The Lighter of the Torch

One of the fun things about the Olympics is you never know who you're going to bump into next.  Joe Biden?  Mike Eruzione?  Peggy Fleming?  Kristi Yamaguchi?  They're all here, and, from varying distances, I'd seen them all.  So last night I'd sent in my mini-web story from the pairs final, sent in another story, considerably longer, previewing the men's short program  hustled to make the 10 o'clock bus from the figure skating venue to the press center, and hoofed it through the rain to the Hyatt, desperate for a Guinness.  Made it by 10:45.  Had no time for pleasantries.  Put in my order, took a long first gulp, then settled back to watch replays of the downhill.  Only problem was a guy was standing in my line of vision, getting an autograph.  The man accommodating him was that old torch lighter himself, Wayne Gretzky.
        I do not exaggerate when I say that Gretz and I go way back.  When he was 16, I traveled to Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario to do a story on him which eventually ran as Learned in all the Lore of Old Men.  It was January, 1978.  I was editor of Hockey Magazine, based in Connecticut, and this was my first assignment as a freelance writer for Sports Illustrated.  Obviously, it meant a lot to me.  Wayne was already a celebrity in Canada, a clear superstar in the making, the leading scorer in the Ontario Hockey League playing for the Soo Greyhounds.  In a year he would turn pro.  This would be the first story on him in a major media outlet in the States, and his first appearance in SI, a magazine he read every week.  A lot of the World Hockey Association teams that were thinking of signing him were based in the States.  So it meant a lot to him, too.
       Neither of us ever forgot the week I spent following him around.  The story was well received, Gretz ended up somehow exceeding the wildly high expectations that were placed on him, and I was hired as a staff writer by Sports Illustrated in March of 1978.  For the first six or seven years, until I burnt out on it, I covered mostly hockey, and wrote a lot about Gretzky. 

He was our Sportsman of the Year in 1982, a story I wrote, and he led the Edmonton Oilers to four Stanley Cups in five years.  When he was traded to the LA Kings, I did that story, and when he signed with the Rangers so he could be reunited with Mark Messier, his old Oiler teammate, I did that story. 
      

And when Gretz finally retired, in 1999, having broken just about every possible scoring record that could be broken along the way, I did that story, too.
       No matter how famous he got, he never forgot that first story when he was playing in The Soo and was just 16.  That's the way he is.  It had very little to do with me.  Every media outlet in the world wanted to do a story on his retirement in 1999, and the Rangers arranged for a series of 10-minute interviews the day before his last game.  I was on that docket, but when I walked in to grab my brief slot, Wayne said: "Swifty, this isn't the way we should do this."
     I said: "I know.  But if I only have ten minutes, let's not waste it."
    "Can you come by the locker room tomorrow before the game?  About 10 a.m.?"
    It was an afternoon game that would be televised all over North America.  "I can, but if I can't get to you, I'm screwed."
     "I'll leave word with the locker room attendant," he said.  "He'll let you in."
     When I showed up the next morning, at 10 on the dot, there must have been 200 journalists and TV people outside the Rangers locker room.  I thought I'd been had, that we'd all been had.  But I worked my way to the front and opened the door a crack.  I gave the locker room attendant my name, and, to the amazement of my fellow sportswriters, he ushered me right in.  The only other person in the room was Gretzky.  He was signing sticks.  He would use a different stick on every shift and later put them up for auction.  I sat down and we talked for an hour.
       So. last night at the Hyatt bar, I left my Guinness on the table and went over to say hello.  I guess the last time we'd talked was his rookie year coaching at Phoenix, four or five years ago.  But he brightened noticeably and introduced me to everyone at the table as E.M. Swift, the guy who'd done a story on him when he was 16 years old.  I told him his motorcade nearly ran me over when he was on his way to light the torch, and showed him the snapshot I'd taken of it.  Then I asked if he was having fun.  He told me he'd had to get up at 4 a.m. to do the Today Show after lighting the torch, after which he stayed signing autographs for an hour.  But the only part he really objected to was having to take a cablecar to the top of the mountain, where the Today Show set was, in the dark.  A James Bond scene, he said, had been filmed in that cablecar.  "I'm afraid of heights," he said.
       "I remember."  The first time I'd interviewed him was in an airplane, during a bumpy flight, and he was white-knuckled the entire time.  Seriously scared.
        He told me he was coming to Boston on March 3, where he and Bobby Orr were doing a charity event there to benefit Ace Bailey's foundation, the former Bruins player who died in one of the flights that crashed on 9/11.  He and Orr, two of the nicest, most generous men on the planet, had never done a charity event together before, and Wayne was looking forward to it.  Then he told me about the interchange he and Orr had had during the rehearsal for Opening Ceremonies.

         Orr was one of the eight Canadian luminaries who carried the Olympic flag into the stadium during the Opening Ceremonies.  When they were rehearsing the pageant the day before the Games began, Orr, who was laden with the credentials we all have to wear to get through security checkpoints, approached Gretzky to say hello.  He noticed Gretzky, and only Gretzky, had nothing hanging around his neck--no credential, no photo i.d., no temporary pass, no nothing.  "What the heck?" Orr said to him.  "Where's your credentials?"
        Gretzky shook his head.
        "How'd you get in here?" Orr said, amazed.
        Gretzky smiled.
        "Seriously," Orr said.  "They could not just have let you through because they recognized you."
        Gretzky shrugged.   "Bobby, I scored 894 goals in the NHL."  He paused for effect.  "How many did you have?"
        Orr cracked up.
        Who else on the planet could put Bobby Orr in his place? 

My Favorite Olympic Moment (so far)

     This will be a short entry, but it speaks to the invisible bond that connects the Olympic family.  I am an Olympic pin collector, but not a rabid one.  These are a few of the ones I've collected already in Vancouver.  Others work very hard at it, and there is a cult of Olympic pin collectors who go to every Olympics, Summer and Winter, and display their wares on folding tables, where they will trade their pins for yours.  When I pass them on the sidewalks--and there are a number of them who have assembled near the Main Press center--I usually slow to see if there's anything interesting on display, because Sports Illustrated pins are generally good barter. Yesterday, as I was walking past, moving on, one of the pin collectors called after me: " Each thief passing by."
      I took a couple more steps, trying to process what I had just heard, slowed, stopped, then spun around wide-eyed.  The pin collector, a man about my age, was looking at me with a slightly expectant smile.  I had no idea if I'd ever seen him before, but he clearly knew me, because "Each Thief Passing By" is the title of my first (and to date only) novel, published in 1981.  It sold 4500 copies.  It's been out of print for over 25 years.  (Though you can buy used copies from dealers.)
       I approached the man.  "Who are you?  How do you know that book?" I asked, sticking out my hand.
      He introduced himself.  "Mike Rose," he said.  "1980, Lake Placid, you, me, Dave Silk and Dave Silk's sister sat at a table in the Holiday Inn and watched the replay of the U.S. beating the Russians."
        I remembered that night as if it were yesterday, though I have never written about it.  The entire team was there.   The Miracle on Ice team of 1980 had beaten the Russians that afternoon, and ABC wasn't televising the game until that night on tape delay.  So hours after the biggest hockey upset of all time, the team and a handful of friends gathered in the lounge of the Holiday Inn and watched it all unfold again.  I remember the players giving each other grief about missed checks, short shifts, flubbed passes, and bad hair.  I don't think anyone complimented anyone else the entire time.  It was that sort of team.  They were (and still are) a fun group.  Totally, delightfully spontaneous.  As Eruzione used to say, "We may be young, but we're immature."
       "It changed my life," Mike Rose continued.  "I've been coming to Olympics ever since."
       "It changed a lot of people's lives," I said.   "What have you got to trade?"
       "Take anything you want."   I looked his collection over, and took an USA Olympic Hockey pin from his sweater in exchange for an SI pin.
        "I don't think I've ever heard anyone say 'Each Thief Passing By' to me on the street before," I said.  "I almost fell over."
        "I saw you and thought, 'I know that guy,'" Mike said.  "I figured if it was you that would get you to stop."  Then he surprised me again.  "Listen, I've got copies of Eleven Seconds and My Sergei with me," he said.  "I always figured I might run into you at one of these.  If I get them to the press center, will you sign them for me?"
        "It would be my pleasure." 
        "Great.  It was good seeing you again.  it's been a long time."
         "Mike, right?  Mike Rose.  Stay dry, Mike."
          "You, too."
         My favorite Olympic moment so far.

