The Best 24 Hours in TV History
It really shouldn't be that difficult. There are hundreds of thousands of options to choose from. Decades of sporting events so extraordinary, so memorable, they've become part of our shared heritage. So, why is it whenever I flip to ESPN Classic on my DirecTV, I feel like I'm stuck in "Groundhog Day?"
Honestly, if I see the 1992 NLCS Game 7 one more time, I'm going to throw my roommates remote right through his $3,000 plasma. Can someone please explain why this game is replayed every six hours? I understand it's the "Francisco Cabrera" game. I realize the Braves scored three runs in the bottom of the ninth to shock the Pirates and advance to their second straight World Series. That being said, this was as boring a Game 7 as you can imagine for eight and a half innings. As best I can tell, this game has historical significance for only two reasons.
1. It reminds us of a time when the Atlanta Braves actually won in the postseason, and, more importantly,
2. If baseball were ever to throw Barry Bonds in front of a tribunal on charges of steroid use, the footage from this game would be Exhibit A for the prosecution. Look at the tape! He's looks like Don Cheadle! He couldn't have weighed more than a buck-eighty. It's not like he was 22 years old and still filling out, either. He was 28! Now look at him. He looks like a freaking WWF wrestler. No human being on the planet has traps that size without enough horse testosterone running through his veins to qualify him for the Belmont. He's put on 55 pounds of muscle over the last decade with nothing but hard work and good nutrition? His season high for home runs jumps from 46 at the age of 23 to a record 73 at 37? His bat speed...
Sorry, sorry. I got distracted.
The point is, ESPN is sitting on a gold mine with the Classic concept, but they're going about it all wrong. Not enough variety. Their choices are too predictable. Sometimes it's the games that weren't on national TV, that weren't Super Bowls, Game 7s, or Final Fours, that we as a sports watching public long to see again. I know, I know. It's so easy to condemn, so difficult to create, right?
Not in this case. I have taken it upon myself to put together a full day of programming, just a sampler to give you an idea how it could be. In order to qualify, each event chosen had to meet all of the following requirements;
1. It can't be a part of the currently existing ESPN rotation. That won't prove difficult.
2. The ENTIRE game, match, or fight must be exhilarating, not just one moment. Take, for example, the 2002 first round NCAA tournament game between Florida and Creighton. Two overtimes. Eleventh seed Creighton knocks off the 5th seeded Gators with a three at the buzzer. Instant Classic, right? Wrong. The game was extremely sloppy, with Florida doing everything possible to give it away. On MY day, every minute is going to be TIVO-worthy.
3. No Super Bowls, Final Fours, NBA Finals, or World Series Game 7s allowed. These moments are likely already etched in your memory. I would like to spend my day airing the games that got away, the ones that may have been forgotten.
4. No skipping commercials. No editing out halftime. No, "Due to time constraints, we move ahead to the end of the fourth quarter." You should feel like you're watching it for the first time all over again.
5. Most importantly, when it originally aired, it should have made you do one or more of the following; stand up on your couch and yell at the television, call your dad or buddies to make sure they were watching, look away from the TV for a couple of seconds because you were so nervous, or-at the very least-make you rich for a day or leave you dodging your bookie.
We're starting at 6 a.m., so tell the boss you've got that rash again, set the alarm, and stock up on Capt'n Crunch. Send the kids to the neighbors, strap in, and enjoy.
6-8 a.m., 3/12/1995, ACC Men's Basketball Tournament Final, Wake Forest 82, North Carolina 80 (OT)
I can't think of a better way to start the day. In a game featuring Jerry Stackhouse, Rasheed Wallace (yes, he did have that "gum" in his hair back then), and Tim Duncan, three future top-five NBA draft picks, Wake Forest guard Randolph Childress stole the show.
I have never seen anyone as unconscious over a three-game stretch as Childress was in this tournament. He lit up Duke for 40 in the quarters, and hung 40 on Virginia in the semis. Then, en route to torching Carolina for 37 in the final, he did something I had never seen before and haven't seen since. After shaking Jeff McInnis at the top of the key, he stopped two feet behind the three-point line and waited for the UNC guard, who had fallen, to get up. He waved to him as if to say, "get you're a** up", and as McInnis charged towards him, drained the three in his mug. Unreal.
It almost wasn't enough. Stackhouse went nuts, tossing in 24 to keep Carolina in the game, including a long three-pointer with 4.5 seconds left to send it into OT. The rest of the way it was all Childress, who scored ALL 9 of Wake's points in the extra session. When Stackhouse missed another long three at the buzzer, Wake Forest had won an absolute Classic.
