It ain't roses, but...

How long was the drought again? Eleven years?

Hard to believe after watching the University of Michigan hockey team glide to its second straight 2008 GLI championship with a 5-1 win over a less-than-bitter Michigan State rival. Yes, it was the weakest field in recent memory. But so what? A yard sale is a yard sale (see my photo below). The equipment flies just as high no matter what your opponents' records may be. And on this holiday, the once humdrum hockey tournament is all Wolverine fans have, after being liberated from that whole New Year's Day bowl game thing.

Since Jason Botterill's last-minute goal rallied the then-top-ranked Wolverines over fiesty Lake Superior State for the 1996 GLI title (their ninth straight at the time), Red Berenson's team has watched five different schools raise their banners to the top of Joe Louis Arena. Their futility was matched only by host school Michigan Tech, who hadn't won the championship since 1981 (their fifth straight at the time, as irony would have it) and whom Michigan defeated 1-0 in last year's thrilling GLI final to end the drought.



But talk about turning famine into feast. In these last two GLIs the Wolverines have allowed a total of one goal. One goal. They've outscored their opponents 17-1 over twelve regulation periods and a double overtime. Their dominance has been such that last year's tournament MVP, Billy Sauer, watched from the bench as Bryan Hogan did the shutting down. Imagine standing tall between the pipes and allowing one measley goal over an entire two-game holiday tournament and not winning MVP (the honor went to captain Louie Caporusso, who led the team with four goals).

That dominant.

Given the drought of the word "dominant" as a descriptor for any aspect of Michigan athletics these days (short of the #4-ranked swim team... who needs Michael Phelps!), the GLI champs gladly accept the adjective on behalf of the entire program.

One step shy of the goal

Andy Roddick will one day enter the Tennis Hall Of Fame in Newport, Rhode Island. A first-ballot automatic, no doubt about it. He's that good. Yet if there's one sentence that best captures his footprint on the landscape of the sport, it would be this: he was the best player in tennis not named Federer.

Allow me to apply this description to the 2008 MHSAA Division 1 football season: The Lake Orion Dragons were the best team in the state not named Rockford.

This year's version of coach Chris Bell's perennial powerhouse reads a perfect 12-0—twelve handsome-looking volumes to display on the mantle, to be sure—were it not for those God-awful bookends. A pair of losses at the hands of the mighty Rockford Rams, the first to open the season in August and the second, today's sobering 26-14 defeat on the grand stage of Ford Field, to earn the Rams their third state title in five years.



Branden Oakes (see my pic) gained 107 yards on 16 carries, but his biggest contribution never materialized. That's because his number wasn't called on a crucial third-and-two call at the Ram 11-yard line during an electrifying Dragon drive that chewed up half the third quarter. Instead, quarterback Sean "I'm Still Just Fifteen... Hello" Charette rolled right and forced a throw into dense short-side coverage, where Gabe Speirs caught it in stride and brought it back past midfield.

Lake Orion was trailing 20-7 at the time. They had belly-crawled into the locker room but emerged with a swagger--taking the kickoff down the field, converting multiple third-down opportunities (even a fourth down) while wearing the Ram defense two-ply thin. The feeling among the white-out faithful was, we score here from the two, then hold Rockford to a three-and-out, and we're in the lead. One only needs to travel back three weeks to find the Dragons in a 13-point hole at intermission, 23-10 to Romeo in the District finals. Wow. The Romeo game was just three weeks ago?


Yes, this tiny slip of momentum was quickly assuaged by a Rockford fumble the very next play. Lake Orion turned that gift into points, with Oakes jamming it in from a yard out to cut the deficit to six, 20-14. Less than a minute remained in the third, and Rockford had the ball for exactly one play.

That drive, however, should have been for the lead.

The Dragons stopped the Rams cold on third and inches on their subsequent possession, and began moving again. Jeff "I’m The Reason Why We're Here At Ford Field In The First Place" Heath hauled in a Charette pass over the middle for a first down, and lost the ball after being hit at his 45-yard line. Rockford cradled the little bundle of joy and took it from there, driving the proverbial stake to the Dragons' hearts with a 4-yard Darby run for the game's final points.

Watching each unfortunate event unfold gave me the sensation of heading uphill on a mountain bike and repeatedly missing the gear each time I down-shifted. While I can simply quit mountain biking, the task for coach Bell is more substantial. He brought his team through districts, past the regional final and all the way to Ford Field. His team then played toe-to-toe with the team who put the only blemish on their record, virtually dead-even in total yards (263-248 Dragons), first downs (13-12 Rams), total plays (Lake Orion by a 59-53 score) and time of possession (24:46-23:14, a 92-second edge for Rockford).

But in situations such as this, when two teams who look similar on paper play a game where you need DNA samples to tell them apart, something unforeseen typically decides the outcome. For the Dragons, those somethings included, in order: a mental meltdown in two-deep coverage (leading to Ram quarterback Tim McGee’s 47-yard scoring strike to Nick Stokes, who was extended-holiday-hours open along the right sideline and scored without the need for express checkout); a blocked punt in the final minute of the second quarter (leading to Rockford's one-play, six-yard drive and a 20-7 lead at the break); Charette's aforementioned Big-Mo-sucking end-zone INT; and Heath's aforementioned hemorrhage of a 20-yard pitch and run (leading to receipt of aforementioned stake).

Even those five somethings cannot dull the brilliance of something as shiny as Lake Orion's 2008 campaign. All game I sat in my $100-if-it’s-a-Lions-game seat, thinking, 'they're really here, playing for it all.' Yet it never once felt like a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Frankly, it felt a lot like a first-of-three-straight-trips experience.

After all, Roddick did win a U.S. Open. And he was the world’s top-ranked player for three months. And three months does span the length of an entire state-championship football season. I can keep going with this. Suffice to say, they’ll be playing for it all at Ford Field again. If not next year then the one after that. In fact, if they don’t win THE title in '09 I may even bring a bitter tone to the recap.

Deal with that, Andy.

[By the way--fear not, Dragon fans, the state title will be ours in the courts if not on the field. Soon the MHSAA will sanction Rockford for using an ineligible player. See their right tackle? Did he look familiar? Don’t tell me I’m the only one who knows what Jake Long looks like. They even gave the guy #77. Real smart move.]

The Night Before the Finals

'Twas the Night before the Finals, and all through the town
Not a player was worried--not even one frown.
The cleats were all hung in their lockers with care,
Awaiting these Dragons, whose footsteps they'd share.

The townfolk were nestled all snug in their beds,
As visions of championships danced in their heads.
Moms slept in green jerseys, while zebra-striped refs
were resting their heads upon yellow 'kerchiefs.

When out at the high school there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter!
Away to my minivan I flew like a flash,
Warmed up the old engine and made a mad dash.

The lights of the stadium with their thousand-watt glow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the field turf below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But eighty-five warriors--all clad in full gear!

With a bright firey leader, so lively and well,
I knew in a moment it must be Coach Bell!
The team couldn't sleep, too amped up for the game,
So he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Branden! Now Marques! Now Nay, Bruce and Lott!
On Charette! And Charles Fleck! On Heath and Knoblock!
To the top of the mountain! To the top, proud and tall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
Coach read from the playbook his plans of attack
for the twelve-and-one heroes he'd flung on his back.

They'll soon face the one foe they couldn't survive--
with a QB who's not old enough yet to drive!
But a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

Coach spoke not a word, but went straight to his book,
And filled all their heads up, then turned with a look.
Then pointing his finger to the sky with a pose,
He gave them a nod--toward Rockford they rose!

We've all seen a miracle, and it wasn't St. Nick.
'Twas the spirit that lifted that 49-yard kick
High over the crossbar, between the uprights,
and lifted Lake Orion to unheard-of heights.

Swarming onto the field as the clock showed all zeros
We all celebrated these newly crowned heroes
Win or lose they're immortal, they've made history
Nonetheless, "Here's to you boys, and ONE MORE VICTORY!"

Mighty Dragons Stop Fordson Cold, 38-0... next stop, Ford Field!

"Destiny" has become a popular explanation for that which cannot be explained. Largely because the term itself isn't easily explained.