Dateline: Vancouver--Opening Ceremonies

This is my 9th Winter Olympics, and my 15th including the Summer Games, and while it's possible I'll be in London in 2012, let's operate under the assumption that this will be my last one. It's the one sporting event I've always loved to cover, the one that seems most to matter, the one that resonates in the larger scheme of human affairs. I think the Olympics really do make a difference in the way people of different cultures and nationalities view one another.
So I'm going to try to write about this one on Swift Kicks as often as possible. We'll see how that works out. I also will be writing for SI.com and Sports Illustrated, the (shrinking) magazine. Here, for example, is something on figure skating that I sent in this morning: Judging Controversy
But the stuff that makes the Games the Games, the funny, human, non-sports page stuff, I'll try to save for here, to give you a feel of what these 17 days in Vancouver are like for me.
I suspect they're going to be wet. Television is going to try to ignore the weather here in the city, but it's rained every day (4) I've been here so far, and it's expected to rain another 3 inches this weekend. In Whistler, where the skiing will be held, that will probably be snow and look wonderful. But here in Vancouver, 6 feet above sea level, snow is a distant memory. Walking to the press center from my hotel this morning, I noticed blossoms breaking out on a Japanese magnolia tree. On Feb. 13. I'd have taken pictures of it, but my camera was in my backpack and it was raining. So you'll have to take my word for it. That tree knows something the local organizing committee hid from the IOC. Spring comes in February in Vancouver.
It was out of concern for the rain that, for the first time in Olympic history, Opening Ceremonies were held indoors. It was in a huge, domed stadium that had been built in the hopes of luring a pro football team to come to Vancouver, and the floor of the immense stadium had been covered with an inch of white, shredded crepe paper in an effort, mostly successful, to replicate snow. Here's a shot of it falling from the top of the dome:

I hope it looked good on television, because in person it was kind of like being on a movie set, so different from, say, Lillehammer in 1994, when it snowed the lightest, finest powder imaginable during Opening Ceremonies and turned the Games into a visual wonderland that was capped the final night by an appearance of the Northern Lights, the likes of which I had ever seen. Vancouver tried to replicate the Northern Lights indoors last night, and it was actually quite compelling, replete with the hologram of a giant polar bear:

The marching in always takes too long, and this year was no exception, what with all those great Winter Olympic powers like Bermuda, Jamaica, Morocco and the Cayman Islands clogging up the works. Each has one or two athletes who probably live there to avoid paying taxes, one or two officials who get a free trip to the host city and lots of parties to attend, and about 50 yards of open space in front and behind them as they march. I think there should be a rule that any country that has no measurable snowfall during a given quadrennium should be ineligible for the Winter Games. Let the Games begin, and the marching end.
Anyway, the host country always comes in last, and here's a picture of Canada marching in past the phallic totem poles:

We all stood as they did so, beating the drums they'd given us in our little kit that included flashlights, a poncho, and a Canadian flag. The only other nation that got a standing ovation was Georgia, out of respect for the 21-year-old luger who, earlier in the day, had died in a training run.

It was, on balance, a very imaginative, colorful, and long Opening Ceremonies, the low point being the street-corner-caliber poet who stood high on a stanchion and beat his Canadian breast, trying to capture a nation's psyche in free verse while wearing a beret and an Amish beard. He managed, against all odds, to unite this huge, diverse country: by the time he had finished, not one person in Canada identified with him.
I was obligingly wearing my baby blue poncho from my kit, which was hot, and after four-plus hours in my seat, they still hadn't managed to produce the torch. I ran out of gas. So after KD Lang's beautiful rendition of "Hallelujah", I left. I knew it was Gretzky who would be lighting the torch, and was sorry to miss him (when he was sixteen, he was my first assigned story for Sports Illustrated, and during the course of his record-shattering career, I wrote about him often) but I also knew I could tune in later and watch the replay. I headed out into the rain.
The roads, unexpectedly, were blocked off as I walked down Georgia St., back toward the press center. After a few minutes of spashing through puddles while getting my bearings, I heard sirens behind me and was aware of people scrambling to the side of the road. I looked back, and there was Gretzky, standing in an open car, carrying the torch, en route to the huge Olympic cauldron downtown, which he would light. About a thousand excited, inebriated Canadian youths were pursuing his vehicle on foot. I managed to get this snapshot as he rode past. I know it's lousy, but, hey, it was raining and it was a snapshot. But trust me, it's Gretzky on the way to lighting the Olympic torch:

Very cool moment. They'll be more, and I'll try to share them.

Super Bowl Crow and Conroy Gumbo!!

