The Battle of State Road Park (and Howard Johnson's Too)

Front page photo from the 6/25/79 edition of the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

Veterans Memorial Park in Parma is usually a very peaceful place.  Visitors can stroll by a pond, play disc golf, or take in a softball game (the park has even hosted several national softball tournaments).  My brother and I spent a fair amount of time there (when it was known as State Road Park) during our childhood years in Parma.  Our house was at the corner of W. 44th and Longwood, directly across the street from the park's northern entrance.  All sorts of adventures, from biking, to sledding, to capture the flag, were waiting in what was essentially our front yard. On one sunny afternoon in the summer of 1979, however, the usual calm of the park was broken: Nazis had decided to come to town and they had picked our park to invade

T'was Sunday, June the 24th (not quite a week after my second birthday, so my memories of the event are sketchy at best: my family remembers it all very well though) and a group of Neo-Nazis attempted to have a rally there.  I say attempted because the locals pelted these wannabe SS guards with rocks and bottles before one racist word could be uttered.  The projectile throwing was so intense that the Nazis had to run out of the park while Parma cops tried to keep the crowd at bay.

After the Nazis vacated the premises, a group made up of various Communists/anti-fascist elements marched into the park waving red flags.  This congregation was apparently not chased out. 

Later that day, down in Independence at the Howard Johnson's on Brecksville Road, the Nazis attempted to have a press conference.  I say attempted because a group of about a dozen young Jewish men who had been at the State Road Park demonstration burst into the hotel meeting room with baseball bats and improvised flame throwers. The Nazis had an even narrower escape in Independence: the anti-fascists managed to set a car on fire that belonged to one of the White Power Party members.  

The Nazis, under the direction of National Socialist Party of America leader John Collin, may have been inspired to come to Parma because of a discriminatory housing case the city was fighting. As the Plain Dealer's editorial page put it, perhaps the Nazis thought that Parma was "fertile ground" for white power sentiments (6/27/79 page 24-A).  But, as the same PD editorial pointed out, the Nazis failed to do further research about the city. Parma was home to a lot of folks with names like Boyko, Szabo, and Wisniewski; folks whose opinion of National Socialism was low at best and who had very likely lost relatives to the Nazis during World War II.

Furthermore, the Nazis had failed to realize that VFW Post 1974 (my great-uncle was once commander of this particular post) was less than 400 feet away from the park's boundaries.  [I like to imagine the scene like this: a gang of WWII vets (who would have still been pretty hale and hearty in 1979) are hanging out at the bar, listening to the Indians game on the radio. All of a sudden, some neighborhood kid comes running into the club, breathlessly yelling "Nazis. . . in the park!" Already in a foul mood because the Tribe was losing to the Yankees, these gents would have loved nothing more than to thrash some Neo-Nazi butt.  For God's sake, look at the man in the foreground of the image below: you know he wishes he had his old BAR in his hands right now.]  All-in-all, the Nazi's had seriously misread the room.

From the front page of the 6/25/79 edition of the PD.

The letters to the PD in the wake of the incidents reflect a range of opinions. Some writers felt that the Nazis deserved what they got (and should have gotten worse), while other armchair commentators expressed sympathy for the devils.  This is America, they argued, and everyone is entitled to their opinion no matter how nasty it is.  Oh, and throwing rocks at fascists is bad (PD 6/28/79 and 6/30/79).

Overall, the discussion about allowing Nazis a chance to speak hasn't changed much in the ensuing 40-odd years. Parma itself has changed, however.  Most of the old-timers with first hand memories of WWII are gone now and the city (especially the southern portion) has drifted more to the right politically.  Does this mean that Parma is finally the "fertile ground" that John Collin was hoping for in 1979?  Probably not, but that doesn't mean I'm not worrying about the future of my old home town.

Location of Veterans Memorial Park.

     

Detail of the park: note location of the VFW post; our old house is under the yellow circle.

His Name Was Eddie

On February 8, 1984, the Steamer William G. Mather was moored in Toledo along the Maumee River.  A homeless man from Salt Lake City by the name of Eddie John Valdez had found his way onboard the abandoned ship.  The Mather had not sailed since December 21, 1980 and her future looked rather bleak; the cutter's torch seemed very likely by this point. As such, security was not exactly tight and Mr. Valdez probably had little trouble getting onto the boat.

