Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: Money Talks

This next segment begins with a high level of excitement as Patrick pounds away on a typewriter. Now for those of you who don’t know what a typewriter is, it’s one of those ancient pieces of technology that people used to write things in type on before personal computers and laptops were invented. These devices were annoying (my parents say) because they did not connect to the Internet, you couldn’t delete stuff, and the Cut/Copy/Paste function did not exist. We should all feel very sorry for Patrick having to endure these technological Dark Ages, but at least he has lived long enough to experience the wonder that is the iPhone.

Having addressed the mystery of what a typewriter is, we can go back to wondering what Patrick is typing up on this antiquated contraption. Fortunately, the movie does not keep us in suspense for long because this isn’t a horror film. Almost immediately, the camera zooms in on the paper, and, as dramatic music swells in the background, we see that it is a list of the boys who survived the first cuts.

Then the scene shifts to a hallway in which the list of players is affixed to a bulletin board, and we can read the names of the boys in question. The list is organized alphabetically, which is perfectly fine, but it has Neal Broten’s name spelled wrong, which is not. There it is at the third slot, staring us insolently in the face, Neil Broten instead of Neal Broten. In other words, Patrick messed up twenty-five percent of Neal’s first name, or else just assumed that Neal’s parents couldn’t spell and took it upon himself to rectify their errors. This is one of the more hilarious hockey identity mistakes I’ve seen in awhile. It’s almost as good as the time Bobby Clarke forgot Claude Giroux’s name on draft day or the time the wrong Sedin twin was sent to the penalty box. Almost but not quite, so get your act together, Patrick. I mean, you had one job to do, and you messed it up. Think, McFly, think.

All right, I’ve made enough of a mockery of pathetic Patrick by now. I actually don’t think it’s Patrick that’s the real idiot here, but rather the scriptwriters because I highly doubt this is some form of subtle characterization. I think the scriptwriters aren’t even aware that Neal’s name is spelled wrong, which, of course, is their prerogative. After all, it wasn’t like he was going to be an NHL All-Star, be the first American to have a hundred point season, get his number retired by an NHL franchise, or be the first American to score a Stanley Cup winning goal. Okay, I’m going to take a deep breath, calm down, and repeat, “Personal US Hockey Hall of Fame” to myself ten times, although it’s not as if Neal isn’t in the real one. Twice: with the 1980 Olympic team and by himself. All right. I’m over this snub now, because hockey hindsight is a beautiful thing that makes people like these scriptwriters look like morons all the time.

Getting past the insult of nobody knowing how to spell Neal’s name, the real drama in this scene begins when Paradis realizes his name isn’t on the list and confronts Patrick, channeling Victor Meldrew and saying, “Hey, Patrick. I don’t believe it. I mean, I just don’t believe it.”

Trying to be firm and sympathetic at the same time, Patrick replies, “Paradis, we warned you; you just weren’t putting out. I’m sorry.” That’s an actual piece of dialogue. I’m not making this up, even though it sounds like a bad break-up line that a coach should never in a million years be caught saying to a player for fear of sexual harassment charges.

At this point, Paradis completely loses his composure, ranting, “Don’t be. You’re just wasting your time. I mean, the Russians are going to beat you so bad!” His shouting prompts several of the boys in the hallway reading the list to turn around and stare at him. Poor Paradis. I’m sure he just needs a hug from a Tickle Me Emo.

The scene shifts to Rizzo talking to his girlfriend on a payphone, saying, “Donna, I swear I’m terrific… No, I haven’t seen the list yet.”

Rizzo’s romantic moment is interrupted by Les Auge bursting in, hollering about how they both made the team.

In a manifestation of their rapidly developing hockey bromance, Rizzo drops the phone and charges over to hug Les, who babbles something about the font size their names are written in, acting like an excitable toddler on sugar high.

While Les and Rizzo are embracing, a stream of boys races into the hallway and begins clutching at the payphone, since apparently everybody wants to be the first one to tell everyone they know that they made the team. There was definitely a much higher risk of trampling during the days before cell phones.

Rizzo rushes toward the phone, but by the time he grabs it, his call to Donna has already been disconnected, and he has to beg a dime of a teammate.

The scene shifts to a dorm room where Rizzo and some other guys are packing. Walking out of the room with a duffel bag in hand, Les taps Rizzo on the arm, commenting, “Come on, Rizzo. Let’s go.”

Rizzo responds that he’ll see Les outside, and then Dave Christian remarks as Les leaves, “I still can’t believe this is happening. I think my family has been waiting for this since I was born.” What’s this? Is this a subtle reference to the fact that Dave’s dad and uncle were members of the 1960 team that won gold in Squaw Valley? I think it is. I’m such a happy panda right now. Nobody touch me. The feelings are too electric.

“Yeah,” Jim answers from his perch in the corner. “My father’s going to be real happy.”

At this point, Thompson enters and interrupts the powwow by declaring, “Well, at least I don’t have to put up with you any more, Craig.” Thanks for sharing that classy sentiment, Thompson. Please let the door slam on your finger when you leave.

Standing up, Jim demands, “Thompson, got anything else to say?” No, Jim. Don’t feed the troll. Ignore him, and maybe he’ll retreat back under the Bridge of Death from whence he came.

For once not being a jerk just in time for his departure so we have to feel a tiny bit sorry about him leaving, Thompson replies as he shakes hands with Jim, “Yeah. Good luck to you. Good luck to all you guys. I wish to hell I was gonna be with you.” On that final note, he turns around and exits the room, and this is probably the last time we’ll ever see him, so take out your Kleenex if you need them.

After some melancholy music plays in the background, the scene switches to a bank in Boston, where Jim walks into an office, saying, “Dad?”

Looking up from his paperwork and holding onto his glasses, the banker (who is not Jim’s dad), answers, “Hi, Jimmy.”

His dad’s welcome is less warm, asking, “Jimmy, what are you doing here?”

Jim responds that he was told his dad is taking out a loan, and his dad attempts to assure him that “it’s nothing big” and just to tide them over. Unconvinced by this, Jim counters that he can’t let his dad do that, and his father insists that it’s none of his business. Jim wants to know if his father is taking out a loan so he can play in the Olympics, and his dad answers while the banker looks on with wide eyes, “Look, it’s what you want. It’s what the family wants for you.”

“The family can’t afford it,” Jim argues.

Lifting a hand, Jim’s dad replies, “That’s between your mom and me.”

Jim points out, “You can’t speak for Ma.”

Standing up, his dad says, “Yes, I can. She was there when you dreamed it, she was there when we planned it, and she’ll be there when it’s done.” Then he shakes the banker’s hand, thanks him, and leaves the office.

As soon as his dad is out of earshot, Jim states, “I can’t let him do this.”

The banker shrugs, and asks, “What can you do?”

Jim wants to know if he can use the banker’s phone and is told there is a payphone in the lobby. While Jim moves toward the payphones, the camera zooms in on the banker’s bewildered face.

The scene shifts to Herb’s kitchen, where he is working late at night on line combinations for his Olympic team using the photos, when the telephone rings. Picking it up, he snaps, “Yeah? What’d he say? Well, it’s a pity! It’s a damn pity! Bye!”

As Herb hangs up the phone in his typical terrible temper, Patty appears in the doorway, and Herb greets her with a terse, “Phone wake you up? I’m sorry.”

Patting Herb’s shoulders as she crosses the kitchen to take a seat, Patty assures him that it’s okay and remarks that it’s after two o’clock.

Herb relates that he’s “never given up hope” in his life, a statement that is at blatant odds with the pessimism he’s displayed in every scene that he’s shown up in to date. The Herb of this film is clearly in denial. Being his usual miserable self, Herb continues to vent about how all the problems facing him are just too depressing because he doesn’t know who he is still going to have around in February, so he just keeps wishing that the Olympics were over.

