The Boys of Winter by Wayne Coffey

I know it won't come as much of a surprise to hear that I like this book. However, I need to convey that "like" doesn't cut it - I can't recommend it enough. The structure of the book is pretty neat: after opening with the funeral of Herb Brooks at the Cathedral of St. Paul, he moves onto the game, essentially giving a play-by-play, then departing from this as the name of a player comes up, providing a biographical sketch of the player (or coach, or hockey official, or other anecdote).

One of the really great things about this book having been written 25 years after the event is that the Soviet view of things comes through unvarnished. Several of the players, who were then viewed as cogs in a pseudo-militaristic sporting machine, emerged as NHL players and real human beings, and shared their view of things as people and hockey players, rather than as apparatchiks. They marvel that such joy could come from victory, and wonder why, despite having won many titles over the years, they had never experienced this emotion. It doesn't come through as overly wistful, but almost as if an event of genuine wonder was unfolding before them, and they felt fortunate, even as losers, to have been a part of it. They were happy that their opponents were so happy. Even the coach, Tichonov, is able to look back on that game and share some interesting insights, which he couldn't do at the time. He viewed the game only as a failure, and he sought to blame Tretiak and his top line for underperforming. The statements he made at the time betray a cold fear of the potential payback that awaited him in Moscow.

There are several funny anecdotes, such as the one posted earlier. Another great one is that the USS Nimitz, in the Mediterranean Sea at the time of the game and fully aware of Soviet surveillance, Morse coded the final score to the Soviet monitoring vessel. Incredibly, the Soviet press didn't report the score in the papers or in reviews of the XIIIth Olympiad - in true Soviet fashion, they sought to erase the memory by trying to prevent it from becoming known in the first place.

Again, you need to read this book. It brings back that game and that era in a fresh way, providing new insights into the young men who composed the team that gave us the greatest sporting moment in my life - and probably anyone's life, from here on out. The Olympics aren't what they once were, and the world is (for better and for worse) a far different place. It is hard to see how the convergence of politics, society, and sport can ever occur again in the manner it did on Friday, February 22, 1980. I only lament that my kids can't possibly understand the glory of that victory in the same way that those born before 1970 can.