6 Mark Bavaro (New York Giants 1985-1990)

The Quiet Giant, A Coach's Dream

     I have been a New England Patriots fan since I first started following the NFL, 40 years ago. But my favorite football players have always come from other teams, and in the case of Mark Bavaro, a team I didn’t even like.

     A Pats fan rooting for a New York Giant wasn’t exactly the same as a Bruins fan rooting for a Montreal Canadien. During the years I was a Guy Lafleur fan, the Bruins played Montreal dozens of times—including 25 playoff games—as division and conference rivals. Between 1985 and 1990, the Patriots played the Giants twice (both loses) as inter-conference foes, so there wasn’t much team-related conflict this time around. (The Giants did play the Dallas Cowboys—a team I was a fan of at the time—twelve times, but the Cowboys, who we’ll cover in a future essay, were in their wilderness years in the late-80s.)

     Anyway. Mark Bavaro.

     I’ve always enjoyed watching towering tight ends; huge, athletic players who can run-block like tackles and catch passes like wide receivers. You can have Keith Jackson, Shannon Sharpe and Jimmy Graham, I’ll take Ben Coates Rob Gronkowski and Mark Bavaro; sure-handed receivers with path-clearing capability; every-down players whose impact could be felt on each offensive snap. If they were vehicles, they’d be extended-cab, maximum payload pickups with plows on the front.

     As a blocker, Bavaro helped pave the way for four individual 1,000-yard rushing seasons (Joe Morris 1985, ‘86, ‘88 and Ottis Anderson 1989). As a receiver, he averaged 14 yards a catch during his six seasons as a Giant, including a 1,001-yard season in 1986, and 867 yards in the twelve-game, strike-shortened 1987 season (works out to 1,156 for 16 games). Both seasons ended with Bavaro being named first-team All-Pro.

     Much like Gronkowski today, Bavaro’s exceptional size, athleticism and unwillingness to be tackled by just one defender exposed him to many more hits than an average NFL tight end. Despite several debilitating injuries, including a degenerative knee condition that forced him to sit out the 1991 season, Bavaro played 126 regular season games in his career, and another 9 in the playoffs, including 2 Super Bowls. In those Super Bowls—both Giants victories—Bavaro played a major role with his devastating blocking to go along with 9 receptions for 101 yards and a touchdown.

     If that isn’t enough to convince you of Bavaro’s greatness, and that Canton is down one tight end, just go to YouTube and check out his personal highlight reel. Much like Gale Sayers, Bavaro’s dominance can be appreciated by watching a couple minutes worth of footage, courtesy of NFL Films. There’s the 1986 game against New Orleans where he gets his jaw broken, only to return and catch a touchdown pass with his jaw wired shut. Then there’s the legendary Monday Night Football catch and stampede against San Francisco, where Bavaro sparks a 17-point Giants comeback by taking a short pass and rumbling another 18 yards with several 49ers on his back. And there’s the clip where Bill Parcells is wearing a microphone:

     “That Bavaro, he’s a stoneface. You don’t know what he’s thinking. I’d hate to have to fight that son-of-a-bitch.”

     If you know anything about Parcells, then you know that’s a compliment, a sign of respect. And this brings me to the main reason I’m such a huge fan of Mark Bavaro.

     To me, more impressive than any statistic or highlight was how quietly and consistently Bavaro pleased one of the hardest-to-please figures in NFL history. Bill Parcells was never known to show affection towards his players, at least not openly, but he never held back his praise of Mark Bavaro. I played a little football in high school—very little—and cannot imagine being coached by a guy like Parcells; gruff, demanding, openly critical, authoritarian (I know, what the hell was I doing playing football?). But Bill Parcells absolutely loved Mark Bavaro.

     Most Patriots fans still hold a grudge against Parcells for the way he handled his departure from New England, and defection to the New York Jets. I wasn’t happy with him either, but have always admired him for possessing one of the greatest football minds. When he talks about the game, he talks about The Game, not about statistics and streaks, but about plays and match-ups, not about the player who scored the touchdown, but about the design or block that allowed him to score. Mark Bavaro was a Bill Parcells type of player, a player who could throw the block and score the touchdown.

     And there was loyalty between them as well. Several years ago, when people started comparing Jeremy Shockey to Mark Bavaro, Parcells said:

     "You want to start comparing him to Bavaro? Put a defensive end in front of him and tell everybody you're going to run over there, and let's see if he can knock him back four yards and you can make 12 yards. Then you can compare him to Bavaro. Till then, I don't want to hear it."

     Parcells has always reminded me of the demanding perfectionist father figure, and Bavaro, the son who managed to gain his love by quietly doing what comes naturally. I think most men want that type of acceptance from their father, and I believe most athletes strive to please their coach in the same manner.

     These days, football fans give so much attention to high-scoring offenses, but in the end, most of those teams fail in the biggest games. I believe they fail because they don’t have enough players like Mark Bavaro. They have 100-catch receivers and 2-minute, 80-yard scoring drives. They win regular season games by 30 and 40 points. But what happens when they need just one touchdown in January? They fail. They fail because they don’t have players who are willing to do whatever it takes. They don’t have offensive players with a defensive player’s mentality, players who prevent the other team from scoring by holding on to the football and scoring when they have to. I know this view isn’t popular with the fantasy football community, but I love the old-school approach to the game; the way Bill Parcells coached it, and the way Mark Bavaro played it.