8-11 a.m., 1/4/1997, NFL Divisional Playoffs, Jacksonville 30, Denver 27
I can clearly remember watching this game on a Saturday evening with my partner-in-point-spread-crime, Jack. We, like the rest of America, had taken Denver, minus 10, and chalked it up as easy money. Jacksonville was in only their second season of existence and had backed into the playoffs. They had expended tons of emotional and physical energy in a 30-27 upset over Buffalo the week before. Denver, meanwhile, was 13-3, well rested, and playing at Mile High.
With Denver up 12-0 at the end of the first quarter and Jacksonville unable to get any offense going, Jack and I were already figuring out how to double up on Sunday's Cowboy-Carolina game.
Then something happened.
Natrone Means burst through the line for eight yards. Then seven. Then eleven. With the Denver defense on their heels, Mark Brunell started to pick apart the secondary. The game turned so quickly, the Broncos were stunned. By the middle of the third quarter, Jack and I were cheering wildly for the Jags. Any game that can make you root against your own wager has got to be a classic, so I'm putting it in my lineup.
11-2 p.m., 5/6/1998, Chicago Cubs 2, Houston Astros 0
This game should be televised every day until the end of time. Twenty year-old Kerry Wood, in only his fifth career start, struck out 20 Astros and gave up only one hit, a dribbler off the glove of Cubs third baseman Kevin Orie. It was, quite simply, the best game ever pitched. It was also the most dominant individual performance I have ever witnessed, and I defy anyone to watch it and tell me otherwise. I've never seen professional athletes so thoroughly overmatched.
Wood was throwing 101 mph bullets and 97 mph whiffle balls. Guys in the Houston dugout had that "opening scene from Saving Private Ryan" look on their face when it was their turn to hit. The 3-4-5 hitters went 0-9 with nine strikeouts. Wood struck out the side four times. His slider to Derek Bell to end the game was a moment I will never forget. The ball broke from right to left like those pitches Bugs Bunny threw against the Gashouse Gorrillas. I swear the end of Bell's bat was a good two feet from reaching the pitch, and it had started at his belly button.
2-3 p.m., 10/18/1991, Ray Mercer def. Tommy Morrison (TKO 5)
If you've ever caught yourself muttering, "Nobody could survive that kind of beating" when Ivan Drago is pulverizing Rocky Balboa during Rocky IV then you've never seen this fight.
In his first defense of his WBO Heavyweight Championship, Mercer was getting absolutely bludgeoned by the "Duke" from the opening bell. Every round I was certain it was only a matter of time before he went down or his corner threw in the towel. Mercer was dead on his feet. I'm not going to lie to you, it was hard to watch. It was a savage, brutal beating that you knew was always a possibility in the sport, but never seemed to materialize.
With Morrison ahead on all scorecards heading into the fifth round, Mercer went "Italian Stallion." He came off the ropes after a clean Morrison jab and unleashed the most devastating 16-punch flurry by any heavyweight in history not named Tyson. Morrison's face exploded. There was more blood than a Tarantino flick. Both guys could barely stand up. With one final brutal uppercut, Morrison was done, and although Mercer retained his title, NOBODY won this fight.
3-6 p.m., 11/23/1995, Detroit Lions 44, Minnesota Vikings 38
No self-respecting Fantasy Football owner could leave this game off his Classics schedule. With the entire nation watching on Thanksgiving Day, this game was a track meet from the opening kickoff.
In what was the Year of the Quarterback in the NFL (even Erik Kramer threw for 28 TDs) this game featured over 800 yards of passing. Everybody went nuts. Detroit had a 400 yard passer (Scott Mitchell), a 100 yard rusher (Barry Sanders, of course), and THREE 100 yard receivers (Moore, Morton, Perriman), the only time in history that's been accomplished. Warren Moon countered with 384 yards and three TDs of his own.
It was 28-24 Minnesota at the half, and the game never slowed down. I only left the room once, immediately following a Detroit incompletion on third down. By the time I grabbed some wings and reclaimed the couch, David Palmer had broken the punt return for a 72-yard TD. It went back and forth for four quarters, with Detroit escaping with the victory (and the cover) as they always seem to on Thanksgiving.
It's extremely rare that you can find an NFL regular season game without a "change the channel to Goonies for a while" moment. Since this one fits the bill, let's watch it again.
