RE-LIVING A 'MIRACLE' IN LAKE PLACID

Opening the door to the Olympic hockey arena in Lake Placid was akin to ripping off the
lid of a treasure chest full of memories that had been sealed for more than 40 years. I almost
felt guilty not having to pay to enter a hockey shrine that produced a once-in-a lifetime moment
which re-energized an entire country. A bunch of fresh-faced college kids authored a 'Miracle on
Ice', upsetting a Soviet team that was too big, too fast, too strong, but just ripe enough to be
beaten. It was, hands down, the greatest sporting event of the last century.

If there was a tour guide to take me around to tell me the story of how Team USA beat the
Soviets on their way to winning the gold medal, I would have given him $20 to get a burger
and beer across the street. I had read every article, watched every movie, and even had a
chance to meet and interview Mike Eruzione, the hero and captain of the team while I was
working in Boston. I didn't need somebody to tell me about a moment I witnessed
as a teenager from New Canaan, CT, which seemed like a world a way from Lake Placid
at the time.

I wanted to soak this all in by myself, with my memories, along with the ghosts from the 1980
Olympic game between the United States and Soviet Union. Forgive me for being selfish, but
I'm just glad I didn't have to share this moment with a bunch of other tourists. I didn't want to
have to be 'moved along' because I was taking too much time imagining what this place must
have been like on that heart-stopping February night four decades ago.

I got chills walking down the aisles toward the playing surface. The chills were much like the
ones I experienced as a 15-year old kid when the chants of U.S.A! U.S.A! blasted through my
television set which was glued to ABC Sports. Those chants almost came to life as I marveled
at a hockey arena that was close to perfection, not one polluted by luxury boxes and corporate
greed that we see in nearly every arena and stadium in professional sports today.

The 8,000 magnificent red seats are so close to the ice, the spectators must have been able to
feel the heartbeats of a bunch of college kids as they tried to slay the big, red dragon that was the Soviet Union, a team of paid professionals who had been together nearly every day for
four years, preparing for their coronation as the greatest team in the world, once again.

My trip down to the ice and into the hallways of the locker rooms made me feel like a little kid
who just found an open gate at Augusta and was allowed to walk into Butler cabin without
anybody noticing. Except I wasn't trespassing or doing anything illegal, although, it sure felt that
way because this was too good to be true. Sorry, some people like posting pictures of their food
on Facebook. I like to write about historic moments that make me feel young again.

I strolled down the hallways where nearly everything that happened during that Olympic
tournament is contained in a plaque and posted on the wall. Then I came to 'Locker Room 5',
which was the dressing room for Team USA for their victory over the Soviet Union. And yes,
the roster of everyone on that team is encased on the wall just outside of it. Jim Craig, Dave
Silk, Ken Morrow, Mark Johnson, Buzz Schneider.....they were all there just in case anybody
had forgotten. 

The door of locker room 5 looked like any other door, except it's the gateway to the greatest
upset in sports, college, professional, or the Olympics. So many stories, characters, and one
speech that was so brilliant, it's immortalized on a plaque. It smacks you in the face just after you

 open the door. A picture of Herb Brooks, the hard-driving coach who led the U.S. is at the head of
it, with the exact words he used to motivate his players before they took the ice against the Soviets:

                                     Great moments are born from great opportunity.
                                      And that's what you have here tonight, boys.
                                          That's what you've earned here, tonight.
                                                                One game.
                                      If we played 'em ten times, they might win nine.
                                                 But not this game. Not tonight.
                                                   Tonight, we skate with 'em.
                         Tonight, we stay with 'em, and we shut them down because we can!
                                  Tonight, we are the greatest hockey team in the world.
                                 You were born to be hockey players -- every one of ya.
                                            And you were meant to be here tonight.
                                                          This is your time.
                                                   Their time -- is done. It's over.
     I'm sick and tired of hearin' about what a great hockey team the Soviets have. Screw 'em!
                                                          This is your time!!


I got goosebumps reading this speech. Every hair on my back stood up and tingling ran through
my spine. I could almost hear Brooks' character in 'Miracle on Ice', Kurt Russell shouting it
out to the players in the movie, 'Miracle on Ice.'  Stuff like this is powerful, really powerful.

Once you're finished reading the plaque, you can enter the locker room, which looks the one
you see in any municipal rink in the country. It is cramped, has that hockey smell, and showers
that are too close for comfort. Amenities? It had none. Hard to believe it accommodated Team
USA in a mammoth event like the Olympics. Perhaps, it just added to the charm and history
of it all.