     Bavaro was seemingly from a bygone era, a true tough guy who never drew attention to himself by talking trash or self-promoting. Here’s what he had to say on that topic in Neil Reynolds’ book Pain Gang: The NFL’s Fifty Toughest Players:

     “I was very comfortable with the media spotlight in the NFL, as long as it wasn’t shining on me. I do feel there is too much attention given to athletes in our society. Especially since most athletes have little of value to offer other than a penchant for self-aggrandizement. I found it much more beneficial to my job to spend my extra time working out, watching film, or improving other aspects of my game.”

     Mark Bavaro was the type of player you could build your offense around. His combination of blocking and pass catching skills were the best of his day. But he would be great in today’s game as well, and would most likely accumulate the type of numbers to elevate him above the folk hero status he achieved in New York. But sometimes it’s better to be a folk hero; to be exactly who you are and do exactly what you do. Bavaro played in the right era, for the right coach and the right team. 

     I’m going to drop one last quote from Coach Parcells. At the end of a short NFL Films feature on Bavaro, Parcells said of his favorite tight end:

     “Any coach would like to have a player like that. You never forget them. They’re always a part of you. Forever.”

     I was never a Giants fan, but I admired Mark Bavaro as much as any athlete I’ve ever seen. He was everything I would’ve wanted to be as a football player.

7 Julius Erving (New York Nets 1974-1976)

The Better Looking Basketball Player

“This is a new idea, an idea I have never heard spoken aloud: that some basketball players look better than other basketball players because of the way they play. I want to look better.”

      -         Julius Erving from Dr J: The Autobiography

     Let's see: full, high Afro, neatly cropped goatee, red, white and blue uniform with socks and wristbands to match, form-fitting knee pads, long, lean muscles and fingers like tentacles gripping a red, white and blue ball high overhead, high over everything, soaring, rising, while mortals remain tethered to the earth, a snarl on his face, a vision fulfilled.

     If an artist were commissioned to paint the Better Looking Basketball Player, that is what the finished product would look like. Julius Erving at Nassau Coliseum in the mid-1970s. He looked better because of the way he played and because of the way he looked.

     I owned a pair of wristbands, one red, one white, and an ABA replica red, white and blue basketball. The ball was rubbery and bounced higher than the brown leather versions. Some of my friends made fun of it. But after a good rain, when the asphalt had not yet been dried by the sun, that ball got a little wet and became easier to grip, allowing guys with average-sized hands like me to palm it like Dr J. None of us could jump high enough to get it over the rim, but under certain conditions, that ABA ball made the game of H-O-R-S-E a lot more interesting. Guys normally limited to jump shots and basic lay-ups were attempting finger rolls and spin shots off the backboard. We weren’t trying Kareem’s skyhook or Havlicek’s running leaner, we were trying to be Julius Erving, or at least what we envisioned him to be.

     I never saw him play—not many did—and that sets him apart from the rest of my favorite athletes. Oh, I saw him with the 76ers, after the ABA-NBA merger, but that’s not the guy I’m talking about. My fandom of Julius Erving of the American Basketball Association’s New York Nets, circa 1974-76, was pieced together like a collage of basketball cards and magazine covers held in place by the glue of myth, legend and imagination. There were a few highlight clips, but in the days before the VCR, and way before YouTube, you had to be in front of your TV at the exact moment they were shown or miss them altogether, all 30-seconds worth. For me, Dr J was a professional sports version of a romantic notion, something in the air—literally—that seemed a bit out of reach.

     Three images stand out above all others. There was the March 1975 Sport magazine cover, The Doctor, dressed in scrubs, surgical tongs in hand, preparing to operate on the patient: a red, white and blue basketball. Then there was his 1975-76 Topps ABA All-Star card, where he appears to be walking on air against the Kentucky Colonels, waiting for Artis Gilmore to return to earth so he can reach out and dunk over Dan Issel, who looks to be going down like a spent prizefighter. The third image was the cover of Sports Illustrated from May 17, 1976, Dr J dribbling, preparing to turn the corner against Chuck Williams of the Nuggets during the ABA Finals, the words “Dr J Slices ‘Em Up” across the top. I remember seeing these images, and thinking, collectively, This guy has personality, and the coolest nickname in sports, everyone around him is trying to stop him, trying to catch him. But they can’t.

     I knew all the stars of the ABA, but I don’t remember seeing anybody else on the cover of a magazine. Only Julius Erving.

     They called the ABA a renegade league, said they couldn’t compete with the NBA. But Dr J had them wondering. Fans who saw him said he was doing things that nobody had ever done before, playing “above the rim.” Sure, he won multiple scoring titles and MVPs, there was plenty of individual glory, but the Nets also won two championships in his three seasons with the team. Whatever he was doing resulted in a lot of victories, and by the 1975-76 season, it was clear that Julius Erving was bigger than the league he was playing in, and the league he was playing in was in trouble. A merger appeared imminent. But would Dr J’s game translate in the NBA?

     In the end, the NBA took four ABA teams, the Nets, Spurs, Pacers and Nuggets, as part of a merger that would allow the financially decaying league to save a bit of face. But the most curious addition would be Julius Erving. Like Joe Namath, six years earlier, Dr J would be the new face of an expanding league. But unlike Namath, who had already proven himself to the NFL before the AFL merger with his fulfilled promise of victory in Super Bowl III, The Doctor’s ABA exploits would be in question until tested by NBA competition.