In all likelihood, the scintillating individual performances, stirring upsets, and brutal beatings you've witnessed throughout the previous 12 hours of TV programming on ESPN Classic have taken you on an unprecedented emotional roller coaster.
Bleary eyed and incoherent, your wife has just arrived home from a hard day at work to find you sitting upright on the edge of the couch, wrapped in a fleece blanket, slowly rocking and muttering the words "can't sleep-gotta watch" over and over again.
Despite the distraction, you try and ignore the sounds of her packing up her closet and confessing to her mother that she was right all along, because you're only halfway through the greatest day in TV history.
Next on the menu...
6-9 p.m., 6/12/1998, CWS Championship Game, USC 21, Arizona St. 14
This was no late night PAC-10 football game. This was, rather, the greatest tribute to the aluminum bat in baseball history. Coupled with weight training and the increasing availability of human growth hormone, it has turned the college game into that Nintendo classic, RBI Baseball. Every guy in the lineup weighs 230 and goes yard every other at-bat.
Now, I don't make it a point to watch the College World Series. To the contrary, I firmly believe that only the most socially mal-adjusted among us can enjoy sitting through nine innings of a baseball game. I flipped this game on during the bottom of the first inning while in search of something to keep me entertained while I wasted some time on the treadmill. On a Saturday afternoon in June, it was either this or "They Came from Outer Space."
Within 20 minutes, I was calling my old man at work, telling him he had to tune in to the game. Three-and-a-half hours later, the treadmill long since halted, I was still sitting on the basement floor, not wanting to miss a pitch.
This was the kind of game that made you fear for the health of the guys on the mound. Everything they threw was coming back at them 30 mph faster. Both lineups morphed into the '27 Yankees. Thirty-five runs. Eighty-five total bases. The two teams combined to break 35 of the 111 CWS records and tied 17 more. A second baseman had seven RBI's for God's sake! Second basemen aren't supposed to hit, they're just supposed to field their position, make the pivot when turning two, and struggle with the English language.
Any time you watch nine innings of a baseball game, particularly a game that's not even very close, you know it's something special.
9-12 a.m., 7/7/1985, Wimbledon Final, Boris Becker def. Kevin Curren 6-3, 6-7, 7-6, 6-4
I can always remember the specifics about a moment or moments that made me a fan of a player, team, or in the case of the '85 Wimbledon final, an entire sport.
My mother, perhaps drawn to the sport because it was the only one in which her Czechoslovakian brethren flourished, became infatuated with tennis in the early '80s.
Years later, when I had turned 10 and could finally comprehend the utterly illogical system that is tennis scoring, my mother forbade me to leave the house while the Wimbledon matches were being aired, for the sole reason of providing her updates over the phone when she was stuck at work.
When the tournament began, I resented the fact that I was stuck inside watching a bunch of communists smack a ball around while my schoolmates were out playing "Ring and Run." By the end of the fortnight, however, I was the only preteen in the country with an unhealthy obsession with Bud Collins and Mary Carillo. I had fallen in love with the game, and it was for one reason and one reason only -- Boris Becker, the German teen who had captivated the sports world during his two week run from obscurity to the brink of a championship.
Seventeen-years old. Unseeded. No one of that age or that ranking had ever won the Wimbledon title. As the match got underway, however, you knew that was about to change.
Despite the fact that Curren had knocked off John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors, two of the most hallowed names in the sport over his last two matches, he had no answers for Becker. The teenager fired ace after ace, finishing with 22. On the rare occasion Curren was able to muster a return, Becker was waiting where he was most comfortable, the net. Bringing athleticism to the game that had never been seen, he lunged and dove and volleyed his way into tennis history. It was only in those moments, when Becker would fully extend himself, parallel to the ground, to hit a winning volley and then pull himself off the court covered in blood, chalk, and dirt, that you were reminded that he was just a kid.
12-2 a.m., 12/14/1991, Duke 88, Michigan 85 (OT)
While every event in this lineup is memorable, I feel that this game stands out from the rest for the following reason -- I honestly don't think we'll ever see anything like it again.
Let me explain. Just the other day, I was watching Arizona-Stanford when they showed a close-up of 'Zona freshman Mustafa Shakur. I found myself thinking, "Man, look how young he looks. He looks like a little kid. It must be such culture shock when these guys leave high-school and start playing against real men".
That got me thinking about this 1991 Michigan team. They started FIVE freshmen. Five rookies, only one year removed from dunking on 5'8" scrubs that just wanted a Lettermen's jacket, were now being thrown into the fire against the best players and teams in the country.