When Patty inquires what happened, Herb informs her, “That was a lawyer on the phone. Craig’s family is stretched for money. He wants to turn pro. He feels that’s his only choice.”

Sipping her coffee, Patty asks, “Can I tell you what I think?”

Waving his hand at her, Herb growls, “Go ahead! Shoot! Tell me.”

“Stop worrying about next year,” Patty suggests, all earnestness and passion. “Make a team out of these kids. Take it moment to moment. Craig can’t be the first boy in Olympic history to face money troubles. There are solutions.”

Not wanting to listen to the voice of reason, Herb scoffs, “Oh, it’s that simple, huh?”

“Yes, if you’re determined,” Patty insists before throwing down the gauntlet. “If not, quit.”

“Quit?” Herb rumbles. “Well, at least you’ve given me my alternatives, haven’t you? Quit!”

Turning to address her husband one final time as she exits the kitchen, Patty adds seductively, “The third choice is to come to bed now that I’m awake.”

Showing that testosterone levels are indeed lowered in men of a certain age, Herb stares after her for a moment and then resumes toying around with line combinations. Patty is a lovely, kind, and intelligent woman who deserves better treatment than this, so Herb has earned all the boos in the world here.

Next scene, Herb is sitting in front of a desk, making a case to a suited man busy studying a pamphlet. Herb contends, “You see, the Russians make all their players army officers, while we in turn, we…” Trailing off, he makes a hand gesture indicating nothing.

Yes, Herb, state-sponsored athletic systems are always wonderful institutions. That’s why KGB guards monitored the Soviet teams to ensure none of them defected. That’s why players like the Stastny brothers and Fedorov risked their lives and futures to flee to the Western world and the NHL. That’s why Fetisov and Larionov fought tooth and nail for the freedom to leave the Soviet team and play in the NHL at the twilight of their careers. You might want to come up with a better argument than that, Herb, since America isn’t a Communist country.

“Yes, yes, yes,” answers the man behind the desk in the typical tone of someone trying to brush somebody else off, “this isn’t quite my department, but I’ll see what our Mr. Sears says. He’s in advertising and publicity. Corporate.”

See, Herb, America is a capitalist country, so we have departments for advertizing and publicity. If you want to fundraise for your team, you should look into advertizing deals. Perhaps your team can be featured on a Wheaties box or something.

In another office, Herb explains, “Craig will be living with the team’s doctor, so he won’t be paying any rent, but without corporate help we can’t compete. Like the ad says, America doesn’t send athletes to the Olympics, Americans do.”

Once again, Herb, who finally seems to be learning what it means to live in a capitalist society, is shunted to another department after being told by Mr. Sears that this is more a matter for Anderson, the Vice President of Community Relations, to handle.

The scene shifts to Anderson’s office, where, rifling through photos of the boys, Anderson asks, “Are you sure these players will make the team? It’s never easy to dismiss personnel, but sometimes…”

“The 1960 squad—the one that actually went on to win gold—I was the last man cut from that team,” Herb responds. “They didn’t handle it to well. Now, if these players weren’t sure bets, I’d let them know right now. I wouldn’t be running around looking for a sponsor for them.”

Cracking a smile, Anderson comments that the president of his division was a varsity player at Duluth, so they should all sit down to have lunch together. This is how things get done in a capitalist country, Herb. You network over lunch based on common connections in the hope of getting someone richer than you to fund your project. It’s sickening, but at least you don’t have to spend all day waiting for handouts in the Toilet Tissue line as you would in a Communist country. Misery is always relative, and on that note, I’ll leave you to stew in the relative injustices of Communism and capitalism until the next installment…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Film: Don’t Quit Until You’re Fired

When we left off last time, Herb threatened to cut some of the boys if they caused any more trouble. Moving along with the theme of scratching some people off the team, Patrick exits the training center to be greeted with the following shout from the guy I believe is Dave Christian, “Hey, Patrick, you’ve got the names?”

It should also be noted that when he poses this inquiry, he throws his arms about so much that it would be tempting to include this moment in any top ten hockey goal celebration collection. Overacting was definitely the bread and butter of the actors in this movie, I assure you.

Obviously able to hear Dave’s shout, a tangle of boys including OC, Rizzo, Jim, and possibly Silk if my recognition skills aren’t hilariously subpar, stops tossing around a football and charges over to hear Patrick’s answer for themselves as Patrick explains, “Twenty-six names on the bulletin board in the morning. Rizzie, Herb wants to see you.”

Jim and Rizzo swap scared, startled glances, and then Rizzo, handing the football to Jim, replies, “Okay. I’ll see yous later.” Yous? Seriously, scriptwriters, didn’t we learn in third grade not to ever use the word “yous”? Then again, maybe the scriptwriters are still in second grade, which would explain a ton about the dialogue in this film.

I hate to be the grammar police, but what is this garbage assaulting my eardrums? In English, the word “you” functions as both a singular and plural noun. To avoid confusion, I understand the urge to use informal “you” plural addresses such as “you guys” which I’ve been known to indulge in myself in casual conversation or even “y’all” if you’re from the South, but “yous” just sounds ten times more ignorant than either of those even if it’s technically no more wrong. I maintain that college-educated people like Rizzo shouldn’t use the word “yous” unless they want to have their degrees revoked.

As Rizzo disappears to inflict more grammatical errors on Herb, Jim asks, “What? Is he cutting Rizzie?”

Wearing a slyly obtuse smile reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat’s when giving Alice directions in Wonderland, Patrick says, “Hey, I just work here. Who’s buying the beers?”

When the boys shake their heads in disgust and drift away, Patrick, demonstrating that he cannot pick up on non-verbal cues even when they hit him in the face like a sledgehammer, calls after the guys, “Hey, you telling me I’m not welcome?” Yeah, Sherlock, that’s exactly what they’re telling you, because if you came along for drinks, the scene would probably become as awkward as a dinner of semi-phallic food with a family of nudists.

At his most whiny, Patrick tries to mend the fences again, yelling, “Hey, where you guys going to be in case Herb wants to see you later on?” He is informed that the boys will be across the street at Cecil’s, having a few drinks before the cuts. We are spared the sight of any more Patrick wimpiness by a merciful scene transition.

The scene shifts to Herb’s office, where Herb is telling Rizzo, “Think it over, Rizzie. That’s my best advice.”

When Rizzo asks what will happen if he refuses, Herb responds enigmatically, “We’ll see, but if I keep you, it’s going to be for the good of the team.”

Apparently forgetting how to knock, Patrick bursts in, announcing, “I need you, Herb. In private.”

Plainly irritated at the abrupt interruption, Herb demands in a sharp voice, “Can’t it wait?”

With a shrug, Patrick answers, “Just trying to do the job you gave me.”

As he leaves, Rizzo tells Herb that he’ll have to let him know in the morning, which is a perfectly legitimate and sensible response to whatever Herb could have been proposing to him, but since rationality and Herb are like oil and water in this movie, Herb, of course, replies, “You’re making it hard on both of us.”

The scriptwriters decide that we don’t deserve to see the conversation between Herb and Patrick even though it was important enough for Patrick to barge in on Herb’s discussion with Rizzo, so, instead, the scene shifts to a diner, where Rizzo and Les Auge are chatting in a booth.

As we join them, Rizzo confides to Les, “Les, maybe I’ve got no future in hockey. I’m just average, and I’m too small. Maybe I would be better off coaching than playing.”

It’s interesting that this movie chooses to address the idea of Rizzo being an assistant coach for the 1980 team rather than a player on it, because shortly before the Olympics, when Rizzo was in a scoring slump, Herb basically threatened to bring Rizzo along as an assistant coach instead of a player, explaining to Rizzo that he would tell the media that Rizzo had gotten injured in training. Here, obviously, the timeline is altered and Rizzo is given at least the pretense of a choice, though if he refuses, I’m sure he’s wondering how astronomically high the odds of him being cut from the team are.

