by Al Michaels
DEDICATION
To the loves of my life—
Linda, Steve, Jenny and Jeff, Kaitlyn, Aidan, Nate and Emily
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PREFACE
Don’t Ever Get Jaded
CHAPTER 1
Brooklyn
CHAPTER 2
California Kid
CHAPTER 3
The Rascal
CHAPTER 4
Cut by the Lakers
CHAPTER 5
Aloha
CHAPTER 6
Rose, Bench, Sparky, and the Machine
CHAPTER 7
The Giants of Candlestick, and the Wizard of Westwood
CHAPTER 8
Wide, Wide World
CHAPTER 9
Do You Believe in Miracles?
CHAPTER 10
Saturdays in the Fall
CHAPTER 11
The One and Only
CHAPTER 12
Roone, the Olympics, and the Fight Game
CHAPTER 13
Monday Nights
CHAPTER 14
Two for the Ages
CHAPTER 15
O.J.
CHAPTER 16
Diversions
CHAPTER 17
Monday Night Transformations
CHAPTER 18
Partners
CHAPTER 19
Links
CHAPTER 20
A New Home
EPILOGUE
A Miracle Revisited
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A major, major shout-out and thank-you to Aaron Cohen, my NBC colleague, who was the most valuable player in facilitating the transition from the spoken word to the written word. The road from my voice to the pages of a book proved much trickier than I could have imagined and Aaron worked his magic. Just the fact that you’re looking at this right now doesn’t happen without Aaron Cohen.
Another NBC colleague, Bruce Cornblatt, made an immeasurable contribution. Bruce is not only a terrific television producer but a book producer as well. He’s always known how to keep me focused and on point and took me to the finish line in just the manner I wanted.
Combo platters don’t come any better than Cohen and Cornblatt.
I didn’t meet Marvin Demoff until 2008 and he’s represented me since. He’s a brilliant man, a treasured friend and wonderful company who always has his clients’ best interests forefront. Just ask John Elway or Dan Marino, two men he’s guided for over thirty years. If I could have a do-over, I’d had been with Marvin further back than John or Dan.
You’re a lucky man if you can have one longtime friend with whom you can share absolutely everything. I have three—Alex Wallau, whom you’ll meet on several occasions in this book; Joe Cohen, who’s been a major part of the sports and television landscape since 1970; and John Shaw, who was the guiding force behind the Rams, both in Los Angeles and St. Louis, for three decades. Not that I’d ever want to abuse the privilege but I know those guys would always be there 24/7.
On Sunday Night Football, I work with the best and most dedicated people in the history of sports television. They form my extended family and the ensuing pages will make that abundantly clear.
And finally, to Richard Abate of 3 Arts Entertainment, David Highfill of HarperCollins and my collaborator, Jon Wertheim—I had no idea what this project entailed. If someone had told me that writing the book I wanted would involve the equivalent of going in for fifty root canals along the way, I would have been long gone. We don’t get here without you guys.
PREFACE
Don’t Ever Get Jaded
IT’S JUNE 2012. AND I’m astonished that in my sixties, I can feel like I’m six.
I’m at center ice, fourteen rows up, at Staples Center in Los Angeles, and Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Final is about to start. To my left is my wife, Linda. To my right are my son, Steven, and my eight-year-old grandson, Aidan. The Los Angeles Kings are facing the New Jersey Devils, with the Kings leading the series, three games to two. Each of us has that same pit in our stomach. That pit only sports can give you.
There are actually nine members of the Michaels family in the arena. My brother David is here with his son Jake, my nephew, a few sections over. And my daughter Jennifer, her husband Jeff, and their son, my grandson Nate, are here, too. Three generations of the family. All in one place for a hockey game. More than fifty years ago, I grew up going to Rangers games with my father at the old Madison Square Garden on Eighth Avenue in New York. But in 1967, after my family moved to Los Angeles, I was at the first Kings game—it was played at the Long Beach Arena—and I’ve been a Kings fan ever since.
I’ve covered a couple of thousand sports events all over the world. I’ve called Super Bowls and World Series and NBA Finals, the Summer Olympics, the Winter Olympics—and have hosted the Stanley Cup Final. A number of years ago, a colleague at ABC figured out that I’ve appeared on live prime-time network television far more than anyone in history. But from day one, I’ve always tried to follow the advice the legendary sportscaster Curt Gowdy once gave me: Don’t ever get jaded.
The Kings have helped take care of that.
Our family has had season tickets since the early nineties. I have no interest in sitting in a suite with twenty people. I just want to concentrate on the game. When I’m on the air, I’m deep into the production and the mechanics of the telecast—dispensing information, communicating with my producer and director and my on-air partners, and seguing to taped pieces or commercials. Here, I just want to absorb the game.
A lot of people know me for an Olympic hockey call, and I hosted three Stanley Cup Finals in early 2000s—but I’ve actually only announced a handful of NHL games. Still, hockey has a hold on me like no other sport. A friend once told me it’s the only game where misery and euphoria dance the tango. No other sport can put you through the wringer and the range of emotions like hockey does. And the Kings are my connection to that.