What they accomplished will never be matched. Those five freshmen, Jalen Rose, Juwuan Howard, Chris Webber, Jimmy King and Ray Jackson, went on a heart-stopping run all the way to the NCAA Championship game before losing to the defending champion Duke Blue Devils.
It was their first meeting with Duke, however, that served notice to the rest of the world that these were no ordinary rookies. Duke came into Michigan sporting a "Who's Who in College Hoops" lineup, featuring Bobby Hurley, Grant Hill and Christian Laettner. (Yes, youngsters, Laettner used to be good)
The Fab Five, setting trends with their long shorts and black socks, found themselves down 17 early in the first half. After a shoving match between Webber and Laettner, the nation watched the freshmen grow up right before their very eyes and play the rest of the game with the insolence and arrogance that would come to be their legacy.
They stormed all the way back and took their first lead at 76-73 with 37 seconds left when Webber hit a long three as the shot clock expired. With victory nearly in hand for Michigan, Duke missed two shots, but grabbed the rebound each time. Hurley, easily the most annoying player in Division I history, threw up a last gasp effort and got fouled behind the arc. After the Blue Devil point guard nailed all three foul shots to tie the game, Webber launched a prayer from 60 feet that hit the front iron and broke the hearts of every Duke-hater in the country, which pretty much means everyone outside of Durham, North Carolina.
Even though they went on to lose in OT, it was surreal to watch five freshmen go toe to toe with the best team in America and almost come out on top. We've got to show the game, because it'll never happen again.
2-4 a.m., 5/5/1989, FA Cup Final, Liverpool 3, Everton 2 (OT)
I've got a hidden agenda here. I would be lying if I said it doesn't bother me that people in this country can't seem to look past the low-scoring games to see all the things that make soccer the greatest sport in the world. Maybe this match will help.
It had everything.
There were two of the most storied sides in England squaring off in the league Cup championship. Stars like David Seaman, Ian Rush and John Barnes in the prime of their career. Top it off with nearly 100,000 fans, each fiercely loyal to one side or the other to a degree that Americans could never comprehend. (By the way, there are few things in sports cooler than listening to 60,000 Liverpool fans singing, "Ian Rush, Superstar. How many goals have you scored so far?" to the tune of Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical)
Most importantly, there are five of the most brilliant goals you will ever see, four of them coming after the 90th minute of the match. If you watch this match and don't admit it's a Classic, you are either devoid of passion, or come from Texas and would sooner never give the Hook 'em Horns for the rest of your life then confess you enjoyed a soccer match.
4-6 a.m., 3/18/1990, NCAA Tournament 2nd Round, Loyola Maramount 149, Michigan 115
I've written and rewritten this part several times, and I know I still can't do this game justice. Loyola Maramount came into the tournament as the 11th seed in the West. They came into the game as decided underdogs against New Mexico State. They came in without their best player, leading scorer, leading rebounder, and team leader in Hank Gathers, the Lion's All-American forward who had died of a heart attack on the court two weeks earlier during a game against Pacific.
Think about that. Their best player had died. Only two weeks earlier. On the court. The team and sports world were devastated. Many thought Loyola would turn down their tournament bid, but they played on.
They played as if possessed. With Gathers' roommate Bo Kimble leading the way with 45 points, they routed New Mexico State 111-92 to set up a meeting with third-seeded Michigan, the defending national champion. It was a great story, we all thought, but it's going to end here.
Man, were we wrong. I can't explain it. I have no idea what you attribute it to. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe a sense of purpose. Whatever you call it, the Lion's parlayed it into the most shocking 40 minutes of college hoops you will ever see. They scored 150 points! On Michigan! Kimble went off for 37, shooting all his foul shots left-handed to honor his fallen friend. Some guy named Jeff Fryer, who would never be heard from again, hung 41, including 11 three pointers, on a Wolverine team that simply had no chance from the opening tip.
To top it off, they came back the next weekend and did it again, this time shocking Alabama 62-60 to advance to the Elite Eight, where they ran into the eventual national champions in UNLV and their amazing run ended.
The reason I chose this game is because it couldn't have happened. There is no way a team from the West Coast Conference scored 150 on mighty Michigan. There is no way a team who had to watch their best player take his last breath can make a run to the Elite Eight. I have always believed that if Gathers had lived, and Loyola had played Michigan with a full team, they would have gotten run off the court by halftime. This game is a testament to what people are capable of and the strength of human emotion. It gave me chills when I watched it 14 years ago, and I know it would do the same today.