As I left the locker room and went back to the bench where Team USA sat for the game. I
imagined Brooks in his camel hair blazer looking to the scoreboard, anxiously counting down
the seconds to the game. My eyes wandered up to the rafters, where Al Michaels and Ken
Dryden called the game. The press box looked like a chicken coup as it was perched high
above the rink. The echoes woke up and he was screaming..."five seconds, four seconds,
three seconds. Do you believe in miracles? Yes!"

 

The excitement and unbridled joy I felt as a sophomore in high school, watching alone at home
came rushing back. It was an amazing moment. An empty hockey rink never made me feel
so alive.

Plan a trip to Lake Placid and experience this place. Like inside the fence at Augusta, this
place is truly special. Almost as miraculous as the game against the Soviets, is the fact that
this tiny village hosted such a massive event like the Olympics, not once, but twice.

Lake Placid can always hang its hat on entertaining dozens of countries, but also being the
site of the greatest sporting event of the last century. It truly was a miracle.

THE LEGEND OF BO HICKEY

Bo Hickey. The name alone sounds like something out of Hollywood. To those who saw Hickey
run over, through, and around tacklers during his days as a running back, he is bigger than life.
And to Lou Marinelli, who coached with Hickey for more than 30 years and saw him jam a pack
of Red Man tobacco in his mouth every day, he is like a "cartoon character."

Thomas "Bo" Hickey is an original. When he was born, the mold was thrown away. He is a
true legend in the state of Connecticut. If you tell people with a sports background that you're
from New Canaan, the first thing they'll most likely ask is, "Do you know Bo Hickey?" My
answer is yes, and it always brings a huge smile to my face.

The man, the stories, and the legend of Bo Hickey are truly classic.

As a high school athlete, Hickey was the original "Bo", an athlete who could do everything. In
the 1960's, while playing at Stamford Catholic High School, Hickey was a 6 foot, 230 lb running
back with sprinters speed. He was well ahead of his time and became one of the greatest high
school players in the history of state. He took his talents to College Park, Maryland to play for
the Terps where he became a star before leaving to play in the CFL after his sophomore year.

Hickey ended up playing one season in the NFL with the Denver Broncos, scoring four
touchdowns. before injuries ended his career. His playing days over, Hickey set out to be a
coach, where his legend grew even bigger.

After a few coaching stints around the FCIAC in Connecticut, Hickey joined Marinelli's staff
in 1981, where he stayed for 31 years. He helped morph the Rams from league doormat to
perennial state power as an assistant coach. I was part of Marinelli and Hickey's first team at
New Canaan High School and the stories I have about Bo are simply priceless.

For the coddled and pampered kids of New Canaan, Hickey was the first in-your-face, tell it
like it is, football coach. As a former professional player, Hickey wasn't easily impressed. When
he yelled and scream with a wad of tobacco in his mouth, even the best interpreter from the
United Nations couldn't figure out what the hell he was saying.

Coach "Bo" acted like he knew everything, and that's because he usually did. When Marinelli
asked Hickey if he wanted to join him at coaching seminars, Hickey would respond, "I played
the game for a living. What can I learn at a seminar?" Hickey played under the legendary coach
Bob Lynch in high school, who was an offensive wizard and Hickey had an amazing sports I.Q.
He was rough, tough, and never afraid to tell you what he thought, which most of the time, was
right.

During my senior year, we had a player, the late Fred Trumpler, who worshipped Hickey at the
alter, but was a bit of hypochondriac. He was always stopping the flow of practice with some
malady. Frustrated by Trumpler's actions, Hickey picked up four orange cones from the sidelines
and placed them around Trumpler, who was laying on the ground writhing in pain, and said,
"All right, we're good. Don't run into the Trumpler zone and things we'll be OK." And then
he'd spit tobacco juice defiantly into the ground.

Hickey was known as much for his tobacco chewing as his coaching ability. We often thought
he went to sleep with a pack of Red Man under his pillow. During my senior year, I took a
marketing class and we were assigned to create a product and make a commercial for it.
Me and my good friend, Steve Tonra, had Hickey in mind for the project. We came up with
"Bo Hickey's Everlasting Chew" and our marketing campaign for it was a pure classic. He
was on a horse with a bigger than 10-gallow cowboy hat, spitting tobacco juice at everybody
he had just beaten up at the saloon.