Yet with each successive victory, we're left with fewer ways to make sense of the Lake Orion Dragons' improbable run through the 2008 Michigan High School playoffs. From a long touchdown run in the final minute of a scoreless tie with Utica Eisenhower in round 1; to the rally from a 13-point halftime deficit against Romeo the following week; to the 9.2-second drive and 49-yard game-winning field goal last Friday against a Sterling Heights Stevenson team who had come back from a 28-point third quarter hole.

Add to the list last night's astonishing 38-0 dismemberment of Division 1's Goliaths from Dearborn Fordson on the frigid field turf of Troy Athens High School, and even the thinnest traces of reason go "poof!"



A team so youthful its starting quarterback barely qualifies for a learner's permit, the Dragons drove over top-ranked and seemingly unbeatable Fordson the way monster trucks would drive over traffic. What's ironic here is that the team nicknamed the Tractors happens to be the one with tire tracks on their chests.

The tone was set just moments after the pre-game coin toss. On the game's first offensive play, Lake Orion's John Chanthakhot stepped in front of a hurried Ali Baidoun screen pass and returned the interception 26 yards for an instant 7-0 lead. Moments later the Dragons forced a Fordson fumble (see pic), leading to a nine-play scoring drive capped by Branden Oakes' two-yard plunge. Hypothermia had barely set in, and already the Dragons were up 14.

That was all the stingy Lake Orion defense needed in recording their second shutout of the playoffs. Truth be told, the 38-0 final doesn't reflect how severely Fordson's once-prolific offense had been dominated. Even the zero seems generous. The Tractors didn't so much as threaten to score all evening, any brief sign of momentum thwarted by friendly fire--five turnovers in all, compared to Lake Orion's zero. Halfway through the third quarter, most of their fans had already abandoned the icy aluminum grandstands and headed back to Dearborn, freeing themselves from the dream that had stuck with them since the sweltering days of late August.

So now, one more challenge stands before the Lake Orion Dragons. One to be faced at room-temperature, thankfully, on the biggest stage of all: Ford Field. Awaiting them is a rematch with the Rockford Rams, the only blemish on Lake Orion's 12-1 season. This Saturday at 1:00pm, they will have the opportunity to settle the score and avenge their only defeat by winning their first-ever state championship.

There's a word for that, isn't there?

[The ok-quality photos from these Lake Orion Dragon posts are mine. The spectacular quality ones come from MarkROakes, Nick Couretas and Studio C, and Photo Impressions. If you appreciate good photography from people who know what they're doing, I encourage you to look at their work, as it's pretty amazing. No plugging here--these are my words. Although these pics speak for themselves.]

GO DRAGONS!

I'm off to Troy Athens High School to witness what I hope is the next chapter of the Improbable Journey. Hoping my next post will say something like "Wooooo-hooooo!"

Meantime, here's another pic from the field after last week's miracle win. The hardware would be the regional champions trophy, the school's second ever. Wish the boys luck--and magic!

The biggest game in Lake Orion history (until next week?)

[Note: My blog has also embraced the Lake Orion Dragons, the high school of the city in which I live and the school my son will be attending next fall. They have built a high school powerhouse in northern Oakland County, having reached the MHSAA Regional finals each of the past two seasons (losing to eventual state champ Macomb Dakota each time). This year's squad followed an opening-game loss to Rockford at EMU's Rynearson Stadium with 11 straight wins, and sits two wins away from the school's first state title. So if you like reading my posts, I invite you to take this ride with us. If you'd rather focus on my posts regarding Detroit college and professional teams, there are plenty of those as well so allow me this high school thrill ride and skip ahead to further reading.]



Saturday night, 7:00pm at Troy Athens High School, the Michigan Region 3 champion Lake Orion Dragons will attempt to go where no Lake Orion team has ever gone before.

Ford Field.

More specicifially, the Division 1 Michigan High School football championship game. The miracle ride continues after Jeffrey Heath's last-second prayer of a 49-yard field goal (see pic) upset Sterling Heights Stevenson, 38-36, in the greatest football game I have ever witnessed (so great I'm still writing the blog about it... should be up by Monday). Already the winningest team in Lake Orion football history, they seek a date on Thanksgiving weekend to show the state's viewing audience what they're made of. And a chance to add to the school's three state title banners, for wrestling (1990), baseball and girls' golf (2007).

Only once have the Dragons ever reached the state semis, in 1999. So they've already made history. But this season's magic carpet ride almost conjures up that D-word. Not "DEE-FENSE" but "DESSS-TINY." Consider the details of the Lake Orion playoff run:

1. Game 1 - Region 3 Division 1 Pre-Districts vs. Utica Eisenhower. The teams remained in a scoreless deadlock until the game's final two minutes, when tailback Branden Oakes exploded for a 25-yard touchdown and the game's only points.

2. Game 2 - Region 3 Division 1 Districts vs. Romeo - Lake Orion trailed Romeo by 13 points in the third quarter but came back for an impressive and equally improbable 24-23 win, keyed by a momentum-shifting quarterback sack by LB Eric Knoblock as Romeo had driven to the brink of the red zone, threatening to increase the lead to 20.

3. Game 3 - Region 3 finals vs. Sterling Heights Stevenson - The Dragons flew to a 35-7 third-quarter lead, buoyed by the return of a blocked punt. Fans were leaving the stands before host Stevenson rode the rocket arm of junior quarterback Jason Fracassa--grandson of legendary Birmingham Brother Rice coach Al Fracassa--with 29 unanswered points to take a 36-35 lead. Lake Orion lost the ball on downs, then held SHS and got the ball back on their 40 with 9.2 seconds on the clock. 15-year-old freshman QB Sean Charette lofted a pass to Charles Fleck at the Stevenson 32. The defender pushed him out of bounds instead of tackling him in bounds, leaving 2.5 seconds on the clock. Out trotted Heath, for a moment as improbable as Kirk Gibson's hobbled body hitting the 9th inning home run in his only at-bat of the 1988 World Series. 49 yards later, the ball splitting the uprights, Lake Orion was bound for the semis with a 38-36 win.

Tonight at 7:00, they take the next unlikely step toward the summit of Mount NoFrigginWay. As I type this, Rockford has just beaten Livonia Stevenson in the other semi-final at Spartan Stadium. So a win tonight against Dearborn Fordson and the Dragons can avenge their only defeat of the season, on the biggest stage in school history. The table is setting itself.

I'll tell you what. I'm glad magic is on our side.

The losing fan's guide to watching Michigan-Ohio State

Forgive me, I've only watched college football's biggest rivalry since 1970. So I've never watched the Wolverines go into their game with the Buckeyes when the maize and blue have a losing record.

But there you are. Michigan stands at 3-8. With a game in hand, they're already guaranteed to be the losing team in the 126-year history of Michigan football. Their defense has given up more points tan any Wolverine team ever has. Normally that would mean the offense is their strong suit. Except that the offense is currently 11th in the Big 10. They do have a damn fine punter though. So they've got that going for them.

Anyway, there are still a few Michigan football traditions worth clinging to. So here's my defensive viewing guide for today's game at Ohio Stadium:

1. Score baby score. Michigan's scoring streak is among the longest in the nation, if not the top of the list. They've put points on the board every game for a quarter century, last being shut out by the Iowa Hawkeyes, 26-0, in 1984 - their last non-winning season. And the last time the Buckeyes shut them out? 1962. Forty-six years ago. The Kennedy Administration. So yeah it's a big deal.

2. He's still a freshman, so pressure the hell out of him. Buckeye QB Terrell Pryor snubbed the Wolverines on the final day of the signing period, leading to a leaderless three-win season in Ann Arbor. Defense, let him know your true feelings. I know, "stop the running quarterback" is the decades-long battle cry of unsuccessful Wolverine teams past. But the longer they can stay in his head and keep him out of his game, the better off they'll be.

3. Please please please Lord, watch over the health of our quarterback. Stephen Threet, the backup-turned-starter-turned-injured-guy-with-headphones, didn't even make the trip to Columbus. So although I'm not entirely sure, I think Matt Sheridan is officially the backup QB on the 2008 depth chart. Rich Rod rotates them as he sees fit, but that's not possible. Michigan's fortunes rest on the shoulders of #8, essentially. Justin Feagin, a freshman recruit from Florida, is the second team signal-caller. He's been inserted into a few games toward the end of the season, mostly in the backfield. I think he even caught a pass. But he's just not ready for this.