We don't know much about Mr. Valdez.  The only reason we know his name is because he died aboard the Mather, the victim of smoke inhalation caused by a fire he had started.  Not only did Mr. Valdez perish, but the dining rooms and galley of the Mather were left with severe damage.

Mr. Valdez was also the cause of something of a schism among those of us who served on the Mather after she became a museum.  Some museum crew members painted a distasteful image of Mr. Valdez: here was a shiftless vagrant who intentionally set a fire on their beloved boat.  Meanwhile, others onboard were less hostile toward Mr. Valdez: he was only 26 years old, probably cold as hell and looking for shelter, and the fire was most likely an accident (the BGSU database cites "an improperly discarded cigarette").

For me, the most important fact was that a man had died a horrible death.  I doubted that anything Mr. Valdez had done in life made him deserving of such a fate.  It is certainly possible that he was in fact a despicable person, but we did not have the evidence to prove that.  The damage to the galley and dining rooms was eventually repaired (with significant help from the Junior League of Cleveland), but Mr. Valdez was gone.  That such a noble vessel could have been the site of man's lonely death was a sad thing indeed.

Mr. Valdez is the only person that we know of who actually died aboard the Mather.  For 55 years, she was an extremely safe workplace for her crew.  Anecdotes appear from time to time relating deaths during her working career, but none are documented.  Then there is the tragedy of Dr. John Carey, but for as horrible as that incident was, he technically did not die on the boat.

On more than one occasion while I served as the Mather's shipkeeper, I would say a little prayer for Mr. Valdez as I passed through the galley at night.  Perhaps new facts will surface someday that indicate something criminal and/or unsavory in Mr. Valdez's past.  Even in that event, however, I would tend to think that I would still find forgiveness for Mr. Valdez.  I believe to act otherwise would be contrary to the spirit of Mr. Mather himself.

Sources: www.boatnerd.com: "Today in Great Lakes History-February 8"
                BGSU Great Lakes Vessel Databse

Fire damage in the Officers' Dining Room of the Mather

Another view of the damage to the Officers' Dining Room.

China cabinet in the Mather's Guest Dining Room.

Inside the Mather's galley.

Close up of cabinets in the Mather's pantry.

Damaged porthole.

"Life Is What Happens While You're Busy Making Other Plans"

Oh, the wisdom of Lennon;  how true his lyrics from "Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy) are!  2012 was one of those years in which a lot of life happened.

We found out about Alissa in the early stages of the year.  Of course, she wasn't Alissa quite yet; her title of "Princess Buttercup" actually came before her given name was finalized.  Like many a new parent, seeing the first ultrasound images of my daughter left me at a loss for words.  I had even fewer words at the second ultrasound appointment.  Finally seeing our little daughter's face was almost surreal; we're having a baby?!

The first few months of Aimee's pregnancy went well, but then June 8 came along.  The enlightened heads of Horizon decided to end Aimee's employment.  I happened to be waiting in Aimee's classroom the day that it happened; we were set to go to a wedding that evening and we figured it would save time if we simply left straight from the school.  There is but one occasion in which I felt more helpless than I did that afternoon and that was when my father was dying.   The only actions available to me were to help Aimee clean out her classroom and drive away from the building.  A significant part of me wanted to storm upstairs to the office, but logic prevailed.

Eventually, we regrouped.  Yes, our economic situation was suddenly much less secure (not that we were riding the gravy train to begin with), but we kept reminding ourselves that Aimee was much better off away from the Concept Schools (HSA's umbrella organization).  After all, who wants to work for people who: fire five-month pregnant women; are being tracked for all sorts of malfeasance (see www.charterschoolwatchdog.com); and get featured on "60 Minutes"?

But then August 22 came along.  Without question, my dumbest mistake ever.  Something was on my side that day and I was able to literally crawl from the wreckage and live to tell the tale.  I don't need to see what it's like to go over the edge ever again.

So then, we regroup yet again.  Westfield Insurance treated us most kindly, paying bills and cutting us a check for the value of the Baja.  We secured a 2008 Outback and settled in for the last few weeks of Aimee's pregnancy.