I have nothing to do with them professionally. When I go to a Kings game, I don’t bring a media credential—I bring a ticket. I don’t have to prepare notes or try to gather nuggets of information in the locker room beforehand—I go straight to my seat. When I’m on the air, I work to be impartial. With the Kings, I can just be another fan who lives and dies with a team.
We’ve kept it in the family. The same way my dad passed down his love of sports, taking my brother and me to Ebbets Field and Madison Square Garden and then, when we moved west, to the Los Angeles Coliseum, the Los Angeles Sports Arena, and ultimately Dodger Stadium when it opened in 1962. We took our kids to Kings games. And now our kids take their kids.
But still, countless times through the years, we would leave the arena after another Kings loss and say to each other, “Why can’t we be the Red Wings?” Yes, Wayne Gretzky led us to the Stanley Cup Final in 1993—and then the Kings won only one playoff series over the next nineteen years. Five or six years ago, I joked with my son, “Steve, I don’t think we’re going to renew the tickets; we’ll just renew the parking.”
But in this playoff run, in the spring of 2012, the Kings have morphed into something else entirely. Suddenly, we’ve become the Red Wings. For the seven weeks since the playoffs began, the Kings have played game after game that they haven’t just won—but dominated. Now, here we are, in the St
anley Cup Final.
It’s the Kings and the Devils. (In a perfect world, for my own personal symmetry, I wish it were the Rangers.) As the series started, our goalie, Jonathan Quick, who’d been red hot throughout the playoffs—a hot goalie is the biggest key to any NHL postseason run—stayed dominant, and in every series, the Kings have gone up three games to none. Now they’re one game away from hoisting the Stanley Cup.
Something like this really captivates any city. Almost everyone becomes a hockey fan. People who didn’t watch are now fully invested. For Game 4, the Stanley Cup itself was in the building. But the Kings lost 3–1, and before I even got into my car, I was racked with nervousness. We can’t blow a 3–0 lead, can we?
Now my son was making plans to take Aidan, the eight-year-old, to New Jersey for Game Five, so they could be there in person in case the Kings won the Cup there. But the Devils won that one, too, turning the whole Michaels family into a wreck. You know the feeling—it borders on paranoia. It’s familiar to every sports fan. Your team is leaking oil. And you’re wondering if they can somehow find a way to ratchet it up one more time. What you’re really doing is praying.
So here we are, back in Los Angeles, in our seats at Game 6. When the Kings were leading three games to none, Steven asked me, “If we win, do you think it’ll make up for everything we’ve been through over the last twenty years?”
“It might,” I responded. “But I’ll tell you this. If they lose this series, it will be worse than anything we’ve endured over the last twenty years!”
But halfway through the first period, the Kings get a big break. There’s a five-minute major penalty against the Devils, and during that long advantage, the Kings score three times, and lead 3–0 after the first period.
In the second period, another goal puts the Kings up 4–0—at which point I would normally be thinking, We’re good as gold—the Devils would have to score five goals against Jonathan Quick to win the game. But I don’t want to think logically. The whole thing has been so surreal. The Kings had barely gotten into the playoffs as the number-eight seed in the Western Conference, and then had gone on this improbable run, and now are just a period away from winning the Stanley Cup. But here I am, only thinking about everything that can go wrong. I keep looking up at the clock—why is it ticking down in slow motion?
Finally, it’s late in the third period, and the Kings now have an insurmountable 6–1 lead. The whole crowd is standing and bellowing. People in our section have their arms draped around one another. The Kings are about to win their first Stanley Cup in the franchise’s forty-five-year history. And inevitably, someone near me turns and yells out, “Hey Al, do you believe in miracles?”
As the horn sounds, Staples Center is going absolutely wild. The streamers are coming down from the rafters, the fans are hugging complete strangers. Minutes later, the Kings are skating around the ice with the Stanley Cup. Pure exhilaration.
The ceremony concludes, and when it’s over, we walk out onto the concourse and my grandsons spot each other. Aidan and Nate, who just turned six, both play hockey, and both are wearing their Kings jerseys. They run up to each other and hug.
I look at Steven and Jeff, laugh, and say, “You know, in sixty years, they’ll say to each other, ‘Remember when the Kings won that one Stanley Cup?’ ” Here we are after all these years, and these two kids are experiencing it at eight and six. I’m thinking, If only they knew that this could happen just this once in their lifetimes.
Of course, at that point, there’s no way to know that the Kings will be right back here two years later, in the Stanley Cup Final—this time against the team of my youth, the Rangers. I couldn’t possibly fathom that we’ll be able to experience the same cardiac thrills, from the same seats, in an unforgettable double-overtime win in Game 5, when the Kings will do it all again.
But on this night, in 2012, I’m looking at the first time as the only time.
We go to the parking lot, and I think of Curt Gowdy. Don’t ever get jaded. I think also of the great Jim McKay, and his line from Wide World of Sports. “The human drama of athletic competition.” You just don’t know what’s going to happen. But so often, sports have the capacity to create these moments. The kinds of moments I’ve had the great fortune to broadcast throughout a career I dreamed of since I was six years old.