     So, I was finally going to see Dr J play, but strangely, part of me didn’t want to. Part of me couldn’t help wondering, What if the people who said he couldn’t hack it in the NBA were right? What if all the things I’d heard and imagined were the product of an inferior league with second-rate competition? For ABA fans like me, there was a ton at stake. Dr J could not fail.

     Before any questions could be answered, a series of pre-season events took place that would reshape the way I experienced Julius Erving in the NBA. First, the Nets were forced to pay $4.8 million to the Knicks for invading the New York territory; this was in addition to the $3.2 million entry fee each of the four new franchises had to pay to the NBA. The Nets had very little money left to pay their franchise player. The Philadelphia 76ers bought out Erving’s contract, and just like that, Dr J became a division rival of the Celtics, presenting yet another conflict of fandom for me (remember, Bobby Orr was in Chicago by this time, and I was a Bruins fan with a Montreal Canadien as my favorite player).

     I never stopped being a fan of Julius Erving; rooting for him to succeed, while hoping his team failed (except, of course, when they played the Lakers. Beat L-A! Beat L-A!). He was the torchbearer of the ABA, and proved the naysayers wrong. In eleven NBA seasons in Philadelphia, Dr J was named first-team All-NBA five times, was league MVP in 1980-81, played in the finals four times and teamed with fellow ABA alums Moses Malone and Bobby Jones to lead the 76ers to the 1983 NBA Title, going 12-1 for the best single-season playoff winning percentage of all-time. The rivalry between the Celtics and 76ers was fierce, and the personal rivalry between Larry Bird and Julius Erving was second only to Bird vs. Magic. There were many memorable moments. And one I’d like to forget.

     The picture hangs in every sports bar in Boston. Probably in Philly, too. Boston Garden, early in the 1984-85 season. Larry Bird. Julius Erving. My two favorite basketball players of all-time looking like they’ll choke the life out of each other. It started when the two became entangled on the way up court. Bird hit the floor and got called for an offensive foul by Dick Bavetta (Bavetta was the only referee working the game due to Jack Madden leaving with a knee injury). As play continued, frustrations got the better of both men—Bird, over the call, Erving, over the 21-point Celtics lead—and a melee broke out. Like most basketball fights, it lasted only a few seconds, but long enough for someone to snap that famous photo. I hate that photo, and I’m pretty sure the subjects hate it, too, since they have agreed to never sign it. Just two rivals having a bad moment. (I liken that photo to another one I hate, which also hangs in every sports bar in Boston. The Varitek vs. A-Rod fight photo. One reason I hate it is that A-Rod is in it, another is that Varitek has never been shy about how much he hates it, and finally, it has always overshadowed the most important moment from that game, and, arguably, the entire ’04 regular season; Bill Mueller’s ninth-inning 2-run walk-off homerun off of Mariano Rivera. I know, baseball in a basketball essay. I can’t help myself sometimes.)  I like this photo better:

     Not long after Julius Erving’s first season in Philly, he trimmed down most of his Afro, and with it went the last of his ABA look. All that hair. All that red, white and blue. Gone. As a league, the ABA influence would continue to impact the NBA well beyond that merger season of 1976-77. The 3-point shot and slam-dunk contest, both products of the ABA, are part of an enduring legacy, and a constant reminder that the league was a visionary enterprise when it came to basketball as entertainment. But more than any rule or contest, it was the ABA players who made the deepest impact. During the first post-merger NBA finals between the 76ers and Portland Trailblazers, 5 of the 10 starting players were on ABA rosters the year before. The first high school player to make the leap directly to the pros and a Hall of Fame career did it in the ABA. Moses Malone graduated Petersburg, VA, High School in 1974. A year later, he was named ABA Rookie Of The Year. In 1995, Malone would be the last of the ABA players to retire. Fittingly, he would end his 21-year career with the San Antonio Spurs, an original ABA franchise (formerly the Dallas Chaparrals) who were on the verge of becoming a model NBA franchise. But the NBA’s Grand Prize was Julius Erving.

     He sprang to life from trading cards and magazine covers. The coolest athlete I’d ever seen. Dr J of the ABA, New York Nets, 1974-1976, at the time, the best professional basketball player alive. He did it his way, with class and style. If an artist had been commissioned to paint the Better Looking Basketball Player, this is what the finished product would look like:

                                                                                                                              

8 Roger Staubach (Dallas Cowboys 1969-1979)

Growing Up Cowboy, And The Sticky Business Of Rooting For The “Wrong” Player

     This one requires some backstory.

     Thanksgiving Day, 1974. We had just gotten home from dinner at my grandmother’s house when Jimmy cut a direct path to the living room, switched on the TV, and began watching a football game with great interest. But why? The Patriots weren’t involved. This was a match up between the Washington Redskins and Dallas Cowboys. I sat down and joined him, mainly because I was always curious about things my older brother was interested in, especially when it came to sports, but there was a buzz of excitement coming from the TV that drew me in as well. The crowd was loud and fully engaged. The stadium was vast and modern with a big star in the middle and you could tell the building was serving its one and only purpose: to host big-time football games. Jimmy told me the Cowboys and Redskins hated each other. I settled in to watch.

