Playing at Edwards Field in Brunswick, a neutral field, neither team had a particular advantage. One good omen was that the mound was a bit higher than most, which I always liked.

I struck out the side on 11 pitches, all fastballs and I knew that if I could get one, or two runs, we had this one.

While I was pouring fastball, after fastball, past the Caldwell hitters, my mound opponent was mixing up an assortment of junk, keeping our hitters off balance. In the fifth, with a runner on second, I managed to get out in front of a breaking pitch and looped it into left-center and we were on the board. That was all she wrote.

We won the game, 1-0. I finished with a one-hitter and 18 strikeouts, throwing all fastballs, save about five breaking pitches. Coach Winkin was at the game and saw me pitch the best game of my life. With the win, my 10th of the summer, I had now won 18 games, since April, and had only lost twice.

I received a phone call from Coach Winkin the following week. Later, one of his handwritten recruiting letters followed.

My senior year was a bit of a disappointment. Unbeknownst to me, I had injured my shoulder and while I tried to pitch through the injury, it would get progressively worse. Later, at Maine, I would eventually quit the ball club in the spring of my sophomore year, after being red-shirted as freshman.

That was nearly 30 years ago. I can still see Coach Winkin, standing above the three practice diamonds at Maine, watching intra-squad games my first fall. He had his clipboard and never said much. Occasionally he’d call you over, but his assistants, Bobby Whelan (now coaching at Dartmouth) and Brian Cox ran things on the field.

I’ve run into Coach Winkin a couple of times over the years. Once at a state American Legion Tournament game and later, at a state high school playoff game, involving my own son. Coach Winkin was kind and obviously remembered me. He commented on my son’s ability as a hitter.

In the fall of 2005, while in Bangor, delivering copies of my book, When Towns Had Teams, I saw Coach running on Broadway, near the Husson campus. He regularly walk/ran three hours every day. I swear he hadn’t aged a day in the past 20. While 85 at the time, he could have easily passed for being 30 years younger.With his signature tan, close-cropped hair and trim physique, he looked like a little drill sergeant.

Like the men that I interviewed for my own book, Coach Winkin is a throwback to a different era. A time that, while far from perfect, was a time when integrity, honesty and loyalty mattered. Back in the days when he was just getting his start, major league baseball was not a lucrative career. Even the star players, like DiMaggio, Mantle, Williams and Willie Mays, while well compensated, still didn’t make an excessive amount of money. Players didn’t charge for autographs and a father could take his family to a big league game without taking out a second mortgage on his home.

He’s obviously been knocked to the canvas by the stroke. While no doubt serious, something tells me that if I was a betting man, it might make sense to put my money on seeing Coach Winkin, back in the Husson dugout at some point this spring. Baseball needs men like Winkin, now, more than ever before.

Here's a well-written article on Winkin that ran this spring in the Christian Science Monitor.

As Maine goes: George Mitchell's example

A few years back, a Maine writer named Will Anderson wrote a book that he titled, Was Baseball Really Invented in Maine?: A Warm and Wonderful Look at the History of Professional Baseball in Maine and at Every Mainer Who’s Ever Played in the Majors.

Anderson has created his own veritable cottage industry, self-publishing a variety of books about baseball, as well as beer, throw-back diners, the history of high school basketball in the state and recently, Maine's own rock and roll history.

I own the book on baseball and it is a book that any Mainer that cares about the heritage and the colorful history of professional baseball in the Pine Tree State would get a kick out of. My purpose with this post, however, isn’t to review Anderson’s books. In light of Thursday’s release of George Mitchell’s report on steroid use in major league baseball, I got thinking about integrity, professional sports and men, like Mitchell, that epitomize what integrity is about, while also having a connection with the national pastime. Mitchell just happens to also hail from Maine. While baseball may not have been invented in Maine, a man like Mitchell, is an example of how one ought to live their life and if baseball ever intends to right itself and restore some credibility to the sport, Mitchell might be able to point the way the way back. Other men with connections to baseball in Maine are the late Harold Alfond and John Winkin, who suffered a stroke this week and at 87-years-old, has been grounded, at least in the short-term, from doing what he's done best, which is coaching young men in the finer points of baseball, as well asl life. As a former player of Winkin's, I hope to weigh in later in the week about another Mainer, like Alfond and Mitchell, with ties to baseball.