And then September 25th stopped by.  This was Aimee's due date, but she didn't exhibit any signs of labor. . .until about 5:30 pm, right as I got back from work.  There were reports of cramps and some blood, so the doctor's office was called.  Aimee's usual doctor was off for Yom Kippur, so one of the other doctor's in the practice took the call.  She advised us to go to the hospital, just in case.

We got the car packed up and motored on up to Hillcrest Hospital.  We had gotten our pre-admittance papers in, so the check-in process was expedited.  Before long, we found ourselves in a triage room where Aimee was looked over by the staff.  The lead nurse on duty had a priceless line: "Cramps!?  Those are contractions, honey!".  The doctor on-call made an appearance and decided to have Aimee admitted; it was indeed go time.

That triage room was our home for over 5 hours.  It was quite a relief to finally be led to a labor and delivery room.  Aimee had a better bed, I had a couch, and we were ready to face the night.

As the wee hours crept in, however, I began to have the sense that all was not right.  Aimee's pain seemed to be more intense than it should have been; none of the tricks we learned in our childbirth classes could make a dent in the discomfort.  Aimee requested her epidural long about 5am, but it would be 3 wretched hours before the anesthesiologist arrived.

Once the epidural kicked in (8:30am, or so), Aimee felt much better.  Also by this time, Aimee's mom had arrived and things were looking for up; for about ten minutes.  Things began to happen very quickly.  

The doctor in charge that morning was Dr. Kenny Rao, the head of obstetrics at Hillcrest.  Dr Rao was not pleased with the data coming from Aimee's monitors.  Her blood O2 levels were low, both mother and baby had a temperature (the fever was spotted by student nurse from Ursuline who had been a medic for some time when she was younger), and to top it all off, the baby's heart rate was pinned at a very high mark.  Dr. Rao looked to me and Aimee's mom: if things didn't get better very soon, a C-Section would be needed. 

Dr. Rao had initially given things an hour to improve, but he was back within 15 minutes.  None of the numbers were getting better, so the decision was made to perform the C-Section.  Aimee was prepped for surgery while I stayed behind in the labor/delivery room.  I was given scrubs to put on and then escorted to the OR where the procedure would occur.

I am always amazed by how time can move slowly and quickly all at once.  On one hand, the surgery seemed to take an eternity, but on the other hand it flashed by in an instant ("wait, their counting up tools already?").  Before I knew how to react, I was being handed a beautiful baby girl.

I only had a precious few moments with the baby, however, before she was whisked to the NICU.  That aforementioned temperature was still there, so the staff decided it would be best for the baby to spend 48 hours in the NICU where antibiotics would be administered.

Since there was an exceptional number of births that week (very little room at the inn), Aimee was put back in the labor/delivery room to recover.  It was at this point that we finally knew what our baby's name would be; Princess Buttercup was now also Alissa Grace.

Eventually Aimee's parents, my mom, and I were able to go to the NICU to see Alissa.  Our poor little girl had all manner of wires and tubes attached to her, but we knew it wouldn't be for long.  We felt so bad for the children who were spending days and weeks in the NICU; 48 hours didn't seem that bad in comparison. 

Later on I wheeled Aimee down to the NICU so she could get her first look at her daughter.  Words cannot express the emotions I felt seeing Aimee and Alissa together at last.

The rest of the hospital stay was an endurance test, especially for Aimee.  We had to travel to the NICU every two hours so Aimee could feed Alissa; this was really fun in the wee hours of the morning.  The big crowds in the maternity ward made for slow waits on everything, from food service to receiving meds.  Noise levels were quite high, even during alleged quiet hours.  And, to top it all off, there was no way Aimee was going to be alone in her room for too much longer.

The roommate sword came down on the 29th.  What was once a spacious room was now a tight windowless corner for two adults and a baby.  Our insurance would have covered one more night in the hospital and Aimee preferred having the extra evening, but getting any rest in the hospital room would have been impossible.  The proper forms were completed and by late afternoon we were back in our house with our new addition.

As for most new parents, the first two weeks out of the hospital were pretty challenging.  But we survived and even got to the point where we resembled competent parents.  We even managed to get through the holidays in one piece.

