Eye of the tiger?

Prior to the 1980 USA v. USSR Olympic hockey game (since dubbed The Miracle on Ice) Herb Brooks gave his team what many (me included) believe to be one of the best motivational speeches in the history of sports. The US team lost to the Soviet team by a score of 10-3 in their final tune-up game two weeks prior to the Miracle game. Entering that Olympics everyone who knew anything about hockey knew the Soviet Red Army team currently was the greatest team in hockey as they had regularly beaten NHL teams AND NHL all-star teams in exhibition games. The Olympic US/USSR showdown was only a formality as the Soviets merely needed to clear this last hurdle before playing for the gold medal. The hope was that the US could keep the score close enough to keep spirits high for the bronze medal game they’d be playing two days later.

Among the pregame remarks Brooks had for his players, the most memorable may be, “You were born to be players, you were meant to be here. I’m sick of hearing what a great team the Soviets have. If we played ‘em ten times they might win nine; but not tonight. Their time is over. Tonight we spit in the eye of the tiger. Tonight is our time!”

And it was. The US was victorious 4-3 in one of the most exciting (until my kids started playing the sport) hockey games I had ever witnessed.

My memorable ‘spit in the tiger’s eye’ moment, while somewhat less dramatic, and receiving far less international acclaim, was memorable just the same, to me and a handful of friends from high school.

While I was tearing up the intramural softball league my senior year in high school a group of my friends formed the nucleus of the Bloomington Lincoln baseball team.

After graduation, we formed a slow-pitch softball team (Marty’s Lumber Company – Marty as a shout out to the Lincoln baseball coach Marty Carlson, and Lumber Company – as a precursor to all the hits we imagined we’d be belting out all summer long) to play in one of Bloomington’s leagues and a handful of weekend tournaments. Typically the teams we played against had sponsors that paid for entry fees, equipment and uniforms. Our rag-tag band of kids, underdogs if there ever were any, each paid our own way as no one was interested in sponsoring a group of kids playing softball merely as an excuse to drink beer, hang out with their friends, and while away the days before we all headed off to college.

At one weekend tournament we played well on Friday and were able to move to the right on the tourney bracket earning the right to face another Friday winner, a team known as Paro’s Pub. Over beers Friday night we found out that the team from Paro’s had won the district championship the year before and had qualified for the state tournament. Things looked bleak for Marty’s Lumber Company. The only glimmer of hope we had was that the field we would be playing on was one that did not have an outfield fence – the field ran on to infinity – which was appropriate since the men of Paro’s could hit the ball just about that far. Had we played on a field with a fence it would only be a contest of which inning the men of Paro’s would pull ahead by 10 runs and the Mercy Rule would end the game.

Saturday afternoon, as I toed the rubber preparing to throw the first pitch, I recall looking over at the opposition’s bench, seeing not a softball team like we’d become accustomed to facing, rather, Paro’s had assembled a group of college football-sized linebackers and tight ends. Behind them was an assemblage of future trophy wives and hotties that evidently were attracted to the type of guys (6’-2” 210, broad –shouldered, narrow- waisted, large, well-defined arms, swarthy, burly men) that played for Paro’s.

We had only a group of kids, weeks out of high school, playing for fun, with a few of our sweethearts, friends, and family members there to watch as we rightfully should have gotten soundly defeated.

As I stood there on the mound I seriously tried to remember if I had all of my final affairs in order, for I KNEW that if one of the Paro’s behemoths hit a line drive back up the middle attempting to defend myself with a baseball glove would SURELY be the last mortal act of my short, largely undistinguished life.

But remember, there was NO homerun fence! With our outfielders positioning themselves so-o-o far away from the infield that you practically needed binoculars and a road map to locate them, the tape measure missiles that the Paro’s men sent skyward (usually clearing the fence as homeruns on other fields) were merely long outs as the fleet-footed Marty’s outfielders chased them down over hill and dale.

Offensively we managed to scratch out a few runs on bloop hits (by me) and sharply hit line drives (the rest of the lumber company). As the game unfolded, and we continued to hang with Paro’s we began to expose their infield as frauds. The sport Paro’s specialized in was a softball version of Home Run Derby. Their infielders typically just relayed the ball back to the pitcher after long fly ball outs. They weren’t nearly as good as our infield.

By the 7^th and final inning the Paro’s squad was in disarray. They were indignant that they were losing to us, bitching at each other, and cursing the tourney organizers for making them play on an open field (without a homerun fence). Hell, by then even their dates, enjoying seeing their men get knocked down a peg or two by a group of boys, began laughing and cheering for us.

The game ended, Marty’s Lumber Company won a game we had no business winning, and remarkable sports history was made (at least in our minds).

A group of high school friends just out havin’ fun walked up to the tiger, spit in his eye, and then kicked his ass for good measure.

Who knew?