So there you have it -- 24 hours of TV meant to incite the senses, warm the heartstrings, and alienate friends and family. Now if only I could get my hands on Comedy Central for a day or two...
Honestly, if I see the 1992 NLCS Game 7 one more time, I'm going to throw my roommates remote right through his $3,000 plasma. Can someone please explain why this game is replayed every six hours? I understand it's the "Francisco Cabrera" game. I realize the Braves scored three runs in the bottom of the ninth to shock the Pirates and advance to their second straight World Series. That being said, this was as boring a Game 7 as you can imagine for eight and a half innings. As best I can tell, this game has historical significance for only two reasons.
1. It reminds us of a time when the Atlanta Braves actually won in the postseason, and, more importantly,
2. If baseball were ever to throw Barry Bonds in front of a tribunal on charges of steroid use, the footage from this game would be Exhibit A for the prosecution. Look at the tape! He's looks like Don Cheadle! He couldn't have weighed more than a buck-eighty. It's not like he was 22 years old and still filling out, either. He was 28! Now look at him. He looks like a freaking WWF wrestler. No human being on the planet has traps that size without enough horse testosterone running through his veins to qualify him for the Belmont. He's put on 55 pounds of muscle over the last decade with nothing but hard work and good nutrition? His season high for home runs jumps from 46 at the age of 23 to a record 73 at 37? His bat speed...
Sorry, sorry. I got distracted.
The point is, ESPN is sitting on a gold mine with the Classic concept, but they're going about it all wrong. Not enough variety. Their choices are too predictable. Sometimes it's the games that weren't on national TV, that weren't Super Bowls, Game 7s, or Final Fours, that we as a sports watching public long to see again. I know, I know. It's so easy to condemn, so difficult to create, right?
Not in this case. I have taken it upon myself to put together a full day of programming, just a sampler to give you an idea how it could be. In order to qualify, each event chosen had to meet all of the following requirements;
1. It can't be a part of the currently existing ESPN rotation. That won't prove difficult.
2. The ENTIRE game, match, or fight must be exhilarating, not just one moment. Take, for example, the 2002 first round NCAA tournament game between Florida and Creighton. Two overtimes. Eleventh seed Creighton knocks off the 5th seeded Gators with a three at the buzzer. Instant Classic, right? Wrong. The game was extremely sloppy, with Florida doing everything possible to give it away. On MY day, every minute is going to be TIVO-worthy.
3. No Super Bowls, Final Fours, NBA Finals, or World Series Game 7s allowed. These moments are likely already etched in your memory. I would like to spend my day airing the games that got away, the ones that may have been forgotten.
4. No skipping commercials. No editing out halftime. No, "Due to time constraints, we move ahead to the end of the fourth quarter." You should feel like you're watching it for the first time all over again.
5. Most importantly, when it originally aired, it should have made you do one or more of the following; stand up on your couch and yell at the television, call your dad or buddies to make sure they were watching, look away from the TV for a couple of seconds because you were so nervous, or-at the very least-make you rich for a day or leave you dodging your bookie.
We're starting at 6 a.m., so tell the boss you've got that rash again, set the alarm, and stock up on Capt'n Crunch. Send the kids to the neighbors, strap in, and enjoy.
6-8 a.m., 3/12/1995, ACC Men's Basketball Tournament Final, Wake Forest 82, North Carolina 80 (OT)
I can't think of a better way to start the day. In a game featuring Jerry Stackhouse, Rasheed Wallace (yes, he did have that "gum" in his hair back then), and Tim Duncan, three future top-five NBA draft picks, Wake Forest guard Randolph Childress stole the show.
I have never seen anyone as unconscious over a three-game stretch as Childress was in this tournament. He lit up Duke for 40 in the quarters, and hung 40 on Virginia in the semis. Then, en route to torching Carolina for 37 in the final, he did something I had never seen before and haven't seen since. After shaking Jeff McInnis at the top of the key, he stopped two feet behind the three-point line and waited for the UNC guard, who had fallen, to get up. He waved to him as if to say, "get you're a** up", and as McInnis charged towards him, drained the three in his mug. Unreal.
It almost wasn't enough. Stackhouse went nuts, tossing in 24 to keep Carolina in the game, including a long three-pointer with 4.5 seconds left to send it into OT. The rest of the way it was all Childress, who scored ALL 9 of Wake's points in the extra session. When Stackhouse missed another long three at the buzzer, Wake Forest had won an absolute Classic.