While I could have done without some aspects of 2012, having Alissa was worth all of the not-so-pleasant moments.  Just one little smile from our baby girl is a powerful elixir indeed. And I'm sure that no matter what life throws at us in 2013, it will be a great year.

  

    

I Left My Heart in Honolulu

Looking at Diamond Head from Fort DeRussy Beach, around 8am, Friday, 7/8/11 (photo by the author).

My wife Aimee and I were in first wedding anniversary mode for much of July.  July 2, 2011 was when we got married and the period from July 6 to the 16th was the time of our honeymoon.  And what a honeymoon it was!  10 solid days in Hawaii!

We started the trip by knocking around Oahu for a few days. We were set to board NCL's Pride of America on the 9th, but until then our itinerary was nigh on empty.  We knew we would need to get our rental car, find our hotel, and most importantly, procure food (and beer!), but things were hazy beyond that.  I'm very proud that we met our objectives with military-style efficiency:  requisition rental car from Enterprise-check; find our hotel (the Coconut Waikiki)-check; grab food (at Moose McGillycuddy’s)-check!

One final objective was to stay up as long as possible in order to stave off jet lag.  Our attempts to keep sleep at bay involved strolling up Lewers Street, looking at the various shops and attractions along the way.  Among the newer shops was a Malibu T-Shirt store. . .I was lured in by the vintage-looking Pan Am and Inter-Island Airways shirts they carried.  

Whilst browsing, we got to talking to one of the clerks.  He asked us where we were from and what we were planning on doing during our stay.  We replied that our plans were scant at best. With that, he gave us some recommendations on places to visit.  As it turned out, we were very happy with the clerk's suggestions.

Eventually, we had to succumb to the urge to sleep.  We strolled back to the hotel and settled in for a long summer's nap, while visions of pineapples danced in our heads.

Armed with the advice we had gotten the previous evening, Aimee and I set out in the morning for the Pali Highway.  Stop #1 was the Nu'uanu Pali Lookout (where my hotel key card got blown away) and its views of Oahu's windward side.  Later, we rolled on down to Kailua Beach and Lanikai Beach.  I have only one regret about Lanikai: we didn't get any pictures!  Lanikai is truly heaven on earth and I am so glad that the t-shirt clerk clued us in to its existence.

After a bite to eat at Buzz's Steakhouse (in which an older gentleman was pontificating about Cleveland sports heroes), Aimee and I ventured off to Makapu'u Point.  My Fodor's guide indicated that a lovely paved hiking trail existed at Makapu'u and that said trail lead to an awesome overhead view of the Makapu'u lighthouse.  

What I failed to notice was that the trail went 2 miles up hill into a desert climate (cacti in Hawaii?!).  After the four mile round trip (the view was worth the heat exhaustion), I was just a bit dehydrated.  I should point out that ol' Matt failed to bring his CamelBak with him to Hawaii; a CamelBak capable of carrying 100 ounces of water; 100 ounces is pretty much the equivalent of 5 standard water bottles.  Thank God that Kona Brewing wasn't too far away! My appetite was sub-par (again, dehydration), but the Koko Brown was a lifesaver.

Our adventures on Oahu would continue on, from the Dole Plantation, to Haleiwa (Cholos!), to Fort DeRussy.  And then, on the third day, we boarded the Pride of America.  

Not ever having been on a cruise ship before, I wasn't quite sure how things would go; the Pride of America exceeded all expectations.  The food was great, the entertainment was top-notch, and the crew was outstanding.

Off the ship, our excursions were a blast.  A waterfall hike on Maui; lunch at the Four Seasons on the same island (okay, it was a snack hut along the Wailea Beach trail, but it was on the Four Seasons' property); mountain biking around Kilauea, snorkeling off of Kona; a trip to the Waimea Canyon on Kauai; kayaking past where Indiana Jones caught his plane in Raiders; and of course, a luau.

The grand finale to it all was a visit to Peal Harbor and the USS Missouri.  I've written about that experience already, but I can't overestimate how moving it was.