Not letting Rizzo wallow in the tough market that faces small hockey players, Les Auge points out that Herb has given Rizzo a choice, not cut him. Not exactly encouraged by this, Rizzo argues that Herb could very well end up cutting him later, but if he accepts Herb’s offer of an assistant coaching position, he’ll have the guarantee of being with the team through the Olympics.

Les Auge scoffs, “Yeah, as assistant coach. That’s terrific. That’s a once every four year job.” Actually, it’s not even that. If you’re an assistant coach for one Olympics, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be an assistant coach for the next. The coaching staff can undergo a complete makeover between one Olympics and the next. Being an assistant coach in the Olympics is a one time job, but if you’re savvy you could probably parlay that experience into another more permanent coaching job elsewhere.

Rizzo expresses this last notion, claiming that if he accepts the position of assistant coach for the Olympics, he could probably get a job as an assistant coach at some college when the Olympics are completed.

Aggravated, Les Auge explodes, “Oh, come on. Wake up! You’re a hockey player! Let me tell you something. Smart guys hang in until the end. If you have any hope in hell of playing, just stay with it.” Geez, I’m feeling inspired myself now. Perhaps Les Auge was the one who should have pursued a career in motivational speaking…

Leaning forward, Les Auge continues, “You know, baseball and football. There you’re talking about big business. There’s lots of opportunities. You’ve got a chance here. Don’t give up.” I’m glad that someone is around to encourage Rizzo to try to take one of the few opportunities open to American hockey players at this time.

Les Auge concludes his grand speech: “Listen, if you can’t find your name on that list tomorrow, then come to me and tell me about your coaching jobs, but until then, just keep running them into corners. Don’t quit until he fires you.” I’ve got to say that my affection for Les Auge is growing. I’m getting sad that he’s going to be cut, whereas I can’t wait to see the back of Thompson.

Switching scenes again, we’re in a living room with a lot of the guys from the team including OC, Bill Baker, Rob McClanahan, Ken Morrow, and Jim Craig talking amongst themselves while an agent tries to hold court about the upcoming game schedule, saying with varying notes of pathetic desperation, “Okay, fellows. All right. Hold it. Listen up. Listen up now, fellows. Listen, it’s a good schedule. Some games in Europe. Some exhibitations against the NHL. You’ve got sixty-one games in all. That’s in five months. Only the fittest survive this.”

I hope this is meant as a not-so-subtle info dump for the movie audience, since it would be really pathetic if the boys needed an agent to tell them what they could easily garner from a schedule for themselves. These guys shouldn’t need an agent to read off a paper what teams they’ll be facing and how many games they’ll be playing. If this Olympic squad has even half the organization of a recreational beer league, they’ll already know all this basic information.

Placing his drink on the coffee table, Ken remarks, “Yeah, that’s the point. A guy could get injured right out playing hockey with a schedule like that.” This hurts my heart, since it was untimely injuries that forced Ken Morrow out of the NHL early. At least he got some Stanley Cup rings with that Islander dynasty first, though…

With a meaningful glance at Morrow and the other boys, Kaminsky leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and counters, “Not if he stays on top of his game. Okay, you can’t prevent bad luck, but cheap injuries, that’s something else.”

This is so wrong that I feel the dumber for even considering for a millisecond the possibility that such an absurd premise could be true. Cheapshots are so terrible precisely because they are unpredictable and illegal. Check out this compilation of NHL cheapshots to see what I mean. Yes, I’m aware those all come from a more recent era, so here’s a collection of cheapshots from the 1980’s, and you can bet that injuries sustained during the 1970’s would probably be even worse, since hockey was more physical in the 1970’s than the 1980’s and safety gear was more primitive and optional. Just good Lord. Is Kaminsky really going to contend with a straight face that the victim of every cheapshot in hockey history could somehow have prevented the injury by being “on top of his game”? That’s like saying every robbery victim who ever existed deserved to be stolen from just for not looking after possessions properly.

Fortunately not falling for this drivel, Jim points out, “Yeah, but a pro gets paid for the risk of bad luck.”

The guy (whose face I can’t recognize) next to Jim chips in his two cents, adding, “Yeah, and a pro’s insured.”

These are legitimate concerns, since an athlete’s livelihood depends on his body’s health, so if there are questions about where the money to treat an injury would come from, I could definitely see that as something that could scare guys with other options away from the Olympic team.

Kaminsky answers, “We’re working on that.”

Then there is a knock on the door, and OC opens it to reveal Herb, who enters and glares around the room to put all the peasants who had the gumption to worry about their medical insurance in their place. This is just like Peterloo.

OC cracks his fingers together in a signal for all the boys to leave, which they do, leaving Herb alone with the agent and Kaminsky.

The agent dons his jacket and announces that he’ll be leaving for a drink, gesturing at Herb and Kaminsky before saying, “With you two, it’s personal. If you get past that, call me. We’ll talk business.”

Once the agent leaves, Kaminsky clears his throat and offers Herb a drink, which prompts Herb to vent, “You said you’d keep away from my kids.”

Not responding to this, Kaminsky asks, “How come you get along so well with my partner?”

“Leave him out of it,” Herb snaps. “Who invited you here?”

Kaminsky answers that it’s just common sense for him to be here and a rumor that Herb needed him.

As the Rumor Weed Song from a childhood of listening to Veggie Tales echoes in my head, Herb goes into full snide mode, asserting that of all the things he needs, Kaminsky is the least and that the rumor Kaminsky should have listened to was the one detailing how much he didn’t care for Kaminsky. I have observed that, thus far, Herb is the only character in this film who is allowed to have even halfway witty put-downs.

Not descending to Herb’s level, Kaminsky remarks, “Well, as I see it, Herb, you are caught between a rock and hard place. That tends to make a man nervous, tight. Sometimes makes him look for something to focus it all on, and something tells me that I’m your Patsy.” Kaminsky is so dramatic here. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear him break into this catchy tune about how much of a Patsy he is.

Shaking his head, Herb comments, “You’re nobody’s Patsy. A guy doesn’t get to be big and important in pro hockey circles by being a Patsy.”

Kaminsky admits that’s true, but argues that he did whatever was necessary to advance in pro hockey circles in order to further the cause of young American hockey players, because, according to him, he’s the only one who believes in them and wants to give them the chances that Canadian junior players usually had first dibs on as he is convinced that American players can be as good as Canadian ones. He’s also adamant that this approach isn’t making him rich.

Unmoved by this, Herb sarcastically suggests, “You ought to register as a charity. I’d send you a couple bucks myself.”

Kamisky responds that would be just fine, and then goes on to make the following appeal, “Now, listen. If you’re going to cut fifteen of the best that we represent, would you please tell me now? I’ve got pros sniffing around every one of them, Herb. These kids need my advice. If I believe you’ve got half a chance at a good showing, I’m going to tell them to stay. If I believe that the Russians are going to humiliate you, my advice is going to be to split, to get them out before they make laughingstocks of themselves.”

As I noted in the previous section, this is about as straightforward and fair a deal as you can expect from an agent, and it’s a pity that Herb is too stubborn to cooperate, because, no matter how much he tries to paint Kaminsky as a villain here, I don’t perceive him in that light. Kaminsky is just trying to do his job by looking out for his clients. He wasn’t hired to be the Olympic team’s GM, after all.

In this vein, Kaminsky continues, “Herb, give me room. Maybe I can help you. You keep playing God, you’re going to find yourself with an empty locker room. Now I’m doing my job as a lawyer, as a player’s rep.”

Herb volleys back, pointing at his chest, “Maybe in your head, but what about here? What about your heart?”

