Memories Sometimes Blur in 10 Years Since ‘The Miracle On Ice’

It’s 10 years this week that the U.S. Olympic Hockey Team stuck its foot into the glass slipper and walked away with a gold medal at Lake Placid, a fairy tale if there ever was one, and, boy, where does the time go? Herb Brooks looked so young and mean back then, and like his players it’s hard to imagine him ever growing old. And now Herb Brooks is 52.

The legend of Lake Placid has aged, too, a few of the details growing fuzzy, the mind playing a few tricks. But the story endures because the kids from the U S of A did more than just capture a championship. They began the Olympics as longshots; they left as heroes.

They wrote a happy ending.

These weren’t high-priced superstars tooling around in Ferraris and hanging out at Elaine’s. They were collegians and failed minor-leaguers giving it their best shot and, what the heck, seeing what could happen. The Soviets were big and powerful -- invincible, we all thought. Team USA was made up of youngsters from down the block who mowed your lawn.

“I remember a meeting we had early on, after the team was picked,” said Rob McClanahan, then a center and now a sales broker in Chicago. “Herb gave us a talk and although he didn’t say this exactly, the message was something like, ‘If we play very well, get some breaks, we could win a bronze medal. If we play over our heads, catch a huge break, we can get a silver. The gold is the Russians’. Forget about it.”’

But it’s been a long time, so every once in a while the memories become blurred. A guy will say, “Remember the night the USA beat the Soviets and won the gold medal?” And, of course, it didn’t happen that way at all. The United States beat the Soviets all right, but it was two days later -- Feb. 24, 1980 -- that the Americans clinched the gold medal by defeating Finland. Odd, but that game is like a footnote now.

“Know what?” said Mark Johnson, who plays for the New Jersey Devils these days. “Everyone thinks we won the gold medal in the game against the Russians, except the people who were there.” It’s, like, as long as they beat the Soviets, nothing else matters.

But it does. Those upstarts from small towns like Grand Rapids, Minn., and Charleston, Mass., tossing their sticks in the air, Mike Eruzione collapsed in tears, Jim Craig wrapped in an American flag and asking, “Where’s my father?” -- that was like something out of a TV movie that, naturally, it became. If you happened to miss it, it was called “Miracle on Ice.”

“The movie?” McClanahan said. “To me, it was a little sappy.”

Like anything else, the movie exaggerated a few facts, ignored some others, and squashed eight months of practice, travel and competition into three hours in prime time. It came across like a real tearjerker, all hearts and flowers. The fact is, the Olympians rode a bumpy path to Lake Placid. People forget that.

By the time the Americans arrived, they were exhausted and cranky from a nationwide tour. There was some squabbling. And the country really didn’t take much notice of the team until the game against the Soviets, a story in itself.

The Soviets had demolished the United States, 10-3, in a pre-Olympic game at Madison Square Garden. So Brooks figured he’d better have something good to say to inspire his young players.

The locker room was hushed when he stood up before the game, reached into his pocket and fished out a wrinkled slip of paper. And then he said:

“You are born to be a player. You are meant to be here at this time. This is your moment.”

As speeches go, it was right up there with Knute Rockne telling Notre Dame to win one for the Gipper. But, it turns out, Brooks really hadn’t been sure of what he wanted to say. He scribbled down a few notes and phrases and then kind of blurted them out, not exactly the way the story’s been passed down.

Brooks laughs about it now. “It just sort of came out the way it did,” he said. “Let me tell you something, it was no Gettysburg Address.”

Let’s just say it did the job. Johnson’s shot with one second left in the first period pulled the United States into a 2-2 tie and the Soviets, panicking, yanked their famous goalie, Vladislav Tretiak. Behind 3-2 in the third period, the Americans fought back with goals by Dave Silk and Eruzione, won the game, 4-3, and the fable began to unfold.

The natural reaction was to think that the dispirited Soviets had nothing but contempt for the Americans. It also was natural to think the Americans loved sticking it to the Soviets, them being Communists and all. But as Eruzione said, “We were athletes, and to us it was an athletic event. We didn’t think of it as a political event.”

If anything, they were too busy slapping helmets and trying to grasp the enormity of their victory. And the Soviets, well, they understood and appreciated just what the U.S. players had achieved, although it wasn’t until later that congratulations were passed along in a whisper and a smile.

Minutes after leaving the ice, Johnson was in an office supplying a urine sample to the drug-testing people when he caught the eye of Boris Mikhailov, the Soviet captain, sitting on a bench across the room. Mikhailov motioned Johnson closer.

“You guys play very well,” he said, his thick accent right out of a spy flick.

“It surprised me,” Johnson said. “I didn’t expect it. To be honest, he sounded happy for us.”

That victory got the puck rolling. The Americans, cast in the role of upstarts, had a wholesome appeal, even if some of it was contrived. True, they were bouncy, happy, working-class kids, but their closeness has always been a little overstated. Remember, some teammates got bugged when Brooks bent the rules and let defenseman Ken Morrow keep his beard.

“We were close,” Morrow said. “But we also had a lot of different groups -- cliques -- guys from Boston, guys from Michigan, a big Minnesota contingent. There was always a lot of kidding going on, a lot of rivalry. What I’m trying to say is, we were just like any normal team.”

Morrow would go on to win four Stanley Cups with the New York Islanders after winning the gold medal, which must be some kind of record, and now is an assistant coach with the New York Rangers’ farm team in Flint, Mich. Craig rebounded from a brief, checkered NHL career, eventually was cleared of criminal charges stemming from a fatal automobile accident and currently is a sales representative in Brockton, Mass. Mark Pavelich, who always skated to his own beat, hunts and fishes in the Minnesota woods.

But it’s funny how things work out sometimes. Johnson and Viacheslav Fetisov, the great Soviet defenseman, are teammates now with the Devils.

Thirteen of the Olympians, plus Brooks and assistant coach Craig Patrick, rode the wave of popularity to careers in the NHL. For most of them, though, there’s been nothing like the afternoon they beat the Finns, 4-2, for the gold medal while the crowd in Lake Placid chanted, “U!S!A!”

“That’s why we write history books,” Brooks said. “It gives us perspective. And the perspective we have now is that we proved that certain ingredients and the proper intangibles shared by a group can make things happen for the betterment of that group; that a work ethic, comradeship, and love and respect for teammates can make a difference.

“And we learned good things happen if the group has its head screwed on right.”

Of course, the line that everyone remembers is Al Michaels shouting: “Do you believe in miracles?” Now, the word “miracle” gets a lot of exposure, what with every game-winning, ground-rule double immediately videotaped and immortalized. The Americans, all freckles and goose bumps, coming out of nowhere to beat the odds and win the gold, that may not exactly qualify as a miracle.

But it’s close.