After Pearl, our bus driver took us on a leisurely drive around Honolulu, going by city hall, the state capitol, and the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific.  We also got to see Dog the Bounty Hunter's HQ, shooting sites for Hawaii 5-0 (new and old), and the (in)famous Hotel Street.

Eventually, however, we were dropped off at the airport.  We had a red-eye flight to Denver, so we had several hours to burn.  This may have been tedious at any other airport, but Honolulu is a bit different.  Also, Kona Brewing has a location inside, so having one last beer made things even more pleasant.

But, sooner than desired, the call came to board our flight.  We trudged down the jetway and soon we were in the air heading east.  After a short layover in Denver, we were again aloft; destination Cleveland Hopkins Airport.

Seeing my brother and my niece upon our arrival in Cleveland certainly helped us avoid feeling post honeymoon letdown; after all, it had been over a week since we had last seen family and friends.  But still, we needed a period of readjustment.  If nothing else, we had to get used to raging humidity again.  I never would have imagined wanting to move to Hawaii because it was cooler than Cleveland in July!

Even though I acclimated to being back home, part of me didn't leave the islands.  And in truth, I never expected Hawaii to get under my skin like it did.  To be sure, I had looked forward to visiting the islands my whole life.  Stories from people who had been there coupled with images from pop culture (Magnum P.I., Hawaii 5-0, From Here To Eternity, et al.) had left me very eager to get across the Pacific.  Still, I was not prepared to feel such a connection with the place.

In the months that followed, I did lots of research about Hawaii.  Every so often, I would check and see what kinds of jobs were available on the islands at places like UH Manoa, the Bishop Museum, and the Missouri.  I even looked into how one relocates to the islands from the mainland (Just call Matson to move the car! Contact PODS to move stuff!).  I sort of felt like Jack on Lost when he's telling Kate that they have to go back to The Island (. . .and where was Lost shot?).

Naturally, the whole notion of moving to Hawaii is rather silly.  For one, it would be very difficult to be so far away from our family.  Also, the logistics involved plus the costs of moving and then living in paradise are steep to say the least.  Finally, living in Hawaii would change the nature of the place for us.  It would no longer be a get-away locale; instead, it would be home with all of the issues that come with full-time residency.  Would it still be special after six months?

I’m hoping that we can return to Hawaii every five years or so (our daughter will be the cutest little hula dancer).  I figure that’s enough of a break to keep things fresh, but not too long of a span between visits.

Of course, one never knows.  Maybe we’ll just let the trade winds carry us away.

The Trials of Harry

The Captain relaxes in the Officers' Dining room aboard the William G. Mather (photo by the author).

In addition to having a wonderful family, I have had the honor of being friends with many fantastic people.  Among these treasured friends is a retired Great Lakes captain by the name of Harry Anderson.  The lessons that I've learned from Harry are priceless; from the intricacies of navigating Georgian Bay to his insights regarding the loss of the Edmund Fitzgerald, Harry has been beyond generous in sharing his pearls of wisdom.


Perhaps the greatest lesson Harry has passed along, however, is patience.  And, more specifically, how to be patient in regard to one's career.  I know many good people who are struggling a bit in this less-than-stellar economy.  A lot of folks out there have worked hard to accrue education and skills, but are left waiting for the right opportunities to come along.  If anyone could be called an expert on waiting for the ship to come in, it's Harry.


We only think of him as the Captain now, but in truth Harry had to wait many years before he was a full-time master (merchant captains are often referred to as "masters") on the Great Lakes.  The main obstacle in Harry's way was a cohort of officers who were a few years older than he was.  Harry was an outstanding officer himself, but the fellows ahead of him always had the edge in seniority.  As such, Harry's trip up the hawespipe to the captain's chair took a rather long time.  Reading his discharge book, looking over interview notes, and recalling my own conversations with the Captain reveal the story of man blessed with phenomenal determination.


Harry started his maritime career sailing on the Herzogin Cecilie, a four-masted German barque.  Even though steam ships were well-established by the time Harry went to sea, windjammers like the Herzogin Cecilie were still a faster option when it came to long distance trips.  Interestingly enough, Harry would eventually find himself in command of one the Great Lakes' fastest ships, but that's a story for a little later.
  
