Lake Placid is a village in upstate New York, too tiny to stage what the Winter Games have become. Large venues mean big business now, but in 1980, athletes, fans and journalists all congregated there or nearabout, somewhat sequestered from the real world, which was on fire.
"Cold War at its peak," recalled O'Callahan, 62. "The Soviets had invaded Afghanistan, which prompted President Carter to declare a U.S. boycott of the Summer Olympics in Moscow. We had 52 hostages being held in Iran, where our flag was being burned. Cars lining up at gas stations here according to their license plates because of shortages. Interest rates were like 17 percent. The Soviets had nukes. We had nukes. Iron Curtain. Very tense time. Scary."
If visitors to Lake Placid sought refuge in a veritable bubble - there were three TV channels available, maybe one from Canada - American players had no choice but to escape reality. Herb Brooks, their coach, rode them hard. The kids were mostly from Minnesota, a few from New England. Factions existed, until Brooks masterfully united all with his autocratic genius. At a Christmas party, they presented him with a whip. Mission accomplished. But the Americans still were given no chance, especially after they got drilled, 10-3, by the Soviets in their last exhibition game at Madison Square Garden.
"That got our attention," O'Callahan went on. "Then we started the tournament with a good game against Sweden, and we beat the Czechs, who were really talented. We had no idea what effect we were having outside Lake Placid. There were no 24-hour news networks, no internet. Maybe we'd see a New York Post that was two days old.
"Somewhere in that first week, we came to the practice rink one day and our trainers had plastered the walls with telegrams. Remember telegrams? Those little yellow sheets with a printed message? Top to bottom. From Arkansas, Nevada, Texas, Louisiana. Not exactly hockey hotbeds. Then, the trainers showed us another storage room. Hundreds of boxes, more telegrams. Our whole country, pulling for us. Our country needed something."
On Feb. 22, 1980, the Olympic Field House was packed with 8,500 spectators. USA vs. Soviet Union. ABC requested the late afternoon start be changed to Friday night for prime time. Denied by governing poohbahs. Thus, a tape delay. The Americans were outshot, 18-8, in the first period, but emerged with a 2-2 tie. At that juncture, Soviet Coach Viktor Tikhonov pulled Vladislav Tretiak, nominally the world's best goalie, for Vladimir Myshkin.
"I think Tikhonov sensed that something was going on, that they were up against something they didn't expect," said O'Callahan, internally considered the Americans' spiritual leader. "He later called it the mistake of his life, but he probably did it to shake his team up. The Soviets were unbelievable. They were tough, they were smart, they didn't take penalties. They could do whatever they wanted with the puck. But we were hanging in."
Jim Craig, the U.S. goalie, was stellar. The Soviets outgunned the U.S., 12-2, in the second period and took a 3-2 lead. But then the American kids decided they would craft what Sports Illustrated would hail as the sports story of the century. Mark Johnson made it 3-3, and then captain Mike Eruzione scored at 10:00 for a 4-3 lead. The next 10 minutes, the last 10 minutes, were amazing because they were true.
Al Michaels, en route to broadcast greatness after breaking in as radio voice of the Cincinnati Reds, counted down the seconds with analyst Ken Dryden by his side. Finally, Michaels' call: "Do You Believe in Miracles? Yes!" The colossal upset spawned two movies, documentaries and countless memoirs. Now, 40 years later, Eruzione just wrote a book.