Game, set, and match to you, Herb. You said the secret word. I’m sure that if Kaminsky digs deeply into his masochistic heart he’ll realize that he really does want to see as many of his clients embarrassed on the Olympic stage as possible.

Pressing on, Herb demands, “Law or athletics? Kaminsky, I’m inviting you to join the squad as an honorary member. Put it on the line for the team. Just as though you were wearing the skates yourself. This is no ego trip for me. You know as well as I do that no athlete ever made it without sacrifice for the game, not for meat.”

When Kaminsky says that he’s not questioning Herb’s motives, Herb retorts, “Just my sanity, right?” Well, at this point, given how manic you’ve been acting, Herb, that would be a totally justifiable thing to doubt…

Before Kaminsky can answer, Herb states, “Let’s play it straight. This whole thing as far as I’m concerned is a fantasy.”

Kaminsky looks about as startled by this revelation as the first caveman who discovered that wood ignited. The overacting really makes every scene extra unbelievable.

Getting past the almost comically horrid acting, Herb throws all his cards on the table, observing, “And you know what? I’m beginning to doubt your sanity, too.”

Again with that incredibly fake expression of shock, Kaminsky asks, “Why me?”

Herb fires back, “You coming all the way out here. You, the fastest telephone in the East, coming out here. I’d like to see your cost analysis of this trip.”

Kaminsky confesses that Herb is right, and this wasn’t a business trip, as he came out to see for himself whether Herb was obsessed because Herb was the last man cut from the ’60 gold medal team and that could cloud Herb’s judgment. When Herb presses for Kaminsky’s verdict on his obsession level, Kaminsky sums the situation up perfectly by explaining, “I think you’re crazy like a fox.”

On that note, I’ll leave you until next time to speculate on how Herb will sneak into the chicken coop and which chickens in the coop he’s after anyway…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: Beers and Brawls

After Herb and Patrick’s heated discussion about agents, the scene transitions back to the arena, where Patrick is putting the boys through a skating drill that involves him blowing a whistle every couple of seconds at which point the guys performing the drill come to a hockey stop.

Since a hockey stop is one of the first things a player should learn, I find it vaguely amusing that any significant Olympic training is devoted to honing what should be an automatic reaction by now. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t laugh, because the Florida Panthers have been known to have more men on the ice than on the bench as a hilarious result of a routine line change, so perhaps Herb is prudent to return to the basics, and not assume that his players were ever taught the fundamentals of hockey. Just because you have skill doesn’t mean you were educated in technique, after all.

Watching the hockey stop drill from his perch on the bleachers, Herb shakes his head and makes notes on a clipboard. Then the scene shifts to his office, where he is seen removing pictures from the wall and tucking them in an envelope containing photos of the guys to be cut.

After that, we’re in a bar, and a tender is placing a drink in front of Jim Craig. I think Steve Guttenberg actually looks better in the dim light. I guess for Steve Guttenberg moonlight is becoming, and total darkness even more, but I digress. Let’s focus on the fact that some curly-haired girl is with Thompson but obviously bored because he’s ignoring her, so she saunters over to Jim, giving a radiant smile, as she says, “Hi.”

Jim glances over his shoulder to check that she’s talking to him, and then answers with a grin, “Hi.”

Leaning closer to Jim, the girl asks, “You a hockey player?”

Jim replies that he’s a goalie, and then the girl jumps to the question that really interests her, wanting to know, “You alone?”

His mouth twisting, Jim responds, “Well, if you don’t count the twenty-odd hockey players roaming around this place, yeah, I guess you could say I’m alone.”

The girl and Jim share a laugh at that, but I’m not really amused. Jim Craig actually had a fiancée during this time, so unless their engagement involves some wacky beliefs about only women needing to keep their virtue or a provision about one night stands with strangers just met in bars being completely acceptable, I cannot approve of what’s going on here.

Thompson, who is also not a fan of the road this conversation is speeding down, steps out of the shadows and demands, “Hey, Craig, shouldn’t you be in bed?” Jeez, Thompson, beds might not be the best objects to bring up when your girlfriend is hitting on another guy, but the jealous male is clearly not a rational creature, so I will give a partial pass.

When Jim responds with a half smile that it’s a thought, Thompson continues in an even more belligerent tone, “Well, uh, Mary’s my friend.” What a nice depiction of female empowerment by the script writers: having the girl be argued over by two hormonal guys like the last cookie in the jar would be quarreled over by Kindergartners. Maybe the boys can reach an agreement to share her or something, since what she wants doesn’t factor into this territorial squabble at all.

Pointing between Mary and Thompson, Jim seems to have an epiphany, saying, “Oh, oh.” Then he drops the gauntlet with, “Well, any friend of yours, Thompson, is a friend of mine.”

This just doesn’t feel like Jim at all, honestly. I have trouble imagining him as the kind of guy who would want a one night stand with a random girl he met at a bar, and I don’t think that he’d wish to meddle into other people’s relationships like this. He seems like the type to seek out deep connections, so this whole conflict just is wildly inconsistent with his character, as far as I’m concerned.

Thompson, drawing on a retort common among elementary students, snaps, “Get lost, Craig.”

Raising his eyebrows suggestively at Mary, Jim asks, “Shall we?”

Obviously on the verge of losing whatever reign he was keeping on his temper, Thompson snarls, “Move it, or I’ll move you.”

This is a textbook example of a menacing threat, so Jim can only respond with a classic insult: “Thompson, you’re such a jerk.”

Deciding to make this whole situation even more childish, Thompson hurls a drink in Jim’s face, and Jim bolts to his feet to take a swing at Thompson. A brawl ensues, but we don’t get to see any more of it, since the scene switches to Herb’s office for about the umpteenth time in this film.

Herb begins haranguing the boys about the fight: “Let me tell you guys something. I think it’s time for a pep talk. All this stuff that you guys are up to is—no, forget it. You guys are already acting like big time. I know. Some of you have big time lawyers, and some have big time offers, so I guess a college coach’s pep talks won’t work. “

Oh, so now you understand about agents and contracts, eh, Herb? Do you have selective memory loss or something?

Rizzo pipes up, “Mr. Brooks, I think this is all just a misunderstanding.”

Respect and rationality don’t have any effect on Herb, who growls, “Mr. Brooks is my father’s name. I’m Herb.” Ha. I actually like that line, because I remember reading an article where Rizzo described how when he first introduced himself to Herb, calling Herb “Mr. Brooks,” he got basically the same answer. Something is somewhat accurate in this film. I feel like doing cartwheels.

Put in his place, Rizzo replies, “Yes, sir.”

Getting up to put marks under pictures of Jim and Thompson, Herb threatens, “One more X, and you boys are going right back where you came from. I could lose a lot of good players that way maybe.”

Basically, Herb is disciplining these boys like an elementary school teacher would, warning that if you get two marks next to your name you don’t get to go to recess, which, in this case is the Olympics. This is a reasonable course of action, since everyone knows that the average hockey player has a maturity level of a six-year-old. I mean, otherwise stoic Rangers like Ryan McDonagh get excited to add a piece to the Stanley Cup puzzle in the locker room and don a weird hat probably coated with Leetch’s sweat and Messier’s lice because it marks them as their team’s MVP for the game. In a nutshell, coaching hockey players is like running a daycare center with toddlers who cuss a lot.

Going on with his admonishment, Herb states, “But you’re already making a name for yourselves that will keep you out of pro hockey forever. Understand me and understand me good, nobody is indispensable. Nobody. I want a winning team, but more than that, I want a team that I can be proud of. I want men on that team that have character. I would rather cut you all, and be embarrassed, and be shipped down to my old job than to win with a bunch of kids who would dishonor me and themselves. Nothing is worth that. Now get out.”

For the most part, that rings true to Herb’s philosophy, so hurrah for a speech that actually makes sense in this film. May it not be the last.