I could do nothing but laugh nearly 30 years later, when Hickey, who runs the cemetery in
New Canaan, was helping me pick out a plot for my father who had just passed away. I opened
the door to his SUV and four cartons of Red Man tobacco fell to the ground. Yep, that's
Bo Hickey, through and through.

Bo Hickey portrays himself as a tough guy, and he is. But under that sandpaper-like exterior
is a man with a huge heart. He won't let many see it, but he truly cares deeply about his players
who all respect him tremendously. Hickey has been coaching hockey at the high school for more
than a decade and doesn't get paid much. Marinelli once told me that Hickey spends far more
out of his own pocket on the kids and the program, than he takes in. Hickey helps out with food, equipment, and anything a kid on his team might need. And he does it without asking for anything but an all-out effort in return.

Bo Hickey is a true classic and a one-in-a-million type of guy. He has coached in Connecticut
for nearly 40 years and has made an impression on everyone he has met. Is he always politically
correct? Um, no. and Bo doesn't care. Does everyone like Bo Hickey? Absolutely not. But those
are the people  that don't really know Bo Hickey. They see what's on the surface, which isn't
always pretty.

But to the players, coaches, and administrators who truly know Bo Hickey, he is a great man
and  a legend. I love the guy.

On Friday night, the football program will honor Bo Hickey for his contributions and service.
And yes, there will be a roast of Bo Hickey, as well. Should make for one hell
of a night.

JEFF BAUMAN & CARLOS ARREDONDO DELIVER A FEEL-GOOD MOMENT

Let's face it, our country has been drowning in tragedy and scandal. We've been shaken to the core by senseless deaths and destruction. Since mid-December there has been Newton, Lance Armstrong, Benghazi cover-up, Boston bombings, Cleveland abduction case, and the Oklahoma twister. Throw in Manti' Teo, Rutgers, and the trial of Jodie Arias and you have a lot of Americans who feel so dirty, they are in need of a good lather, rinse and repeat. On Tuesday night, there was a moment that put a stick of deodorant on the United States and made it feel fresh again. Jeff Bauman and Carlos Arredondo, who are forever linked because of the Boston Marathon bombings, threw out the first pitch at Fenway Park before the Red Sox-Phillies game. This was a spine-tingling, raise every goose bump on your body moment. It gave me chills, and I'm not afraid to admit, a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. Bauman, who lost both his legs in the bombings, delivered a fastball to Red Sox catcher Jarrod Saltalamacchia and triumphantly yelled out, "that was a strike", with a mile-wide grin on his face. It was more than a Kodak moment. This rinsed a lot of the ugliness that we've seen and felt over the last five months. The pure joy on Bauman's face made a lot of our pain and problems disappear, albeit temporarily.     Here was a man in the prime of his life, missing his legs, acting as if he's the happiest guy in the world. And Bauman probably was. Throwing the first pitch in the cathedral of baseball in front of 38,000 fans and a regional television audience that absolutely adores you, could be the highlight of his young life. Bauman is a symbol of courage, perseverance, hope, and happiness. Yes, happiness. The guy had his legs blown off and he has the strength to forge ahead with a laugh and a big smile on his face. How great was that pitch? How great was that moment? The man who saved Bauman's life, was also honored by the Red Sox and all of New England. Arredondo, the man in the cowboy hat, who like Bauman,  also lost two of something very precious to him:  his two boys. One was killed fighting in Iraq,  the other took his own life because he couldn't deal with the pain of losing his brother. Arredondo was at the marathon watching a few runners who were honoring his sons. He had a smile on his face, but the pain, must still have been unbearable for Arredondo to endure. When the bombs went off, it would have been easy for him to scramble for safety like thousands of others did. Nobody  can blame anybody for a decision they make during sheer panic and terror. While many people were thinking when the next bomb would go off, Arredondo was thinking about whose life he could help save. After running down and removing some fencing from a section near the finish line, Arredondo found Bauman with his legs almost completely shredded. If you've seen the pictures, you know just how gruesome it was. Rick Pitino and the Louisville basketball team turned away from the compound fracture of the leg of Kevin Ware suffered during the NCAA tournament. They didn't rush to the aid of a fallen teammate, instead, they waited for someone else to help him when he was writhing in mind-numbing pain. Arredondo must have been beyond horrified when he saw the carnage on Boyleston street. We all could understand if he froze, backed off, or even just ran away. That scene was gruesome. With death and terror in the air,  Arredondo calmly applied tourniquets to what was left of Bauman's legs to help stop the bleeding. He then put Bauman in a wheelchair and rushed him to the first aid tent. A photographer snapped what has become an iconic picture, capturing both the fear and courage of two men who didn't know if they were even going to live to see it. There was Arredondo holding the  femoral artery in his hand and pinching it so Bauman wouldn't bleed out. Think about that. He had a long artery in his hand while rushing Bauman to safety. The man is the definition of a hero. As I've said many times before, the city of Boston should erect a statue depicting that scene with Bauman and Arredondo next April before the 2014 Boston Marathon. It should be placed right in the precise spot where the first bomb went off. Arredondo wheeling Bauman with the artery in his hand is the defining moment of the Boston Marathon after the bombs went off. It symbolizes everything that is right in our country: caring for others without worry about what happens to yourself. Tuesday's first pitch was just a small reward for Arrendando who should never have to buy a meal or drink in Boston. He should become a cult hero as he defines what Boston Strong is all about. Same goes for Bauman, because after all, the two are linked forever. This was a great moment for me and it's something I won't soon forget. With all the negative news suffocating our world, I had forgotten what a feel-good could do for the soul. Thank you Jeff Bauman. Thank you Carlos Arredondo.

