Like a lot of people, I’ve felt a special connection to the Miracle on Ice for as long as I can remember. Growing up playing hockey in a town that didn’t have an ice rink, in a school district that didn’t have a hockey team, in a country that counts hockey as the fourth major sports league (and maybe it’s not even that anymore), the Miracle on Ice was meaningful to me because it presented itself as objective evidence of hockey’s significance, and when one’s identity is intimately bound with a sport that few appear to care about, such evidence quickly acquires totemic status. When I eventually came to see the HBO documentary about the 1980 Olympics, I saw a rare instance where my thirteen-year-old version of reality – that hockey was of world-altering importance – presented as fact. What that doc. showed was that a team of rank amateurs – college students, some of whom were still teenagers – conquered the Soviet hockey Goliath, and by so doing hastened the end of the Cold War by evidencing the inherent superiority of Western democracy over Eastern socialism. Who could resist the romanticism of this event? Who could deny its outsized impact on the country? Hockey rules; take that Mom and Dad. In short, these players were as close to sports heroes as I ever had. But, of course, I’m not thirteen anymore, and hockey isn’t the world-informing entity it once was for me. And so I entered Eruzione’s memoir with the twin emotions of excitement – oh, to be a kid again – and fear – don’t blow it, Mike, my childhood is on the line.
As a book, this pretty much encapsulates what Wallace writes about Tracy Austin’s Beyond Center Court and about sports memoirs in general: what we want conveyed to us through books like these is what it’s like to be a great athlete, what great athletes felt when they accomplished the things that made them great, a sense that the emotional complexity that I feel when witnessing athletic greatness is shared by the great athletes themselves. But then there’s this: as a group, great athletes don’t also have the equipment to convey these deep, emotionally profound aspects of the human experience. That’s what novelists do. And novelists, as a group, aren’t athletic. So what Eruzione writes here (or what is ghost written for him) is always already going to fail to do what I want it to do, and knowing ahead of time that that’s true makes me feel dumb for criticizing it for disappointing me for not doing what I knew it couldn’t. But here goes anyway.
The page-by-page content here is the totally enjoyable story of Mike growing up in a big family home in Winthrop, MA, playing sports, getting good at hockey, getting onto BU’s varsity team on a fluke, parleying his college hockey experience into a major league tryout and a minor league contract, playing in the minors, playing in the hockey World Championships, getting recruited for the 1980 Olympic team, making the 1980 Olympic team, being awarded the captaincy, winning the Miracle on Ice, winning the gold medal, becoming a professional inspirational speaker, and writing a book about it. That’s all great, and much of it we already know. Within these pages too, though, are arrestingly intense moments that cry out for introspective investigation that just never arrives. What do I mean? On back-up goalie Steve Janaszek’s brutally thankless position on the team (having received a gold medal despite not playing a single minute during the Olympics), we’re told that Janny was a great teammate who pushed Jim Craig to stay at his best. On being one of the seven out of twenty players to not go on to a pro career, we’re told that he doesn’t have any regrets. On never knowing whether he was actually elected captain by the team (that is, whether he was actually voted captain (Herb told them to vote and then told them who won) or whether Herb decided he’d be captain to alleviate any perception that he was biased to his own MN players by making an east coast player the captain regardless of how the players voted), we’re told that it doesn’t matter to him and that he was honored either way. On the actual experience of beating the Soviets, and then the Finns, we’re told that it was incredible and that he couldn’t believe it. On being known his entire life as the guy who did that thing when he was twenty-five (a real-life “Pistol” Pete Disellio), we’re told that he’s happy people recognize him. On Herb Brooks as a father who didn’t love him, we’re told that Brooks was a kind man who presented a hard exterior to get the best from his players. On being a husband and father, we’re told that he made his wife wait for a long time before he married her and that he wishes he was around his kids more as they grew up. On his accomplishment being used to support various political narratives, we’re told nothing. On the juxtaposition between his own real-life socialist experiences of growing up in a three-family home and of playing for a rabidly team-oriented team and the tacit acceptance of the Soviets as evil for their socialist politics, we’re told nothing.
So, this is the Good Morning America interview of memoirs. I know I’m being harsh, that no one can ever live up the idealism of a child, that we ask too much of athletes, and that I shouldn’t criticize this book for not delving into the philosophical mire that I’m always preoccupied by—that I, like Mike, should just step back and enjoy the story. But I can’t. There’s too much untapped potential here. And isn’t the realization of potential exactly what made the Miracle on Ice possible in the first place?