For those of you keeping score at home, I missed every way possible in my Super Bowl predictions. 1) The Colts did not win and cover the 5 1/2 pt. spread. 2) The teams did not combine to score more than 55 1/2 pts. 3) Reggie Bush did not run wild 4) The Saints defense was not picked apart and 5) Peyton Manning did not run up the score. Those were the only predictions I made, so it was a clean sweep. Fortunately, the chili was a success; and I don't bet on sports events. Now you know why. Younger brother Lock also knows why, which is why he went to Las Vegas, bet the opposite of all my predictions and won. What happened later at the tables is anyone's guess, but he'd already had a good week, getting out of Washington DC before the snowstorm hit, and then learning that his eldest daughter Katie had become engaged to a wonderful guy.
So he was playing with house money.
As for the game, it should do two things: 1) Stop the coronation of Peyton Manning as the best quarterback of all time. 2) Elevate Drew Brees to superstar status.
Manning is a great, great quarterback. But with only one Super Bowl title, he has a history of problems winning the big one. I think he was hamstrung in this game because of cautious play calling. But it's my understanding Manning has free rein to audible in any situation, so he has to take some responsibility for the Colts' conservative attack. Manning also had trouble finding his rhythm, because after a poor first quarter, Brees kept the Saints' offense on the field most of the remainder of the game--the Colts had only six offensive snaps in the second quarter--marching his team up and down with short, accurate passes and no turnovers. Brees was 32 of 39 passes for 288 yards, and one of those incompletions was a cold whiff by a receiver that let the ball hit him in the facemask. The recovery of the onside kick to start the second half was a huge momentum-changer, but it was Brees who took advantage of the coaching gamble by taking the Saints in for the go-ahead touchdown. After falling behind 10-0, New Orleans outscored the Colts 31-7 the rest of the way. There was no question which team deserved to win.
As for the Super Bowl spectacle: I give it a D-. The Who? Really? From which crypt did the NFL exhume them? Is everyone in that league tone deaf? And completely devoid of common sense? The last time we heard from Pete Townshend was in 2003 when he was arrested in England for having child pornography on his computer. He's a world class creep. Thanks, NFL, for sharing.
And don't get me started on the ads. What was with all the men without pants And beavers? The only one worth its millions was the Letterman, Oprah, Leno bit on the couch, and it only ran for 15 seconds.

Now to the real point of this entry. I fibbed a little. I don't bet money on sports events. But sometimes I do bet things. And childhood classmate Betsy Claggett Smith extracted a promise from me to share my favorite gumbo recipe if the Saints should happen to win. This one comes straight from Pat Conroy's cookbook, which is well worth buying for both its amusing anecdotes and its fine regional recipes. Conroy lives in Beaufort, South Carolina, the Low Country where Forrest Gump was filmed, and where several of Conroy's novels are set. It is also just 20 minutes from Spring Island, where we have a home. Conroy serves this dish at Super Bowl parties, and next year I think I might do the same. It serves 8.

1/3 cup vegetable oil
1/3 cup flour
1 whole chicken
1 large onion, peeled and quartered
1 cup celery, diced, plus the leafy tops of a bunch of celery
1 bay leaf
2 tbls. sea salt
1/4 cup olive oil
1 cup diced green pepper
1 cup diced red onion
1 tsp. red pepper flakes
1 tsp. freshly ground pepper
3/4 tsp. gumbo file
3/4 tsp. dried thyme
6 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 lb. coarsely chopped bacon
1 lb. smoked andouille sausage, cut into 1/4 inch slices
1 16-ounce can tomato puree
1 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined.

Get all the ingredients ready first. This is the perfect activity for the day of the Super Bowl. Then it goes quickly:
1) Place oil and flour in a small saucepan over medium heat and whisk constantly until mixture turns a dark caramel color and smells like toasted almonds. (15 mins.) This is the roux. Transfer to a small bowl and let cool to room temperature. When cool, drain the excess oil.
2) While roux is cooling, place chicken, onion, celery tops and bay leaf in a large stockpot. Cover chicken with water, add the salt,and bring to boil over medium high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer until the chicken in tender, about 60 minutes. Remove the chicken and let it cool. Strain the stock and reserve. (You'll need 4 1/2 cups). When chicken is cool enough to handle, strip meat from the bones and shred into bite-sized pieces.
3) Wipe out the stockpot and return it to medium high heat. Warm the olive oil, and add the green pepper, diced celery and red onion. Cook, stirring occasionally, 12-15 minutes. Combine the red and black pepper, the gumbo file, and the thyme together in a small bowl and sprinkle evenly over the veggie mixture. Cook, stirring contantly, until veggies are well coated, about 8 mins. Mix in the garlic and cook another 3 mins.
4) Heat the stock in a saucepan over medium heat. Whisk 1/4 cup of the stock into the roux until it forms a smooth paste. Add it to the stockpot along with the shredded chicken and remaining stock, stirring to combine. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer one hour, stirring occasionally.
5) While the gumbo is simmering, cook the bacon in a heavy skillet until crisp, 5-8 mins. Add the andouille sausage and stir to coat with bacon drippings. Reserve.
6) After the gumbo has simmered one hour, add the tomato puree and bacon, bacon drippings, and sausage mixture. Take 1 cup of the hot gumbo liquid out and deglaze the bacon pan. Add these pan juices to the gumbo and continue simmering until the gumbo is slightly thickened, about 30 mins.
7) Stir in the shrimp, cooking only until the shrimp is pink, about 10 mins.
8) Serve over bowls of rice, with your favorite beer, or an Alsatian riesling or gewurztraminer.

Super Bowl picks and the best chili ever

I like chili anytime, but the only time I insist upon it is during the Super Bowl. It just fits the occasion. Have a bowl, have a beer, watch the game, watch the ads, go back for more at halftime. Little cornbread and Breakwind Farm honey. Umm. Bring it on. There's about a thousand different chili recipes, most of them good, but this one is the best I've found, and not too difficult to make. It's always better to cook it the day before then reheat it the day of the game. Gives the flavors a chance to meld.
But first, my predictions. It's going to be one of the more entertaining Super Bowls, I think, featuring the top teams in each conference and the two best passers in football in Peyton Manning and Drew Brees.









The Saints' Reggie Bush is going to have a big game, I believe, but the Saints' defense is going to be horribly shredded. The Colts are favored by five points, and if it plays out the way I expect it, I think Indy will win by a lot more than that. So, if you're inclined to bet, give the points, take the Colts, and bet the over, which is 56 1/2 points as of Tuesday. I think this game could easily be 42-28 or so. Manning's got to prove he can win the big one--he has only one Super Bowl win in his otherwise stellar career--and I think he'll want to run it up. It will be a fun game, but not necessarily a close one.
And if you want a reason to cheer for Peyton, the man who has everything, over Drew, the man who brought pride back to the city of New Orleans, check out this video, one of the funniest things I've ever run across from a pro athlete.



Now for the chili recipe. This serves 6-8, so adjust accordingly for a mob.

3 tbls. olive oil.
1 large onion, chopped.
3 cloves garlic, minced
3 tbls. chopped fresh cilantro
2 lbs. beef bottom round or chuck, cut into 1/2" cubes. (Or lean burger).
2 tsp. chili powder
2 tsp. paprika
2 tsp. ground cumin;
1 tsp. oregano
1 tsp. red pepper flakes
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. unsweetened cocoa
2 15 ounce cans of pinto or kidney beans
1 28 ounce can diced tomatoes
1/4 cup tomato paste
1 3/4 cups beef stock
1 tbl. sugar

Heat oil in a dutch oven. Saute onion, garlic and cilantro, 5 mins over medium heat. Add meat and brown. Add spices and cook 5 mins., stirring occasionally. Add tomatoes, tomato paste, broth, and beans (drained). Bring to a boil. Simmer uncovered until desired thickness, then put the lid on and continue cooking until meat is tender, about 1 1/2 hrs. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve with garnishes of grated cheese, sliced scallions, fresh cilantro and sour cream on the side.