CRAIG SAGER CAN'T HANG WITH DON CHERRY

On Friday night, Craig Sager broke out another not-made-for-TV ensemble from his closet.
The TNT sideline reporter must have dressed in the dark while nursing a hangover which
is something, thanks to the Internet, we've seen before. There was a collage of pinks, reds,
and rasberries, encased by vertical and horizontal stripes, making for a, "what the...." hell
moment.

This is Sager's schtick. I can't ever remember his breaking a story or telling the viewers of
anything of significance, unless you consider Dwayne Wade going to a high school prom with
a local teenager, big news. Sager, who entered the national picture in 1974 when he was
a cub reporterand just about greeted Hank Aaron at the plate when the Hammer set the all-time
home run record, has put the "color" in his colorful wardrobe.

I don't know who designs his  outfits, nor do I care. They are intended to do one thing: get
Sager attention and make him  standout from the two million sideline reporters who say
nothing, ask nothing, and are basically good for nothing. Television is a copycat business,
where people steal ideas, fads, and styles. Sager's style is a flat-out rip off  from Don Cherry,
the NHL commentator and legend for the CBC and "Hockey Night in Canada".

When it comes to wild and wacky outfits, Cherry has been on top for a long, long time. He
is often imitated by Sager, but never duplicated. The former player and coach set the standard
years ago, and no matter how hard Sager tries, he'll never displace Cherry as the best/worst
dresser on television.

Cherry, a crusty, sturdy, and distinguished looking man, can get away with wearing outrageous
outfits. When it comes to hockey, he is old-school, a commentator who thinks bare-knuckle fighting
is part of the game, and excessive celebrations are not. And besides, he just looks a lot cooler
than Sager in his outfits. Cherry is more likely to be in the middle of an alley-fight, while Sager
looks like an 8th-year senior still trying to make it into a college fraternity.

JOE SOLIMINE: KING OF PELHAM DIGS IN AGAINST CANCER

 

In an "all about me world", Joe Solimine has always been about helping others. For more than

40 years he has been the pillar of Pelham, New York, giving his time, money, and giant-sized
heart to support a close-knit community that's just a Ruthian shot away from the Big Apple.

Solimine is the Babe Ruth of Pelham, a man who seems bigger than life with his 6'3' frame,
booming voice, and magnetic personality. He's the kind of person you meet once, and remember forever. Solimine is the former town supervisor and has been on the board and nearly every committee with Pelham's name of it. He is a remarkably unselfish man who gives, gives, and
gives some more to ensure  that everyone in his town is  happy and taken care of.

Now, the people of Pelham are trying to take care of the man who has given them so much. In
February, Solimine was diagnosed with leukemia and needs a bone marrow transplant. The town
has organized bone marrow drives to help find the match that Solimine and others need. There
is an 80 percent chance of finding a bone marrow match for Solimine. The percentages of ethnic minorities are significantly smaller.  Being the selfless man that he is, Solimine has started a fundraising drive to help those who have been affected by the disease. He has produced  teamsnooks.com, a web site that supports those in need of bone marrow transplants.

Solimine was a legend long before he arrived in Pelham. Playing high school baseball in the
shadows of Yankee Stadium, he was a lot like Babe Ruth, a big left-handed hitter who could belt
tape-measure shots with a flick of his powerful wrists. He signed a professional contract with
the Pittburgh Pirates at just 17-years old. and reached AAA before retiring at the age of 26.
Solimine brought his love of baseball to Pelham where he was the general manager and coach
of the Pelham Mets. He often suited up in his 50's and still wielded a dangerous bat.