     The first thing I remember happening was the Cowboys starting quarterback getting hurt with about 10 minutes left in the third quarter and the Redskins leading 16-3. I knew who Roger Staubach was from—you guessed it—trading cards and magazines, knew he attended one of the military academies and won the Heisman Trophy, and that he led the Cowboys to their only Super Bowl victory. I also knew by the concern on Jimmy’s face that he was rooting for the Cowboys, and that number 12 leaving the game was a big deal.

     The backup quarterback’s name was Clint Longley and he led Dallas on consecutive scoring drives to bring the Cowboys to within six, at 23-17. Then, with 28 seconds remaining and no timeouts, Dallas had the ball at midfield.

     When you’re nine years old, 28 seconds doesn’t seem like enough time to do anything. It usually took longer for me to tie my shoes. To me, the situation seemed hopeless. How could the Cowboys go 50 yards in less than half a minute? But the announcer’s voices kept rising as the cameras flashed quickly between coaches George Allen and Tom Landry on the sidelines, then between a cheerleader with her fingers crossed and a fan with his hands folded in prayer.

     I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but this is what people mean when they say that NFL football is a made-for-TV sport. With just a few dramatic images and a word or two from an excited play-by-play guy, I was swept up in the possibility that the Cowboys could actually win the game.

     It happened in an instant. Longley dropped back to pass and hit Drew Pearson streaking down the near side of the field for a 50-yard touchdown and a 24-23 Cowboys win. The stadium erupted. Again, the cameras captured every reaction: the celebrating Cowboys, the dejected Redskins, the delirious fans, and several replays of the winning play. Jimmy looked pleased with the victory. I wonder, too, if he was also pleased with, or even aware of, how drastically my NFL fandom had just been altered. That play—they called it a long bomb—and the ensuing celebration was the football equivalent of a Bobby Orr end-to-end, goal-scoring rush at the Boston Garden.

Clint Longley and Rayfield Wright, Thanksgiving Day, 1974

     I have friends who root for the Notre Dame and New York Giants football teams. Most of them also root for the Patriots. They explain that the Patriots weren’t founded until 1960, and that for years the Giants were the closest professional franchise, while Notre Dame games were regularly televised nationally. Some followed in their father’s and grandfather’s footsteps, going with what was familiar. I became a Dallas Cowboys fan because of my brother—my dad would have nothing to do with an NFC team—and because the Patriots played in a toilet of a stadium, which rarely sold out, leaving fans victims of the NFL’s blackout policy. The Cowboys seemed to be on TV every week. I followed in my brother’s footsteps and went with what was familiar.

     Similar to baseball, where I would eventually spend about a decade and a half rooting for the Red Sox and Royals, I would have two favorite football teams, one in the AFC, and one in the NFC. And just as I would hope the Sox and Royals would never meet in an ALCS, I dreaded the thought of a Pats-Cowboys Super Bowl (thankfully, neither happened, but for the record, I always would’ve rooted for the home team).

     The 1974 Cowboys finished 8-6, missing the playoffs by two games. The Patriots started 5-0, but after going 2-7 down the stretch, finished the season at .500. There would be no Super Bowl concerns during my first full season as a football fan. The only question heading into the 1975 season was, Who would be my favorite player?

     A couple of Patriots stood out: “Mini” Mack Herron was an exciting running back and kick returner, who set the single-season record with 2,444 all-purpose yards in 1974 (the all-time record for a 14-game season), and DE Julius Adams was a good pass rusher with a cool sounding name. But I knew my favorite player would come from the Cowboys. They were the more glamorous team.

     It didn’t happen right away. Unlike with the Royals, where I followed a player-first, team-second progression, I embraced the Cowboys as a team before auditing their lineup for a favorite player.

     As it turned out, the two obvious choices had already been taken. Drew Pearson, who finished the 1974 season with 1,087 receiving yards, was Jimmy’s favorite player, and Roger Staubach, who had returned to his starting role the week after Thanksgiving, and was the team’s unquestioned leader, had been chosen by my friend, Bobby (not his real name). As stated earlier, choosing the same out-of-town favorite player as your friend or relative was a direct violation of the unwritten rules of player favoritism. It was understood that if you ventured outside local boundaries to find a player, you were granted exclusive rights. So, I settled for number 43, Cliff Harris.

Cliff Harris

     Harris was a 6’ 0”, 185 lb free-safety, who hit like a 250 lb linebacker. A four-time first-team All Pro, he is one of only13 players in NFL history to play in five Super Bowls. In choosing a favorite player, you could do a lot worse than Cliff Harris. But he wasn’t really my favorite. Seriously, how many kids at that age would be watching the free safety? You watched the guy with the ball. For me, Harris was more like the girl you date in school just so you can be near her friend, who is seeing someone else, and that someone else happens to be your friend.

     Roger Staubach was really my favorite player. Obviously, this created a bit of a problem for me, but being a Cowboys fan provided a loophole that would allow me to root for Staubach without upsetting Bobby, who was rather possessive when it came to his favorites, and rather paranoid and easily upset when it came to everything else. So, if asked, I’d tell everyone that Cliff Harris was my favorite player, but that I was also a big Roger Staubach fan. Thus, keeping the peace beneath the safety of the Cowboy Fan Umbrella. Simple, isn’t it? I know this all sounds pretty insane, but we were sports-obsessed kids, and took it quite seriously.

     1975 would be a great year for the Cowboys. After a 10-4 regular season, they became the first Wild Card team to make it to the Super Bowl, where they would lose 21-17 to the Pittsburgh Steelers. But the enduring highlight of that season—and the moment that solidified my fandom of Roger Staubach—took place during the divisional round of the playoffs.