The cinnamon softens the cumin and chili spices, and the unsweetened cocoa (You can also use a chunk of dark chocolate) cuts the acidity of the tomatoes. You can also add a paste made from 1 tsp. flour, 1 tsp. cornmeal, and 1 tsp. warm water to further meld the flavors, though storing the chili in the fridge overnight accomplishes the same thing. Serve with fresh cornbread and your favorite beer, the darker the better!
This is making me hungry.

George Washington's Eggnog Recipe (and a cure for our tax woes)

File this post under: a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down.
I'm going to address the tax problem first. Stay with me here, faithful readers, it won't take long. This came to me in a flash when I heard the U.S. Postal Service is going to lose $8 billion dollars this year. So here's a solution.
Put a 1 cent tax on emails.
Every email. Every bit of spam. It will cost a penny. It will cost you, and more importantly, it will cost Williams-Sonoma, Orvis, Cabelas, 1-800-Flowers, Jos. A. Banks, and all the rest of the retailers and health insurance providers and discount Viagra peddlers who clutter up our email boxes a penny every time they send you and the tens of thousands other customers an email. Will they continue to clutter up our email boxes? Probably. But at least we'll know they will be paying a small token for the privilege. Same with all the folks (like me) who send out mass emails and forward jokes and YouTube videos to all their pals...now it will cost us. Not much. But just enough to make us think: is this really worth it? Is it necessary? Maybe it is, and maybe it's not. But if it's true, as has been estimated, that in the U.S. alone there are 100 billion emails a day, a penny surcharge would raise $365 billion a year. Almost enough to pay for the new health care bill!! More than enough to make up for the postal service deficit.

That's the medicine. Herewith the spoonful of sugar.
This is the best eggnog recipe I have ever found, and it comes from none other than George Washington. Get right to it, folks. It should sit for 3 or 4 days so the flavors can meld.

1 quart cream
1 quart whole milk
1 dozen eggs
1 dozen tablespoons sugar
1 pint brandy
1/2 pint rye whiskey (Canadian)
1/4 pint dry sherry
1/4 pint dark rum

Mix the liquors in a bowl and set aside. Separate the eggs into yolks and whites. Set the whites aside. Add the sugar to the beaten yolks and mix well. Slowly add the combined liquors to the yolks, mixing as you do so. Then slowly add the milk and cream, mixing well.
Now beat the whites until frothy and beginning to become stiff. Fold the whites into the mixture. Set for several days in a cool place. Add sprinkling of nutmeg when ready to serve.
It really needs to percolate for a few days so the flavors mesh and soften, and it will then keep in a refrigerator for at least another week, perhaps more. Mine is never around that long. The key to this recipe is it is not too sweet. Dangerously delicious.
One word of caution. One year I set the eggnog to meld in my screened porch. When I went to sample it after a couple of days, I found a dead (but happy) mouse in the concoction. So cover it with Saran Wrap if you don't have room in the fridge.
Cheers, gang! And Merry Christmas!

Forgotten Miracle

If you're looking for a Christmas present for the hockey fan in your house, or simply want to get hold of a terrific documentary, order "Forgotten Miracle", a just-released DVD that revisits the U.S. Olympic hockey team's 1960 gold medal win in Squaw Valley. (Here's the website: Forgotten Miracle. For the flavor of the film, click on the trailer when you get there. If it doesn't grab you, you don't have a pulse. If it does, click on the Buy DVD link. Best $19.95 you'll ever spend.)

Those of you who have checked out the trailer have already discovered that I was one of the ones interviewed for the film. (And no, I have no financial stake in the DVD sales.) I was eight years old when the 1960 team triumphed in Squaw Valley, so it's a little surprising I come across as such a know-it-all. But I've actually written a couple of stories on that 1960 team for Sports Illustrated, have interviewed its two best players, Billy Cleary and John Mayasich, at length, and covered the 1980 "Miracle on Ice", where I became friends with Herb Brooks, the last man cut from that 1960 team. I also used to play hockey with two of Coach Jack Riley's sons on a team called the Bud Kings (mid-70s, Boston), and know from them how much pride Riley took in what that 1960 team accomplished. If you're interested, here's what I wrote in SI in a piece entitled The Original Miracle On Ice, which I hesitate to send you to because the SI Vault website spells Cleary's name "Geary" throughout the piece. Plus it's a reader's digest version of the events which transpired in Squaw Valley, which is far, far better told in the "Forgotten Miracle" movie.

A better story, I think, is the short profile I did of Mayasich, one of America's greatest hockey players, which can be found by clicking here: The Quiet American. The one statistic that really jumps out about him is that in his four year career as a center at the University of Minnesota, he averaged a staggering 2.68 points per game--higher than any four year stretch that Wayne Gretzky (2.62) managed during his NHL career.

Mayasich's scoring records at Minnesota still stand, but it is a measure of his greatness that for the 1960 Olympic team he played defense, not forward, breaking up rushes, initiating breakouts, and posing as a threat from the blueline with his trademark slapshot--a weapon that was still in its infancy.

Mayasich and brothers Billy and Bobby Cleary were last minute additions to the 1960 Olympic team. Bill Cleary and Mayasich had played for the silver medal winning US team in 1956, held regular jobs, and didn't want to take a year off to do the Olympic tour leading up to Squaw Valley. Coach Jack Riley was smart enough to know the team couldn't win without them, and tough enough to cut three players who had toured with the squad for nearly four months just a few days before the Olympics began. One of those players was Herb Brooks, a disappointment that helped fuel Brooks' own manic pursuit of the gold in 1980. "Forgotten Miracle" does a wonderful job recalling the chilly reception the latecomers got from their teammates when they joined the team in Squaw Valley, and how Billy Cleary in particular responded to it. At the end of the day, of course, the team realized Riley had been right. Billy Cleary led the team in scoring with 12 points in five games; Bob Cleary added eight points, including the first goal in the 2-1 win over Canada; and Mayasich was the team's best defender. But it is a testament to how late the trio arrived that in the official team photo, pictured below, the faces of Bill Cleary (first row, third from left), Bob Cleary (middle row, next to trainer) and Mayasich (top row, far left) had to be superimposed onto the bodies of the three players who'd been cut at the 11th hour: Brooks, Robert Dupuis, and Larry Alm. Can you imagine? There is no official team photograph of the 1960 team that won the Gold medal. It had to be faked.

There are any number of examples in the documentary that show how the game, and the Olympics, have changed in the intervening 50 years. The day after Mayasich collected his gold medal, he was back in Green Bay selling appliances. Captain Jack Kirrane, a Boston firefighter, was passed over for a promotion because he took the Olympic year off. And the gold medal game against Czechoslovakia was played at 10 a.m. before just a few thousand fans. It was a simpler time, a time when sports--at least in the U.S. and Canada--were truly amateur. None of the 1960 players benefitted financially from the win. No endorsements. No parades. Goalie Jack McCartan, who was sensational during the tournament, was signed by the New York Rangers after the Olympics, but he played only 12 games in the NHL. The only player from the 1960 team who was given a real shot in the NHL was Tom Williams, who ended up playing 663 games over a dozen seasons, primarily with Boston, scoring 161 NHL goals. But Williams was a minor player in Squaw Valley, with only 1 goal and 4 assists for the tournament. The best players, Mayasich and Cleary, never were given a chance.