Looking back, Michigan's most painful football moments occurred as a result of injuries at the quarterback position. The 6-6 season of 1984? The one dark spot of the last four decades of Wolverine football pre-2008? If you recall, that season started out with an upset of top-ranked and defending national champ Miami. The team was led by an upbeat sophomore named Harbaugh, who broke his arm in the second half of the Michigan State game. Michigan was 3-1 at the time. Last year's drubbing by Oregon was made possible in part by Chad Henne's disappearance during the second quarter. It wasn't known till after the game that he had been injured, and true freshman Ryan Mallet was forced to cut his teeth in the worst of circumstances.

Should Sheridan have a rough go, or should he go to the locker room wincing in pain, hundreds of thousands of maize and blue supporters will wince along with him.

4. Nobody routs the Wolverines...right? Michigan hasn't lost a game by five touchdowns in 40 years. Sure, it happened in the Horseshoe, 50-14 in 1968, the last game of the year 1 B.B. (before Bo). But the Wolverines have played almost 500 games since then. Only one team has beaten them by as much as 30 - Oregon, 39-7 last year. Only three times have they even lost by four touchdowns: Tennessee, 45-17 in the 2002 Capital One Bowl; Oregon last year; Penn State, 46-17 this year.


5. The wheels on the bus come off and off, off and off... This will be the toughest challenge of all. In the aforementioned Penn State game, the 29-point loss to Penn State, Michigan was actually ahead at the half, 17-14. In fact, the 2008 Wolverines would be in pretty good shape if they could make a rule retroactively ending all games at the half. (I'm not holding my breath on that one.) The disaster that is Michigan football 2008 is largely due to two things. First, horrid conditioning. In other words, the players are at three-quarter speed after three quarters. And second, nonexistent adjustment success by the coaching staff. Since the great comeback against Wisconsin that gave them 2-2 record--boy were those the days!--the Wolverines have been outscored in the second half by a whopping 134-40. One more time with that one. Opponents have outscored them by 94 points. That's nearly 10 points per game! And that's not counting whatever happens in Columbus. This may end up being the most telling statistic of all for this team.

So assuming they've scored points and things go the way they have against Notre Dame, Illinois, Toledo, Penn State, Michigan State and Northwestern - uh, safe bet - Wolverine fans will be in the unfamiliar position of cheering for garbage time. So save those timeouts, Rich Rod. You'll need them when you're down 40 with eight minutes left. Keep playing till the end. The school's very football pedigree is in the balance. Remember, a touchdown or two against the third-string Buckeye defense may not mean much to the fans streaming out of Ohio Stadium. But to students, alumni and fans watching all over the nation, it may be all we've got.

That said, it's worth noting that the Buckeyes have never beaten the Wolverines five times in a row. Also, no Michigan coach has ever lost their first Ohio State game. If Coach Rodriguez is eager to abandon Michigan tradition, he's well on his way.

One thing to remember. No matter how bad they lose today, NOBODY CAN TAKE AWAY THE JUG! IT'S OURS BABY!

The Lake Orion Miracle

I saw three games last night. All of which occurred in the same sixty minutes. And none of which I believe.

The last of the three games--the one that lasted roughly 12 seconds--may not ever cross my threshold and enter the world of reality. When so many things that had to happen, happen--all in a certain way, and all in succession--you have to rule out simple coincidence. Then you rule out lucky chance. Then you rule out the refs, the partisan timekeepers, the crown of the field and finally, in the rare case of the Little Brown Jug, the likelihood that someone affiliated with the opposing team had contaminated your team's water supply with biological impurities.

You're left with only one conclusion. God wanted Lake Orion High School to win.

Sorry, Sterling Heights Stevenson. Feel free to bring your best counterpoint, but that's what you'll be up against.

Here's a recap of Game 1 and Game 2, to set the stage for Game 3:

GAME 1
Score: Lake Orion 35, Stevenson 7.
Duration: Opening kickoff to halfway mark of third quarter

The Titans raced to a quick 7-0 lead and were driving again before fumbling the ball over. Lake Orion's offense took over from there, grinding out 229 yards on the ground by halftime. Kim Bruce led the attack with 90 first-half yards, on his way to 147 for the three games, on 24 carries.

Mike Nelson hauled in a 4-yard pass from 15-year-old freshman quarterback Sean Charette to give the Dragons a 21-7 lead at intermission. One 32-yard gallop by Branden Oakes and one blocked punt return later, Lake Orion led by a staggering 28 points. 5:57 remained in the third quarter. And Stevenson fans began to exit the stands, unaware of the two games that would follow.

GAME 2
Score: Stevenson 36, Lake Orion 35
Duration: Six-minute mark of third quarter to final :12 of fourth

Jason Fracassa, Sterling Heights' laser-armed junior, was having as good a day as any quarterback at the short end of a 35-7 score could be having. He was hitting receivers, only to have passes dropped or broken up. He was airing it out, tossing long, tight spirals into the evening air when his line provided him the chance. Most notably, the 37-yard heat-seeking missle that landed in the arms of wideout D.J. Mershman for the first points of Game 1.

As Game 2 began, his opponent was ripe for the picking. And Fracassa, grandson of Birmingham Brother Rice's legendary coach Al Fracassa--no stranger to the pressure of state playoffs himself--went to work. He fired a 20-yard sling-shot to Thomas Beaurem to cut the lead to 35-13, then hit tailback Justice Wright for two points. 35-15. He found Mershman over the middle and hot-knifed the buttery Dragon defense for a 48-yard scoring strike. 35-23. After another three-and-out by Lake Orion, he led the Titans down the field, with Wright covering the final five yards off-tackle right. 35-29. Then, with the Dragons deflated and down, he finished a drive that started with an interception by sneaking in from less than a yard out with 3:43 remaining. The extra point sailed up and through. 35-36.

The stands erupted. The Stevenson bench erupted. Somewhere in northern California, the needle on a seismograph blipped. "Did what just happen, happen?" thought every player in a white jersey, as well as their parents, siblings, friends and fellow students.

The Dragons frantically tried to undo a quarter and a half of do, but the tank sputtered and officially ran out with 1:44 on the clock, as an errant fourth-down pass sailed into the ground. The Titans took over at the Lake Orion 44, with one Dragon timeout in their way. "It's over, they won't get the ball back," the guy next to me said as he left.

I bought into my friend's miscalculation, not thinking that it's virtually impossible for 104 seconds to come off the clock after two plays. I had figured that Stevenson would at least try for a first down (Thing That Had To Happen #1). But Fracassa took a quick knee on the first play, expending :01. The second play took about as much time, running the clock down under a minute. Then, on third down, Fracassa scrambled around in the backfield, chewing up as much time as possible, before being tackled for a substantial loss, surrendering massive amounts of field position (Thing That Had To Happen #2). By the time the play clock ran down and the Titans called timeout, only :12 remained. The Stevenson fans had emptied from the stands and began to line the cyclone fence in anticipation of the on-field celebration.

None of them knew there was still one more game to be played.

GAME 3
Score: Lake Orion 38, Stevenson 36
Duration: 12 seconds

The timeout (Thing That Had To Happen #3) allowed Dragon coach Chris Bell precious to rally his offense together and formulate a plan for their final one or two plays. Sterling Heights Stevenson was a squib punt away from a regional championship. Nothing pretty, just a wobbly, bouncing, rolling kick, the kind that eats up twelve seconds of clock.

Instead the punter popped it up (Thing That Had To Happen #4), allowing senior Charles Fleck to call for a fair catch (Thing That Had To Happen #5) with 9.2 seconds remaining. The punt that could have ended the game took less than three seconds off the clock. And Lake Orion had the ball on their own 40-yard line, just four yards from where they surrendered it moments before. Yet miles from anything resembling victory.

Charette dropped back and looked for Fleck. To his surprise, the Titan defense was spread down the field, protecting itself from what was sure to be a "Hail Mary" lob toward the end zone. In so doing, it was leaving the medium sideline routes to single coverage (Thing That Had To Happen #6). Getting sufficient protection from his line (Thing That Had To Happen #7), Charette planted and threw a dart to Fleck, who caught the ball (Thing That Had To Happen #8) as he turned toward the sideline. The Stevenson defender, who had the space and the wherewithal to bring the receiver down, instead pushed him out of bounds (Thing That Had To Happen #9), leaving 2.5 seconds on the scoreboard clock.