After the boys make their awkward departure, Patrick comes in, shuts the door, and points out, “Herb, some of them are barely old enough to vote. They’re just kids.” Come on, Patrick. Don’t be a softie. Everyone should be perfect by age twenty-two if not sooner.

Herb, demonstrating a remarkable ability to read the minds of strangers on the other side of the globe, counters sharply, “That’s exactly what the Russians think about them, so that’s one surprise we can give them. Show them some kids with character. Might take the edge off losing.”

Ugh, this movie drives me crazy. Why does that last sentence have to exist? Is it really necessary to ruin a good bit of characterization with a complete sabotage of it in the next sentence? It makes perfect sense that Herb would want to surprise the Russians with how his boys could play with the discipline of men, but it makes no sense to me at all that Herb would already be bowing his head and envisioning utter defeat. It’s been his dream since the Sixties when he first saw the Russians play at World Championships to come up with a team that could match their speed and cycling plays, so he isn’t going to give up about a week into the process after all these years of working to earn a chance to coach an Olympic team.

At this rate, I expect that, instead of the stirring speech he delivered in the locker room before the game against the Soviets, the film version of Herb will just declare: “Well, guys, we can count this game as lost without even playing it, but if we keep the score close, we should be able to beat out the Finns for bronze on point differential. Go for the bronze, because that’s really the best America could ever hope for, but if we don’t get the bronze, at least we made it to the medal round, which is more than anyone could expect from a bunch of idiotic college kids.”

I’ll leave you all to stew in that sacrilege until next time…

 

 

 

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: Not-So Secret Agents

Last installment, we were left wondering whether certain guys—namely Johnson and Paradis—were, to paraphrase Herb’s terminology, tough enough to stand up. Now we’re ready to begin to find out, because the boys are engaged in a speed skating drill around the rink that involves Herb barking out the seconds and the verbal equivalent of a whip’s encouragement.

Patrick, in his role as the blind optimist on this coaching staff, remarks that they’re fast, and Herb, as the Debbie Downer who is never satisfied, counters crisply that they aren’t fast enough. At the moment, I’m left with the general impression that even a blazing comet wouldn’t be fast enough to please Herb, but maybe a European would, since he shouts at the boys, “You guys think you can beat the Europeans skating that way? Let’s go! Hit your spots!”

Talking to Patrick again, Herb instructs his assistant coach to tell Paradis to put his heart into training because he’s shirking. All the evidence thus far points to Paradis being about as able to stand up under the barrage of Herb’s training as a Dixie Cup can the wheels of a Chevrolet Suburban.

Throwing his hand in the air, Patrick protests, “Come on, Herb. He’s one of the best skaters out there.” Ah, yes, but can he beat the Europeans skating like that? We’re not going to find out unless he puts his heart into it.

Expressing this sentiment, Herb retorts, “But he’s not giving us one-hundred percent. You tell him I want no loafers on the forward line.”

As Herb is shouting more of his unique brand of encouragement at his charges, a short man in a suit who has the unfortunate distinction of having a hair malfunction—at least, I hope it’s a hair malfunction and not an intentional style– that makes him resemble nothing more than an Oompa Loompa enters the arena.

Leaning against the edge of the rink, the newcomer offers a wave, an odd lingering glance, and a perky, “Hello, Herb. If you’ve got time later, I’d like to talk to you about one of my clients, Grazier.” Homoeroticism yay! If I were Herb, based on the scary sidelong glances this man was casting over me, I’d be filing a restraining order instead of taking the risk of talking to him alone, since he makes the Stalker Song ring in my ears like alarm bells.

Seriously, how did Grazier’s parents decide this walking sexual harassment case waiting to happen was a wise choice to represent and presumably at times be alone with their child? Now I can imagine why Grazier busted. He had this creep as his agent. Most likely, he’s in a padded room somewhere, a quivering mess as he tearfully uses a rag doll to show the therapist all the places where the scary man touched him. That being said, I sincerely apologize for poking fun at Grazier when he was sitting next to OC on the plane, because I didn’t know the deep, dark pain he was living with after the abuse he suffered from his agent.

When Herb just stares in revulsion at this borderline pedophile, Patrick supplies, coming to the rescue in his alternate persona of Captain Obvious, “It’s Grazier’s lawyer.”

Instead of calling the police to escort the unwelcome agent from the premises, Herb demonstrates a notable disregard for Patrick safety, ordering him to get Grazier’s lawyer out of here. Being the prototypical gullible second-in-command, Patrick does this, and I’m burning incense in gratitude that he didn’t end up dead and bleeding in an alley somewhere.

The scene finally shifts from the creepy agent back to Herb’s office, where he removes Grazier’s picture from the wall, tearing it and venting to Patrick, “It’s a waste, a total waste. The only reason he came to camp was to make the pros think he didn’t need them.” That’s weird, since I didn’t see any pro scouts lurking around the rink. They must have concealed themselves behind the bleachers really well.

Shaking his head and gazing downward, Patrick says in an almost whine, “I’m sorry, Herb. It’s just one guy. I can’t be everywhere.”

Unrelenting as granite, Herb counters, “Well, you’ve got to be. Patrick, you’re my eyes and ears with this bunch. I thought we had a deal with the lawyers. Who’s next?”

Instead of pulling out an answer from a fortune cookie, Patrick responds, “Herb, most of what the guys tell me—well, it’s like over beer—in confidence.” Here Patrick sounds like he’s a busybody at a neighborhood block party pretending to be reluctant to share a supposed friend’s secret when really he would take the utmost joy in it and only requires the slightest prodding to spill out everything he knows and suspects. Of course, I don’t believe that Patrick means to be devious here, so I won’t blame him for that. I will fault him for being a stupid coward, though, and let me expound upon why.

Patrick is an idiot to bring up the aspect of confidentiality, as it lets Herb know that he and some of the boys have something to hide, and it must be pretty terrible if it can’t be shared without scandal. If you have a secret that you want to keep, the first step is not posting up a gigantic billboard declaring that you have one, Patrick. Apart from the fact that Patrick is a total moron, we also learn that he is not a vertebrae, after all, since he has no backbone and will be telling Herb everything he knows as soon as Herb glares at him.

Then again, the boys who confide in Patrick are partly to blame for Herb uncovering their secrets. I mean, what sort of fool entrusts any important, confidential information to this film’s version of Craig Patrick? Merciful Lord, you’d be smarter to confide your secret to your worst enemy, because at least when your foe came forward with your dreadful secret, everybody would consider the source and probably decide it was a vicious falsehood. However, when someone who seemingly has your trust reveals a confidential story about you, everyone is going to believe it, even though that person has just proved himself a liar. That Sociology 101 lecture is done now, so we can progress with the rest of the scene.

Perhaps Herb is as disgusted with Patrick’s flakiness as I am, because he scoffs, “Really? Well, you’d better get it through your head that you’re part of management now. I’m not asking you to be a spy. I’m asking you to do your job as my assistant, and if this bunch is going to disappear on me, let me know, so that I can quit before I get fired.”

Not to be a Negative Nancy about this whole script, but that bit of dialogue would have been a million times better without that final clause. First of all, I doubt that Herb would be in jeopardy of getting fired just because some boys that could have been on the team chose to go pro. Since the pros were where all the money was, it would be hard for any coach to convince all the top talents to remain amateur for the Olympics. It’s the same sort of reason why NCAA coaches today aren’t routinely fired just because some of their best players move onto the greener pastures of the NHL. USA Hockey would know that and not create a revolving door of coaching staff unless they felt that something else was seriously lacking in Herb’s coaching.