Today, Solimine is stepping up to the plate and digging in against a dangerous disease. Knowing
Solimine as I do, I have little doubt that he will once again hit a home run and beat leukemia,
while helping others.

For more on Solimine and his fundraising efforts, please check out teamsnooks.com.

BRIAN BILL IS STILL MY HERO

Nearly five years after his death, Brian Bill is still very much my hero. Bill was one of 30
SEAL's riding in a helicopter on a mission in Afghanistan in 2011 when the Taliban brought
it down with a rocket-propelled grenade. Everyone on board died.

Bill grew up in Stamford, CT, which bordered my hometown of New Canaan. I never met
him but I was fascinated by his story and the type of person his friends said he was.
Triathlete, mountaineer, pilot, engineering degree, Navy SEAL---Bill squeezed more out of
his 31-years on the planet than most people do during their entire lives.

Bill had a megawatt smile and was a magnet to his friends. Everyone loved Brian Bill and wanted
to be his best friend. Heck, I never even met him and I wish he could have been my BFF. He just
looked so cool. Hollywood cool.

Since his death on August 6, 2011, the people who were touched by Brian Bill have done a great
job  helping to keep his legacy and memory alive. Athletic events have been named in his honor,
a Facebook page has been created for him, and there are plans in place to have a statue constructed
for him in Stamford, CT. In September of 2011, I dedicated the Toughman Triathlon to one of
the toughest guys I never knew. I competed with his name and the date of his passing on
my shirt.

Before and after the race, I was asked about Brian Bill and was more than happy to tell his story.
He fought for our country knowing the percentages were extremely high that he would pay the
ultimate price. Bill was a Navy SEAL who performed the most dangerous of missions, trying to
vaporize terrorists on their home soil. He would often make the impossible become possible,
rescuing U.S. soldiers behind enemy lines where assault rifles, IED's, and rocket-propelled
grenades were the weapons that could send a SEAL to a painful and gruesome death.

It was an honor for me to tell his story and explain the type of person he was. I know, I never
met him. But you didn't have to meet Brian Bill in person to know about his character. It jumped
off the page of his pictures. Look at the ones of Bill with his family and friends and you can
tell he was the life and most popular person at the party.

Most of all, Bill was a SEAL, the toughest and most courageous of all military trained soldiers.
He knew he'd never be on the cover of magazines, get featured on CNN, or get a ticket-taper
parade for his accomplishments. That's the drill when you're a SEAL. Every great accomplishment
is expected and never made known to the public.

Bill did so many great things for our country that we don't even know about. Most of it is classified
and will stay that way. Bill liked it that way. He didn't get into the service for medals or the glory.
Bill just wanted to defend its honor and help protect it while most everyone back in the United
States was sleeping comfortably in their own beds.

I wrote a few articles after his death and I was touched by the response I received from his
friends and members of his family. When I was competing in a swim meet a few summers
ago, Brian's aunt was in attendance and introduced herself. It was a great moment for me
as I got to learn even more about the person Brian Bill was. Brian Bill is still very much an
inspiration to me.

I realize that he is just one of the more than 4,000 troops killed in the Iraq/Afghanistan wars.
Every one of them who fought and died for our country deserves the highest of honors and
universal respect and admiration. On this Memorial Day, I hope people take the time to
remember and thank them properly. They made the ultimate sacrifice fighting for our freedom
and protection.

Memorial Day has become far more important to me because of Bill's death. His sacrifice
really brought out the appreciation I have for him and all the soldiers who have been killed
in action over the years. They are a symbol of courage, bravery, commitment, and dedication
to our country.

On Memorial Day, please remember Brian Bill and all the fallen soldiers who made the ultimate
sacrifice for our country.

BROOKLYN 13.1: IT WAS ALL ABOUT THE JOURNEY

When I set my alarm clock on Friday night, I was kind of hoping the battery on the cellphone
would die or malfunction before 3:45am around. I was emotionally spent after marking the fifth
anniversary of my father's death and covering an adrenaline-filled story for a local television
station. I didn't know where the energy to run the Brooklyn Half-Marathon was going to come
from.

3:45am arrived and my phone went off like a 5-alarm fire. Man, that was painful. I rolled out
of  bed with my running shorts already on. I didn't care. Anything to save time. I smelled like a
pair of socks that hadn't felt liquid Tide in two weeks, but I had no interest in taking a shower,
after all, I was going to run 13.1 miles, not trying to find a date for that night. A generous
stick of Old Spice and Crest would take care of that, anyway.