From minor-league baseball in Hawaii to the Miracle on Ice to Monday Night Football to Sunday Night Football and so much in between, if there’s such a thing as reincarnation, and if you believe in the law of averages, in my next life I’ll be working in a sulfur mine.
In Mongolia.
On the night shift.
I’m always remembering how lucky I’ve been. And I have this crazy, unscripted drama known as sports to thank for it all.
CHAPTER 1
Brooklyn
MY FIRST MEMORY IN life is going to Ebbets Field in the summer of 1950.
I was almost six, and the ballpark was a twenty-minute walk from our second-story apartment in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. We walked in on the first-base side of Ebbets Field, and more than sixty years later, I can still see the colors vividly in my mind’s eye. The grass was a stunning shade of green. The red-brown infield dirt. The uniforms that seemed almost too white to be real—what Vin Scully has described through the years as “wedding cake white.”
I remember everything about Ebbets Field. I remember the signage at the bottom of the right field wall. And I remember the faces of the players. Jackie Robinson, taking infield practice. Duke Snider and Pee Wee Reese, walking out from the dugout to the batting cage.
But there was another image I remember from that day, above the field. From time to time I would turn around and look at an enclosure that was just below and attached to the upper deck. My father told me that was the Dodgers’ broadcast booth.
The Dodgers were playing the Cardinals, and I really don’t remember if they won or lost. It didn’t matter. By the time we left, I was enthralled. I wanted to come back to Ebbets Field the next day, and the next day, and the day after that.
A few months later, my father took me to Madison Square Garden for a hockey game. It was a Saturday afternoon, and the New York Rovers of the Eastern Hockey League were playing the Atlantic City Seagulls. (I was too young to go to a Rangers game, since they only played on Sunday and Wednesday nights—school nights.) We got to the Garden early, before the teams had even come out to warm up. We took our seats in the corner of the lower part of the balcony, and again, just like when I walked into Ebbets Field, I was transfixed by the scene.
The combination of the lighting and the just-resurfaced rink made the ice shimmer. As was the case with my first baseball game, I don’t remember who won, but it was the ambience, the environment, the whole package—that’s what stuck with me.
More than sixty years later, it still does.
MY PARENTS WERE BOTH teenagers when I was born. They met at Midwood High School in Brooklyn and got married before they graduated. Our apartment in Brooklyn had one bedroom. When I was four, my brother David was born. He and I shared the bedroom and my parents had a Castro Convertible sofa bed in the living room that they opened up every night. We lived in that apartment for the first twelve years of my life.
We didn’t have a lot of money but we never felt poor. Brooklyn was as vibrant, and as energetic, as any place in the world. Or so it seemed to me. Looking back, I can’t imagine having grown up anywhere else. I’ve lived on the West Coast for the better part of my life, but I still consider myself a New York kid. Brooklyn is my DNA.
My mother, Lila Michaels, was a character. She was Joan Rivers and Phyllis Diller rolled into one. She had a tremendous sense of humor, and was a big prankster. Maybe because she was so young when I was born, she was a lot more lenient than other moms, and a lot more mischievous as well. She might have even been too young to have read Dr. Spock. How many other moms never insisted that their kids eat vegetables? To this day, I’ve never eaten a vegetable.
My dad, Jay, worked for a talent agency in Manhattan called General Artists Corporation. (Many years later, it would be bought out by ICM, International Creative Management.) At that time, my father was still working his way up as an agent, and represented a bunch of fringe entertainers, like a singer few people would remember by the name of Joni James. Eventually, my father moved up and worked with more mainstream acts like Pat Boone, who burst onto the scene in the mid-fifties as a singer notable for wearing white buck shoes. A couple of years later, when we had moved to Long Island, one day Pat Boone came to our house. The neighbors were flabbergasted.
My father was also a huge sports fan. He taught me the rules, the nuances, the history of sports—everything. I was immersed. I couldn’t get enough.
At the time, there were sixteen big league baseball teams, with three of them in New York—the Dodgers in Brooklyn, the Giants in Manhattan, and the Yankees in the Bronx. So I was that kid, like so many others, lying in bed, tilting the transistor radio to just the right angle to hear the games. I would get transported to cities across the country. One night I’d be in Chicago, the next night St. Louis, another night Detroit. Listening to a game unfold through the words of the broadcaster. Red Barber. Russ Hodges. Mel Allen. Jack Brickhouse. Curt Gowdy. Every play, every anecdote, every insight.
There was also that magical box that sat in our living room around the time my dad started taking me to Ebbets Field and Madison Square Garden. Even if sports coverage on television back then was normally just a three-or-four-camera, black-and-white presentation, it was the next best thing to being there.
And it wasn’t only baseball that absorbed me. I loved hockey and basketball and football, even though the NFL bore no resemblance to what it would become. I was an easy kid to shop for. When I was nine or ten, my grandparents bought me a gold-leafed book about the history of the Olympics. The history at that time included the most recent Olympics, 1952 Helsinki Summer Games. It must have been three hundred pages, but I remember going through every one of them, immersing myself in the stories.
