Newsday's sportswriters share their experiences covering great performances, memorable moments and the craziest games.

Sports

Erik Boland

In 11-plus years covering the Yankees, I’ve been lucky to chronicle my share of incredible performances, memorable games — for reasons good and bad — and, yes, the bizarre involving baseball’s winningest franchise. 
But one entry immediately comes to mind when it comes to craziest of all, and the Yankees were not a part of it. 
Instead, we go north of the border for the Jose Bautista “bat-flip” game, a wild free-for-all of a playoff series-deciding game between the Blue Jays and Rangers at Toronto’s cacophonous Rogers Centre. 
It included a near-riot by the hometown fans, a game protest by the home-team manager, three consecutive errors by the visiting team and a pair of bench-clearing incidents — and all of the above occurred in a 53-minute seventh inning that remains difficult to fully or adequately describe. 
In October 2015, with the Yankees having been eliminated in the AL wild-card game by Dallas Keuchel and the Astros, I was assigned the ALDS between the AL East-winning Blue Jays and the AL West-winning Rangers. 
It was a series for the most part contested in anonymity — at least as far as New York was concerned. Appropriately so, as the Mets were about to embark on an impressive postseason run that would land them in the World Series for the first time since 2000. 
Rangers-Blue Jays already had a bit of everything before Game 5, including the road team winning each of the first four games. 
Toronto’s reputation as a friendly city is well-earned, but it’s no secret among visiting teams that all that pleasantness does not extend inside Rogers Centre. 
Certainly not on this Wednesday afternoon, with most of the sellout crowd of 49,742 already in their seats well before the 4:07 p.m. first pitch and creating a din. 
The Rangers were not intimidated, and the score was tied at 2 entering the top of the seventh. 
Blue Jays righty Aaron Sanchez relieved former Patchogue-Medford High School star Marcus Stroman, who allowed two runs and six hits in six innings, and the Rangers’ Rougned Odor led off with a single before reaching third with two outs. 
With Shin-Soo Choo at bat, Sanchez’s 1-and-2 pitch was a ball. 
Then, chaos. 
Catcher Russell Martin’s return throw to the mound clipped Choo’s bat and skipped away. Odor sprinted home and initially was sent back by plate umpire and crew chief Dale Scott. 
Rangers manager Jeff Banister, a former minor-league catcher, calmly argued that the ball was live, and, according to little-known Rule 6.03 (a) (3), indeed it was. Scott correctly changed the call and the Rangers led 3-2, prompting an 18-minute on-field argument, accompanied by a torrent of garbage, including water bottles and beer cans, raining down. 
Blue Jays manager John Gibbons protested the game. More debris from above. 
Perhaps impacted by the palpable hostility of the crowd — in real time, one couldn’t help but wonder just how ugly it might end up being if the Blue Jays lost by that 3-2 score&nbsp;— the Rangers shockingly committed three straight errors to load the bases to start the bottom of the seventh. 
Toronto pushed the tying run across and righty Sam Dyson came on to face Bautista, who obliterated a 97-mph fastball to leftfield to give the Blue Jays a 6-3 lead. Bautista accentuated the blow with what still is considered the gold standard of bat flips. Rogers Centre resembled the inside of a jet engine, and another hailstorm of refuse, this time in celebration, came from the upper levels. 
Dyson and the next batter, Edwin Encarnacion, began jawing, causing a bench-clearing incident. Another followed when, after fouling out to end the inning, Troy Tulowitzki and catcher Chris Gimenez started&nbsp;yelling at each other. 
Somehow, the final two innings were without incident and Toronto was in the ALCS. 
“Insane” was just one of the words used in the victors’&nbsp;clubhouse afterward. 
“Absolutely crazy,” Tulowitzki said. 
The craziest.

