MIRACLE WORKERS
Forty years ago, a gang of hockey-playing youths taught America to be great again
‘DOyou believe in miracles?” Al Michaels famously asked the nation after the USA Olympic hockey men’s team’s improbable 4-3 victory against the Soviet Union on February 22, 1980, at Lake Placid. It likely remains the most famous call in sports history.
Michaels answered his own question with an emphatic “Yes!” And as a 10-year old Long Island kid, I definitely concurred. The victory over the Soviet team left an indelible mark on me, not merely because it was a legitimately exhilarating sporting event, but because I witnessed a spontaneous outpouring of patriotism that wouldn’t be repeated until 9/11 — and then, only in the face of tragedy.
By 1980, Americans had somehow become the underdogs — or, at least, they began to think of themselves as ones. It’s no exaggeration to say that the 1970s had been a decade of frustration, of cultural lethargy, of rising criminality, of institutional failures, of perceived decline, and of sometimes crippling self-doubt. In the midst of a Cold War, in the midst of economic malaise, Americans hadn’t had a ton to celebrate.
The game at Lake Placid may not have sparked the American revival but, in many ways, it would become the demarcation line between the sadsack ’70s and economic renewal of the 1980s. The mystique of the moment would endure for a generation that grew up to see Soviet Union’s ignoble end.
I remember being swept up in the snowballing excitement of the tournament as the US first tied Sweden, then upset the favorite Czechoslovakians, before winning the “Miracle on Ice” game against Russia, and finally taking the gold by beating Finland.
Or at least, I retroactively remember myself in front of the TV cheering on Jim Craig and Mark Johnson and Rob McClanahan every step of the way. It’s highly possible, of course, that I was merely watching highlights and tapedelay moments offered by ABC in those largely pre-cable and pre-Internet days.
It doesn’t really matter. Legend should be impervious to details. To me, a kid whose parents had defected from Hungary to flee communism, the Soviets were malevolent creatures — grizzled cogs in a state-controlled team of super athletes, who dominated the world with their uncanny speed, size and precision. (Years later I would be lucky enough to have a conversation about the game with one of the Soviet players; and let’s just say, the Russians did love their children, too.)
The Americans were kids, college students born in Massachusetts or Minnesota, brought together for only six months. Leading them was the stoic Herb Brooks, the future coach of the New York Rangers and New Jersey Devils. These were strangers, and yet I felt a weird kinship toward them.
It’s worth remembering, as well, that in 1980, the sport of hockey, which had never really come close to competing with the big three for fans, was even less recognizable to the average American than it is today. In the preWayne Gretzky years, the sport was often portrayed, not without reason, as an orgy of brawling toothless goons rather than one of speed, skill and beauty. The only reason Michaels had even gotten the job of calling the hockey games at Lake Placid was that no other ABC announcer had really understood the game.
That would all change soon. Everything seemed to change.
That was 40 years ago now. Considering the partisan rancor that has infected much of American life these days, the prospects of a collective and unbridled patriotism seem farther away than ever. In a free nation, there’s nothing abnormal about disagreement or vigorous debate. There are some things, however, that should bind us. Sports can do that. It did back then. Or at least, that’s how I remember it.