ESPN

by Steve Wulf

  Golf. Long before Frisbee golf, we had card golf. We’d set up an 18-hat layout throughout one of our houses, the object being to flip a card into each hat in the fewest number of tries. It was kind of Arnold Palmer meets Arnold Earley.

  Spokespeople. You never hear the sound anymore: thwap, thwap, thwap, thwapthwapthwap. THWAPTHWAPTHWAP. We created it by affixing a baseball card to one of the forks on our bicycle wheel with a clothespin (another antique). The faster we went, the louder the thwap. We were pretty much sacrificing the life of the baseball card, but that’s what quadruples of Bubba Phillips were for.

  On August 21, 1908, Washington Senators catcher Gabby Street became the first person to catch a ball dropped from the top of the Washington Monument (555 feet)— after missing the first 12.

  TAKE 2

  ERROR-DIRECTOR: FIVE SPORTS-MOVIE ERRORS

  Sports movies have the ability to uplift and inspire. They also frequently baffle and deceive. In trying to evoke feelings of hope and triumph in their audiences, filmmakers and actors may take liberties that leave the keenest viewers scratching their heads. For those of you who are bewildered by the way that final play lasted 45 seconds when there were only 4.1 left on the clock, here are the five biggest sports-movie blunders:

  Rudy (1993). In the scene that takes place right before the big game (the game Rudy plays in), the stadium shows the Penn State Blue Band on the field playing the Penn State fight song. Some may consider this odd, since Notre Dame is playing Georgia Tech.

  Field of Dreams (1989). “Shoeless” Joe Jackson was known for a lot of things. One of them was batting left-handed. However, Ray Liotta portrays him as a righty, belting homers into left (corn)field.

  Hoosiers (1986). During Hickory High’s first practice under Coach Norman Dale, two of the seven Hoosiers quit the team. One of those players, Whit, reluctantly returns, bringing the grand total to six. The seventh member, Buddy, is never shown rejoining the team, yet halfway through the film we start seeing him again in the games and on the bench. Columnist Bill Simmons was particularly tormented by this when he wrote in 2002: “Was the ‘Buddy returns and asks forgiveness’ scene simply cut from the movie? Was it ever written in the first place? Did the director think that we wouldn’t notice that a seven-man roster inexplicably went back to eight? This one’s been bothering me for 16 years.”

  D2: The Mighty Ducks (1994). To begin the shootout in the championship against Iceland, the Ducks call on Jesse Hall (played by Brandon Quintin Adams) to take the first shot. Hall might’ve been one of the Ducks’ best players, but it is still hard to believe that he could switch from playing left-handed to playing right-handed midshot. He is holding the stick as a lefty when he starts the penalty shot, switches to righty when driving to the net, and then scores a beautiful goal left-handed. It is an almost believable feat until you realize that …

  The Sandlot (1993). DeNunez is also played by Brandon Quintin Adams. When he pitches to Ham (Patrick Renna), he says he is going to throw him the heater. The pitch is actually high and outside. And Ham pops it up—only it goes over the fence for a home run. As Ham rounds the bases, he announces, “Low and outside, just like I like it.” The pitch was clearly high and out of the strike zone, proving that when Brandon Quintin Adams is involved, a sports-movie blunder can’t be far away.

  Brandon Quintin Adams (far right) and the gang in The Sandlot.

  LEADING LADIES

  THE WOMAN BEHIND TITLE IX

  We now know it as Title IX, and we certainly know its impact on gender equity. Since its passage as part of the Education Amendments of 1972, female participation in sports has risen by 904 percent in high school and 456 percent in college.

  After the death of one of the authors of the bill, Congresswoman Patsy T. Mink, in 2002, Title IX was renamed the Patsy T. Mink Equal Opportunity in Education Act. While the representative from Hawaii did play a significant role, the primary heroine of Title IX’s passage has gone largely unrecognized.

  She was Edith Green, a former teacher who served as the representative from Oregon’s Third Congressional District from 1955 to 1974. Known variously as Mrs. Education and the Wicked Witch of the West, she was an acknowledged expert on higher education. As recounted in Let Me Play, Karen Blumenthal’s book on Title IX, Green proposed adding a little section to the omnibus education bill that the House Education and Labor Committee was crafting in 1972. Called Title X until another item fell away, the section banned gender discrimination in programs and activities at schools receiving federal money Some committee members dismissed Green’s addition as frivolous, but it was approved nonetheless.