Baseball

New York Yankees

spCRAZYERIK200622

Jose Bautista's bat-flip game in the 2015 ALDS was a wild one

From the Press Box: The Bautista bat-flip game

spbMTHRILL200326_photos

I covered the O.J. game. 
Covered may be too strong. I was a sidebar writer for the North Jersey Herald News that night, assigned to Game 5 of the Rockets-Knicks series in the 1994 NBA Finals. It was one of my first NBA games as a sportswriter, and the atmosphere was incredible. 
I was a 24-year-old basketball junkie at the sport's biggest event, sitting in the auxiliary press area in Madison Square Garden — pre-renovation — with one eye on the action on the court and the other on the monitor to my right that was showing a white Ford Bronco driving on a Southern California highway. 
June 17, 1994. The night&nbsp;former football great O.J. Simpson, accused of a double homicide, was in the Bronco driven by Al Cowlings, who&nbsp;led the police on the infamous chase that overshadowed Game 5.
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The Knicks won the game to take a 3-2 series lead. I believe I wrote about Patrick Ewing’s defense. He blocked eight shots, but he couldn’t stop a bizarre moment during the postgame news&nbsp;conference.
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The news&nbsp;conferences for big events were held in what was known as the Rotunda, the area in which they kept the elephants and other animals when Ringling Bros. and&nbsp;Barnum &amp; Bailey Circus was at the Garden. It also was one of the ways fans could exit the building. 
One fan got in the news&nbsp;conference and was able to ask then-Knicks coach Pat Riley a question. It went something like this:&nbsp;“Hey Pat, if O.J. would have made a left instead of a right, do you think he would have gotten away?” 
Riley looked confused&nbsp;and didn’t know what to say. The fan was escorted out by security. The news&nbsp;conference continued in what was a crazy night inside the Garden.

Basketball

New York Knicks

SPCRAZYOJ200618

SPCRAZYOJ200618_photos

From the press box: The Knicks, the Chase and the 'O.J. Game'

From the press box: 'The Chase'

Tom Rock

It was the most iconic play in Giants history. The most memorable play in Super Bowl history. I was sitting in the press box in Arizona with the perfect perch to watch it all unfold. 
But I didn’t see it. 
In all my years covering the Giants, I was an eyewitness to just about every significant pass Eli Manning ever threw . . . &nbsp;except that one. Literally the one everyone immediately goes to when they think about Manning. 
My job at Super Bowl XLII was to write the initial game story that would appear on Newsday’s website. Arthur Staple, who was covering the Giants at the time, would follow up with the story that appeared in print with quotes and more detail. I was just dashing off the first draft that would be due before the confetti hit the ground. 
That story was humming along just fine. The Giants had played a valiant game and their defense had been able to keep the high-powered Patriots offense in check for most of the contest. Then, with 2:42 remaining, cornerback Corey Webster lost his footing just a little bit while trying to cover Randy Moss in the end zone. Tom Brady threw an easy 6-yard touchdown pass and the result just about everyone expected was about to become a reality. 
I even typed the first lines of my article: “Almost-perfect games like the one the Giants put forth on Sunday night are usually enough to win Super Bowls. The exception: When they come against perfect teams.” 
All that remained was for the Giants’ last drive to end without a touchdown. So as Michael Strahan stormed up and down the sideline predicting the final score and telling teammates that if they believed, it would happen, I was just about ready to send in my copy crowning the 19-0 Patriots as the best team the NFL had ever produced. 
It came down to third-and-5 from the Giants' 44-yard line with just over a minute left in the game. Manning dropped back. The pocket collapsed. No one was open. The Patriots had a hold of the quarterback. I saw all of that. 
Assuming the play would end in a sack, I lowered my gaze from the field to my computer screen so I could continue writing. That’s how sportswriters do it, especially at the end of tight games. We take those gaps between plays to do our typing. 
But&nbsp;this pause wasn’t actually a pause. I never saw Manning roll away from the pressure, nearly fall to the grass&nbsp;and then do exactly what quarterbacks are taught not to do: throw the ball blindly down the middle of the field. 
I didn’t see David Tyree standing there, almost as if waiting for a punt to come down from the sky. I didn’t see Rodney Harrison closing in on Tyree, arriving at just about the same moment the football did. 
And I didn’t see the football pinned to Tyree’s helmet. 
I did hear it, though. I heard the roar of the crowd, which did not make much sense in my brain —&nbsp;that believed the play had ended in a sack. 
I quickly looked to the field, saw Manning and the offensive line chugging across the 50, and saw a pile of bodies around the 25-yard line. I saw Steve Smith rooting into that pile. I thought, for a quick moment, that the rookie receiver was the hero of whatever had just happened. 
I then turned toward the television hanging from the ceiling in the press box. Luckily, that screen was showing the broadcast of the game . . . with a delay of a few seconds. By the time I focused, Manning was just slipping free of the Patriots defenders and uncorking the pass. 
I still wasn’t certain the Giants would win, but I immediately went to work on something that I had not to that point even considered . . . a version of the game story in which they did. 
When Manning took a knee on the final play a few minutes later, I filed that story. I can’t say I remember exactly what I wrote, it was such a blur, and my version&nbsp;soon was replaced online by updated stories and, I guess, lost to history. 
Who knows, maybe it is floating around somewhere in the ether of internets past. But I do remember I had the sense to call the Tyree catch the greatest play in Super Bowl history. 
Even though I hadn’t actually seen it.