Fleck's progress was marked at the 32-yard line (Thing That Had To Happen #10), within the realm of a field goal try however unlikely. In fact, a long pass was only thought as my son and I watched from the Sterling Heights sideline (he had convinced me to leave and beat traffic, but just before walking out of the gate I convinced him to watch the last few seconds). The pass to Fleck put them close enough where they could put the ball into the end zone, and at least give them a chance.

Then Coach Bell trotted out senior kicker/wideout/cornerback/kickoff returner Jeff Heath and the rest of his field goal unit (Thing That Had To Happen #11). Although I had not seen them enough to pass judgement, I witnessed enough fourth-and-long situations where going for it was seen to be the best option. I didn't think the kid could hit the end zone much less the uprights. They at least had a chance with a thrown ball; this move was a waive of the white flag.

The holder was kneeling down at the 39 1/2 yard line. This was basically a 50-yard kick. A kick from that distance causes fans to hold their breath at NFL games. Unsure of the accuracy of their professional kicker. Many times, in the comfort of a domed stadium. This was a 17-year-old boy who didn't instill enough confidence in his own coach to be given the chance to attempt so much as a 40-yarder. A boy now being asked by his coach to kick a 49-yard, last-second field goal in a winter drizzle, to win his school's second-ever regional championship. Um, gulllllllllllllllp.

Pressed up against the cyclone fence, surrounded by giddy Sterling Heights high school students, we watched from about the 10-yard line as the ball was snapped, spotted and kicked. It was a mean-looking end-over-end ball, the type that go higher than long when I kick 'em. But this one kept going... and going. It wouldn't drop, it just sailed like a thrown tomahawk. I watched it clear the crossbar (Thing That Had To Happen #12). The referees looked at each other and threw their arms up in the air. Good. Good? Good... GOOD!

I went to scream and nothing came out. My son looked at me like, "Now what?" as if they still needed to do something else before the game ended. I looked up and saw the Lake Orion stands pour onto the field like a pitcher of cream tipping over. I grabbed my boy and headed straight for the gate that opened up to the field. We darted through fans that were still registering what they had just witnessed, whooping and hollering all the way.

The scene on the field looked as if I had ran onto the field with an AK-47 assault rifle. Stevenson players were scattered all over the artificial playing surface, some kneeling, others lying flat on their backs. And most of them sobbing uncontrollably. Lake Orion players took turns hugging each other, hugging anyone they saw. Tears streamed down their faces. Cheerleaders were weaping with joy. It took nearly five minutes for the team to regain its composure enough to shake hands with their opponents at midfield.

I ran into the kicker's parents and asked them if they'd ever seen their kid kick it that far. They said the coach doesn't like field goals so he's never had the chance. Heath himself claimed to have kicked a ball 30, maybe 40 yards before, but never 49. "I just tried to kick it as hard as I could. I've never even tried one that long."

The kids, their friends and their families remained on the field for another hour. They improvised a team photo at the 50. The coaches went from microphone to microphone, trying to capture with words what they're not entirely sure they just saw with their own two eyes.

I've been watching football for nearly forty years. I've never seen an ending like that. The '82 Stanford-Cal game comes close. I actually watched the Immaculate Reception live, which still stands as the single most improbable play I've ever witnessed. I didn't know what happened even after I saw it. But this one beats them all.

Nothing to play for? How about infamy

Since head coach Rich Rodriguez landed at the University of Michigan this past January, he's made a point of not being all that impressed with the school's rich football tradition. To a point he was correct, insofar as a team can get complacent and comfortable with merely being good while riding on the shoulders of successful seasons past. But Rich Rod's ambivalence bordered on an arrogance that belied a man intending to make history of his own.

Well, coach is making history all right. Yesterday's 48-42 loss on the road at Purdue has perched Rich Rod on the precipice of Michigan football infamy:

o He now finds himself at the helm of the first Wolverine team since 1967 to post a losing record. That's 41 straight winning seasons. Poof.

o The loss also eliminated Michigan from bowl eligibility for the first time since 1974. 33 straight post-seasons, with the added exposure, the alumni travel packages, the extra practices, the recruiting. Poof, poof, poof, poof and poof.

That alone is enough to draw the ire of several hundred thousand alumni, students and fans. But the worst may be yet to come.



Momentum--especially the negative kind--is as hard to stop as that dreaded mobile quarterback. (see my photo from the Illinois loss.) As the former Mountaineer coach readies his team for a potentially gruesome homestretch, he'll need some source of motivation for his disspirited troops. How bout this, coach. You're on the verge of completing THE WORST SEASON IN THE HISTORY OF MICHIGAN FOOTBALL. In fact you've virtually achieved it already--and we're just one day into November. Here are some of the ugly details thus far:

o The 2-7 Wolverines have already matched the school record for most losses in a season, set in 1934 and tied two years later.

o The Purdue loss increased Michigan's current losing streak to six, the longest in a half century and one shy of the school's all-time mark, set in 1937.

o Last week's setback to Michigan State assured the maize and blue of its first losing season at the Big House in 41 years; furthermore, a loss to Northwestern in two weeks would give the '08 Wolverines five home defeats, the most ever witnessed at the Big House or any house before it.

o While we're on the topic, Michigan has also dropped seven home games over the past two seasons, tying the school's all-time mark.

Think the agony stops here, fans? We've yet to talk about the defensive side of the ball. As you know, Rich Rod warned us to be patient since his new spread offense would require a bit of a learning curve. What he didn't mention, however, was how his new defensive scheme would turn an already soft unit goose-down-filled-hypoallergenic-comforter soft. Consider these light and pillowy figures:

o Purdue's 48 points represent the fifth time an opponent has scored more than 30 this season, a new Michigan record.

o The 2008 Wolverine defense has allowed 278 points, one shy of the all-time record... and there are still three games left to play!

o Michigan's defense is allowing an average of just under 31 points a game, by far the most generous in the history of Michigan football. To lend some perspective, during Schembechler's salad days of the early 1970s, his prolific triple-option offense averaged just over 37 points a game.

o If this week's opponent (7-2 Minnesota) hangs more than 30 on the Metrodome jumbotron, it would be the fourth straight opponent to score 30+ points on the Wolverines, tying another all-time record.

These stats doesn't make for the most inspiring of pre-game pep talks, that's for sure. But they do underscore the notion that, despite the season being long gone, there is plenty for the team captains, the seniors and the brand-spankin' new coaching staff to play for. I understand Rich Rod isn't keen on pulling out the college football history books, but it's worth a look. At least enough of a look to understand that the aforementioned records tied or broken by the first team of the Rodriguez era cover 130 years. And 130 years goes back to the Rutherford B. Hayes administration.

A small pile of un-extinguished embers can take out ten thousand acres of century-old redwoods. And a coach who doesn't respect the pedigree of the institution he serves can take out a century of sequoia-solid tradition. All it takes is a few simple acts of arrogance. Such as downplaying the significance of its biggest rivals, for example. A nuance that helps explain lackluster Wolverine losses to Notre Dame and Michigan State (the former Michigan had beaten by 38 and 25 points the past two seasons, the latter of which hadn't defeated the maize and blue since the "Spartan Tom the clock-keeper" game of 2001). And one that may make sense of what will happen three weeks from now in Columbus (haven't lost all three rivalry games in the same season since 1987). A team as strong as the Buckeyes could really lay a whoopin' on the disspirited winged helmets, the likes of which hasn't been seen around these parts for generations (if we define a rout as a five-touchdown defeat, the last time Michigan was routed was in Columbus, exactly 40 years ago). Even this week, they have a very real chance at losing the 102-year-old Little Brown Jug to the Gophers (haven't lost in Minneapolis since 1977).

Yes, he inhereited a team with many holes to fill. But he did dig a few himself. After all, he had a receiver by the name of Manningham who wanted to return for his fourth year. As well as two projected starting linemen who ended up transferring after seeing the tradition they coveted fall by the wayside. And at the helm, a battle-tested, rifle-armed quarterback who had just finished an impressive freshman season (he also happened to be the nation's top-ranked high-school QB the previous year). Before anyone tells me that Stephen Threet is a stronger spread quarterback then Ryan Mallet could have been, just save it. Please.