Apart from the whole idea of Herb being fired because some guys deciding to go pro being rather far-fetched, it’s not consistent with Herb’s character to have him be such a defeatist. He’s the type of guy who is going to fight tooth-and-nail to make this team successful, and he’s not going to quit at basically the first sign of adversity. Anyway, it would be totally hypocritical of him to demand unconditional commitment to the team from the boys when he’s prepared to abandon ship over any imagined leak. Ugh. What a way to butcher Herb’s character.

Deciding to betray every confidence he’s ever received from anyone on the team in one fell swoop, Patrick rifles through a list of the boys’ names and announces, “Morrow’s firm, but that might change. He’s getting married in two weeks.”

Herb’s murderous look conveys how much he hates weddings and all the cake that comes along with them.

Patrick continues, “The Eastern guys. They’re all borderline, especially Craig. He’s hard-pressed financially.”

Leaning forward to check a list on his desk, Herb says, “Well, if he’s going pro, he’s going to the Atlanta Flames. They own him. Is he talking to them? Phoning?” How is Patrick supposed to know that? Is he supposed to have wire-tapped Jim’s phone or just eavesdropped on line for the pay phone?

Patrick answers that Jim hasn’t been contacting the Atlanta Flames, but “that doesn’t mean anything” because “he’s represented by lawyers.”

Herb demands, “By who—Kaminsky?”

When Patrick replies by Bob Murray, Herb snarls as if Patrick invented the concept of athletes being represented by agents, “Same thing, damn it. They work together, Patrick. I thought they promised to keep these kids amateur.”

Trying to placate the angry Herb before he orders a human sacrifice, Patrick says, “So far so good. They’re telling the guys to stick with it—to see the team you come up with.” When it comes down to it, that’s really the best a team’s management can expect from agents. An agent’s primary responsibility is to represent his client’s interests, not a team’s. That’s what they’re hired to do, and there’s nothing wrong with them doing their jobs, although Herb, naturally, doesn’t perceive it that way.

All bitterness, he grumbles, “So now I’ve got another set of guys to answer to: lawyers and agents.” Welcome to being a GM, Herb.

“They’re part of the business, Herb,” argues Patrick, obviously calling on his experience as an NHL player. “You’ve got to face it: our best guys have other choices, and they know it.”

Shaking his head and poking his desk with a fervent finger, Herb declares, “Guys with choices on their minds don’t help us one bit. This has got to be the only thing in their lives. Not choices, this.”

Herb is starting to remind me of another Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory character who always wanted stuff now and didn’t care how. Herb would be really comfortable in a Communist regime, obviously, as he doesn’t want to run his team at all like a democracy. With Herb’s manic anti-choice stance, I can easily picture the following scene transpiring as the team’s bus pulls into a rest stop in the middle of the night…

Patrick: All right, boys. I’m going to run into Seven-Eleven to buy us all some drinks. Let me take a tally of who wants what. Raise your right hand if you want a can of Coke, and your left hand if you want a can of Pepsi.

Herb: Damn it all to Hell, Patrick! How many times do I have to remind you not to overwhelm their toddler brains with choices? Choices shouldn’t cross their minds at all. They should only be thinking about the Olympics, not sodas. Just buy about twenty-five bottles of Poland Spring, and be done with it. Water is good enough for this bunch. We need to leave soft drinks to the soft.

Perhaps having similar thoughts to the ones racing around my head, Patrick is so aghast he is speechless, and I’ll leave my readers to recover from their heart attacks at Herb’s mania until next time.

 

 

 

 

 

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: Smile at the Camera

Since I have the night off from watching playoff hockey (funny how the elimination of more teams from the playoff picture correlates with an increase in the time I can devote to other leisure activities), I decided to fulfill my promise to watch and blog about the next installment of the 1981 Miracle on Ice film. This section focuses on part of the trials process associated with selecting the Olympic team, but since this movie centers around the trials more than its twenty-first century counterpart does, I will continue to examine the trials process in the next blog post as well, as the trials process appears to extend beyond the portion that I’m being for this post. With that caveat, wagons ho! We’re about to depart on the next part of our wonderful journey to gold in Lake Placid.

When we last left our boys, they were besieging Patrick with a million and one questions. Apparently having received answers to all their manifold inquiries, they are now giving their names and getting their photographs taken. This is probably intended to serve as our introduction to all the boys—providing us with a way to place all the faces with a name—but it feels like too little too late, since we’ve already been thrown into the deep end without a life vest, and, anyway, most of these actors (a term I employ here in the loosest possible sense) bear an uncanny resemblance to one another. Basically, this is my disclaimer that at some point in the movie I might end up saying something about how Mark Johnson has this great line when really it was Rob McClanahan who said it, because casting makes everyone look the same. In real life, though, I would never in a million years confuse those two, so I can still keep my real Miracle fan badge, right?

While the Miracle fan board reviews my case, the first guy to come forward to get his picture taken is Rizzo. He strikes a pose that is more arrogant than outgoing, and I’m not sure that’s really him. I’d believe he’d give off a confident but also friendly vibe. Once Rizzo is done with his photo op, OC steps forward to have his picture taken while chewing a wad of gum just like Brett Connolly did in the 2010 NHL Entry Draft when he went to the podium to shake Steve Yzerman’s hand, and we just had to be grateful that he didn’t spit or pick his nose since neither his parents nor his agent had coached him in how to meet a GM and Hall of Famer. Unlike Brett Connolly, OC does not seem as if he is operating under the influence of horse tranquilizers, and he puts on this cocky smirk that I believe is perfect for his character. So far he’s one of the better portrayed guys in this film, though that may be damning with faint praise.

Jim’s up next, and he needs to be told to look at the camera, which I guess could be the filmmaker’s way of trying to establish that he was something of a loner. After giving his name, he gives this horrible half smile, and I cringe in disgust. Why, oh way, did casting think Steve Guttenberg was a perfect fit for this role? You could torture me like in that graphic and only appropriate for adult audiences scene in Braveheart, and I’d still refuse to believe that Guttenberg was Craig, until the bitter end shouting, “Freedom!”

After Jim, Ken Morrow follows, and he gives his name so quietly that Patrick asks him to repeat it, which is a reasonably clever and relatively subtle way of showing how reserved Ken was. Kudos to the script writers here.

Buzz is up next, and all I can think is that at least he’s better looking than the guy who plays Jim Craig in this movie. His smile is a bit more smug and less kind than I would have imagined, but maybe that’s just me.

Les Auge follows Buzz, and, like OC, he’s chewing gum. It’s a gum-chewing pandemic. I hope that none of them gets attacked like Hugh Jessiman by their suddenly sentient gum when celebrating a goal. I mean, it’s a sure sign that you’re basically a total bust as a professional athlete when you can’t even celebrate a goal without some hilariously ungainly malfunction, and you don’t want to give Herb that sort of insight into your failings.

Next up is Rob McClanahan, who seems pretty regular and inoffensive, which is about all you can ask from this film at this point. Then we have Pav, who is totally blank for the camera, and that goes well with his hating-the-spotlight personality. Pav is followed by John Harrington, who seems normal though plumper than he looked in earlier shots of him. It must be the light…

We shift over to the rink, where some guys are performing a warm-up skate after having their pictures snapped. Les Auge skates up to Rizzo and introduces himself before remarking about how there isn’t much competition. In response, Rizzo observes that is a good thing because he’s still tired from the trip. Since Rizzo mentions jet lag, I’ll just point out that many of the boys who tried out for the ’80 Olympic team actually arrived in Colorado Springs many days in advance so that they could adapt to the higher altitude.

On that note, we’re back to Patrick taking a picture of a guy named Steve Thompson. I admit that unlike Les Auge, Cox, and Hughes, I don’t remember reading a word about this Thompson fellow in any of the books or articles I’ve studied about the Miracle on Ice, but it’s still interesting to have a face to go with one of the names that Herb will (spoiler alert) end up cutting in this movie. Thompson is followed by some other dude with the surname Parides that I’ve never read about either. It’s weird and vaguely sad how some names are utterly lost in the annals of hockey history.