Football

New York Giants

spCRAZYTOM200607

From the Press Box: David Tyree's Super Bowl catch? You had to see it to believe it

From the Press Box: Tyree's Super Bowl catch? You had to see it to believe it

C4UPA15

Greg Logan

The date was Feb. 1, 2003 and the Knicks were returning to Milwaukee barely over a year since their last visit, when Latrell Sprewell scored 48 points and Allan Houston added 34 in a win over the Bucks. I was Newsday’s beat writer on the Knicks and was looking forward to the game because “Spree” grew up in Milwaukee and had a habit of playing well when he returned home. 
But when I woke up that morning and turned on the TV, I witnessed news of the Columbia space shuttle disaster. Seven American astronauts returning from a mission to the International Space Station died on re-entry when their spacecraft disintegrated because foam insulation that broke off during launch hit the left wing of the orbiter and the damage exposed the wing to searing 2800-degree temperatures that caused the craft to break apart over Texas. 
Before I headed to that game, my phone rang, and my sports editor told me that editors on news side wanted me to remain in Milwaukee to dig up whatever information I could get on astronaut Laurel Clark, a doctor who grew up in Racine, Wisconsin, a city just south of Milwaukee. 
I covered an unremarkable game that Saturday night when the Knicks suffered a 107-100 loss despite a 31-point performance by Houston. Sprewell scored only nine&nbsp;points and shot &nbsp;3-for-14. 
But I learned there would be a memorial service the next day for Clark at the Olympia Brown Unitarian Universalist Church in Racine. All the other Knicks beat writers headed for the airport on Sunday and flew home. I drove 30 miles south to Racine and parked a few blocks away from the church near William Horlick High School in Racine, where Clark attended. 
I walked to the church and monitored the memorial service that Sunday, where pastor Tony Larson said of Clark, “She was one of the kindest, most vivacious people.” He had officiated at her marriage to Jonathan Clark, who also was a doctor. 
I also connected with Clark’s social studies teacher in high school, Bill Frayer, who said of Clark, who was valedictorian of her class, “I’ve been teaching 34 years and you only see a student that sticks out every so often. It was the way she spoke, the way she carried herself and the way she did the work. You know this was someone who really will amount to something.” 
At that same service, the pastor introduced Clark’s brother. He was on his way out of the service, but I introduced myself and told him I was from Newsday on Long Island, and he agreed to an interview later at his home in Milwaukee. His name was Dan Salton, and he gave me a great interview while his wife, June, sat close by. Dan explained that his sister’s full name was Laurel Blair Salton Clark. 
She was a mission specialist who was conducting biological experiments, and she also was a Navy captain and a flight surgeon. 
Her brother told me a phenomenal story about their childhood. They were part of a blended family that included five kids from her father’s side and four kids from her stepmother’s side. They were allowed only one hour per week to watch TV, and they chose to watch “Star Trek.” 
I did not write any stories. Newsday had several reporters spread over the country and also contacted freelancers. I simply provided a notes file that our great writer Hugo Kugiya used for two stories, a 1200-word remembrance of the astronauts two days after they died and a 4700-word tribute the following Sunday. 
Here is an anecdote Kugiya included about Laurel Salton Clark based on the information I provided. Laurel’s brother Dan played the part of Captain Kirk, another brother played Spock, and Laurel played Dr. McCoy even though she was a woman. She wanted to be a doctor, and she achieved that goal. 
Her brother, Dan Salton said, “We’d set up chairs. The living room was the bridge. The room in back of that was the engine room. I always played Scotty.” 
As Kugiya wrote, “Clark was a straight-A student, a doctor married to a doctor. She joined the Navy, jumped out of airplanes and went diving with SEALs, the Navy’s elite commandos. 
“She worked aboard submarines and rockets. She knew the Latin names of most birds. She was a star in most circles. But among elite astronauts, she was merely typical – though she proved particularly agile in simulated weightlessness, once pretending to surf on the back of another astronaut.” 
I also reported that Clark told her hometown newspaper, the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, that she playfully said of the heat in the shuttle, “A pina colada would have been really nice. It was warmer, but we got along just fine.” 
Clark also spoke to the Journal-Sentinel about the biological experiments she conducted on the mission, describing a moth in a silkworm experiment this way: “It still had its wings crumpled up, and it was just starting to pump its wings up. Life continues in lots of places, and life is a magical thing.” 
Clark also described what it looked like to see sunsets on Earth from the vantage point of space: “There’s a flash. The whole payload bay turns this rosy pink. It only lasts about 15 seconds, and then, it’s gone. It’s very ethereal and extremely beautiful.” 
Those words were among&nbsp;Laurel Clark’s final observations while orbiting Earth.&nbsp; 
As a child growing up when space travel first became reality, it was my privilege and honor to chronicle the life of Laurel Salton Clark as best I could for Newsday,&nbsp;even though Hugo Kugiya got the byline. He is a great writer and totally deserved credit for the stories, but I honestly felt honored to be able to contribute information about a great American hero from our space program that I loved from the time I was a kid watching Alan Shepard lift off as the first American astronaut.