The three teams that remain on Michigan's schedule have a combined record of 21-6, and two of them--including those lovable Buckeyes--will play the Wolverines at home. Michigan will have their work cut out for them just to avoid an unprecedented and equally unthinkable 10-loss campaign.

So Rich Rod wants to inspire his kids without using the storied tradition of college football's winningest all-time program. Okay then. Maybe he can gather the team together and tell them the story of the little mountaineer that could.

Michigan: nation's top party school

Ann Arbor, Michigan is the number one place to party, according to a recent survey of random students from Big 10 campuses, as well as colleges from Utah, North Carolina and Oregon and an unnamed MAC school. By the looks of these photos, they seem to have a point. Party in da big house...

(November 15 update: Invite also extended to Northwestern after their 21-14 win. Party pic added below.)

Read on, if your heart can take it

After last Sunday's Tigers-Twins game, the last game before the last All-Star Game to be played at Yankee Stadium, my son and I took a detour on our ride home. We wanted to hit The Corner and see the great ballpark once again. The great ballpark we had heard might be coming down at this very minute.

We took Fort Street west to Trumbull--the road this city has long known as the exit for Briggs Stadium, long before it was renamed for the team itself. Riding north from the Detroit River provides a wonderful build-up to the moment when baseball's grand cathederal comes into full view. Three blocks from Michigan Avenue its distant image appears as powerfully as if it were directly before us [see my photo]. And the old building, from that far away, still holds the majesty it commanded during its maiden World Series in 1935, through the second World War and amid the explosive race riots of the 1960s. When we reached Michigan and Trumbull, once Detroit's most famous corner, we now could see the evidence of decay from a decade of inertia. The outlines of missing letters are all that convey its mighty title. Rust swallows every corner of exposed metal, while weeds and tall grass envelop each crack in its concrete.





Yet amid the minute traces of negligence, we saw nothing of the demolition that had been mentioned in the papers. Then we walked along its perimeter. Down Trumbull we went, tracing the three-story white wall that borders the narrow sidewalk. All the while I felt the same way about this stadium that I always had. This was the ball park I knew growing up, the structure that housed the greenest sod my seven-year-old eyes had ever seen the moment my dad and I walked out the corridor of Gate 5 and stood inn the open air along the first-base lower deck box seats. My first game was in 1970, when Detroit was blanked by the Washington Senators (two years before they moved to Texas), 1-0, on a solo home run by this enormous dude named Frank Howard. Big ol' baggy pants and all, the guy crushed a ball like I'd never seen, sending it into the first rows of the overhanging upper deck.

I was still basking in the earthy aroma of cigar smoke from the old men around me, the guys who kept score of every at-bat in their programs, when my son and I rounded the centerfield corner. We saw the portable night lights and the rows of cranes, sitting idly by, waiting for everyone to go to bed before continuing the job no one would ever want: tearing down the pride of Corktown and a bastion of civic pride.





As if cut with a carpet knife, the bleacher stands and the concrete and metal stands below them stood severed yet proud above our heads, adorned with occasional twisted chards of metal. The upper-deck outfield seats were now in full view [see photo], the bleacher stands still in place and the monsterous scoreboard ready to cheer on the next Tiger batter. We could even see the flag pole, with the stars and stripes at full mast, the only such pole of any major league park in fair territory. Eerily spectacular under a rich blue sky, the marvel of bearing witness to this little slice of heaven one last time would have been considered a privilege were it not made possible by the slice literally carved into it. The slice which eliminated the entire left-centerfield stands.

In full view were the tall rectangular light towers of right field [see photo], the one closest to the right-field foul pole made famous by one Reginald Jackson, who struck its transformer box in the second inning of the 1971 All-Star Game.



You stand overwhelmed by it all and you aren't sure how to handle it. Do you want these memories to come flooding back, or is it better to spend your time moving forward? To some, both seemed to be the answer. As we walked back to our car people lined up along Michigan Avenue, pressing up against the stadium's iron fence and prying bricks from its food concourse. Some kept them as souvenirs, others sold them on the spot to onlookers without tools.

Soon it will be long gone. And in its place, apparently, a parking lot. The great irony being, back in the days when the Tigers hosted World Series games at The Corner, there was no parking to be found, the common practice being to pack oneself into the surrounding lots and wait for the cars behind you to leave. Now there will be spaces to spare, yet no attraction for which to park.

To say it broke my heart to witness this slow death is an understatement.

Would you recognize it if it hit you in the face?

Question: if there was sufficient enough technology to officially read the velocity of a thrown baseball 34 years ago, why isn't there enough to officially read and record the velocity of a thrown baseball today?

This is something that has puzzled me for... okay, the better part of an hour. But when something's wrong it's wrong, no matter how long one ponders its wrongness. It all started shortly after Venus Williams scorched the Wimbledon sod with a 127-mph flamethrower of an ace this afternoon. No woman had ever hit a faster serve at the Lawn Tennis Club than Ms. Williams, who now holds the distinction of owning speed records in all four women's tennis majors.

Of course, talk of Venus' records can't help but turn to baseball. (Hey, it's either this or a "Why can't our technology match up with that of Great Britain?" segue.) Throughout the evening edition of ESPN's SportsCenter, Williams' howitzer was compared to the highest recognized speeds in other sporting endeavors. One segment compared the serve to Al MacInnes' 100-mph slapper in an NHL All-Star Weekend event. Another brought up the current land-speed record of 700+ mph. And the baseball equivalent ESPN mentioned? Nolan Ryan's 100.9-mph rocket, recorded August 20, 1974.

The majority of online baseball record sites recognize Joel Zumaya as the sport's rocket-launching record-holder, crowning either the supernova that passed Yankees slugger Jason Giambi at 103.0 mph in the eighth inning of Game 2 of the 2006 ALDS, or the pitch during Game 2 of the 2006 ALCS at Oakland's McAfee (Almeda County) Coliseum that rang the guns at a jaw-dropping 104.8 mph. Yet oddly enough, the Major League Baseball records site notes that they "don't recognize radar speeds as an official statistic." Other concurring sources discredit the validity of the guns (and gunners) used to clock Zumaya and other present-day pitchers, claiming that a pitcher's arm velocity can impede the consistency and uniformity of the results, questioning the calibration of the equipment and even suggesting that the numbers are intentionally "dialed up". (Let it be noted at this point that no one, particularly the USTA, has questioned the validity of any of Venus Williams' records, nor the means by which each was documented.)

According to the Guiness Book of World Records, "The greatest reliably recorded speed at which a baseball has been pitched is 100.9 mph by Lynn Nolan Ryan (California Angels) at Anaheim Stadium in California on August 20, 1974." (link: http://www.baseball-almanac.com/recbooks/rb_guin.shtml) So. If there was sufficient enough technology in 1974 for the folks at Guinness (the world records house, not the brewing company, although knocking a few stouts back may help one make sense of all this), why isn't there enough in 2008? What mad skill do we as a society no longer possess?

Given their insistence on verification--representatives will routinely travel to all parts of the globe to witness a mere attempt--why wouldn't Team Guinness have investigated much less recorded Randy Johnson a decade ago, when The Mullet rountinely hit triple digits (and the occasional Floridian sea bird)? Or why wouldn't they be ready to track the pitches of a now-healthy Zumaya this season? Mind you, this is the same bastion of authenticity that allowed a chopped-up videotaped screen capture to serve as proof of an arcade game's all-time high score (yes, I saw "King Of Kong", so you're not pulling one past me!).

Being from Detroit, I have watched Zoom-Zoom throw 101-103 mph consistently in short relief. If a verification of the speed gun used to record these pitches is all that's standing in the way of making any of them qualify as world records, why on earth wouldn't there have been an attempt to document this legitimately? Especially since the gold standard for pitching velocity dates all the way back to 1974? ESPECIALLY considering how willingly they allowed another 1974 record to fall by the wayside. Funny how the juice-filled final years of Barry Bonds' career will likely keep him from something as subjective as Cooperstown, yet they're good enough for the pocket-protecting savants running the world's foremost keeper of its records.

And as for Zumaya and his numerous 103mph tallies (which, by the way, have been clocked on numerous speed guns by numerous people)? Sorry dude. Never happened. We can't prove the accuracy of the recording mechanisms.