After those two guys who are the merest footnotes of history in this movie, we have a dude who I have heard of: one Bill Baker, who gives a slight smile and nod at the camera. He’s pretty cute, even though he is apparently not Eric Strobel after all.

Following Bill, we have Mark Johnson, who has dark hair and white skin but other than that really does not look at all like Mark in terms of facial structure or eye color. He also has this arrogant expression on his face that isn’t at all suitable for Mark to be wearing. Why did the director allow this to happen?

When Patrick is done taking Mark’s photo, the scene shifts to focus on all the boys skating around the rink, and then zones in on the bleachers, where Patrick joins Herb, who is watching the warm-ups like a hawk, and asks, “Now what?”

Herb replies that Patrick took the words right out of his mouth, and Patrick looks aghast at his rudeness. I predict that Patrick will spend about half of his screen time going into cardiac arrest because of all the nasty things that emerge from Herb’s irritable lips. Proving me right, Herb, being his blithe self, continues, “What’s this—a hockey camp or a rehearsal for the ice companies?”

That’s actually a good bit of dialogue (or else my standards have just been lowered by the abysmal quality of the rest of the script, because I can’t even tell any more), and I have some time to appreciate it before Patrick responds with a chuckle, “Relax, Coach. There’s got to be twenty great ones in that line-up.”

Being a total boar, Herb counters, “Good. When you find out who they are, let me know.” Again, Patrick looks astonished by Herb’s terseness. I see this conversation is going nowhere, and maybe the emotionally stunted Herb actually senses the same thing, because he goes on, “Meanwhile, would you get them started? Sprints and everything. Work ‘em. Work ‘em hard.”

Patrick stands up and blows his whistle, but we are left to imagine the horrible paces the boys are put through, since the next scene transpires in Herb’s office, where we are looking down at a pile of the pictures Patrick has just taken on Herb’s desk.

Herb, who presumably was using the phone to attempt a call to his wife, puts it down, stating that she must have taken the kids to a movie. Switching from the personal to business, he scoops up the pile of pictures and begins to rifle through them, asking Patrick, who is seated in the chair opposite his desk, what on a scale of one to ten he thinks of Grazier.

Patrick estimates a nine, and then bumps it up to a nine-and-a-half, reasoning that Grazier is dependable in clutch situations.

Herb demands who would back Grazier up, and Patrick, looking pensive, says Johnson and Parides could. I’m assuming from the fact that Grazier’s and Parides’ names are linked with Johnson’s that these guys were seen as talented, top prospects in 1979, but since I’ve never heard of them, I’m guessing that they busted. That’s the interesting thing about prospect development. Sometimes a late round pick blossoms into a Chara, Pavelski, or Lundqvist, and a first overall pick can be a disappointment like Alexandre Daigle or Marc-Andre Fleury.

Referring to Parides and Johnson, Patrick says, “They’re both talented.”

Hurling down the pictures, Herb wants to know, “But are they tough? Will they stand up?”

My immediate reaction to this line is that the scriptwriters are trying to be all philosophical and whatnot, but are actually betraying the fact that they’ve never drawn up a hockey roster or even contemplated doing so for more than six seconds. Toughness probably isn’t within the top five qualities that coaches and GMs look for in a first line center. Things like stickhandling, skating speed, playmaking abilities, shooting strength, and overall hockey sense are all more important. You look for skill in a first line center, and toughness in a fourth line center, because, a fourth line goon considers it a great triumph to get a star center to drop the gloves and earn a coincidental penalty.

That’s my reaction if it’s physical toughness being questioned here. However, if it’s mental toughness, that’s much more valid a concern, but still a slippery slope, since the hockey world tends to overrate the toughness of players who are chirpy on the ice but then delve into full turtle mode if anyone actually raises a fist while underrating the bravery and endurance of quieter leaders like Steve Yzerman whom Scotty Bowman said had the highest pain threshold of any player he ever coached.

All I can say is we better not be headed down the path of “Mark Johnson was a talented player but a weak one,” because Mark Johnson got his shoulder speared in the Czechoslovakia game and returned to the line-up in the next one even though he had to have his arm in a weird sling under his equipment. It was like playoff hockey, and, on that note, tune in to NBC tomorrow to watch Jonathan Toews, who wears number nineteen just like Steve Yzerman, lead the Blackhawks against the Kings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice: Herb’s Warm Welcome

Ladies and gentlemen of the blog world, I’m pleased to announce that I’ve found some spare time between watching playoff hockey and working my rear end off for pennies to see the next segment of Miracle on Ice. Since I’m sure that you’re all quivering masses of excitement at the prospect, I’ll get on with the welcome the boys will be receiving to the trials, so hold onto your hats because this wagon doesn’t have any brakes and will be smashing through Colorado Springs.

In case you didn’t pick up on the subtle hint in the last sentence, these trials take place in Colorado Springs, which, as the name suggests, is in North Dakota, just as Baja California is in Mexico. Just kidding, of course. Colorado Springs is really in Colorado, unlike Baja California, which actually is in Mexico. Look it up if you think I’m a typical American who can’t navigate her way off her block with a GPS and a map.

A bus pulls up to the curb, and a stream of hockey players climb out, carrying their equipment. This river of hockey players includes Rob McClanahan, the guy I’m referring to as Steve Christoff until proof (which could be a long time in coming given this movie’s penchant to not give characters names) that he’s not arrives, and a blond dude I’m going to assume is Eric Strobel on the basis of hair color and age. What I mean by that is Rob, Steve, and Eric were all in the same class at the University of Minnesota, so, even if they weren’t friends, they still might find it somewhat reassuring to show up to trials together, because the devil you know is less scary than the one from Michigan, Wisconsin, or—God forbid—Massachusetts that you don’t know, right? Yeah, operating under that unassailable logic, the blond dude is definitely Eric Strobel until someone in the movie calls him by another name.

Rob, the guy who will be known as Steve for the time being, and the dude I’m presuming is Eric gawk at their surroundings for a bit, because Minnesota boys just don’t get out enough obviously, bless their hearts. While they drink in Colorado Springs, Eric says in a tone that sounds uncannily like a stoned skateboarder, “Wow, this is awesome! It makes me feel important.” Want to know one thing that isn’t awesome? This atrocious dialogue.

Getting beyond the fact that I’m cringing in embarrassment over dialogue that I wasn’t even born yet when it was written and so am in no way responsible for (so my audience should not point their pitchforks at me), Eric really should break his addiction before he’s subjected to a random drug test at the Olympics. After all, the only team allowed to have a drug-enhanced performance was the Soviet team. Should you think I’m being bigoted implying the Soviets cheated in international hockey competitions, check out Igor Larionov’s accounts of the suspicious injections members of the Soviet National team received annually leading up to the World Championships, which he insists that he, Krutov, Makarov, Fetisov, and Kasatonov all refused. The Soviet hockey program was so wacky that I don’t have to make stuff up for this blog to be exciting and scandalous.

Now that we’ve addressed the specter of suspicious Soviet injections, we can get back to the movie, where Rob, fiddling with his bag, tells his friends (who may or may not be named Eric and Steve) to “get over there for a second” so he can take a picture. Basically, Rob is that friend who you think you’ll have fun visiting the Lincoln Memorial with but who actually makes it so you never get to see much of the monument because you have to pause at every step to snap a photo.

Steve (or whoever he is) doesn’t think this is a Kodak moment, so he groans, “Come on, Robbie. Let’s stash our gear.”

Since Rob, like most tyrants with cameras, is not about to be dissuaded this easily, he responds, “No way. I promised your dad.” Jeez, so, basically, Steve’s dad is the ‘70s version of my mom, who always tells my friends (never me) to take a ton of pictures and post them on Facebook so she can admire them. I believe this is her method of monitoring my sobriety levels. Steve should be wary of such tricks from his old man, I think.

