A Winter's Tale

I'm told there are actually people who like winter.

Skiers, mostly. I guess a few people feel more alive on a chair-lift up Mount Washington than they do staring into the frozen foods section at Star Market.

Good for them. Probably also closet Green Bay and Buffalo football fans. Like the three guys who have "N-B-C" painted across their bare chests at 20-below while the rest of America cringes at the thought of another 12-point underdog in the Super Bowl.

Then there are the Garrison Keillors of the world. People who think winter makes you nicer, more helpful to those around you waiting at the bus stop at six in the morning in 47 layers of thermal underwear, communally hoping to hell your transportation isn't lying overturned in a snowbank off Route 128 somewhere.

I guess that's OK, too. But when the Farmer's Almanac predicts an even harsher winter this year each of the last two, you know damn well that anti-freeze and a good shovel come first, hopes of human kindness a distant second.

Because for a lot of people, the nip in the air, the shortening evenings and the fading leaves on the ground glare like warning sign of things to come. Nature drives you indoors, and for the most part John Q. Public can only flounder helplessly in front of his television and his fireplace.

Which will be an even more dismal scenario this time around. The Almanac says it's going to be a tough than usual few months ahead for us, and for both the American sportsman and the American fan, it's destined to be a much tougher grind from November through February.

Some of this is normal for the time of year. The golf and tennis tours have left behind their superstars, with every young-gun and has been grinding through every tournament to gain rankings points or money earnings that might translate into another year on the circuit.

For example, long-time PGA veteran Bruce Fleisher won the Bank of Boston Classic in 1991, defeating in a playoff the same Ian Baker-Finch that went on to win the British Open the following week.

This week, he's with all the other starving artists of his trade at the Las Vegas Invitational, the last official PGA Tour event of the season, ignored by most sports fans but knowing that he needs a sizable check to make the Top 125 on the money list and keep his dreams of another year on the fringes of the Tour alive.

When the possibility of facing the end of your life's work stares back at you in the mirror in the morning, that's an awful lot of pressure. And it's one thing if your name is Nicklaus and you at least get to make that decision; far, far worse is it to have that option taken away before it can be chosen.

Which makes this winter all the more bleak. Guys named Fehr, Ravitch. Usery, Bettman and Goodenow have been throwing words left and right across the front pages of the New York Times quicker than Nolan Ryan fastballs, but there's nary a scrap for the hungry dogs around the edge of the big league table to munch on.

Look at Brian Farrell '94. Coming off a stellar senior season in the Harvard hockey program, he was given a tryout by his favorite professional team, the Pittsburgh Penguins of the NHL. As a non-drafted free agent, his chances were slim and none of making the big-time so soon, and yet he startled a lot of people in camp, even making the Penguins' final West Coast road trip of the exhibition season.

And then Gary Bettman postpones the start of the season by two weeks. Then another two. Perhaps indefinitely. And Farrell, at the peak of his powers, may never know how close to the big-time he was.

The fragmentation of the hockey season means that more marginal NHI, candidates are being shipped down to the minors for "seasoning" than usual. And very soon, a lot of the big boys are going to be gatecrashing the European leagues--do you think Chris Baird '96, enjoying his first season in the French leagues, sleeps at all cashier knowing that bigger footsteps than his may be skating across the Atlantic pond?

Five years ago, who could talk about a "recession" in the sports entertainment industry? Now, in addition to the aforementioned "disasters"--and if you're like me, no matter what the players and owners say on ESPN, somebody not collecting part of a $500,000 salary for playing the game he loves is hardly a disaster--you've got the countless ushers, ticket-takers and vendors of the service trade who have no place to go.

This is the real tragedy of the concurrent sports strikes: we recognize and miss the faces in uniform; we don't even take note (nor have we ever) of the guy in the blue uniform who can yell "Ice cream, here! Brigham's!" across five aisles in Boston Garden and be heard loud and clear. He has got to be hurting more than anybody else by baseball's and hockey's absences.

That is, financially. Spiritually, all of America mourns the (temporary?) loss of our heroes. No NLCS and ALCS means no cheering for the Yankees or the Cinderella Indians, no indignant fury at discovering that because of The Baseball Network, we in Boston (as an American League town) would have no access to the NLCS this year save on satellite.

No hockey season means no debating the merits of Lacher and Ryabchikov in the Bruins' goal, no evaluations of the Penguins' iineup without Mario (and with Farrell?), no wondering how Minnesota can not have an NHL, team and how Texas and California can have four between them.

Instead, we worry. A little indignation is an essential part of the sports experience, as any good Red Sox fan could tell you. But right now, we don't get to worry about injuries, poor television coverage and road trips to Alberta.

We wonder if there will be an NHL, season, and if so, how long might it be? Will baseball lose its antitrust exemption? And can we keep our sanity until the whole nightmare ends?

I guess the NFL likes its newlyfound monopoly of air-time. And I guess the NBA is soon to follow, its own labor turmoil wisely closeted for at least this year.

But actually, I find myself breath-lessly anticipating the college hockey season. Granted, this is always a big thing at Harvard, and I more than many have enjoyed its charms in my first two-and-a-quarter years here.

But the other day, while debating with a friend the merits of a Martins-Gustafson-Cohagan first-line offensive partnership, I caught myself unawares, thinking. "I don't do this much anymore, do I?"

I guess you can catch me in Potsdam, New York, and Burlington. Vermont, negative-15 wind-chills and two foot snowdrifts included. Winter is here early, and I can only see a long, white nightmare on a dark northern skyline.

In winter, antifreeze and a good shovel come first, hopes of human kindness a distant second.