Maybe we should just chalk it up to the screwed-up mess that is Major League Baseball, whose rules twist logic around as effortlessly as a Dr. Seuss book. The damage this game repeatedly inflicts upon itself is already a matter of record. Yet the very records themselves are precisely what allure the core of its audience: the "stat geeks", the guy sitting in your row amid a pile of peanut shells who's scored every game since the Dodgers left Brooklyn.

Adding to the irony is the fact that the one outlet ideally suited for these fanatical misfits happens to be the only major sport without things like, oooh I don't know, consistent playing field dimensions--uniformity typically being an important component of all comparative research. Not to mention the only major sport where one teams plays under different rules, with roster positions other teams are not permitted to have. Then again, we're talking about a league run by a commissioner content with ending its All-Star game in a tie; cancelling the World Series--THE WORLD SERIES--rather than working with its players union to reach an agreement; and turning his back on the rampant widespread violation of its drug policy because a home run battle was just what he needed to bring the fans back. So how important can maintaining the integrity and consistency of its record book possibly be?

Consider last Friday night's nonsense. The New York Mets' Carlos Delgato set a Major League single-game record for most RBIs by a designated hitter with nine in the first game of the Mets' day-night "Subway Series" double-header against the Yankees. Lost in Delgato's impressive performance is this little fact that the Mets are a National League team and as such, do not recognize the designated hitter rule except for the handful of times when they play an American League team in their ball park.

The list of absurdities grows with each passing day, a fiction no writer who values his reputation would dare write. Even as I type this, another "rule" has popped up that simply defies explanation. For some reason, someone in the MLB brain trust (oxymoron noted) decided to change the definition of no-hitter a decade or so ago. From that point forward the feat would no longer be based on the accomplishments of a pitcher. Nope, throwing a complete game without giving up a hit wasn't enough; the pitcher's team must score enough runs to win the game as well.

Technically, the rule was changed to include that the game must consist of "at least nine innings". Perhaps this was a means to prevent a pitcher with six innings of hitless ball under his belt in a rain-shortened game from receiving "no-hitter" status. However, since a team doesn't need their final at-bat when they're winning a home game, the addendum also excludes any poor saps who toss a no-hitter on the road when their team loses.

So on this asterisk of a night, the Mighty Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim's Jerred Weaver and Jose Arrendondo teamed up to blank their cross-town rivals at Dodger Stadium. But there was no celebration, no ride on teammates' shoulders. Why? Because their team couldn't score and the Angels lost the game, 1-0. But more specifically, because they performed this feat on the road. Had the pair pulled this off in Orange County, the Dodgers would have batted in the top of the ninth inning. In other words, you can throw a complete-game no-hitter and lose, so long as you're pitching for the home team.

Despite the fact that it's officially in the books as a complete game and the Dodger line has been duly recorded as one run, zero hits and two errors, this incredible performance is denied recognition as an accomplishment that could have, should have and would have been the defining moment of their careers. And a sport who three times this season has failed to identify a home run (and it's only June), has drifted further away from the game it once was.

I'd recommend pulling the plug on the entire league, but I don't think they're capable of recognizing their own demise.

"Can a nun really say that?"

"You're in for a long night!"

The cabbie snickered at us as he pulled his taxi in front of our suburban hotel. Its yellow and black exterior should have served as a clue. We were in the only city with team colors, Pittsburgh. Home to the black-and-gold Steelers, black-and-gold Pirates, and the Eastern Conference Champion Penguins, who--suprisingly--wear black and gold.

Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals, my first-ever NHL playoff road game with the Red Wings, was a jersey game. I brought two sweaters with me for the ride assuming something divine would point me one way or the other over the course of our four-and-a-half-hour journey. Would it be the Nick Lidstrom 1998 Stanley Cup jersey, with the "Believe!" patch on its left shoulder and the long since forgotten alternate "A" on the chest? Or Igor Larionov's Cup jersey from 2002, the year he broke by a single day the record for the oldest player to score a goal in the Stanley Cup Finals (his goal in the third overtime coming after midnight, technically a day after his second-period goal in the same game set the original record)? Though #5 was the current team captain and #8 was retired, pimping his own bottled wine and waiting for a call from the Hall of Fame, I had to go with Igor tonight. It helped that my buddy Mike was sporting fellow Russian Vladmir Konstantinov's #16. Why just be loathed as mere Detroit fans when you can work in the dual-hatred of the Soviet Union?

So after tossing a few race bombs into the back seat of his cab--hey, they're white dudes from the D, they must be bigots too--the taxi driver pulled up to the curb in front of the Igloo (now referred to as Mellon Arena) and spilled us out. We turned to face the arena and noticed one thing. There wasn't a red jersey to be found. Nothing that even bore the color, with the exception of the cycling traffic light at the corner. So... let the insults begin!

We had a third companion with us, our friend Doug, who chose to do other things with his money (which, tickets being what they were, could have included booking a Virgin Islands vacation). He preferred to mill about the crowd outside the rink and just be. I had yet to put my jersey on. I was meeting a Pens fan outside the arena, a guy I had already sent roughly $1,000 to, and I didn't want to cause him any reason to just keep walking. I had already bought tickets to this game four times... twice I bailed out on the deal after google searches of their names revealed everything from securities fraud to web sites on scrotum reduction. (You read it right; I can't make up this kind of stuff.)

"What, you too scared to wear your jersey?"

The first taunt came from a cute 20-something female. Frankly, I couldn't wait to walk into the Pittsburgh Penguins' arena sporting the winged wheel. Bring it on. I like this city actually, being a long-standing Steeler fan. And despite our being outnumbered and verbally abused, I didn't feel the least bit threatened. Trust me, I've been physically threatened in Columbus, I've had drinks thrown at me in East Lansing and I've had fans chant "You suck!" at me--and my son. This atmosphere, even at its worst, was nothing like that. But it was no walk along the Monongahela River either.

In fact, the only friendly face we found was the large, paper mache head of a black and gold penguin (see photo). Even he yelled out a muffled epithet as we walked off, but as you can see, we took what we could get.



We waded through the crowd like Moses waded through the Red Sea. There's a scene in the movie Juno where the camera follows a visibly pregnant Ellen Page down her high-school hallway and her classmates back away if they could get knocked up on contact. Yeah, it was like that. But it was exciting. Rarely is one put in a position where they are hated by so many people in the same place at the same time. The situation was right for performance art.

I had seen an exhibit a few years back in Los Angeles from a photographer who would incite groups of people and capture them in full-blown rage as they chased him down the street. This gallery filled my mind as our pathway approached a crowd of thousands camped before a large-screen TV outside the Igloo. I had a similar chance to capture the instantaneous anger of hundreds of hard-core hockey fans, directed at me. I couldn't resist.

So I stopped before them in my red and white jersey (I couldn't have garnered as much attention naked), flapped my arms and yelled, "Can I get a little Red Wings love here?" This was the response.




"The police should take you guys away in handcuffs!"

It wasn't merely that the comment came from a five-year-old boy. It was that he was just getting warmed up. His laughing father held him back as we passed, while the kid struggled to free himself as if to say, "And another thing..." By the time we approached the doors of the arena, we were novelty to the point of celebrity. Strangers approached us asking if we'd take pictures with them (see below). Others would hurl F-bombs at us, then turn around and say "But Igor's cool though" or "Nice Vladdy jersey".



Inside the door, we received our "Mellon Arena White Out" shirts and Cup Crazy rally towels, and local Stanley Cup Finals programs, full-color small-format magazines they gave away for free. Nice touch... hear that, Mr. I? We then worked our way past the jeers and promises of bodily injury to level E, and found our seats... in the very last row, deep below the overhang of section F. An old rickety air conditioner rattled ceasingly throughout the game, and while we had a complete view of the arena, we could see nothing else beyond that. If I bent down till my chin touched my knees, I could see the Jumbotron (which I did for this shot of the opening face-off):



When we arrived at our seats, the fan next to us immediately grabbed his cell phone. "You sold your seats to f---ing Red Wings fans? You are a f---ing a--hole!" he screamed and slapped the phone shut. He wouldn't even look at us at first, but his friend was more understanding. (By the start of the third period, we were laughing it up... they even vowed to take us to the city's famous Strip District after the game for a steak and egg sandwich at Primanti's delicatessen.)