Media

SPNASA200531

Knicks game against Bucks in 2003 a mere footnote to memorial service for hero astronaut

From the Press Box: Memorial service for hero astronaut

spNASA200531

Roger Rubin

This story is part of our "From the Press Box" series, in which&nbsp;Newsday sportswriters share their experiences covering great performances, memorable moments and the craziest games. 
I should have known the assignment would be like no other when my phone started ringing at 8 a.m. <a href="https://www.newsday.com/sports/mlb-ncaa-mls-nhl-sports-coronavirus-1.42966329">this past March 12</a>. 
I’ve been a sportswriter for about three decades in New York and have covered college basketball for nearly two, and&nbsp;I’ve never gotten a pregame call like the one I got from Newsday sports editor Hank Winnicki that morning, well before I usually&nbsp;rouse. 
He had a question,&nbsp;one that sounded silly at the time&nbsp;but more prescient as everything about the coronavirus outbreak unfolded that week. Did&nbsp;I feel&nbsp;safe&nbsp;covering the Big East quarterfinal between seventh-ranked Creighton and St. John’s at Madison Square Garden? 
Little did I know what being on the New York City subway would be like that day. 
In the moments after awakening, my answer was, of course, “no problem.” But Winnicki’s question wasn’t completely out of leftfield. Yes, the deadly virus had arrived on the scene, and&nbsp;yes, the NBA had suspended play the night before. Then the NCAA announced that no fans would be admitted to its championship tournament. The Big East, too, would restrict attendance to 400. 
But just the night before, I’d covered a blossoming Red Storm team coming on to astonishingly score the final 23 points and take down Georgetown, 75-62, before 17,534. 
St. John’s&nbsp;getting hot on its home floor at&nbsp;the Garden in the Big East Conference Tournament? I’d written about this possibility for nearly two decades, and never had it happened. I did not want to miss that. 
I showered and&nbsp;put on a suit and tie, and so much of that morning felt like any other. But everything changed when I went down the stairs into the New York City subway. 
I live in Manhattan — in what I consider a vibrant part of the Upper West Side — but this was nothing ordinary. 
Every person on the subway looked terrified. I wore winter gloves because that’s what I do on the subway in March, even before the coronavirus. But the faces of the people in my subway car? I won’t forget it. Each person appeared to be fearing for his or her&nbsp;life. People glanced at each other with uncertainty and dread. 
After the anxiety of the 18-minute trip, everything at the Garden felt normal. I read the game notes from the universities. I thought about how I’d write about the possible outcomes and the restricted attendance policy for that game. 
Then I went to my assigned seat near midcourt about 20 minutes before tip-off, and&nbsp;that's when everything envisioned in my morning wake-up call came home to roost. I logged on to Twitter. The Big Ten had canceled its tournament games. The ACC had, too. The Big 12 as well.&nbsp;One after another, posts went up&nbsp;about cancellations. I waited for one from the Big East. 
The Atlantic 10 called off its noon quarterfinal at Barclays Center in Brooklyn. We’d surely be next. 
Yet, there was no word about the game I was to cover at the Garden&nbsp;in the same city. 
The game was scheduled for noon. All the other conferences had canceled their games. But with 10 minutes on the clock before tip-off, both St. John’s and Creighton were on&nbsp;the Garden&nbsp;court warming up. 
When it was about time for tip-off, a game official held up two fingers — apparently for two more minutes before the start of the game. They knew the other tournaments were canceled. St. John’s radio&nbsp;game analyst Brandon Tierney rose from his seat in the press row near me, removed his headphones and said to me, “Rog, what are we doing here?” 
And then they started to play. 
St. John’s was fabulous in what turned out to be the final half of the NCAA men’s basketball season. The Red Storm led by three at the break, but then it was over . . . at halftime. 
Big East commissioner Val Ackerman explained why the conference pulled the plug at that point. She spoke about the NBA shutdown, the advice she’d previously gotten from&nbsp;state and city officials not to cancel, and the decision — once she knew that playing out the game was fruitless — to allow the teams to finish the half. 
I wrote as the press area emptied. There was nothing to stick around for. No more games. Nothing about the situation that was improving. I filed a quick piece for our website, then decided to write the full story from home and packed up my laptop. 
I had thought the most terrifying moments of the day were on the ride to the Garden. But then I got on the No. 1 train and held my breath most of the way home. Covering sports won’t be the same for a while.&nbsp;