     December 28, 1975. The Sunday after Christmas. School vacation was just getting underway. I always loved that first weekend of the NFL playoffs with doubleheader games on Saturday and Sunday. Living in the cold Northeast, those extra games on TV were both a comfort and a bonus, like a bowl of hot soup and an extra blanket. The Cowboys were playing the Vikings in Bloomington, Minnesota. This was before the Metrodome was built. The game was played outdoors at old Metropolitan Stadium. Snow was plied high along the sidelines, mud caked the field from years of overuse (the Met was also home to the Twins) and cold breath filtered through every facemask. With the Vikings ahead 14-10 in the waning moments, the scene was set for a legendary finish.

     Once again, the Cowboys found themselves facing defeat with the ball at midfield. This time with 32 seconds left. This time with Roger Staubach at quarterback. I knew from the previous Thanksgiving that this was not an impossible situation, but things looked bleak just the same. The Vikings were the defending NFC champs with future Hall of Famers Alan Page, Carl Eller and Paul Krause on defense. This possession would either extend, or end, the Cowboys’ season.

     Lined up in their shotgun formation, Staubach took the snap, rolled right, pump faked left, then let fly with a desperation pass to Drew Pearson, who caught the ball against his hip before stepping into the endzone. When asked about the play after the game, Staubach told reporters, “I just closed my eyes and said a Hail Mary.” It’s one of the most famous plays in NFL history, known simply as, The Hail Mary. From that moment on, I always felt the Cowboys had a chance with Roger Staubach at quarterback.

     They called him Captain Comeback, and Roger The Dodger. I liked that first nickname, which alluded to Staubach’s being the catalyst behind so many come-from-behind Cowboy victories. But Roger The Dodger? Never liked it. I knew it was a tribute to his scrambling abilities and his propensity to dodge tacklers as he ran around searching for an open receiver or a first down marker. But to me, calling a military veteran, someone who served a tour of duty in Vietnam with the US Navy, a Dodger, for any reason, seemed a bit off. I felt this way even as a boy. Besides, I always viewed Roger Staubach as someone who never shied away from contact. He absorbed so many thunderous hits in his career. He was much more of a Captain than a Dodger.

     In 1977, the Cowboys went 12-2 in the NFL’s final 14-game season. Roger Staubach led the NFC in passing and the Cowboys crushed the Orange Crush Denver Broncos 27-10 at the Louisiana Super Dome in Super Bowl XII. I remember how confident Staubach looked under the bright lights, and how proud I felt to be a fan of the best team in the NFL. But things were about to get crowded on the Cowboys bandwagon.

     1977 would also be the last season that the Dallas Cowboys would be known, simply, as the Dallas Cowboys. In 1978, NFL Films released the Cowboys season highlight film under the title, “America’s Team”, and the name stuck. I’m happy to say that, thanks to my big brother, I was a legitimate fan of the team before all the foolishness started and the frontrunners showed up.

     Staubach led the NFL in passing in 1978 and the Cowboys once again made it to the Super Bowl, where they once again lost by 4 points to the Pittsburgh Steelers. In 1979, Staubach repeated as NFL passing leader with career highs in completions (267) yards (3,506) and touchdowns (27). Then, after a 21-19 loss to the Los Angeles Rams in the divisional round of the playoffs, and fearing the after-affects of recurring concussions, Roger Staubach retired from football.

     It’s ironic that my first memory as a Cowboys fan is of Staubach getting hurt in that Thanksgiving game back in ’74, and that his backup led the team to victory in a manner that Roger would become known for. But it’s fitting that he reclaimed his starting job the very next week, and that he would only miss two games for the rest of his glorious career.

     Just as Bill Russell’s commitment to defense will always personify the Celtics of the 1960s, and Bobby Orr’s overall brilliance will define those great Bruins teams of the early 70s, so, too, will Roger Staubach’s competitiveness and leadership represent the spirit of those 1970s Dallas Cowboys teams that I came to love. Captain Comeback. Roger Staubach. 

Afterward:

*I lost touch with my friend Bobby after high school, but someone told me that he had become a San Francisco 49ers fan shortly after The Catch, and that Joe Montana had become his favorite player. Huh? I must admit, I felt the pang of betrayal, as if he’d dumped the girl I’d secretly pined for just so he could chase the newly elected Prom Queen. And what kind of fan abandons the team he grew up with in favor of the team that broke their hearts?

*Cliff Harris was one of the best football players of the 1970s. You might say that he was the Cowboys’ defensive version of Staubach in that their careers practically mirrored one another’s (Staubach ’69-’79, Harris ’70-’79) and that both were named to the NFL’s 1970s All-Decade Team, and both were as tough as they come. Harris really should be in the Hall of Fame. He was great. But he wasn’t my favorite player.

*March 17, 2006 was my last day as a fan of the Dallas Cowboys. That’s because on March 18, they signed a guy who, besides being one of the most despicable self-promoters in sports history, once danced a touchdown dance on the midfield Star at Texas Stadium as a visiting player. I should know better than to get mad at something like that, but these are the things fans care about. I could not go on supporting a team that would forgive such disrespectful behavior from a guy who would be #1 on my list of least favorite players. Of course, I’m talking about Terrell Owens. I’ll admit I was also growing increasingly annoyed by the routine pomposity of owner Jerry Jones, so the fact that he signed Owens also helped to make my decision. I’ll also admit that, if the Cowboys hadn’t signed Owens, I probably would’ve given up on them sooner than later anyway. That’s because not long after Owens arrived, Tony Romo was named starting quarterback, and a soap opera of mediocrity ensued. People actually mention Romo favorably in conversations that include the names Troy Aikman and Roger Staubach.