Ice-cold beers in our mitts, we watched the player intros amid the deafening roar of the Penguin faithful. In a scene reminiscent of Le Colisee in Quebec during a Nordiques playoff game, or the Jets' last game in Winnepeg in 1996 when the Red Wings closed them out in game 6 of the Western Conference semis, the entire arena went white... from the ice to the stands. Take a peek again at the face-off photo above. I counted people wearing red from our vantage point and came up with 47. 47 out of the roughly 10,000 fans in my eyesight (the arena seats 17,000). Indimidating only scratches the surface. Place was LOUD.

Anyway the chrome dome nearly blew from the ground when Pittsburgh's Marian Hossa scored the game's opening goal five minutes in. Both teams had performed extremely well when scoring the game's first goal... and extremely poorly when giving up said goal. The Mellon nearly split like a cantaloupe from the exposion, and it stayed crazy as the game continued. Minutes later, while on the power play, Lidstrom blasted a shot from outside the left circle that passed Pens' goalie Marc-Andre Fleury and into the net to tie the score. We yelled out "Yesss!" and high-fived, as the profanity rained down on us like so much Iron City beer.

The tight-checking 1-1 game worked its way into the third period, with Wings goalie Chris Osgood standing on his head once again with save after mystifying save, one knocking him clear into the crease--all but his trapper, that is. Then, just a few minutes into the third, Detroit's Brad Stuart settled the puck in the neutral zone and worked it in deep to Darren Helm, whose cross-ice pass hit a streaking Jiri Hudler. Alone on Fleury, the lightning-quick Czech fired a backhand shot off the right post and the goalie's leg to put Detroit ahead to stay.

But the game was anything but won at that point. Detroit had fought off a disproportionate number of short-handed situations all game long, and with ten minutes left, faced a 1:26-long 5-on-3 advantage.

"Now we're back in this game!" the once-silent Penguin fan beside me proclaimed. "But if you don't score, it's over," I shot back. And the Red Wings denied Pittsburgh any more than a single shot during their entire power play. The highlight and what will surely become the snapshot moment of the game if not the series, was Henrik Zetterberg's clamp-down on Sydney Crosby as the 20-year-old phenom awaited a centering pass at the mouth of the net. Ozzie was beaten on the play and the talented Swede was all that was in the way of a 2-2 tie game. But Crosby could barely touch the puck, much less get the puck on net, and the one remaining opportunity was snuffed out by yet another spectacular save by the once-maligned Osgood. The fuzzy-faced netminder--even in his mid-30s--who has allowed a grand total of one goal in three Red Wings victories, now sits a win away from his third Stanley Cup, second as a starter. And with his career statistics climbing up the list of the very best goaltenders of all time, that win may be enough for him to reach the Hall of Fame.

After the game, I couldn't help but get a picture holding my lucky little repliCup (see photo below). As I worked my way down to arena level, one last drunken idiot threw a vile string of profane name-calling. I turned to him, smiled and pointed at the scoreboard, which sent him into hysterics. I looked back at him as his five friends looked away in embarrasment. As I told a Pittsburgh fan earlier that evening, this team will win one, maybe two Cups in the next five years, so chill out.



We met up with our wandering friend and the three of us headed to the Marriott, where ESPN had taken up shop. The hotel bar was crawling with Red Wings faithful--FINALLY!--and we celebrated this magnificent victory with our own for a change. I even met a couple fans from Alberta, who all but invited us up some weekend next winter to catch back-to-back Calgary Flames and Edmonton Oilers games. Yet the afterglow still wasn't without incident. A slurry, drooling punk actually threatened a gang attack on me--twice--yet each time I asked him to repeat what he just said, he wouldn't. I've been described many ways, but imposing has never been one of the adjectives. It was one final case of idle threat by drunken fan. And from Pittsburgh of all places, a city I respected for its toughness. I'd never witnessed sore loser to this degree before... and I have season tickets for Michigan football!

We ended the night at a sports bar by our hotel, gloating before sunken-spirited Penguins one last time before we retired for the night. Sunday morning was the long trip back home. Well okay, the four-and-a-half-hour ride home. But we had two items left on our Steel-town agenda. First, a visit to the Andy Warhol Museum. No way do we miss that experience, even if for just two hours. The silver clouds room alone (where you walked along a swirling hallway filled with massive rectangular mylar pillows) was worth it. And second, of course, Primanti's. And not just any Primanti's, the Strip District Primanti's (or "the dirty one" as our adjacent Penguin friends referred to it the previous evening). Though the Red Wings win killed their "free lunch" offer, the thought of having the city's signature steak and egg sandwich was too good to pass up. (FYI, they serve them with cole slaw and fries inside the sandwich, a recipe designed to enable steel workers to enjoy an entire meal packed conveniently within two slices of bread).

It's a weekend I won't soon forget. At least until Detroit and Pittsburgh line up for a Stanley Cup rematch next May. Or the one after that. Without a doubt, these two franchises will meet again. The Penguins are too talented not to make it back and the Red Wings are just too smart.

It's Time.

This past season the Detroit Pistons paid tribute to their 50th year with the slogan, "50 Seasons, One Reason: It's Time." On Friday night their silver anniversary ended with the silver medal, a few feet lower on the podium and looking up to the franchise who's won gold more than anyone else. The Boston Celtics.

As the series we had waited for since last Halloween came to a close, we discovered how well the foe from Auburn Hills can disguise itself. Each spring for the past six years, the Pistons roll confidently into the conference finals. Each of the last three seasons, they run out of gas six games later. Rasheed Wallace (see my pic) seemed to epitomize the state of recent Piston fortunes in late May, with more fouls (five) than points (four). It's time, as the tag line suggests. Time to move forward.

Move forward, I say. Because simply breaking up the team isn't an option for team president Joe Dumars. Cogs and gears in the machine have atrophied, or just don't move as smoothly and cohesively as they once did. These elements must first be identified, then removed, then most importantly, upgraded. Five years ago, when Dumars said goodbye to Rick Carlisle, I decided to put my faith and trust in Joe. I figured that he must know what he's doing, and just because it made no sense to me doesn't mean I shouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt.

First, bringing in Larry Brown, who quickly toughened up the team. Second, scoring Rasheed Wallace. I was outspoken in my belief that this would blow up in Joe's face, but once again, he knew something few others did. He traded Lindsay Hunter away, only to pick him right back up off waivers. Dumars rolled the dice on journeyman after journeyman, nailing every hunch as if he has regular delivery of next week's newspaper. Rip Hamilton, Chauncey Billups, Ben Wallace, Antonio McDyess. And when Brown brought them to the brink of the title, he made sure some seven-foot stalwart was on the bench, readying himself to go one-on-one with Shaq.

So I trust in Joe to do what needs to be done to move forward. But hey, it's my blog, and as such it's my duty to make a few suggestions. Okay, predictions.

The nucleus will remain intact, because it should, because it has to. I see Rip, Chauncy and Teyshawn coming back. The backcourt works way too well for Joe to rip it apart (pardon the pun). Considering how well Rodney Stuckey played in the final few months, they may end up grooming the next generation Piston backcourt. Teyshawn is still young and despite disappearing in the final two games of the Boston series, well worth keeping at the three. Besides, it would be difficult, only four years after passing on Carmello Anthony and D-Wade in favor of Darko (now on the bench elsewhere), to have a need at that same position.

I see three components that need upgrades.

First, Rasheed Wallace. The most talented player on the team. A seven-footer who can post low and hit threes with consistency. A player with a swagger who usually backs it up. Next year is the final season of his contract, and he can still fetch a good return on investment through a trade. Imagine what Sheed could do for any one of these teams: Phoenix, LA, Portland, Dallas, Chicago, Cleveland, Orlando, Denver. Teams close but in need of cajones to help them rise up to the promised land. Joe can get quality enhancements from several of these teams, and I trust he will know the best course to take.

Second, Antonio McDyess. Not because he's a detriment, not at all. In fact, he had been one of the more consistent offensive weapons for the team, and just completed perhaps the strongest season of his career. But he's at peak efficiency, and at best will deliver similar numbers in the next couple years. The more likely scenario is that his game will drop a half-notch, then another. This is an opportunity for the Pistons to get young, strong and big down low. They can secure reserve Theo Ratliff for another year. But McDyess is a valuable commodity, and packaged with one of Detroit's young up-and-comers could be the key to landing a top-tier center. I won't even throw out names, but I have a sneaking suspicion Joe has a few people in mind, a few of whom the thought of seeing them in the Piston blue and red would blow us away.