8-11 a.m., 1/4/1997, NFL Divisional Playoffs, Jacksonville 30, Denver 27
I can clearly remember watching this game on a Saturday evening with my partner-in-point-spread-crime, Jack. We, like the rest of America, had taken Denver, minus 10, and chalked it up as easy money. Jacksonville was in only their second season of existence and had backed into the playoffs. They had expended tons of emotional and physical energy in a 30-27 upset over Buffalo the week before. Denver, meanwhile, was 13-3, well rested, and playing at Mile High.
With Denver up 12-0 at the end of the first quarter and Jacksonville unable to get any offense going, Jack and I were already figuring out how to double up on Sunday's Cowboy-Carolina game.
Then something happened.
Natrone Means burst through the line for eight yards. Then seven. Then eleven. With the Denver defense on their heels, Mark Brunell started to pick apart the secondary. The game turned so quickly, the Broncos were stunned. By the middle of the third quarter, Jack and I were cheering wildly for the Jags. Any game that can make you root against your own wager has got to be a classic, so I'm putting it in my lineup.
11-2 p.m., 5/6/1998, Chicago Cubs 2, Houston Astros 0
This game should be televised every day until the end of time. Twenty year-old Kerry Wood, in only his fifth career start, struck out 20 Astros and gave up only one hit, a dribbler off the glove of Cubs third baseman Kevin Orie. It was, quite simply, the best game ever pitched. It was also the most dominant individual performance I have ever witnessed, and I defy anyone to watch it and tell me otherwise. I've never seen professional athletes so thoroughly overmatched.
Wood was throwing 101 mph bullets and 97 mph whiffle balls. Guys in the Houston dugout had that "opening scene from Saving Private Ryan" look on their face when it was their turn to hit. The 3-4-5 hitters went 0-9 with nine strikeouts. Wood struck out the side four times. His slider to Derek Bell to end the game was a moment I will never forget. The ball broke from right to left like those pitches Bugs Bunny threw against the Gashouse Gorrillas. I swear the end of Bell's bat was a good two feet from reaching the pitch, and it had started at his belly button.
2-3 p.m., 10/18/1991, Ray Mercer def. Tommy Morrison (TKO 5)
If you've ever caught yourself muttering, "Nobody could survive that kind of beating" when Ivan Drago is pulverizing Rocky Balboa during Rocky IV then you've never seen this fight.
In his first defense of his WBO Heavyweight Championship, Mercer was getting absolutely bludgeoned by the "Duke" from the opening bell. Every round I was certain it was only a matter of time before he went down or his corner threw in the towel. Mercer was dead on his feet. I'm not going to lie to you, it was hard to watch. It was a savage, brutal beating that you knew was always a possibility in the sport, but never seemed to materialize.
With Morrison ahead on all scorecards heading into the fifth round, Mercer went "Italian Stallion." He came off the ropes after a clean Morrison jab and unleashed the most devastating 16-punch flurry by any heavyweight in history not named Tyson. Morrison's face exploded. There was more blood than a Tarantino flick. Both guys could barely stand up. With one final brutal uppercut, Morrison was done, and although Mercer retained his title, NOBODY won this fight.
3-6 p.m., 11/23/1995, Detroit Lions 44, Minnesota Vikings 38
No self-respecting Fantasy Football owner could leave this game off his Classics schedule. With the entire nation watching on Thanksgiving Day, this game was a track meet from the opening kickoff.
In what was the Year of the Quarterback in the NFL (even Erik Kramer threw for 28 TDs) this game featured over 800 yards of passing. Everybody went nuts. Detroit had a 400 yard passer (Scott Mitchell), a 100 yard rusher (Barry Sanders, of course), and THREE 100 yard receivers (Moore, Morton, Perriman), the only time in history that's been accomplished. Warren Moon countered with 384 yards and three TDs of his own.
It was 28-24 Minnesota at the half, and the game never slowed down. I only left the room once, immediately following a Detroit incompletion on third down. By the time I grabbed some wings and reclaimed the couch, David Palmer had broken the punt return for a 72-yard TD. It went back and forth for four quarters, with Detroit escaping with the victory (and the cover) as they always seem to on Thanksgiving.
It's extremely rare that you can find an NFL regular season game without a "change the channel to Goonies for a while" moment. Since this one fits the bill, let's watch it again.
In all likelihood, the scintillating individual performances, stirring upsets, and brutal beatings you've witnessed throughout the previous 12 hours of TV programming on ESPN Classic have taken you on an unprecedented emotional roller coaster.