  LPGA golfer Beth Daniel birdied nine holes in a row on her way to a round of 62 at the 1999 Philips Invitational.

  The next obstacle was passage by the House. Because the bill dealt with other controversial issues, like school busing, Green hoped that Title IX would go unnoticed. She even advised women’s rights activists to remain silent on the subject. Although Title IX was altered to some extent in the House, its guiding principle remained intact.

  Ironically, the education bill that went before both houses of Congress was so altered in conference committees that Green ended up voting against it. But the bill passed anyway, going into effect in June of 1973. A few months later, it dawned on some members of the NCAA that the unequal distribution of resources for men’s and women’s sports—the University of Michigan had a budget of $2.6 million for men’s sports but $0 for women’s— might now be illegal.

  Edith Green and Senator John F. Kennedy at a memorial dinner, 1959.

  The rest is history. And equality. Green passed away in 1987, having realized, as she said in 1978, that “every young girl [now knows] that there is no ceiling of expectations,… no height to which she cannot go.” There should be a statue honoring her somewhere—or at every female sporting event.

  Joan Payson, the original owner of the New York Mets, wanted to name them the Meadowlarks.

  SIT FOR THE GOLD

  THE IMPORTANCE OF THE COXSWAIN

  Casual observers of the Olympics might think that the easiest way to get a gold medal is to serve as the coxswain on a very good rowing team. All you really have to do is sit and yell and be small, right? Wrong.

  The coxswain, who sits in the stern, has to keep the crew safe, steer the boat straight, and use the right words and cadence to push the rowers’ buttons all the way to the finish line ahead of everyone else. The job is much more involved than it looks. Let’s have Mary Whipple, the University of Washington grad who coxed the U.S. women’s eight 2,000 meters to gold in the Beijing Olympics, put us through the paces:

  The most important thing a coxswain does day to day is command the boat and everyone’s safety. If the coach uses us right, it’s a brilliant concept. During practice, he’s telling me, and then I’m telling the girls, what to do. If it doesn’t come from me, it can get very chaotic.

  In a race, if things are going well, I don’t talk at all about technique. I tell them where we are, when we want to focus a little bit more on a certain aspect, like if we want to make a move, if we want to capitalize on a little bit more speed in a certain part of a race.

  You don’t even think about steering in a race because we just go so hard and constant. I’m just clamping onto that gunwale, just pulling the rudder taut, making sure I don’t move it out of nerves or anything. A lot of coxswains just move and jiggle the rudder out of boredom or just out of not concentrating. I steer pretty well. After safety, steering is the number one job.

  I’m very aware of my surroundings. I think that’s what makes me a good coxswain. I have a lot of good peripheral vision, and I can see scenarios kind of unfold, and then I have a plan.

  I first got the position on the national team in 2001. The rowers vote, so our coach at the time said, “When thinking about choosing a coxswain, I have three criteria that I want you to base your decision on. The first one is, Do they steer straight? The second one: They must steer straight. And the third
one is they better steer straight.” And I heard that. It was like, Zip the lip and steer straight. A lot of the time when coxswains give instruction, they don’t notice where they are, and they don’t hold their line. And rowers can see where you go; you leave a little track. If they see all these wiggles, it just gets frustrating for them.

  I guess what makes me the best is that I know when not to talk and when to let the momentum of the rowing dictate what I say. It’s also how to deliver a scenario positively if we’re behind. For instance, there was one race in Lucerne before the Olympics, and we went off the line, and I’m looking around and we’re fifth out of six off the start. However, the team that was leading was only two seats ahead of us. So I just said, “We’re in the pack; we’re two seats from the lead.” And then everyone’s like, “Ah, sweet, we’re right there.” If I had said, “We’re fifth,” everyone would have been freaked out and maybe a little bit tight and tense and would have tried moving the boat individually. We won because we made sure we got down to our race rhythm and just maximized our base cadence.