College

St Johns

SPCRAZYROGER200530

Coronavirus halted St. John's Big East quarterfinal at halftime — and the rest of the sports world, too

From the Press Box: COVID-19 halted Big East tourney — and sports world

SPCANCEL200313

Bob Glauber

This story is part of our "From the Press Box" series, in which&nbsp;Newsday sportswriters share their experiences covering great performances, memorable moments and the craziest games. 
David Tyree’s magical catch, which still seems impossible more than 12 years later. As does the Giants’ 17-14 win over the previously unbeaten Patriots in Super Bowl XLII. 
Malcolm Butler's stunning interception in the end zone against the Seahawks, who made the staggeringly wrong decision not to give&nbsp;running back Marshawn Lynch the ball at the 1-yard line in Super Bowl XLIX. 
Joe Montana’s game-winning 92-yard drive to beat Boomer Esiason’s Bengals in Super Bowl XXIII in Miami. 
And so many more iconic moments I’ve had the privilege —&nbsp;and oh, it is a privilege I never take for granted —&nbsp;of witnessing from my seat in an&nbsp;NFL press box. There have been close to 900 games in all, and a spectacular mélange of highlights along the way. 
Odell Beckham Jr.’s remarkable one-handed catch against the Cowboys. The Jets’ Monday Night Miracle win over the Dolphins that included Jumbo Elliott’s touchdown catch off a tackle-eligible play. Dan Marino’s fake spike against the Jets. Every one of Tom Brady’s six Super Bowl victories. 
But a game from my first year of covering the NFL stands out the most in terms of sheer drama and human emotion. 
Giants-Redskins, Monday night, Nov. 18, 1985, at RFK Stadium in Washington. 
<h3>Setting the scene</h3> 
It was a legendary backdrop for a rivalry that dates to 1932, one of the most riveting matchups in pro sports. RFK is a creaky old stadium, built in 1961 near the west bank of the Anacostia River and next to the D.C. Armory. But it was one of the best stadiums to take in a football game, especially a Giants-Redskins game.&nbsp;Emotions always ran high.&nbsp; 
Watching the Redskins, especially during the halcyon days of the Joe Gibbs era, was like nothing else. Packed house every time. A marching band that played "Hail to the Redskins" every time the home team scored. Stands that would shake when fans stomped on them. A press box, suspended above the stands, that swayed as if it were in an earthquake whenever the crowd erupted. 
Reporters often grumbled about the accommodations, but I always loved it there. Even the pregame meal: chicken and green beans — every single game. 
This was an especially important game for both teams, with the Giants having built a playoff team under general manager George Young and coach Bill Parcells&nbsp;and the Redskins nearing the end of their first iteration as&nbsp;Super Bowl champions. Quarterback Joe Theismann, who helped the team to back-to-back Super Bowl appearances after&nbsp;the 1982 and 1983 seasons, was 36 years old but&nbsp;still held on to the starting job. The Redskins were 5-5 after a 13-7 home loss to the Cowboys the week before. 
The Giants were 7-3 after a four-game winning streak that began with a 17-3 victory&nbsp;over the Redskins at Giants Stadium. Phil Simms was in the midst of his best season to date, and Parcells, who’d nearly been fired after going 3-12-1 in 1983, was establishing himself as a capable leader. He’d also been a challenging subject for reporters. He&nbsp;parried with them during news&nbsp;conferences and used his bully pulpit to challenge writers with impunity. 
I was assigned to cover the Giants for&nbsp;the Gannett Westchester-Rockland Newspapers, for whom I’d previously covered the Islanders during their epic run of Stanley Cup victories. Parcells was nothing like Islanders coach Al Arbour, one of the most gentlemanly people in the history of pro sports. Arbour never called out reporters and was extremely personable. 
Parcells? Not so much. He’d snarl at even the slightest hint of confrontational questions from the media. That style had grown on his players, and he managed to coax the best out of what&nbsp;eventually would become a two-time Super Bowl championship team. But to get there, Parcells knew he needed to vanquish the foes in his own division, starting with the Redskins. 