Not that they were regretful about any of it. The quiet, intense pride of those 1960 players, now in their mid-70s, and their coach, who's 87, shines through in this wonderful documentary. Andrew Sherburne, the film's producer, who came to my house to interview me, told me how surprised he was at the humility of all the players he tracked down. Not an ounce of bitterness or arrogance in them. I wasn't surprised, having talked to a few of the men myself. They reached the highest pinnacle any of them ever hoped to in hockey: Olympic gold medalist. America's first gold medal in hockey. One that was every bit as shocking, in the hockey world, as the 1980 triumph. But without 1/100th of the attention.

In the film you can see how much enjoyment these men got from the sport, whether it was in recalling the memories of having snowballs fired at them by fans in Sweden, or recalling how one of the players, Paul Johnson, nearly left the team in the middle of the Olympics to go to Las Vegas because he needed some money. They were characters; they were honorable; they were tough as grit; and they were sportsmen who played the game for love and pride. One doesn't see their ilk much in the sports world anymore. But they are bigger than life in this film, and finally getting the recognition they so richly deserve.

Rogue River steelhead

Back in June I wrote a blog describing a good day's fishing on the Deerfield River in western Massachusetts. In response I got a cheeky email from old friend Bob Brown, a former Sports Illustrated editor who now lives in Portland, Oregon, that said, in essence, if I wanted to try a real float trip, to join him in October, when he'd be fishing for steelhead on Oregon's Rogue River. I decided to bite.
...I'd never fished for steelhead before, but it had always been on my "to do" list, and the prospect of bumping into Tonya Harding while floating past a trailer park only added to the appeal of Bob's invitation. Steelhead are sea-run rainbow: trout that are hatched in a river, migrate into the ocean, then return to the river after one, two, or three years to spawn. Unlike salmon, steelhead do not die after spawning, but return to the ocean, where they grow ever larger and, if they are lucky, come back to spawn again and again. The world record on a fly, caught earlier this year on the Hoh River in Washington, is 29.5 pounds, but any steelhead over 10 pounds is a memorable fish.
...Bob had made reservations at Morrison's Lodge, which is on the Rogue, in Merlin, Ore., about an hour from the Medford Airport. (My wife and I actually made the 8 hour drive from San Francisco). Sally is quite a keen fisherman herself, and had decided that, while Bob and I fished with his favorite guide, Dennis, she'd take whatever guide was available and would strike out on her own. Dennis is 62, is as lean as a 15-year-old, and hasn't shaved or cut his hair since the Reagan administration. A carpenter by trade, he made his wooden drift boat by hand, and knows the Rogue like a lab knows its favorite couch. He calls the steelhead: "the fish of a thousand casts." By noon I was up to 662 without a hit.


...Despite its name, the Rogue is actually a reasonably navigable river, with long, wide stretches broken up intermittently by shallow, wade-able rapids. It is in these rapids and the tailwaters below them that the steelhead lie, often feeding on the eggs of the Chinook salmon that are spawning in the gravel shallows. Both Bob and I were using weighted egg-sucking stonefly nymphs with nymph droppers, not a delicate form of flyfishing, otherwise known as "chuck and duck." In the tailwaters, Dennis had us switch to streamers, which we cast at an angle downstream, then let swing behind the boat, before we stripped in. Steelhead usually strike on the swing. We caught several small trout in this manner, rainbow under 12 inches that had not yet migrated to the sea, but it was a slow day by any standards. Having been on the water since 8:15, by 3:30 we had still not had a real strike.
....In this regard steelhead fishing is not unlike fishing for Atlantic salmon. You pound the water and pay your dues. There's not a lot of finesse or subtlety to it, no matching the hatch or changing to a lighter tippet. You cast, cast, cast, check for wind knots, and hope for the best. If you are lucky, a freight train hits.
....Mine came in at 3:31. We were floating into the top portion of a rapid, and I cast my egg-sucking nymph into the white water as I'd done hundreds of times already that day. I'd just had time to mend the line when my line started rushing upstream as if I'd snagged a rock. I didn't have to worry about setting the hook. The fish did that for me as I just tried to hang onto the rod and stay out of the way of the line stripping off the reel. The fish turned and started back downstream--the tell that this was a steelhead, not a spawning salmon--and as Dennis pulled the driftboat over, I jumped out and followed the running fish.
....The steelhead had just made it into my backing when it stopped in a heavy portion of the current and faced back upstream. I continued to reel as I walked, but I couldn't move it. Dennis told me he'd put 1x tippet on my line, which is about 12 pound test--strong but not strong enough to drag a big fish around in heavy current. I was worried about breaking it if I forced the issue. When my line still hadn't moved after a couple of minutes, I began to think the fish had somehow wrapped itself around a rock or log in the middle of the river. I asked Dennis if that was possible. Then the steelhead started shaking its head.
....I gradually began to gain line, inching the fish closer. The steelhead moved sideways through the water, a great gray shadow, giving us a good view of his length and thickness. I'd never seen a steelhead in the water before, but Dennis allowed this was a big one--a special fish. "I'm going to get below him," he said, moving downstream with his net. "Don't let him go any further. We'll never get him if he goes through those rapids further down."
...I started to gain a little more line, but the fish was still strong and not ready to come in. Dennis was still twenty feet away from it when the steelhead moved sideways again in the current, a short but sudden move. That extra tension it put on the tippet was too much. The line broke, springing back toward me, and the fish disappeared.
...It had been on for ten minutes. We'd had a good look, but the fish hadn't jumped, and outside of a thick slab of silver gray in the river, I didn't have a very good idea of its color or beauty. We'd have released it anyway, but no picture, no satisfying hoisting of its weight. To lose a fish like that isn't something one gets over easily. But that was why we'd come. That was the fish I'd signed on for. Dennis allowed it would have been the biggest steelhead landed by someone from the Lodge that summer, 12 pounds at least. It is certainly a fish I'll never forget.
...Back at the lodge, we shared war stories with other guests. Several steelhead had been caught that day, but none near the size of the one I'd lost. Sally had caught a couple of "half-pounders" as they call the little guys, but hadn't seen any adult fish. Her guide generally took out spincasters and bait fishermen, so it wasn't exactly a good match. But tomorrow she was going with Pablo, who'd been guiding flyfishermen on the Rogue for 34 years. Bob and I would be going out again with Dennis.
....What can I tell you? It was beautiful. The company was great. We tried like hell. But the skunk never left the boat. Not a strike from an adult fish. You could have stacked all the midgets we caught on a scale and they wouldn't have weighed two pounds. A long, frustrating day on the Rogue.
...But Sally? With Pablo? She was grinning like a Cheshire cat when we returned to the Lodge, sipping on her first martini. They have a nice tradition at Morrison's of posting pictures of the fish that are caught that day on a bulletin board by the bar, and this what greeted Bob and me when we bellied up for our first drink:

Not just one steelhead. Two. Two beauties. One of them "The Catch of the Week"--was estimated at 10-12 pounds. (They didn't weigh it because Sally stuck her thumb in the fish's mouth while trying to pose with it and began bleeding all over the boat.) The "small" one was 27 inches. The big guy over 30 inches. Both fish jumped and ran and generally gave Sally a gay old time on the river with Pablo. And it turns out, she sheepishly admitted, she'd caught a third steelhead in the 20-22 inch range that they hadn't even bothered to photograph. Ho-hum. Just another day on the river.
....She didn't even know the name of the fly she was using--some sort of purple streamer that Pablo had tied. Bob was ready to strangle her. And me. And Pablo, shown here holding Sally's big fish.
...But such are the healing powers of vodka that after a couple of drinks we were able to look at Sally's success as a group effort. Bob had suggested the Rogue. I'd driven the car up from San Francisco. And Sally had finished the job the men so manfully had started.
....It was a pretty good couple of days.