  You have to be honest, but you also have to be very positive. I have a lot of faith in my girls. For example, at the Olympics, during our third 500, when the field normally likes to close in on us, our number one goal was Don’t slow down. I kept looking over to Romania, who was in second, and they never moved on us. I just kept telling the rowers, “They’re still there.” Not in a “keep going, keep going” way, just like, “We’re holding them.” And then a couple more strokes and “We’re still holding them.” And then the third time I said it, I was like, “We’re holding them.”

  When we crossed that line, it was pure satisfaction, just simple elation. You just feel on top of the world.

  Coxswain Mary Whipple (front row, far right) and the U.S. women’s eight.

  PAPER PIGSKIN

  HOW TO JOIN THE FOLD OF PAPER FOOTBALLERS

  In the vast expanse that is the landscape of sports, one game stands above all others for its rebellious rejection of authority. Students play the game to the chagrin of their teachers, employees face off when their bosses aren’t looking, and kids carry on through the nagging of parents warning them to clean up their mess—and all it takes is the flick of a finger and a digital goal post. The game, of course, is paper football.

  Those looking to steal a few moments of fun here or there are more inclined to simply attempt field goals against each other. One player makes an upright by touching his thumbs together and extending his index fingers skyward, while the opponent rests the paper football on some surface and tries to flick it through the goal posts, generally using the index finger.

  The more involved paper football game is played on a tabletop surface, and begins with the paper football lying flat on the table while two players sit across from each other. The two players then push or flick the ball toward each other’s edge of the table. If the ball hangs over the edge without falling over, it is a touchdown, with an extra point attempt to follow. A player attempts a field goal if his opponent flicks the ball out of bounds off the side of the table.

  Making a paper football is like eating a Reese’s peanut butter cup—there’s no wrong way to do it. But in the interests of high-scoring games and long-distance “kicks,” what follow are the directions to create the most aerodynamic paper football:

  First things first: find a piece of paper. Any kind will do, although computer sheets and looseleaf generally make the best paper pigskin. While the first step is often the vertical fold, that often creates a slightly bulkier ball. That’s why the best first course of action is to cut the piece of paper in half vertically, as precisely as possible.

  Once you have the half piece, the next step is another exact vertical fold down the middle. Make sure your paper is folded as tightly as possible. From here, the triangle folding begins.

  Take one of the top corners of the half page and delicately fold it down to form what should become a perfect triangle. Then continue folding that triangle down the page, stopping along the way to make sure there is as little slack as possible. The tighter the paper, the better it will fly.

  After around seven folds, you will be left with a small rectangle at the bottom of the page; this is where the piece of paper becomes the game ball. Take the rectangle and fold it into the opening in the triangle located right above it. Again, the tighter the fold inside, the more distance and height you’ll be able to create.

  Now you should be left with the perfect paper football to flick through the uprights. (Brown coloring and faux laces are optional.) Just try not to get caught.

  FALL CLASSICS

  YOGI BERRA’S FIVE FAVORITE WORLD SERIES GAMES

  Lawrence Peter Berra played in a record 75 World Series games (all with the Yankees) from 1947 to 1963. Here, Yogi lists his five favorite Series games:

  Game 5, 1956 World Series, vs. the Dodgers. “Everybody knows about this one. Don Larsen pitched his perfect game. I was behind the plate. It had never happened before, and it hasn’t happened since.”

  Yankee pitcher Don Larsen wraps his arms around catcher Yogi Berra (number 8) after the final pitch of Game 5 of the 1956 World Series against the Brooklyn Dodgers at Yankee Stadium in New York.

  Game 7, 1956 World Series, vs. the Dodgers. “Everyone forgets about this game because of the perfect game. Johnny Kucks pitched a three-hit shutout, and he didn’t even know he was going to pitch that day. We won 9–nothing, and I hit two two-run home runs. I hit .429 for the Series, too. I should have gotten the car [MVP], but Larsen had to get it.”

  Game 4, 1950 World Series, vs. the Phillies. “We swept the Phillies in ’50. They only scored seven runs in the Series. It was Whitey Ford’s rookie year, and he threw eight shutout innings. Then in the 9th, Gene Woodling mishandled a ball in left field, and they scored two runs. Casey took Whitey out, and the fans were booing like crazy. But Allie Reynolds came in and got the final out. Nineteen fifty was probably my best year. I hit .322 and had 124 RBIs. But the little guy, Phil Rizzuto, beat me out for the MVP. He hit .324.”

