Op Bevroren Blog

Een toevluchtsoord voor het Ondervoede Hockey

De koudste dagen verwarmen het best mijn hockeyhart

Were truer words ever uttered on television?

What a wonderful moment in time to be free of the Internet, I think now.

I remember McKay principally for that evening but also for his less dramatic duties hosting ABC’s ‘Wide World of Sports’ on Saturday afternoons. McKay seemed to celebrate the totality of athletic excellence in his broadcast career, which is perhaps why he cherished working the Olympics — in their less vulgar incarnation, obviously. He played it straight then, too, although I seem to remember that when it came to American excellence in sport his narrations bore a subtle but unmistakable pride. We could use more of that today, I think.

In reading memorials of his career this week I was struck by the breadth of events he covered. He was ABC’s go-to guy for special events, for decades. He was a seminal media figure at horse racing’s Triple Crown races, and with ‘Wide World of Sports’ he’d anchor one of the most successful sports programs in television history.

Televised sports in America in the ’60s, ’70s, and early ’80s was far different from what we know today. It was almost singularly male in the composition of its competitors, and it was also at times kitsch-ish in its made-for-TV moments: If it was sporting Americana taking place — the Indy 500 or Evel Knievel attempting to rocket-jump the Grand Canyon — McKay was there to cover it. In reflecting on this it strikes me as Hollywood-script-perfect for McKay to have been there as he was that fabulous Friday night, isolated in that studio shot.

“Here were these college kids beating the Soviets and going on to the Olympic Gold Medal,” McKay said in an interview in 2003. “To me, that’s the greatest upset of all time in any sport that I can think of.”

Maybe it’s the effects of nostalgia’s dominating spirit, but what I remember about February 23 and 24, 1980, was McKay’s voice interrupting what by then had become marginalized competing Olympic sports, for his narrating over scene after scene of thousands of delirious Americans draped in Old Glory, painting a small New York town in our nation’s colors.

On February 22, 1980, and for the remainder of that unforgettable weekend, we Americans, beleaguered in so many respects as we then were, needed a shepherd of first composure and then appropriate and eloquent ecstasy for an event that forever changed our lives. Jim McKay was that and much more.

It was, truly, a winter Friday night of miraculous innocence. Gone, now, like the broadcast hero who ushered it into our lives, forever.