In 1927, Harry shipped out on his first Great Lakes boat.  He worked for several different fleets before signing on with Cleveland- Cliffs in 1930 and by 1937 he had his third mate's license.  


While Harry's early progress was relatively steady, his next 28 years on the Lakes would prove to be challenging.  It seems like for every step forward that Harry would take, Cliffs would make sure that he had to take a step or two back.


For example, Harry spent the 1937 shipping season as the third mate on the S.S. Michigan.  When 1938 got rolling, however, Harry found himself as a wheelsman on the Marquette.  He was able to finish the year as the third mate on the Pam Schneider, but he was dropped back to wheelsman on the same boat at the beginning of the 1939 season.


And so the pattern would go for the next two and a half decades.  Harry would be a second mate on one boat, but then be dropped down to third mate on the next trip.  One season may start with Harry as a first mate, but then his next job would be a second or third mate gig.  There was even one final drop to wheelsman on the Grand Island for the last two months of the 1949 season.


It would not be until 1963 that Harry would finally be able to pencil "Master" into the rating box of his discharge book.  However, this was only an end-of-season relief job on the Frontenac: April of 1964 saw Harry on the Champlain as the first mate.


Then, on June 21, 1965, Harry was named the master of the Pontiac.  He had the job for a mere five days, but his next assignment would not be a mate's position.  Harry got the call to be the captain of the La Salle on June 28 and this time the title of Master was for good; he would serve as a captain for the rest of his career.


The boats Harry would be put in charge of during these years form a collection of lakeboat hall-of-famers: Pontiac, William G. Mather,Cadillac, Walter A. Sterling, Cliffs Victory, and eventually the flagship of the fleet, Edward B. Greene.


Of all of these fine vessels, Cliffs Victory was Harry's favorite.  Since it was a converted Victory class cargo ship, the Victory was quite different than standard lakeboats.  She had a sharp bow that sliced through the waves with ease and a very powerful (9,350 shaft horsepower) steam turbine powerplant.  These features meant that the Victory was able to travel at over  20mph in an age where a boat that made 15mph was doing pretty well.

Harry at the center window of Victory (photo from Rickard Anderson)

  

As much as Harry loved the Victory, however, the Greene was the assignment to have.  Maritime tradition holds that a flagship is the domain of the fleet's senior-most captain (apparently, Cliffs did use the term "commodore" in regard to its senior captains).  When Harry was put in charge of the Greene for the 1973 season, he had truly reached the top of the pyramid.

Sadly, Harry's time at the summit was far too brief.  While he was again the captain of the Greene in April of 1974, his season would only extend to October 5th.  The reason: this was his 65th birthday.  As Harry noted in his discharge book:

Company policy was at that time all had to retire at age 65.  I felt I was too young for my age to retire.  A very sad day. 

And so it went; on one day Harry was responsible for a 647 foot-long ship, its cargo and, most importantly, the lives of the men aboard.  On the next day, he was back to stay at his home in Lakewood, Ohio.  This author is not so sure he could have made the transition as smoothly as Harry did.

There are at least two emotions that no person could blame Harry for possessing.  One of those is bitterness.  I have known of folks who, after facing the very tamest of obstacles, come out ranting and raving about the vicissitudes of life.  Meanwhile, Harry remains serene whilst discussing his career. 

And of all people, Harry could be excused if he were a tad boastful about his accomplishments.  Here is a man who served as an officer on the Inland Seas for nearly half a century.  Oh, and I almost left out his deep water service (and the ribbons on his uniform to prove it) during World War II.  The Captain is truly a national treasure, but he is the most humble person I have ever known.

Harry's humility and his aforementioned patience would be keys to his success. And certainly these traits would be vital for anyone looking to advance in life.  One could do very well by following the lead of our Captain. 

  

The Great One Goes For 200

It dawned on me not all that long ago that this season marks the 30th anniversary of Wayne Gretzky's first 200 point season.  92 goals, 120 assists for 212 total points; astounding!  Granted, this was the go-go '80s in the NHL where a goalie was considered good if he kept his goals against average in the high 3s.  But still, 200 points!  It defied all logic that this scrawny kid would be assaulting the record book with such a vengeance.