  Game 7, 1952 World Series, vs. the Dodgers. “Bob Kuzava, a journeyman lefty, came in to pitch in the 7th inning. The Dodgers loaded the bases, and Casey left him in to pitch to Jackie Robinson. Jackie hit this windblown pop-up near the mound that everybody lost in the sun. We froze. Everybody but Billy Martin. He came running in like crazy from second base and made the catch. Kuzava finished the game, and we won 4–2.”

  Game 1, 1949 World Series, vs. the Dodgers. “This was the beginning of the dynasty, and it was the first World Series shown on national T V. Allie Reynolds went nine innings and beat Don Newcombe in a 1–nothing shutout. Tommy Henrich was 36 years old and in his last year as a regular with the Yankees. He hit a solo home run in the bottom of the 9th inning to win the game. It was the first walk-off home run in World Series history.”

  THE REAL GIPPER

  THE MAN WHO INSPIRED THE FAMOUS SPEECH

  This is Pat O’Brien as Knute Rockne speaking from his wheelchair to rally his underdog Notre Dame players after the scoreless first half of their 1928 game in Yankee Stadium against undefeated Army in the 1940 movie Knute Rockne, All-American:

  I’m going to tell you something I’ve kept to myself for years. None of you ever knew George Gipp. It was long before your time.

  But you know what a tradition he is at Notre Dame…. And the last thing he said to me—

  “Rock,” he said, “sometime, when the team is up against it, and the breaks are beating the boys, tell them to go out there with all they got and win just one for the Gipper. I don’t know where I’ll be then, Rock,” he said. “But I’ll know about it—and I’ll be happy.”

  The players throw off their blankets and go out to beat Army, 12–6.

  In that movie, Ronald Reagan played George Gipp, who is still considered the greatest athlete in Notre Dame history. But if you know the Gipper just from that movie, you’re missing something. In fact, his life would make a more interesting movie than
the one we all know.

  Born in Laurium, on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, in 1895, Gipp didn’t arrive on the South Bend campus until he was 21. He had won a baseball scholarship, but in the spring of his freshman year, he ignored the coach’s bunt sign and hit a home run. When the coach asked him, “Don’t you remember the signals?” Gipp replied, “It’s too hot to be running around the bases after a bunt.” He quit the team the next day.

  His football prowess was already apparent, though: He drop-kicked a 62-yard field goal as a freshman. He nearly punted his academic career as well, spending much of his free time in pool halls and gambling establishments and cutting so many classes that he was asked to leave the school in 1919. But the Fighting Irish alumni intervened; Gipp was readmitted to the school and reinstated on the team. He practiced when he chose, but nobody complained—he was that good.

  In the 1920 season, down 17–14 at the half to Army, Rockne was in the middle of one of his speeches when he noticed that Gipp looked bored. Rockne said to Gipp, “I don’t suppose you have any interest in this game?” And Gipp replied, “Don’t worry, I have $500 on it, and I don’t intend to blow my money.” Gipp ended up rushing for 385 yards and running a kickoff back for a touchdown as Notre Dame won 27–17.

  Two weeks later, Gipp dislocated a shoulder, and Notre Dame fell behind 10–0, but in the fourth quarter the star ignored Rockne’s attempts to keep him on the bench, running for one touchdown and turning himself into a decoy for the game winner. After that game, Gipp went off to Chicago to teach a prep school team how to kick, and the miserable conditions there brought on a fever and sore throat. Gipp stayed on the bench for most of the next game, against Northwestern, but the fans wanted him, and Rockne acceded, allowing Gipp to throw a 55-yard touchdown pass.

  By Thanksgiving, though, Gipp was in the hospital with strep throat and pneumonia. On December 14, he converted to Catholicism and was given the last rites. The entire student body knelt in the snow on campus to pray for him. As he lay sleeping in his hospital bed, someone said, “It’s tough to go.” Gipp heard it and said, “What’s tough about it?”