Bleary eyed and incoherent, your wife has just arrived home from a hard day at work to find you sitting upright on the edge of the couch, wrapped in a fleece blanket, slowly rocking and muttering the words "can't sleep-gotta watch" over and over again.
Despite the distraction, you try and ignore the sounds of her packing up her closet and confessing to her mother that she was right all along, because you're only halfway through the greatest day in TV history.
Next on the menu...
6-9 p.m., 6/12/1998, CWS Championship Game, USC 21, Arizona St. 14
This was no late night PAC-10 football game. This was, rather, the greatest tribute to the aluminum bat in baseball history. Coupled with weight training and the increasing availability of human growth hormone, it has turned the college game into that Nintendo classic, RBI Baseball. Every guy in the lineup weighs 230 and goes yard every other at-bat.
Now, I don't make it a point to watch the College World Series. To the contrary, I firmly believe that only the most socially mal-adjusted among us can enjoy sitting through nine innings of a baseball game. I flipped this game on during the bottom of the first inning while in search of something to keep me entertained while I wasted some time on the treadmill. On a Saturday afternoon in June, it was either this or "They Came from Outer Space."
Within 20 minutes, I was calling my old man at work, telling him he had to tune in to the game. Three-and-a-half hours later, the treadmill long since halted, I was still sitting on the basement floor, not wanting to miss a pitch.
This was the kind of game that made you fear for the health of the guys on the mound. Everything they threw was coming back at them 30 mph faster. Both lineups morphed into the '27 Yankees. Thirty-five runs. Eighty-five total bases. The two teams combined to break 35 of the 111 CWS records and tied 17 more. A second baseman had seven RBI's for God's sake! Second basemen aren't supposed to hit, they're just supposed to field their position, make the pivot when turning two, and struggle with the English language.
Any time you watch nine innings of a baseball game, particularly a game that's not even very close, you know it's something special.
9-12 a.m., 7/7/1985, Wimbledon Final, Boris Becker def. Kevin Curren 6-3, 6-7, 7-6, 6-4
I can always remember the specifics about a moment or moments that made me a fan of a player, team, or in the case of the '85 Wimbledon final, an entire sport.
My mother, perhaps drawn to the sport because it was the only one in which her Czechoslovakian brethren flourished, became infatuated with tennis in the early '80s.
Years later, when I had turned 10 and could finally comprehend the utterly illogical system that is tennis scoring, my mother forbade me to leave the house while the Wimbledon matches were being aired, for the sole reason of providing her updates over the phone when she was stuck at work.
When the tournament began, I resented the fact that I was stuck inside watching a bunch of communists smack a ball around while my schoolmates were out playing "Ring and Run." By the end of the fortnight, however, I was the only preteen in the country with an unhealthy obsession with Bud Collins and Mary Carillo. I had fallen in love with the game, and it was for one reason and one reason only -- Boris Becker, the German teen who had captivated the sports world during his two week run from obscurity to the brink of a championship.
Seventeen-years old. Unseeded. No one of that age or that ranking had ever won the Wimbledon title. As the match got underway, however, you knew that was about to change.
Despite the fact that Curren had knocked off John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors, two of the most hallowed names in the sport over his last two matches, he had no answers for Becker. The teenager fired ace after ace, finishing with 22. On the rare occasion Curren was able to muster a return, Becker was waiting where he was most comfortable, the net. Bringing athleticism to the game that had never been seen, he lunged and dove and volleyed his way into tennis history. It was only in those moments, when Becker would fully extend himself, parallel to the ground, to hit a winning volley and then pull himself off the court covered in blood, chalk, and dirt, that you were reminded that he was just a kid.
12-2 a.m., 12/14/1991, Duke 88, Michigan 85 (OT)
While every event in this lineup is memorable, I feel that this game stands out from the rest for the following reason -- I honestly don't think we'll ever see anything like it again.
Let me explain. Just the other day, I was watching Arizona-Stanford when they showed a close-up of 'Zona freshman Mustafa Shakur. I found myself thinking, "Man, look how young he looks. He looks like a little kid. It must be such culture shock when these guys leave high-school and start playing against real men".
That got me thinking about this 1991 Michigan team. They started FIVE freshmen. Five rookies, only one year removed from dunking on 5'8" scrubs that just wanted a Lettermen's jacket, were now being thrown into the fire against the best players and teams in the country.
What they accomplished will never be matched. Those five freshmen, Jalen Rose, Juwuan Howard, Chris Webber, Jimmy King and Ray Jackson, went on a heart-stopping run all the way to the NCAA Championship game before losing to the defending champion Duke Blue Devils.