I looked in the mirror and saw something staring back at me that looked like it got hit upside
the head with a shovel. It wasn't pretty. Father Time caught me and is kicking my ass. I went downstairs, stuffed my face with the leftover pasta I chowed on the night before. Had to do
that carbo-loading thing. Still half-asleep, I wolfed down two bananas, a cold hamburger from
the fridge, and a pear. There's nothing scientific about my race day diet. I eat pretty much the
first thing I see. I stopped at a McDonald's drive-thru on the way to the race and stuffed
three pancakes (more carbs) and a piece of sausage down my throat like it was my last meal.

As I was making the 1.5 hour drive to Brooklyn at 4:30am, I said to myself, "What the hell are
you doing? You're 48 years old and going to run 13 miles in Brooklyn, New York. There's
nobody on the road and you're eating dry pancakes from McDonald's!"

I got down to lower Manhattan where I planned to park and then take the subway to Brooklyn
for the race. As I was looking for a spot, I passed a nightclub at 5:15am. A throng of 20-something partiers were coming out of night club. Boy, did I feel old. I'd much rather be in bed at this time
and these kids are just going home. I'm going to run a half-marathon, and they're going to get
laid. What's wrong with this picture?

I parked and made my way to the nearest subway station and quickly discovered I was heading
in the right direction. The platform was filled with people looking exactly like me. Jogging shoes,
shorts, IPod, Bib number already attached to shirt, and bottles of water in hand. It's 5:30am and
I was in great company with people who, like me, wanted to punish their bodies as the sun was
coming up. I didn't feel badly. I actually felt energized.

We all walked out of the subway an exited near the Brooklyn Museum. I had never seen so
many joggers in my life. It felt like the United Nations with Nike's on. Black, white, Asian,
Muslims, there was even two guys dressed up like Jake and Elwood who sported British accents.
This had all the makings of a great experience, and it was.

Nearly 20,000 people entered the race and took off around 7am. The Ethiopians were long gone
and out of sight by the time the mere mortals and weekend warriors crossed the starting line. I
cranked up my IPod and opened up the race to Jay-Z's, "Empire State of Mind". I found it
fitting because he's from Brooklyn and rapped about many of the places we'd be running through. It was easy to feed off the song and the energy of New York City. There is no place
like it.

The people's whose idea of exercise is watching people run, lined the streets to gaze at everybody
going by, perhaps laughing at all of us who chose to endure nearly two hours of pain on a Saturday
morning. I love people watching, and I got as much out of viewing the characters of New York
City as they got out of checking out 20,000 runners barreling through their neighborhoods while
sweating and writhing in pain. It'll take me a while to get the sight of an overweight,  frosty-
white man in nothing but a red, white, and blue speedo that was two sizes too small, out of my
mind. Right, it's NYC, what else did I expect.

My only goal on this day was to finish without injuring myself. I strained a calf muscle just
three weeks before the race and I was apprehensive every time my left foot landed and hit the
pavement. But I ran the first three miles of the race with a canyon-sized grin on my face. This
was fun and exhilarating. I took in the atmosphere, the faces, and all the charm of Brooklyn.
I can only imagine how great things were when it had the Dodgers and Ebbets Field.

After meandering our way through New York City's largest borough, we came down a highway
ramp that led to the final four miles of the race. It was nothing but a flat, straightaway, leading
to Coney Island and the finish line. This was my third half-marathon since March 24th, so my
body was accustomed to the pain and punishment that goes with a 13.1 mile race. I was hoping
for a 1:48 finish, which would have been a personal record. When I reached the boardwalk at
Coney Island, I checked my watch and saw that wasn't going to happen. But I didn't care. This
run was all about the journey. The 3:45am, the drive to NYC, the subway ride, and the 13.1
jaunt through Brooklyn. It was a great experience. Running in the Big Apple is simply awesome.

I crossed the line in the amusement park at 1:53:04, which came out to be 8:38 per mile. Out of
21, 378 runners, I was the 7, 908th to cross the line. Finishing 7,908 never felt so good. I saw
some of the pictures taken of me on-line early Sunday night, and I, well, I didn't look so good.
The pain on my face said I was laboring with quintuplets. Nobody ever looks good with pain
on their face.

Inside though, I felt great. It wasn't about the ending, but rather the journey, and it was awesome.