Chrissy and Greg and another prediction. (Sox win!)

The problem with making predictions in print is they're often wrong. If they weren't, I'd be making a handsome living betting on sports. (I don't, by the way. Never have.) So Chicago didn't land the 2016 Olympics. So they were the first city voted out. Miss by an inch, might as well miss by a mile. I did. It happens. I'm already over it. Rio was the right choice. I just didn't think the IOC would make it. Someone from the Windy City forgot to deliver the suitcase of cash.
...The most memorable erroneous prediction I made was in the May 14, 1984 issue of Sports Illustrated on the eve of the Stanley Cup finals that pitted the four-time defending champs, the New York Islanders, vs. Wayne Gretzky's Edmonton Oilers. The Isles had swept the Oilers in the 1983 finals, and while I was a big fan of the Oilers run-and-gun style, I thought the Isles veterans had one more Cup in them. "...the Islanders will beat the Edmonton Oilers and win their fifth straight Cup," I wrote. "Five games? Six games? It doesn't matter. The Islanders will win it." [After a slow start New York stuck it to the Canadiens and - 05.14.84 - SI Vault]
...They didn't. The Oilers steamrolled the Isles in five. A lot of cities would have been satisfied with their first Stanley Cup. Not Edmonton, which has a cowtown mentality. They wanted to rub their victory in the face of the big city writer who had dismissed their heroes so cavalierly. The next week a huge funeral wreathe arrived at Sports Illustrated's editorial offices in New York, addressed to me and sent by the City of Edmonton. It was four feet across and adorned with white lilies and a card that said: E.M. Swift's Prediction, R.I.P.
The gesture earned a mention and a photo in the next week's Letter From the Publisher.
I have no clue what happened to the wreathe. I was on vacation and never saw it...
How about a story? By now you've probably heard that Greg Norman, the Great White Shark, and Chrissy Evert, the 54-year-old erstwhile tennis queen, have split after 15 whole months of marriage. Lots of theories on why: Evert didn't want to move into the estate where Norman's wife used to live; Norman's kids couldn't stand her; two huge egos don't fit in one marriage. Probably all have an element of truth.
... Theirs was a high-profile, short-lived romance, the subject of a long, gushy, embarrassing article in Sports Illustrated [At 54, Chris Evert and Greg Norman make each other feel - 04.13.09 - SI Vault]by the ordinarily reliable John Garrity, who treated us to the image of the two world-renowned narcissists as lovebirds stroking one another's feet. Evert, who has managed to cultivate and hang onto her image as "America's sweetheart" despite her three failed high-profile marriages (to British tennis player John Lloyd, to former skier Andy Mill, and to Norman), has a checkered reputation within the industry. So one prediction I would never have made was that her marriage to Norman would last.
...I have to be careful here, since this is a family oriented blog. The story I'm about to share involves a sexual favor. Or the promise of one. It is an act that men consider a treat, that many women consider a chore, and that President Clinton swore was not having sex at all. For the purposes of this blog, let's call this favor: "a piece of gum."
...So here's the story. Mills and Norman, who used to be best friends, were teamed together in a member-guest golf tournament a few years ago. Evert, who was married to Mills at the time, was dutifully following the duo. Mills faced an eagle putt on a par five, and as he stalked the green with Norman, reading the putt, Evert said within earshot of the caddy who told me this story: "Andy, if you sink this putt, I'll give you a [piece of gum]." Then she grinned at Norman. "In fact, I'll give you both [pieces of gum]."
... Mills missed the putt.
... When I heard that story, Mills and Evert were still married. So I was not exactly flabberghasted when the next time I saw her she was following Norman around at the 2008 British Open, cooing and batting her eyes like a schoolgirl.
...Enough of that. Time for my Red Sox-Angels prediction.
I've wrestled with this one, because I really admire the way the Angels play baseball. They run, they bunt, they play good defense. And the Red Sox are a flawed team this year, with Papi's struggles, the inconsistency of J.D. Drew in the middle of the order, Josh Beckett's late-season problems, and Matsusaka's disappearing act for the first five months of the season. And the Angels will run wild on Sox catchers Jason Varitek and Victor Martinez, who threw out only 8.5% and 10.5% of would be base stealers this year, respectively.
...But I just don't think the Angels starting pitching is enough to shut down the Sox offense, and I love Jon Lester in Game One. Beckett has a history of rising to the occasion in the post-season, and Matsuzaka is finally healthy and throwing well. Plus their late-inning, fireballing relief corps of Daniel Bard, Billy Wagner, and Jon Papelbon is as formidable as they come. And don't underestimate the "We've got your number" theory. The Sox eliminated the Angels in 2004, 2007 and 2008. No curse last forever--well, the Cubs one might--but look for the Red Sox to win it in four.
...Take that prediction to the bank. (But don't bet on it!)

