1/7/2004 - Football
Tugging on the Strings of Memory

By Bob Socci

Sorting through the newspaper on the sixth morning of the New Year, there was a strange juxtaposition of old teammates on the front of the sports section.

In print both large and small.

The dominant story was that of baseball's all-time hit leader admitting what most of us suspected all along, contradicting 14 years of public denial in his latest effort to be paroled from a self-titled "Prison Without Bars".

As a college kid at the University of Dayton, I was still making the hour-long trip from campus to Pete Rose Way as publicity assistant for the Cincinnati Reds in the spring of 1989, when baseball started investigating Charlie Hustle.

So, in reading of this confession seemingly without contrition, there was - albeit minutely - a personal connection.

The much more personal news was, instead, found below the fold.

In the far right-hand column. About a loveable left-hand pitcher.

While the world was reacting to Rose once more, Tug McGraw had succumbed to brain cancer.

He was 59.

In October of 1980, they were together in Philadelphia. Each an old pro impeding the advance of time with a youthful exuberance that helped the Phillies finally realize a World Series championship.

Rose punctuating an out by spiking the ball off the concrete-hard turf at Veteran's Stadium.

And McGraw pumping his left fist, repeatedly tapping his glove on his right thigh.

The very mannerisms I would mimic in the backyard when Tug was doing the same in a different hue of pinstripes. Those of the New York Mets I followed as a child.

Decades later, finding them reunited - at least on the same page, on the same day - didn't seem so much ironic as appropriate.

By now, so many images of earlier years have been obscured, if not defaced.

The same figure once remembered for his grit and grind - diving into third base, barreling over the catcher - has since been displaced by the one hawking autographs on the very night he was banned from his sport.

At the same time, other footage remains crystal-clear in the mind's eye.

Tug will always be the light-hearted lefty whose joking remark - "You Gotta Believe" - would evolve into a rallying cry in the summer of '73. And who, seven years later, shared his unbridled joy by jumping into the arms of Mike Schmidt after the final out of the Fall Classic.

Recalling that scene - which was so beautifully reenacted in September, after the final game at The Vet - gave cause to wonder about the imagery we retain from other sporting moments.

Those worth savoring are spontaneous celebrations of man's triumph. Or, often, understated demonstrations of his spirit.

Sometimes, a single event inspires both.

Perhaps you too can replay those scenes from Lake Placid in 1980.

The euphoria of the United States hockey team, whether piling on one another on the ice or, later, finding a way to join the captain atop a gold medal stand made for one.

Equally vivid is the vision of its goalie, the Stars and Stripes draped over his shoulders, scanning the stands in search of his father.

What endure as well are the soundtracks to such moments.

Do you believe in miracles? The Giants win the pennant! Havlicek stole the ball!

Sadly, values have shifted in recent years, with so much in sport now seemingly contrived - from pre-game pomp to endzone choreography.

So much so, the games themselves are in danger of becoming sideshows.

Consider two recent examples from under the roof of the Louisiana Superdome.

A wide receiver turns in a terrific night on national television. Yet, by planting a cell phone in the padding of a goal post, completely overshadows said performance in an act of blatant self-aggrandizement.

Weeks later, before a Sugar Bowl that would decide a half-national title, while what seemed to be the entire populace of Baton Rouge was gathered on the field, players were introduced one-by-one. What happened, I wondered, to teams charging out as, well, teams?

But that was only the beginning. Soon we were treated to the national anthem performed by an attractive, though untalented pop star whose 15 minutes of fame should have been up a half-hour ago. Halftime "entertainment" was compliments of Snoop Dog. Enough said.

Fortunately, in the midst of that three-ring circus, a pretty interesting game broke out.

Which gets back to the point too often overlooked.

Moments are made great - be they plays themselves or the reactions to them - when they aren't scripted.

After all, isn't that one of the main attractions of sport in the first place?

Unfortunately, when some choose to put themselves above the competition, each looking to top the other under the bright lights, stupidity reigns. The envelope is pushed so far, and soon the line between outlandish and offensive has been erased.

From one, it may be a throat-slashing gesture.

From many - as we know all too well - it might be the kind of classless and clueless display drummed up by a group of Texas Tech players who served to sully their recent win over the Midshipmen.

Their act - dropping to the ground as if a bomb had exploded, while facing a team of young men trained to someday step into the real line of fire - was easily the most egregious of any ever witnessed in person by this set of eyes.

It's an image neither easily forgotten nor forgiven.

But one that won't be the defining impression I'll replay in my mind years from now.

Most memorable will be the very first sight of the Mids sprinting onto the field - as one.

Being led by Andy Michalowicz. Carrying an American flag. And eventually racing to a point along the Navy sideline, to wave Old Glory in front of the Brigade of Midshipmen.

Simple elegance, stirring message.

It's a scene captured in a photo gallery on The Baltimore Sun web site - one of the many snapshots framed in memory from my tenure calling Navy athletics.

An experience, thankfully, that occasionally returns me to that youthful age of relative innocence.

When individuals tended to play for teams and competition was what seemed to matter most.

When celebrations were, simply, celebrations.

And when, if one of your favorite players told you to do so, you could honestly believe.

- N -