It was their first meeting with Duke, however, that served notice to the rest of the world that these were no ordinary rookies. Duke came into Michigan sporting a "Who's Who in College Hoops" lineup, featuring Bobby Hurley, Grant Hill and Christian Laettner. (Yes, youngsters, Laettner used to be good)
The Fab Five, setting trends with their long shorts and black socks, found themselves down 17 early in the first half. After a shoving match between Webber and Laettner, the nation watched the freshmen grow up right before their very eyes and play the rest of the game with the insolence and arrogance that would come to be their legacy.
They stormed all the way back and took their first lead at 76-73 with 37 seconds left when Webber hit a long three as the shot clock expired. With victory nearly in hand for Michigan, Duke missed two shots, but grabbed the rebound each time. Hurley, easily the most annoying player in Division I history, threw up a last gasp effort and got fouled behind the arc. After the Blue Devil point guard nailed all three foul shots to tie the game, Webber launched a prayer from 60 feet that hit the front iron and broke the hearts of every Duke-hater in the country, which pretty much means everyone outside of Durham, North Carolina.
Even though they went on to lose in OT, it was surreal to watch five freshmen go toe to toe with the best team in America and almost come out on top. We've got to show the game, because it'll never happen again.
2-4 a.m., 5/5/1989, FA Cup Final, Liverpool 3, Everton 2 (OT)
I've got a hidden agenda here. I would be lying if I said it doesn't bother me that people in this country can't seem to look past the low-scoring games to see all the things that make soccer the greatest sport in the world. Maybe this match will help.
It had everything.
There were two of the most storied sides in England squaring off in the league Cup championship. Stars like David Seaman, Ian Rush and John Barnes in the prime of their career. Top it off with nearly 100,000 fans, each fiercely loyal to one side or the other to a degree that Americans could never comprehend. (By the way, there are few things in sports cooler than listening to 60,000 Liverpool fans singing, "Ian Rush, Superstar. How many goals have you scored so far?" to the tune of Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical)
Most importantly, there are five of the most brilliant goals you will ever see, four of them coming after the 90th minute of the match. If you watch this match and don't admit it's a Classic, you are either devoid of passion, or come from Texas and would sooner never give the Hook 'em Horns for the rest of your life then confess you enjoyed a soccer match.
4-6 a.m., 3/18/1990, NCAA Tournament 2nd Round, Loyola Maramount 149, Michigan 115
I've written and rewritten this part several times, and I know I still can't do this game justice. Loyola Maramount came into the tournament as the 11th seed in the West. They came into the game as decided underdogs against New Mexico State. They came in without their best player, leading scorer, leading rebounder, and team leader in Hank Gathers, the Lion's All-American forward who had died of a heart attack on the court two weeks earlier during a game against Pacific.
Think about that. Their best player had died. Only two weeks earlier. On the court. The team and sports world were devastated. Many thought Loyola would turn down their tournament bid, but they played on.
They played as if possessed. With Gathers' roommate Bo Kimble leading the way with 45 points, they routed New Mexico State 111-92 to set up a meeting with third-seeded Michigan, the defending national champion. It was a great story, we all thought, but it's going to end here.
Man, were we wrong. I can't explain it. I have no idea what you attribute it to. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe a sense of purpose. Whatever you call it, the Lion's parlayed it into the most shocking 40 minutes of college hoops you will ever see. They scored 150 points! On Michigan! Kimble went off for 37, shooting all his foul shots left-handed to honor his fallen friend. Some guy named Jeff Fryer, who would never be heard from again, hung 41, including 11 three pointers, on a Wolverine team that simply had no chance from the opening tip.
To top it off, they came back the next weekend and did it again, this time shocking Alabama 62-60 to advance to the Elite Eight, where they ran into the eventual national champions in UNLV and their amazing run ended.
The reason I chose this game is because it couldn't have happened. There is no way a team from the West Coast Conference scored 150 on mighty Michigan. There is no way a team who had to watch their best player take his last breath can make a run to the Elite Eight. I have always believed that if Gathers had lived, and Loyola had played Michigan with a full team, they would have gotten run off the court by halftime. This game is a testament to what people are capable of and the strength of human emotion. It gave me chills when I watched it 14 years ago, and I know it would do the same today.
So there you have it -- 24 hours of TV meant to incite the senses, warm the heartstrings, and alienate friends and family. Now if only I could get my hands on Comedy Central for a day or two...
posted by Tony at 1:33 PM
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