Chicago will win the 2016 Olympics, and a pie to remember

President Obama's last minute decision to fly to Copenhagen this week to try to tip the scales in Chicago's favor as site of the 2016 Olympics was a good call but a bad precedent. I think it will work, and the president's appearance will make the difference, because of the nature of the International Olympic Committee. But it's a lousy way to determine on the venue of the Olympic Games.
....Obama didn't start this. Great Britain's Tony Blair did, traveling to Singapore in 2005 for a last-ditch effort on behalf of London's bid to host the 2012 Olympics. It worked, and London upset heavily favored Paris by a 54-50 vote. Russia's Vladimir Putin was next, appearing before the IOC on the eve of the vote and successfully landing the 2014 Winter Games for unheralded Sochi. Before Blair and Putin, it was unheard of for a major world leader to lobby IOC delegates in person before they voted, and the truth of the matter is the delegates like the attention. They revel in it. That's because IOC members are largely self-aggrandizing, un-idealistic, leeches who travel in style, dine sumptuously, and luxuriate in their power and influence and all manner of pomp and circumstance. They are the Mr. Toads of amateur sport. Obama is an international rock star, whose popularity extends across Europe, through Africa, and even to the Arab states. That' a lot of votes that the U.S. usually doesn't get when the IOC congress meets. So even though the heads of state from Japan (Tokyo), Brazil (Rio de Janeiro), and Spain (Madrid) will also be in Copenhagen lobbying for votes, Obama's presence trumps them. He's the Leader of the Free World, and he isn't Bush (who would have been a negative). Never mind that the U.S. Federal Government has absolutely nothing to do with financing the Games and that his appearance is strictly for show. Most of what the IOC does is for show. It's a perfect match. If Obama stays home, the Games would go to Rio. They should go to Rio, for heaven's sake, since the Olympics have never been hosted in South America. But they won't.
...So from an American perspective, and for the city of Chicago, Obama's doing the right thing. He'll undoubtedly be criticized for it in some quarters, and the trip's not without risk, since a defeat in Copenhagen will be seen as a personal defeat for Obama. But he'd be criticized more for not going. As Michele Obama said, "You're darned if you do and you're darned if you don't. I'd rather be on the side of doing it, and I think that's how the president feels."
....One wonders, though, how the IOC will ever get off this merry-go-round of dueling heads of state. Somebody's going to be embarrassed when they return home. How silly to allow these world leaders to be there in the first place. As Richard Pound, the longtime IOC representative from Canada, observes, "It might be getting out of hand when the president of the free world has to drop everything to be there."




Late September is apple harvest time at Breakwind Farm, as it is throughout most of the northeast and upper midwest. I picked mine on Saturday, and I always make a few pies before going on to the more arduous tasks of making cider and applesause and chutney. This year I happened on a easy, delicious recipe that is not something you will find in any store. And I stumbled on it because, with all the rain, this has also been a banner year for raspberries, and my three-year-old raspberry bushes are, for the first time, in full harvest mode.



So for the last couple of weeks I've always had a half-pint of fresh raspberries around. They spoil pretty quickly, so it's been a challenge to keep up. (Having made blackberry jam, apple-mint jelly, and grape-rosemary jelly, I am jammed and jellied out.) Anyway, it's generally a good idea to squeeze some lemon juice on an apple pie to add some tartness, and this year I thought I'd try adding raspberries instead. They're pretty tart. It turned out to be a good idea. Fresh apples and raspberries go brilliantly together.

Before a share the recipe, a word about piecrusts. Make that four words. I can't make them. I CANNOT MAKE A PIE CRUST. I've tried, and they tear, or glop, or dry, or fall on the floor. If you can make a pie crust that's flaky and light, go wild. Knock yourself out. Me, I buy frozen crusts. I am not Julia Child, despite the many recipes in this blog. And if I can buy a better pie crust than I can make, I'll swallow my pride and buy it. By far the best brand I've found comes from Oronoque Orchards. 9-inch, Deep Dish, flaky homestyle pie crusts. Found in your grocer's frozen food section.

Breakwind Farm's Apple-Raspberry Pie

6-8 apples, cored, peeled and sliced
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1/4 tsp. salt
about 20 fresh raspberries and/or blueberries
drizzle of honey

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Lay apple slices in the pie crust, piling high in the center.
Scatter raspberries/blueberries on top evenly
Mix sugar and spices together. Sprinkle over the fruit.
Drizzle with honey.
Put a second pie crust over the top; prick with a fork.
Place on cookie sheet. Bake 15 mins. at 425 degrees. Turn oven down to 375 degrees and bake another 30 mins., or until crust is golden brown.

Let cool. Serve with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, or plain.
Autumn will explode in your mouth!

The golf ball and the underrated dolgo crabapple

Yesterday it was officially announced that the 2013 U.S. Amateur golf championship would be held at The Country Club, in Brookline, Massachusetts, marking the centennial of Francis Ouimet's victory there in the 1913 U.S. Open. I am a member of that wonderful club, and, like the majority of members, am excited that the U.S.G.A. has chosen to recognize Ouimet's historic win in such a fashion. Several years ago, many of us had been hoping the U.S. Open would be held at TCC in 2013, but negotiations broke down over a variety of issues. However, hosting the U.S. Amateur can be construed as a possible precursor of a future Open, perhaps in 2018 or 2023. There is already a
blueprint for a couple of million dollars in "improvements" to the course in anticipation of such an event. Fortunately, due to the moribund economy, these design changes--new tees to lengthen some holes, new bunkers in landing areas 300 yards or more yards from the tees--have been tabled. But they're coming, I'm sure of that. Like all of the old, classic courses, The Country Club has fallen victim to technology, and holes that used to require a drive and a three-iron are now a drive and a wedge. 550 yard par 5s are easily reached in two shots. 350 yard par 4s are drive-able. So we lengthen the tees until we run out of space, at a cost to the membership of millions of dollars.
...The problem, as Jack Nicklaus has said for years, is the golf ball. The metal drivers have something to do with the extra length players are getting off the tee--I am 57 and hit it as far as I ever have--but by far the biggest factor is the ball. So I wonder what the solution is?
...Let me think. Let me think. Could it possibly be to regulate the ball?
...I can only think of one other pro sport where players bring their own ball to the competition. Bowling.
...Bowling and golf. Now there's some select company.
...Can you imagine a baseball pitcher who insisted on using his own ball when he took the mound? Absurd. Yet the fathers of golf insist the equipment companies are so powerful that you could never get, say, Tiger Woods to play with anything but a Nike ball. Poppycock. In tennis, another sport heavily influenced by endorsements from Nike, Wilson, Spalding, et al., the balls are given to the players. Roddick can't chose one brand, Federer another. But golf officials, somehow, haven't the guts to stand up to the players and their multiple corporate sponsors: Titleist, Nike, Callaway, Bridgestone, and the rest.
...Look, I don't care what happens on the PGA Tour. Let the players bomb 400 yard drives at the ATT Invitational all they want. But the U.S.G.A., the not-for-profit organization which oversees the game and hosts our national championship, should be able to take the Open to historic old courses without requiring them to put in a whole new set of tees in order to "defend" par. The U.S.G.A. should have the cojones to say to Tiger, Phil, and Vijay: "Thanks for coming. Here's the ball you'll be using for the next four days. It says U.S. Open on it, and it's a 90 compression balata." Or whatever. Everyone plays with the same ball. What a concept! It's called a level playing field. And it's called monetary sense. Enough of the 7,600 yard courses. Because it will never end. Technology's not going to stop here. The balls will keep going further if someone doesn't put a lid on it. Let's keep the old designs relevant and save everyone (but the course architects and equipment companies) a pile of dough.
...

The other big news from Massachusetts yesterday (that had nothing to do with a funeral) was here at Breakwind Farm we harvested our crop of dolgo crabapples and made applesauce. It is a tart-ish, red applesauce that we use with pork, on gingerbread, and as a stand-alone desert topped with vanilla ice cream. As you can see, part of its appeal is visual. You simply cannot find anything like this in the supermarket. So if any of you readers are thinking of planting an ornamental tree that is easy to care for and also produces a useful, unique fruit, I heartily recommend the dolgo crab. It likes full sun, is fast growing, and looks like this in the springtime.
(My bees LOVE it1) Then in late august, without the least assistance from me (I don't even spray), it produces an abundance of golf-ball sized, red crab apples, too tart to enjoy raw, but which can be easily made into applesauce or jelly.