Even more astounding is that Gretzky turned 200 points three more times.  For my money, I think his performance in 1985-1986 is his most impressive.  In that season, Gretzky needed only his assist total to beat Mario Lemieux for the scoring title.  Think about it: Gretzky could have ignored the net completely and he still would have beat Lemieux by 22 points (163 to 141).  As it turned out, Gretzky did manage to take a few shots; enough for 52 goals.  His grand total for the year would be a whopping 215 points.


Gretzky's records all seem safe, at least for the foreseeable future.  The only guys to get close to Gretzky's marks are long retired now.  Brett Hull made a run at The Wayner's goals standard, notching as many as 86 back in 1990-1991.  Super Mario came within a whisker of his his own 200 point magnum opus in 1988-1989 when he tallied 85 goals, 114 assists, and 199 points (I secretly wish that the stats people will pull a Hack Wilson maneuver and find a previously un-credited assist for Lemieux).  Perhaps if Lemieux's health would have held up, he would have had the records, but 'twas not to be.


Maybe one day another freak of nature will come along to pummel Gretzky's numbers.  Methinks, however, that #99's records are going to entrench themselves.  Like DiMaggio's 56 game hitting streak, William's .406 single season batting average, Cobb's .366 career batting average, or Chamberlain's 100 point game (or his 20,000 career "wins"- wink, wink), Gretzky's records are going to be with us for a very long time.

Pat LaFontaine (and Mario Lemieux and the 1992-1993 Scoring Race)

Ahh, winter time!  Time to focus on the one true team sport; ice hockey!  Recently, while pondering this great game, I thought back to the 1992-1993 season, when Mario Lemieux won his 4th (out of 6 total) Art Ross Trophy despite missing twenty-some games.  That was a big enough story, but then there was the story of the guy who finished second in scoring that season; Pat LaFontaine.

One could argue that LaFontaine was the most talented U.S.-born NHL star of all time, although Joey Mullen and Mike Modano are not to be dismissed.  LaFontaine was an outstanding skater, a deadly sniper and an awesome playmaker.  The dude was tough too.  While LaFontaine was no Cam Neely, he wasn't afraid of getting his hair mussed.  Perhaps the best example of LaFontaine's grit was when his jaw was broken in the '91-'92 season. He missed 33 games, but he still managed to score 93 points (sporting a nifty Johnny Space Commander helmet no less ).

  

LaFontaine had already run off a string of five seasons straight with at least 40 goals and '92-'93 was his magnum opus.  Scoring was way up and  skilled players such as LaFontaine were feasting on expansion-era goaltending. His stats that season were remarkable: a full season played, 53 goals and 95 assists for 148 points, good for the 19th best regular season ever.  It certainly helped LaFontaine to have Alexander Mogilny (76 goals in '92'-93) riding shotgun, but it was season for the ages none the less.


Unfortunately for LaFontaine, however, the aforementioned Monsieur Lemieux also had a season for the ages: 69 goals, 91 assists and 160 points. . in 60 games.  I remember watching the NHL stats in the Plain Dealer (no 24/7 internet coverage quite yet) after Lemieux returned from his two month absence.  In almost every game, Lemieux moved closer and closer to LaFontaine.  In fact, Lemieux scored at least one point in every match except for two.  Most nights Super Mario was getting at least three points including a six point outburst on March 18th.  Lemieux was in William Tecumseh Sherman mode; staging an inexorable march across the NHL.  Not only did Lemieux pass LaFontaine, he beat him by twelve points.


LaFontaine never played 80 games again.  He got close with 76 in 1995-1996 (with a 40-51-91 stat line), but the injuries got to be too much.  His last season would be 1997-1998 and his overall totals came to be 468 goals, 545 assists and 1,013 points; pretty good for a guy who only played 865 games.  In fact, the Hockey Hall of Fame came knocking in LaFontaine's first year of eligibility (2003).


A Hall of Fame career is nothing to sneeze at, but there is that great "what if" over LaFontaine.  Much like Mike Bossy or Bobby Orr, one wonders about the numbers LaFontaine could have put up had his body not been bashed up.  What happened happened though and, if nothing else, LaFontaine's playing days serve as an example of going all-out despite significant obstacles.