The Monday Night Football atmosphere was exhilarating, and a national television audience was treated to another episode of the legendary series, albeit this time with the announcing crew of Frank Gifford, O.J. Simpson and Joe Namath, and not previous Gifford sidekicks “Dandy” Don Meredith and Howard Cosell. 
It would turn out to be an unforgettable night. 
<h3>Theismann under siege</h3> 
It was 7-7 in the second quarter when Gibbs called a flea-flicker, with Theismann handing off to John Riggins and the running back&nbsp;pitching it back to Theismann. But the Giants weren’t fooled on the play, and defensive coordinator Bill Belichick’s blitz led to a swarm of defenders converging on Theismann. Lawrence Taylor, firmly established as the game’s best defensive player, pulled Theismann down, and his knee went into Theismann’s lower right leg. 
Taylor knew Theismann was seriously injured and immediately waved at the Redskins’ bench to summon help. Horrifying replays — which I find difficult to watch to this day —&nbsp;showed Theismann’s leg breaking. Taylor was so upset that he began to cry, something he’d never done before or since on a football field. 
The press box was silent, as was the rest of the stadium while Theismann was attended to. 
The in-game drama had only begun, however. The postgame drama in the Giants’ locker room would follow.
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After Theismann was carted off the field, his understudy, a strong-armed former baseball prospect named Jay Schroeder, came on to lead a remarkable 23-21 win. And it wasn’t just Schroeder; Gibbs and special teams coach Wayne Sevier dialed up two successful onside kicks and a fake punt that led to all three touchdowns. 
Welcome to Monday Night Football deadlines. It&nbsp;was all I could do to get a story in just as the game ended before heading down to the Giants’ locker room. 
It was a cramped, crowded, dank&nbsp;mess of a room beneath the stadium. Equipment bags were strewn all over and players had to maneuver their way to the showers and back to their lockers. 
The players were forlorn after having lost such a close game to end their winning streak.&nbsp;They dressed quietly as we milled about, waiting for their cues that it was OK&nbsp;for questions to be asked. 
As we waited near the locker of offensive tackle Brad Benson, who had just a towel draped around his waist, he looked into the crowd and saw a Washington-based radio reporter staring at him. Benson glared back and said, “What are you looking at?” 
“I’m looking at a bunch of losers,” the reporter said. 
Benson lunged at the reporter, and several teammates, including linebacker Carl Banks, interceded to prevent a full-scale melee. Even Giants president and co-owner Wellington Mara, who was 69 years old at the time, helped pull his players away. 
Back to the press box to file an updated story, and the night, which had turned into early morning, was done. Got back to the Key Bridge Marriott hotel at 3 a.m. Couldn’t sleep. 
<h3>Epilogue</h3> 
P.S. On June 5, 2017 —&nbsp;nearly 32 years after that unforgettable night —&nbsp;I interviewed Theismann for a book called “Guts &amp; Genius,” the story of how the Gibbs, Parcells and Bill Walsh rivalries defined the 1980s. We spoke extensively about the game, and two things stood out in our conversation. 
The first was Theismann’s recollection of Taylor calling the quarterback in his hospital room a couple of days after the injury. “Joe, how you doing?” Taylor asked. 
“Not very well,” Theismann replied. 
“Why?” Taylor said. 
“Because you broke both bones in my leg.” 
To which Taylor shot back, “I never do anything halfway. OK, gotta go to practice.” 
The second was Theismann calling the injury the best thing that could have happened to him. 
“It was the moment that changed my life,” he&nbsp;told me. “I had enjoyed so much success, my ego had gotten so out of control. I felt like I was the be-all and end-all, and that the world revolved around me. It slammed my feet back on the ground, because it took away the one thing that I held above everything else. It stripped away my football identity&nbsp;and it forced me to look at myself as a person. So, to me, it wasn’t a tragedy, it was a blessing. It came at a time in my life where I wasn’t capable of making the decision to be a different person. Something had to happen, and that was it. It was the day that changed my life.”