And third, Flip Saunders. He has a great basketball mind. He's a real stand-up guy (though I've only met him once, he impressed my son as he ran the kid ragged in a youth camp). But he's not right for this team. I feared that he would take The Team That Larry Brown Built and turn them into the Detroit Timberwolves. And that is precisely what he has done. Frequently (in May!) the Pistons have turned in performances where they looked unprepared for the challenge at hand. Game 1 this year in Boston is a classic example. Game 6 in Cleveland last year is another. Game 1 against Miami in the '06 Eastern Conference Finals, yet another.

But the most telling aspect that turned the Bad Boys, well, bad, was the lack of a defensive focus. Throughout the 1980s, the Detroit Pistons forged a reputation as the league's foremost defensive force. Teams and their superstars feared a drive through the lane, because more often than not, they would pay dearly for it. And no one was exempt--Jordan, Magic, Bird, Kareem, you name it. It may not have been pretty, but it won championships. With each playoff run, the number of layups, dunks and offensive rebounds given up to the opposition increases. In Friday's game 6, it sucked the fire right out of the team and its 20,000 vocal supporters. And with each season-ending loss, they leave the court almost resigned to its inevitability. When you're working harder for your buckets than the guys on the other side, you get tired sooner.

The Pistons need to restore their defensive pride. The pride founded by Dantley and Rodman, Laimbeer and Mahorn. The pride restored by Larry Brown in the play of Big Ben and Tey Tey. This is the single most important attribute of their next coach. Larry Brown was the perfect theoretical fit, but he's been bookended by offensive-minded tacticians.

As for the reserves, I would fight to keep Jason Maxiell, Stuckey and Amir Johnson (in my opinion the second most talented player on the current roster). Among Afallo, Hayes, Juan Dixon and Walter Herrmann, there seems to be the potential for trade value.

Detroit has four tradition-laced professional teams. Only one of them has a personality, a brand if you will. And Mr. Dumars can sense that this brand is in danger of being undone. Bill Davidson trusts you, Joe. The front office trusts you. The fans trust you. I trust you. You helped build the image. You know what you need to do to sustain it.

Unbelievable? That was 19 years ago (literally)

There are a few words for which their misuse should be classified as a misdemeanor offense. "Literally" is one of those words. During last month's NCAA basketball playoffs alone we heard from fans who were literally pulling their hair out, coaches literally going to the ends of the earth and players who were literally killing themselves. Okay, i'll say it once. The word these laureates should be using is not "literally" but rather, "figuratively". I know it loses a bit of drama, as the term also carries its fair share of emphasis. But "figurative" is accurate at least. And it would avoid those annoying defamation lawsuits. I mean, who wants a judge literally throwing the book at them? Especially one of those Harry Potter hardcovers, that could leave a mark.

Another word is "unbelievable". As in an unbelievable catch, the unbelievable shot, that unbelievable comeback. It's gotten so ridiculous that I recently heard an unnamed hack announcer use it in his reaction to--wonder of wonders--a ground out to third. The third baseman, a Golden Glove-winning third baseman to be exact, doing what he's been trained to do, and what he's being paid UNBELIEVABLE amounts of money to do. Stop a sharp grounder and cross the diamond with a 120-foot dart of a throw before the batter completes his 90-foot sprint to first. Exciting? Sure. Unbelievable? It's not even unlikely he'll execute the play. If getting that runner out is such an unbelievable feat, then why, if his throw was slightly off the bag and got past the first baseman, would he get an error on the play? Why wouldn't his face be emblazened on the Jumbotron with a "Thanks for the try!" super?

Unbelievable isn't doing something you're supposed to do. It isn't even doing something amazing, short of walking from a wheelchair and doing a Gregory Hines tap number. The '69 Mets, the 1980 Olympic hockey team beating the mighty Soviet Union, George Mason reaching the Final Four, these are admirable examples of unbelievable in its correct usage.

But there's one event during my lifetime where the word "unbelievable" proved to be a downright understatement.

Few times in the history of Major League Baseball do two teams from the same state wind up facing each other in the World Series. We saw it in the days of the Yankees, Brooklyn Dodgers and New York baseball Giants. (Okay, I didn't literally see it since my father's seed was years away from planting itself in me mumsy. But I have watched the black-and-white footage... and boy did they move fast back then by the way. But I digress.) In my lifetime it had yet to happen before 1985, with the I-70 matchup between Kansas City and St. Louis. But the fact that the Royals and Cardinals were from the same state didn't resonate all that much: first, because the cities were still 300 miles apart; and second, because 50% of any survey you take believes that Kanssas City is in Kansas. Even if you poll residents of Michigan City, Indiana.

The first true neighborhood battle for baseball's crown occurred four years later. We expected the Oakland A's to be there. They were supposed to have crushed those poor Los Angeles Dodgers until hobbled outfielder Kirk Gibson's ninth-inning pinch-hit home run in game 1 (yes, that was unbelievable, since he could barely walk and it was his only at-bat of the series) led to an equally unbelievable upset. We knew the A's, with Jose Can't-Single and that whisp of a bean sprout named Mark McGuire, would appear in the Fall Classic with Don Rickles-at-a-Dean Martin-Roast frequency. But the Will Clark-led San Francisco Giants, now that was a surprise.

Permit me a bit of back story here, as it is my blog. During my final years of college in the mid-1980s my roommate J.R. and I got hooked on college baseball, particulary the College World Series, held annually at Rosenblatt Stadium in Omaha, Nebraska. ESPN had committed itself to covering the college game quite well. The teams that mattered most were the evil Texas Longhorns with their ace, Roger Clemens; those great teams Ron Fraser of Miami and Mike Martin of Florida State brought to Omaha, and my adopted Wildcats from Tucson, Jerry Kindall's University of Arizona baseball team, who smoked the favored Seminoles 11-2 to win the 1986 national championship (not unbelievable but cool as hell for me). Clemens, Robin Ventura, Paul Sorrento, Greg Swindell, Pete Incaviglia, Greg Ellena and the like were everyday names to us, and we soon knew the world would catch on once they turned pro. One player in particular we thought had it all--fielding, hitting, personality, clutch performances, you name it. A latter-day Steve Garvey figure from Mississippi State by the name of Will Clark, a standout on a lineup with names like Rafael Palmiero and Bobby Thigpen which in itself is an impressive feat (though not technically unbelievable).

In the late 1980s we saw the growing effect of college baseball as it spread into the majors. 1988 saw Clemens strike out 20 batters in Tiger Stadium. And one year later, Will Clark would drive his team to the grand stage of all grand stages, the World Series.

So San Fran and Oakland were heading for a NoCal Knockdown. This for the first time in decades was a true war of neighbors, two metropolitan areas separated only by bay and bridge. An entire World Series would take place within a 20-mile radius. That's not the unbelievable part. The A's winning the first two games at home wasn't unbelievable, either. What happened two days later, however, I still don't believe today.

During the pregame show for Game 3, with the entire community abuzz and the world's eyes upon the Bay Area, at precisely 5:04pm, 26 minutes before the first pitch and moments after ABC signed on for its network broadcast, the single greatest earth quake our nation has experienced in generations struck San Francisco, knocking the network off the air for minutes, each of which lasting an hour. When power was restored to the ABC broadcast truck--first the audio feed and eventually the full video signal--the announcing crew broke news of the quake to the televised world while players mulled about the field locating their families, while cameras hung over the highest points of Candlestick Park to capture the immediate chaos outside, while the Goodyear blimp floated peacefully overhead, able to zero in on every plume of smoke in sight, ultimately discovering the tragic collapse of the pancake-stacked I-280 bridge.

The nation's worst earthquake in half a century, occurring at the precise time and location of the first World Series among neighboring cities in decades, is not merely unbelievable. It's absolutely astounding. I thought about it this morning and still don't believe it actually happened. It's right up there with Randy Johnson's fastball killing a wayward seagul during a preseason game, at the top of the "unbelievable" scale. But just slightly more significant.