Steve snorts, “Well, that’s your problem,” and my problem is that this dialogue may have been written by a second grader. Seriously, if I hear a fart joke, I will take it as definitive evidence that the script writer never graduated elementary school, which would explain a lot about the relative maturity levels of everyone in this film.

Holding up his camera, Rob tells his friends to smile, and they actually cooperate. We can only assume that after this, Rob subjects them to about a million more pictures, because the lighting is never perfect and whatnot.

Fortunately, we are spared the ordeal of watching that as we move into an assembly room where Herb is going to give his idea of a welcome speech, which means, of course, that it will be about as welcoming as a mugging in a dark alley. In this room, the camera focuses on a knot of New England boys, including such notable personages as Ralph Cox, Jim Craig, Dave Silk, and Jack O’Callahan.

With his hands in his pockets, Silk confesses, “These guys make me nervous.” He’s going to be wetting his pants when Herb makes his grand entrance, in that case…

Jim says that he recognizes a lot of the guys from the Moscow tournament and they’re all right. My inner Miracle geek is doing cartwheels right now, because that ’79 World Championship team Jim alludes to did contain Jim Craig, Jack O’Callahan, Phil Verchota, Bill Baker, Rob McClanahan, Steve Christoff, Eric Strobel, Mark Johnson, and even this random retired NHL player named Craig Patrick. In other words, the 1980 Olympics was totally an awesome remix of the ’79 World Championship team.

Cox argues that there are “too many of them and not enough of us.” I feel like I’m watching the beginning of an after-school special on tolerance and diversity.

OC drawls, “Ah, it’s a big country, boys, we’ve got to make room for some of them—like maybe two.” OC is a riot. He gets some of the best lines in this movie, just like he does in Miracle. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.

The New Englanders take their seats, and we move over to a knot of Midwesterners in time to hear Ken Morrow say, “Hey, I’ve never seen most of these guys before.”

This results in some supposedly witty but actually painful banter about most of the guys not having seen Kenny before either, and how the other guys are Easterners who never leave concrete streets. By this point, I fully believe that Herb did his honest best to take the most annoying cast of characters possible to Lake Placid, perhaps theorizing that the Russians would capitulate instantly under an onslaught of their terrible jokes.

We have to listen to more agonizingly unnatural dialogue trying to convince us that it’s humor as the Midwestern boys discuss how the gold medal ’60 team was loaded with Easterners and how much they don’t need a history lesson. Can Herb make his grand entrance soon because this is getting to be excruciating?

The camera now shifts over to the Coneheads, who are sitting in a row diagonal to the other group of Midwesterners. Pointing across the room as if he were raised in a barn, Bah asks Buzz and Pav, “Hey, did you see McClanahan’s jeans?”

Yep, this is definitely an after-school special, all right. Now we’re getting to the point where people are being mocked behind their backs for their clothing selections. I eagerly anticipate the incoming anti-bullying sermon where we’ll be taught that we can all be buddies no matter what our socioeconomic status.

Buzz replies that he doesn’t check out guys’ jeans, and Bah continues to obsess over Rob’s pants, claiming that Rob’s wearing a fancy brand that costs “sixty bucks at least.” Presumably, he’s bitter because that money could have fed a starving child in the Iron Range for a year or something.

Pav decides not to be a bystander, and demands, “So what? He plays good hockey?” Here, a cynic could certainly speculate that Pav has a vested interest in creating a team atmosphere where nobody cares what anyone else is wearing, so that he could show up to his medal ceremony looking like a total ragamuffin, and nobody would be able to taunt him into dressing as if he had actually spared a thought to his appearance.

Bah dismisses this point, scoffing, “Yeah, I know, but what’s a rich kid doing playing hockey?”

Okay. I’ve got to give this movie props for courage here, even if I make fun of the rest of the script. Rob McClanahan was raised in North Oaks, an affluent suburb of St. Paul, while most of the team was from more blue collar origins, so he got a lot of ribbing about his upper-crust background.

Many sources, like the Miracle movie, decide they aren’t going to poke that class grenade with a ten-foot pole, and most of the sources that do touch it do so in a pretty blundering way, basically asserting that Rob was fine because while he might have seemed like a snot like all the other lazy, arrogant upper-middle class jerks in their gated communities driving their elegant cars, he wasn’t actually a snot unlike all those other rich snobs who really are arrogant, lazy jerks. In a nutshell, most of the sources just end up affirming the stereotypes about upper-middle class people instead of confronting them, so we’ll see what the movie does with the class issue. Either way, I’ll applaud their bravery for trying to deal with the issue even if I can’t approve of their execution. So far, though, I think that they’re doing pretty well, since I believe the audience is intended to identify Bah’s remark as a sort of reverse snobbery and not be sympathetic toward it.

The camera switches to Les Auge, who, when asked how he is doing, admits that he’s feeling a little nervous. I’m kind of overjoyed to see Les Auge in this film, since I’ve only ever read about him in books before. It’s nice to see him get some attention for a change.

Now that Les Auge has prepared us for Herb’s entrance by alerting us to the fact that we should all be nervous wrecks, Herb strides in and marches up to the podium to deliver his welcome speech to his crowd of Olympic hopefuls.

Herb opens with a declaration that “some of you have had the pleasure of playing on my teams before.” Way to go, Herb. When the tension between different groups in a room is thick enough to need a knife to slice through it, it’s great to crack a joke to set all the warring factions at ease. I hope he continues his standup routine with a quip about the pleasure of getting a root canal.

Sadly, Herb elects to go into serious mode instead of making any more wisecracks. He attempts to assure his audience’s attention by asserting that this isn’t a case where a player can look to his right and to his left, and then know that one of the three of them will make the team, because the odds, according to him, aren’t that much in their favor. Instead, Herb tells them to look two places on either side of them and assume that maybe none of them will make the team.

Since the boys who do ultimately make the team are organized in bunches, a more accurate version of the speech would point out that there are also some people who could look two places on either side of them and know that all five of them would make the team. Really, Herb could have glossed over the formality of a trials process and just pointed at clumps of players, announcing which ones passed muster and which ones didn’t.

Herb then talks about how the twenty boys who will make the team will be the best skaters, the bravest players, and the guys who believe in themselves and each other the most. This is all music to my ears as this team over the years has somehow been stigmatized as a talentless bunch, so it’s a wonderful change to hear them being called good.

After this, Herb waxes romantic about how he’s not looking for winners, since winners are a dime a dozen, but rather for people prepared to sacrifice for the chance to become winners. This line rings very true, since Herb once defined winners as those who are willing to make sacrifices for the unknown.

Herb concludes with a declaration that he doesn’t know what brought his players there, but he knows what can send them home, and that he’s not interested in their questions, only their answers, so if they have any questions, they should direct them to Coach Patrick, who seems astonished by Herb’s abrupt speech.

As Herb walks by him, Patrick remarks that the boys look eager, and Herb counters that they are a “bunch of cliques” that are “a long way from a team.” In other words, this Olympic team sounds like middle school.

Patrick walks up to the podium and makes a sorry excuse for a jest by commenting, “Welcome to Colorado Springs, where the atmosphere isn’t just friendly and warm; it’s downright hot.” That terrible joke may be the reason the facepalm was invented.

There is an outbreak of polite, pitying laughter from the boys who probably want brownie points from the assistant coach who apparently just wants to be one of the guys.

Coach Patrick asks if there are any questions, and everyone raises a hand. That’s good. Patrick deserves to answer stupid questions for the next century as atonement for his awful joke. On that note, we’ll end this post with Herb’s pleasant words of welcome ringing in our eardrums like a merry wedding bell.