Troy Aikman: 11-5 in playoffs, 3-0 in Super Bowls.

Roger Staubach: 12-6 in playoffs, 2-2 in Super Bowls.

Tony Romo: 1-3 in playoffs, no Super Bowls.

So that’s where I stepped off the America’s Team bandwagon

I had a good 32-year run as a fan of the Dallas Cowboys, through the lean years of the late-80s, and the glory years of the early-90s. But nothing compared to those teams of the 1970s. Before they became America’s Team, they were my team, and they were led by number 12, Roger Staubach.

9 Cam Neely (Boston Bruins 1986-1996)

One Of A Kind

     I guess it’s only fitting that we end up where we started, with a member of the Boston Bruins.

     There is a given for professional athletes in most cities: Play hard, play well, produce victories and fans will overlook most any shortcoming, including bad behavior (I’m talking Manny Ramirez bad behavior, not Aaron Hernandez bad behavior). But here in Boston, a city fortunate enough to be involved in three of the most storied rivalries in sports history, we take this spoils-of-victory attitude a step further. Play hard, play well and produce victories against the Yankees, Lakers or Canadiens, and we just might petition to have you immortalized in bronze (as great as the Patriots have become, they do not have a rival to match the other three local franchises).

     When the Bruins traded Barry Pederson to the Vancouver Canuks for Cam Neely and a draft pick (1^st round, 3^rd overall in 1987, used to select Glen Wesley) in 1986, it had been 43 years since they’d last won a playoff series against the Montreal Canadiens, a stretch that included 17 meetings, all won by Montreal. My dad, who was 51 at the time, hadn’t seen the Bruins beat the Canadiens since he was 8 years old. The seasons were piling up, and the Canadiens dominance over the Bruins rivaled that of the Yankees over the Red Sox. Enter Cam Neely.

     Bruins fans discovered right away that Neely was special. In his first season in Boston, he led the team in goals (36), more than doubled his previous season’s point total (72) and spent 143 minutes in the penalty box; many of those minutes served for taking on the league’s best fighers. But the season ended on a familiar note: a 4-game sweep by the defending Stanley Cup Champion Montreal Canadiens in the first round of the playoffs. Make it 44 years and 18 straight series.

     The drought would end there.

     In 1988, a slight shift occurred. I say slight because it’s impossible to make up for nearly a half-century of looking up at the team you measure yourself against in just one season. But you’ve got to start somewhere. The Bruins finished behind Montreal in the standings and lost game one of the Adams Division Finals (2^nd round, to simplify the ever-changing NHL playoff format) 5-2 at the Forum. There was no reason for optimism going into Game 2, but the Bruins squeezed out a 4-3 victory before coming home and sweeping the next two at The Garden. They won Game 5 at The Forum by a convincing 4-1 score on the strength of two Cam Neely goals. They’d finally beaten their nemesis.

     I remember, at the end of that series, as I watched the Bruins congratulate one another, thinking, Don’t celebrate too much. Don’t show them how much this means to you. I was trying to transfer my pride as a fan onto them. I was picturing those Russian Red Army players, watching in semi-amazement as the US celebrated at Lake Placid in 1980. But then I thought about how openly the usually stoic Kareem Abdul-Jabbar celebrated after finally beating the Celtics at The Garden in ’85. We’d see it again in 2004, when the Red Sox would come back from 0-3 in the ALCS to finally beat the Yankees at The Stadium. No, this was not a Stanley Cup championship, or even a conference final, but it was a BIG deal, and a tremendous relief.

     The Bruins would eliminate the Canadiens from the playoffs in four of the next five seasons. And even though Cam Neely would miss two of those series due to injury, his influence could always be felt. It’s like when the bully is beaten, so is his spell of invincibility. Neely was the heart and soul of those teams. He had a knack for raising his level of play against Montreal, and, more specifically, against goaltender Patrick Roy. Roy was, arguably, the best goalie of his era (Brodeur or Roy, take your pick) and Neely is generally regarded as his toughest opponent; with 13 career playoff goals scored against Roy, it’s hard to argue. Along with defenseman Ray Bourque and, later, center Adam Oates, Neely helped form the nucleus of a team that would change the culture of hockey in Boston.

     The Stanley Cup disparity between Boston and Montreal—24-6, in favor of Montreal—is almost as lopsided as the World Series gap between the Yankees and Red Sox (27-8). I don’t imagine either will be considerably narrowed during my lifetime, but the Bruins have won 7 or their last 11 playoff series against Montreal. No longer do we, the fans, look upon a meeting with the Canadiens as a no-win situation. And much of the credit goes to Cam Neely.

     Locally, Neely will always be revered for his big-game greatness (57 goals in 93 career playoff games), but across the NHL, he will be remembered as the archetype of a position he both popularized and revolutionized. Power Forward: a unique combination of intimidating strength and elite offensive skill. Gordie Howe was the early prototype, and the Islanders Clark Gillies was the best example from my youth. But Howe’s prime was spent during an era of limited exposure in a 6-team league, and Gillies, who was as tough as they come, lacked an elite scorer’s touch. Cam Neely scored 50 goals three times, was a devastating body checker and one of the NHL’s best fighters. He was a disruptive force, a multi-dimensional star playing for a flagship franchise during an era of growth and popularity for the league.

