"I didn't expect that" On Ice

Unbelievable? Yes. Unexpected? Yes. Miracle? Not even close.

For everything that last night's hockey game between Team USA and Team Canada was, miraculous was not one of them. So our team of professionals went into their country and beat their team of professionals and we're supposed to call it a miracle? Basically for one night, at least, our millionaires were better than their millionaires.

I understand why everyone wants to hop on the "Miracle" bandwagon. As I sit and type, it is literally the 30th Anniversary of the US over the Soviets in Lake Placid. We all get caught up in the memory so we try to project that upon what we witnessed last night. Back in 1980, Team USA was made up of college amateurs. Team USSR was the Red Army, highly skilled professionals who lived hockey and their dominance over the decades proved that. Just a few weeks before, the Soviets destroyed Team USA on our own turf and were expected to do so again in Lake Placid. Throw in the backdrop of the Cold War and the movie writes itself. Where does last night compare?

Canada is favored to win the Gold. News Flash... they still can. It was in Canada. OK, Canada beat the US in the Gold Medal Game in 2002... in UTAH... and that wasn't seen as a Miracle. But the US hasn't beaten the Canadians in the Olympics in 50-plus years. True... but the Olympics don't happen every year so when you break it down, the US was only 0-5-1 in that span, hardly Notre Dame over Navy.

It was a great game. It was exciting as hell. When the last goal crossed into the empty net, I jumped off the floor and did some sort of tae-bo exercise celebration, but it was far from miraculous. It wasn't even for a medal. If the US comes out and loses in the quarterfinals and leaves Vancouver without a medal how much will last night mean? That's not to take anything away from last night. The United States showed that they can play with Canada and effectively showed that they can play with anyone in the world. It sure made me proud but not once did I think it came close to 1980.

Last time I checked, we played our friends to the North, not the Taliban. And I'm pretty sure that Bin laden hasn't been training his men and dominating the hockey landscape for the better part of a decade only to fall to us on the Olympic Stage. Unless I missed all of that somehow, quit with the Miracle II talk. I realize that 2010's Ryan Suter is the son of Bob Suter from 1980 and that this year's team has a Ryan Callahan and 1980 had a Jack O'Callahan and that Brooks Orpik was named after Herb Brooks, but seriously, the comparisons should end there.

Last night was a great win and hopefully another step on the return to the medal stand. But 1980 was a moment in time that should stand alone. Not even Tiger Woods transcended the game like that group of kids that shocked the world. To even try to compare anything to that diminishes what they did.

I will say this, though. There is a comparison to make from last night to 1980. Some people will look back to 1980 as the birth of the USA USA chant that echoed through that arena. Last night it echoed again, on Canadian soil, on Facebook and in bars and living rooms all throughout the country. None of the talk was about brakes or healthcare or affairs. There weren't red states and blue states. There was only red, white and blue states. For the first time in a long time, the country came together.

Do you believe in miracles?

10 Years later: A Remembrance

As I sit down to write, I try in vain to remember what I did just 10 days ago. It was a Friday, so I assume I went to the office, did the radio show at the smoke shop and saw Lynn, but even though it was only 10 days ago, the details are just not there in my mind. And yet at the same time, I can recall vivid details of a night 10 years ago. I guess it's pretty easy when it is a night that changed my life forever.

Ten years ago tonight into the wee hours of the morning, I slept through and escaped the fire at Seton Hall University. It was my school. It was my building. And it was my floor: the Third Floor of Boland Hall. It was a night of firsts for me and sadly a night of lasts, including the last breaths for three of my classmates.

The night before was one of the first big basketball wins of my college life. I couldn't make it because of a night class but I followed along as Sammy Dalembert and company defeated a tough St John's team in a pivotal game en route to an NCAA berth. Later in the evening, I had one of the best talks ever with my roommate. Brendan and I had lived together for four months or so but that night for some reason we ended up having a great conversation. I remember staying up until 3AM talking about anything and everything in a great "getting to know you" moment. An hour and a half later we were awake again.

The fire alarms started going off sometime around 4:30 or so. Brendan and I both acknowledged the noise with the obligatory swear word and pulled the pillows over our heads. It was a cold January morning and there was no way we were going outside. You see, a month earlier during final exam week, we had close to 50 false alarms as pranksters put in the finishing touches of their frat pledging. We slept through the alarms in the past, we would do it again. Or so we thought. When the sounds of the alarm became drowned out by the sounds of running and screaming, we knew it was time to leave. When I opened the door to a wave of smoke, we knew it was time to leave NOW. After a few hours of being bounced around from building to building, I finally settled in to my home away from home. Being a work study in the Communication Department gave me a set of keys so while the entire freshman class sat in the cold cafeteria, Brendan and I set off for the TV Studio. It was surreal to turn on the News and see a live chopper shot of the building that I was sleeping in only a few hours before. It was alone in this room, while Brendan slept on a couch nearby, that I learned that this fire was fatal. This nightmare was real.

I was fortunate, though. All of my friends were accounted for and with the exception of a little smoke inhalation, I was fine. We were allowed back into the building after a week and after a few loads of laundry you could barely make out the smell of smoke. Let me correct that statement. Physically I was fine. Emotionally, I would never be the same.

It was sometime during the week that I was home, I found myself in my grandparents' kitchen reading the newspaper. It was in this particular edition that I saw a detailed map of the third floor and where the fire took place. It wasn't until this moment that I realized that I very possibly had been saved by a door. Boland Hall was made up of two wings that were connected by the Bridge, a short hallway and dorm rooms. At one end of the Bridge was the lounge, where three couches were engulfed in flames that measured close to 1500 degrees within five minutes. At the other end of the bridge was a door, and just outside of that door was the door to my room - 323 South Boland Hall. I don't consider myself having a near death experience. I never thought of myself in grave danger, even as I exited the building in a thick fog of smoke. But as I looked at the map, and realized our close proximity, it definitely made me think, especially when I saw that at least one of the young men who died was actually further away then I was. What if my room was on the other side of the door? What if that door wasn't there? Not a day has gone by that I haven't thanked God for something as simple as a door.

At the end of the day, I am just one of the hundreds of people who made it out all right. Sure, within a day I was in the hometown paper and on the Evening news but my story is not a special one. But my story allows me to tell the tale of Frank and Aaron and John, who weren't fortunate enough to tell their own story. My story allows me to honor the countless heroes that night, from emergency personnel to school staff to fellow students who did their part to help.

I think about the events of that night on a daily basis. I think about the hell my parents went through when they couldn't get in touch with me for hours. I think about the hours I spent in the police station reliving every detail. My story was so accurate that years later I was scheduled to be a key witness in the trial. Luckily the 2 accused copped a plea before it went to trial, so I was spared the anguish of reliving it yet again in court. They were given a maximum of 5 years in prison for their crimes. You would think that 3 dead, 58 injured and hundreds of lives changed forever would be worth more than that but this blog isn't long enough to dissect the workings of the judicial system.

A few years after the fire, I heard a student complain about a fire drill the night before. It kept her outside for a good hour, she said. I really had no patience for that and I told her as bluntly as possible that I didn't want to hear it. I once had a fire drill that kept me outside for a week, and three of my classmates never made it back inside.

So on the 10th Anniversary of that fateful night, I will do my three shots, as I have done every year since. And I will think about Frank and Aaron and John and all those affected by the events of that night. And I will do the only thing that I can do - I will REMEMBER.