George Mitchell was born in Waterville, Maine, to parents of modest means. His father worked at Colby College, as a janitor. His mother, of Lebanese descent, worked in the local textile mills, which were numerous along Maine’s rivers, like the Kennebec. Mitchell’s mother never learned to read, or write, in English.

Despite the educational shortcomings of his own parents, the young Mitchell had the importance of education drummed into him at an early age. It was common for working-class parents like Mitchell’s to want a better life for their children, something better than the long days and physically-demanding work that they fell into. Mitchell would go on to Bowdoin and then, graduate from law school at Georgetown University, in Washington, DC.

After graduating, he fulfilled his mandatory military commitment, being stationed in Berlin, as officer in the U.S. Army Counter-Intelligence Corps from 1954 to 1956. In the mid-1960s, Mitchell served as an executive assistant to Edmund Muskie, who represented Maine, as senator (along with Margaret Chase Smith), at the time. No doubt, Mitchell’s time with Muskie had a profound influence on him, as he began making his way in the worlds of law and politics.

The 1970s found Mitchell running for governor of Maine (he lost to Jim Longley in 1974), serving as U.S. attorney for Maine and later, speding time as a U.S. district court judge. In 1980, Mitchell was appointed to complete the unexpired term of Senator Edmund S. Muskie, who resigned to become secretary of state. Before the 1982 election, Senator Mitchell trailed in opinion polls by 36 points. His stunning come-from-behind victory gave him 61 percent of the votes cast. Senator Mitchell went on to an illustrious career in the Senate that spanned 14 years.

In 1988, he was reelected with 81 percent of the vote, the largest margin in Maine history. In January 1989, he became Senate majority leader. He held that position until he left the Senate in 1995.

During his tenure, Senator Mitchell earned enormous bipartisan respect. It has been said "there is not a man, woman or child in the Capitol who does not trust George Mitchell." For six consecutive years he was voted "the most respected member" of the Senate by a bipartisan group of senior congressional aides.

George Mitchell modeled what it meant to be a public servant. Honest, forthright and respected, Mitchell was the perfect person to chair the historic peace negotiations, in 1996, between the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland. Senator Mitchell led the negotiations for two years, work that ultimately resulted in a historic accord that ended decades of conflict between the two adversaries.

While many men in their 70s would begin slowing down, the former senator has found much to keep him occupied since leaving the world of politics.

Since 2002, he’s been a Senior Fellow and Senior Research Scholar at Columbia University. He’s also founded the Mitchell Institute, whose mission is to increase the likelihood that young people from every community in Maine will aspire to, pursue and achieve a college education and have a better life, just like he’s had. He’s a partner and chairman at DLA Piper, a global law firm and also serves on the board for Disney.

A lifelong baseball fan, Mitchell’s name has been mentioned many times as a possible commissioner of major league baseball. Since 2004, he’s been a director in the front office of the Boston Red Sox.

In March of 2006, Mitchell was asked to conduct a study of the allegations of steroid use in major league baseball, by Commissioner Bud Selig.

On December 13, 2007, Mitchell released his Report to the Commissioner of Baseball of an Independent Investigation into the Illegal Use of Steroids and Other Performance Enhancing Substances by Players in Major League Baseball, now often referred to as merely, the "Mitchell Report.”

While the 409 page report won’t necessarily close the sordid chapter on baseball’s “steroid era,” it’s unveiling serves as milepost to major league baseball. Given Mitchell’s record of integrity and success in bringing together disparate sides, baseball would do well to heed his recommendations. Baseball fans would also do well to side with Mitchell and not listen to the lies and obfuscations that have already begun coming from those Mitchell named, like Roger Clemens and Andy Petite, as well as accusations that Mitchell's report is tantamount to the McCarthy witch hunts of the 1950s.

It’s high time that these pampered athletes own up to what they’ve done. Mitchell isn’t recommending punishment, but a little humility and contriteness from the athletes would be nice. It would also be more in line with modeling the integrity that Mitchell has shown throughout his life and would serve as examples of what professional athletes, as role models, should be modeling.