     If I had to describe Neely to a non-hockey fan, I’d tell the basketball fan to think of Maurice Lucas, the baseball fan, Kirk Gibson, and the football fan, you guessed it, Mark Bavaro. And to the non-sports fan, I’d say, Picture the toughest guy with the most surprising skills.

     Speaking of which...

     In 1993-94, following two injury-plagued seasons in which he played in only 22 games, Cam Neely did something only 8 other players have ever done. He scored 50 goals in 50 games played. The “games played” part is important, at least to NHL record-keepers, because the feat—50 goals in 50 games—is not considered official unless the goals are scored within the team’s first 50 games of the season. (This stipulation goes back to the very first 50/50 player, Montreal’s Maurice Richard, who scored a then-record 50 goals during a 50-game season in 1944-45. When Chicago’s Bobby Hull scored 54 goals in a 70-game season in 1965-66, Montreal fans insisted that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police set out to arrest Hull for breaking...Okay, I’m joking, kind of...Canadiens fans did protest Hull’s record, sighting the longer season, so the NHL decided to award Hull the record, but to also recognize Richard as the first, and to that point only, player to score 50 goals in 50 games. Since then, the feat has been firmly established, and clearly defined, in NHL lore.) I won’t quibble with the technicalities or with the fans of Rocket Richard. The fact is, Neely scored 50 goals in just 44 games that season. Only Wayne Gretzky, who scored 50 in 39 (1981-82) and 50 in 42 (1983-84), did it in fewer games (Mario Lemieux also scored 50 in 44 in 1988-89).

     Neely’s 50^th came in the Bruins 66^th game. He would play five more games without scoring a goal before injuries ended his season. The question has always been, How many goals would Neely have scored in 1993-94 if he had been completely healthy? Of course, we’ll never know. But to hear Adam Oates tell it, perhaps the real question is not, What if, but, How? In a recent ESPN interview to commemorate the 20^th anniversary of Neely’s amazing achievement, Oates had this to say:

“I'm one of the few people that know how hard it was for Cam just to play hockey at that stage, let alone what he had to go through on a day-to-day basis to be able to play. And to not be able practice in between games, people don't realize how important that is for your conditioning, timing, etc. The rehab involved for the guy just to be able to play, and then to do what he did on top of that ... [and] do it in the condition he was in was incredible."

     Incredible. It surely was. Neely won the Masterton Trophy that season for qualities of perseverance and sportsmanship. By this time in his career, and out of necessity, Neely was more scorer than brawler. He still fought, but only on his terms. The injuries were costing him so many games. Perseverance was a hallmark of Neely’s career. I always thought he’d keep playing. But how many comebacks can one guy make? In the wake of the remarkable, but truncated season, I did not want to believe he was close to the end.

     The end, at least of his playing career, came on September 5, 1996. In a heartfelt, tearful goodbye, Cam Neely, forced to retire at age 31, by a series of knee, hip and thigh injuries, stood behind a microphone and explained how much he loved the game of hockey, and that he would no longer be able to play it. It was difficult to watch. One of the saddest sports farewells.

     Neely remains a sort of tragic figure in Boston sports lore. We cheered the many moments of brilliance and suffered the frustrating stretches of absence. And I’m sure I wasn’t alone among fans in thinking of Ulf Samuelsson on the day of that press conference and the cheap knee-on-knee hit he delivered in the 1991 playoffs that cost Neely all but 22 games over the next two seasons. As fans, we all dreamed of Neely’s revenge while he went through the long, painful rehab. But it didn’t play out the way we had hoped. When the two met in March of 1993, Samuelsson wouldn’t fight back. He dropped his gloves and turtled before Neely could land a satisfying blow. Vengeance would not be had.

     Though he never did win a Stanley Cup as a player for the Black and Gold, Neely played on four teams that were, arguably, second best in that season. During Neely’s career, the Bruins would lose to the eventual Cup champions in the 1988 Finals against Gretzky’s Oilers, the 1990 Finals against Mark Messier’s Oilers, and the 1991 and 1992 Conference Finals against Lemieux’s Penguins. Gretzky, Messier and Lemiuex. Sometimes it’s the era you play in.

     Cam Nelly was inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame in 2005 (sixth year of eligibility). I must admit that, even after everything I’ve written here, if I had a vote, I might not have elected Neely. If you ask me—I know, you didn’t—all of our sports halls of fame are overcrowded with athletes who have not quite achieved the legendary status that should be unquestioned to gain membership (at least 90% of the committee vote should be required, not the usual 75 [NHL and MLB] to 80 [NFL] percent – if you can figure out basketball’s election process, let me know – there should be little, to no, doubt). But just like when Jim Rice (another local borderline legend from my younger years) was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2009, I was ecstatic for Neely. After all the thrills he provided, through all the pain he endured, I simply love seeing good things happen to Cam Neely.

     I love that Neely’s number 8 hangs from the Garden rafters, love watching him in his current role as Bruins team president, exchanging awkward high-fives in the owner’s box during big games. But I especially love that he finally got his Stanley Cup ring in 2011, and that he continues to be successful as the leader of the first sports franchise I ever followed.