...Here's my recipe for Breakwind Applesauce.

20 cups dolgo crab apples, stemmed and cut in half
4 or 5 regular apples, stemmed and quartered
1 1/2 cups water
1 cinnamon stick
3 cloves
juice from 1/2 lemon
5 cups sugar


Wash, stem, and halve the apples. Put in large pot with water, cloves, cinnamon stick and lemon juice. Cook 20 minutes over medium heat, covered.

At this point it should look something like this:



Put through a food mill. (This is a food mill:


Stir in five cups of sugar. Bring to a boil.
Put into 1 pint jars. Makes 8 pints.

The jars, of course, should be sterilized. Then after they've been filled and sealed, you should still boil them while completely immersed for several minutes. The result: red, delicious, dolgo applesauce, which all winter long serves as a reminder that spring is just around the bend.

Johnny Damon vs. J.D. Drew, an epic Red Sox Gaffe

The Red Sox front office has had some hits and misses in the last five years, but no miss was greater than the failure to re-sign Johnny Damon after the 2005 season. Yes, the once-beloved Damon is now hated in Boston because of his decision to jump to the despised Yankees, lured by an offer of $52 million, over 4 years. But Damon was the heart and soul of the 2004 World Series winners who broke the Curse of the Bambino, chief idiot of the self-described "idiots" who came back so improbably from the 3-0 deficit against the Bronx Bombers. He owned Boston back then. Women loved him. Men admired him. And Damon wanted to stay. Until, that is, the Sox low-balled him. Then he was gone. For $12 million, it's tough to blame him.
It is tempting to put the finger on youthful GM Theo Epstein for this front office gaffe, but Epstein was having a dispute with team president Larry Lucchino at the time, and wasn't, temporarily, with the team. Lucchino was in charge of the negotiations with Damon's agent, Scott Boras, and the Sox' final offer of $40 million for 4 years was well short of what the Yanks were willing to pay. As soon as Damon signed with New York, the bad-mouthing started. He was "an old" 32, his best years behind him. He had no arm and was just an average fielder. His shoulder was suspect. By the end of his contract, the Yankees would surely rue paying him $12 million a year.


....Guess what? The Yanks got their money's worth, and then some. Damon's having a phenomenal season in the final year of that four-year contract, and the Yanks are talking about re-signing him in the off-season. Damon still has power--22 homers already in hitter-friendly Yankee Stadium--83 runs scored, 8 steals, 52 walks, a leader in the clubhouse, popular with the fans and press...what's not to like? The Yanks are headed for the World Series, and the 35-year-old Damon is putting up numbers for his career--he has 2,389 hits and could reach 3,000--that probably will land him in the Hall of Fame.
....And the Red Sox? They're in a August swoon, and in place of Damon they went out and signed J.D. "Nancy" Drew.
....Okay, that's a cheapshot. Drew outgrew that nickname in the 2007 playoffs, when he eradicated the memory of a lousy first season with the Red Sox by helping them to their second World Series title in four years with a good post-season. At that point it seemed maybe boy wonder Theo Epstein had been smart to fling $70 million over five years at the oft-injured Drew (also represented by Boras)--$30 million more than the club had offered Damon. But with two years remaining on that contract, it's now clear: Drew is grossly overpaid; and Damon is sorely missed.

...Yes, Drew has a better arm than Damon, and plays a respectable right field. But a comparison of their offensive totals shows that Drew falls short of Damon in every category but one: walks. Theo loves walks. I prefer runs and ribbies. In Damon's four years with the Yankees,including this partial season, he has averaged 135 games, 150 hits, 97 runs, 19 homers, 22 steals, 70 RBIs, and 62 walks. Great numbers. Drew, in his three seasons with Boston, including this partial, has averaged just 116 games, 105 hits, 75 runs, 14 homers, 58 RBIs, 3 steals, and 73 walks. The guy's a walking machine. He really knows how to take a pitch. Unfortunately, he usually bats fifth or sixth, because most startling among those numbers is that Damon, usually a leadoff hitter, has averaged 12 more RBIs a season than Drew. If you also throw in the lousy offensive year that centerfielder Coco Crisp had in 2006 (105 games,.264 average, 8 homers, 58 runs, 36 RBIs)--after Damon left but before Drew was signed--you get the full picture of how much Boston has struggled to replace Damon's bat.
...Beyond that, Damon had personality and fire, something the 33-year-old Drew has shown little of during his stay in Boston.
....It's time for Bostonians to stop booing and give Johnny Damon his due. The guy was fun, he was good, and the Red Sox are worse off without him. The fact that he's headed for the post season now while Boston is reeling just rubs more salt in this self-inflicted wound. Meanwhile, the Red Sox will be stuck with the most overpaid right fielder in baseball for two more seasons. He looks like an old man now at 33. What's he going to look like in 2011?
....Why they signed you, Nancy, will always be a mystery to me.

Eggs Edward

I don't know why breakfast gets such little respect as a real meal. A person hasn't eaten in 10 or 12 hours, he should be hungry for something more than a bowl of cereal or a piece of toast. I have one friend who has a Coke for breakfast. Many others who have nothing at all, or who grab a cup of coffee while heading out the door. You've all heard the old saw about breakfast being the most important meal of the day. I think that's probably true, but at the very least you should treat it as you would any other meal by preparing it with good, fresh ingredients and varying the menu every once in awhile.
...With that in mind, allow me to share the recipe for my favorite breakfast: Eggs Edward. Step aside, Benedict, your day is over. (Really, Hollandaise Sauce before noon? Just inject me with Crisco and be done with it.)
...Here at Breakwind Farm, August is generally a time when we are knee deep in fresh tomatoes. (Not this year. The incessant rain in the northeast has postponed the tomato crop, and given much of it blight. My first tomatoes are still bright green--but that's another recipe for another day.) I started eating sliced tomatoes on toast for breakfast as a way to keep up with the harvest, and eventually began experimenting with other flavors that were complimentary. Hence the birth of Eggs Edward.

Ingredients: 2 slices crisp bacon
1 English muffin, or two slices white bread, toasted and buttered
1 sliced tomato
2 poached eggs
fresh basil
salt and pepper to taste.

This takes no longer than five minutes to prepare, start to finish, or as long as it takes to crisp the bacon. Heat water in a frying pan to a boil to poach the eggs, or you can use a fancy poaching device. The frying pan works fine, however, if you add a tablespoon of white vinegar to the water before adding the eggs. The vinegar, for whatever reason, keeps the eggs from spreading out, and the result is an imperfectly round but nonetheless compact and delicious poached egg.
Meanwhile, toast the muffin and butter the halves. Top each half with a slice of tomato, a piece of bacon broken in half, one egg (remove the egg from the fry pan with a slotted spoon, being careful to drain off the water), and slivers of fresh basil. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve with fresh coffee. Bon Appetite!!