     In the summer of 2012, my dad was hospitalized at Tufts Medical Center in Boston. The man who introduced me to the game of hockey was having a procedure to block the flow of blood to an aneurysm in his brain. It was a difficult time for my father, not a pleasant memory for anyone in our family. But I remember visiting the ICU ward on the night of the operation, walking by the large welcoming wall at the head of the unit: Michael Neely Neuroscience Center. When my dad was home recovering, I remembered to look up the name Michael Neely on the Internet. As I suspected, Michael Neely was Cam Neely’s father, who died of brain cancer in 1993. The neuroscience center was developed with funds raised by the Cam Neely Foundation For Cancer Care. I thought, How can anyone not root for a guy like Cam Neely?

     He was the ultimate hockey weapon, a player who created disorder for the opposing team every time he rolled over the boards. Would he leave his mark by flattening someone’s face into the glass, or by ripping a shot past the goaltender’s ear? There really should be some stat, some advanced indicator beyond plus/minus, to measure a player like Neely’s effect on every shift. But how do you measure presence? For years, NHL general managers have been on the lookout for the next Cam Neely. The Search continues...

Epilogue

      

         

    

     It is fitting that the list begins with Bobby Orr and ends with Cam Neely. I was 5 years old when I first became aware of Orr, and 31 when Neely retired in 1996. By that time my magazine and card-collecting days were well behind me, but I’d had a good 26-year run with plenty of thrills, a few crushing disappointments, several comings and goings, and too many hard goodbyes. And while my passion for professional sports has never waned, it was around the time that Neely was bidding farewell that my rooting interests took a sharp turn away from the individual athlete to focus solely on the aspect of team. In other words, I now root for The Laundry.

     Free agency created much uncertainty for the sports-hero-worshiper. Then ESPN came along, followed by so many others, providing 24-hour sports coverage. Suddenly we knew everything about our icons, and we knew it instantly. We knew when they scored a goal, caught a touchdown pass or robbed someone of a homerun. But we also knew when they missed an empty net, threw an interception or struck out. We knew when they got pulled over for suspicion of drunk driving and how many children they had and with how many women they’d had them. There have been too many fake retirements, too many ill-advised comebacks, too many false pledges of allegiance, and too many steroids. With this constant flood of information, it became increasingly more difficult to identify which players to root for, and ever easier to find someone to root against.

     There was also the matter of getting older. No one will ever accuse me of being overly concerned with maturity, and I’ve never been one to consult an age-appropriate behavioral chart to inform me of how to act at a certain age. But when I reached my early-30s, it seemed a bit odd to be choosing favorite players from a crop of athletes who were, for the most part, younger than I was (Okay, maybe I should’ve realized this earlier. Where’s that chart?...). All of my favorite players were older than me with the exception of Neely, who I’ve got by 5 weeks. Today, at age 49, for the first time in my life, I’m older than every active athlete in the four major sports (although Jamie Moyer, 51, has yet to officially retire). It just makes more sense at this stage to stick with the stability that rooting for the Red Sox (113 years old), Bruins (90), Celtics (67) and Patriots (54) brings, rather than follow some 22-year old whose every move will be overly scrutinized both on, and off, the field, and serve as an audition for a second career on some reality TV show.

     My friends and brothers and I often say, “Imagine if we had all this technology when we were kids?” The Internet, ESPN, ESPN2, 3, 4, 5, 6...Sunday and Thursday Night Football, the NHL, NBA, MLB and NFL Networks, the ability to search for, and store, virtually any image of any athlete on a desktop computer, then to be able to call it up and share it with anyone with just a click and a keystroke? Well, I’ll admit, there’s a lot I like about the efficiency and immediacy of modern technology and all of its timesaving potential (It certainly made researching these essays a lot easier). But I wonder, How would we, the street-hockey-playing, pick-up-game-seeking, rake-the-yard-to-earn-enough-money-to-buy-a-couple-of-packs-of-baseball-cards kids of the 70s have spent that extra time? I look around these days and see an awful lot of empty playgrounds. My guess is we would’ve spent the time on the Internet or in front of the TV. So, I’m glad I grew up in the era that I did.

     Does this sound like preaching? Like some crusty middle-aged guy whose lost his fastball pining for the past? I think every generation looks back with fondness for the way they grew up. We have only our own frame of reference. I loved making trips to Woolworth’s and Wayside Bazaar with my friends with a pocket full of change to buy trading cards, and days rushing home from school to see if the mailman had delivered the latest Sports Illustrated or a back-issue of Street & Smith’s, and I loved unfolding the Globe sports section on a fall Friday to discover which three NFL games would be televised on Sunday. The hope, in all of these activities, was that my favorite player would turn up in one of those packs of cards, or on the cover of one of those magazines, or play in one of those games. And I loved afternoons spent at Robin Hood Park or Central School, playing sports with my friends, pretending that I was Bobby Orr or Fred Lynn or Larry Bird.  Nope, I wouldn’t change a thing, except for maybe a later bedtime back in the fall of ‘75.

So, thank you,

Bobby Orr

Guy Lafleur

George Brett

Larry Bird

Fred Lynn

Mark Bavaro

Julius Erving

Roger Staubach

and Cam Neely

     You were all a huge part of my growing up. Now, just do me one favor and never let me see any of you on Celebrity Rehab, or Dancing With The Stars.