spCRAZYBOB200525

453026985

Lawrence Taylor's devastating hit on Joe Theismann left some lasting impressions

From the Press Box: LT's hit on Theismann left lasting impressions

Football Professional  Game   Action

The press box at Cleveland Stadium was so warm that it was almost suffocating. When Jets running back Freeman McNeil broke a 25-yard run for a touchdown with 4:14 left in an AFC divisional-round playoff game after the 1986 season, it gave the Jets a 20-10 lead over the Browns, and it seemed as if they were well on their way to the AFC Championship Game in Denver. 
But that’s not how it worked out. I would spend more than an hour standing in the snow. I left my overcoat behind because we would be in the locker room in a short time. I was wearing just a tweed sports jacket and standing in the dirty snow behind the end zone at the opposite end from Lake Erie. 
But this game turned into a microcosm of the Jets’ season. Quarterback Ken O’Brien was brilliant in a 51-45 overtime win over the Dolphins and Dan Marino to start a nine-game winning streak that carried the Jets to a 10-1 record. But O’Brien fell apart in a five-game losing streak at the end of the season and was replaced by Pat Ryan, who led a first-round playoff win over the Chiefs. Ryan was hurt in the second quarter of the playoff game at Cleveland after throwing a touchdown pass&nbsp;in the first quarter and O’Brien took over with the score tied at 7. 
After McNeil’s TD, the Browns faced second-and-24 at their 18 late in the fourth quarter, and Bernie Kosar threw an incompletion. But Jets defensive end Mark Gastineau, who always rushed the quarterback no matter the cost to the defense, hit Kosar and was called for roughing the passer. That first down sustained what turned into a TD drive that made the score 20-17. 
When the Jets recovered an onsides kick at the Browns’ 45-yard line with 1:57 left, it still seemed the game was over. But coach Joe Walton called three running plays that lost three yards, and the Jets punted. The first one went to the Browns’ 7-yard line, but a holding penalty on Marion Barber forced a do-over, and the Browns started at their 33 with 51 seconds left. Jets cornerback Russell Carter dropped a potential end zone interception in the final seconds of regulation before Mark Moseley’s 22-yard field goal sent the game to overtime. 
Moseley missed kicks of 23 yards in overtime and 43 yards in regulation but hit a game-winning 27-yarder with 2:02 gone in the second OT to end the third-longest game in NFL playoff history. Browns 23, Jets 20. 
I’ve never visited a more grim locker room. Jets defenders played close to 100 plays and were totally exhausted. 
“We had it in our hands, and we dropped it,’’ offensive lineman Dan Alexander said. “I don’t know how or why.” 
This scene opened my book “Nose to Nose,” the only book I ever have authored, and it foretold the breakdown of that Jets team under Walton.

New York Jets

spCRAZYGREG200523

Remembering how Jets blew playoff game to Browns, losing in second OT to end '86 season

From the Press Box: Crazy defeat ended Jets' '86 playoff run

spCRAZYGREG200523_photos

The Mets-Marlins game on Sept. 26, 2016, didn’t mean anything. Sure, the Mets went on to make the playoffs as a wild card, so it was relevant to the standings. But the game was meaningless in a bigger-picture, life-or-death, what-does-baseball-really-matter-anyway way. 
This was the Marlins’ first game after the death of Jose Fernandez, their teammate, friend and homegrown Cuban-American star in the de facto Cuban-American capital. I was there for the South Florida Sun Sentinel, having become the Marlins beat writer only a few months prior, and it was the craziest game I have ever covered. 
In that first full day after the crash, as the Mets visited for a three-game series, the emotion in Miami and inside Marlins Park was raw. Going to the ballpark is fun, right? This was like going to a wake. 
Remember that in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy, all anybody knew was that Fernandez, 24, and two acquaintances had died in a middle-of-the-night boat crash off Miami Beach. There was no blame. Just sadness and shock. It wasn’t until much later that a state investigation revealed that Fernandez, drunk and with cocaine in his system, was piloting the speeding boat, complicating his story and legacy. 
Out of respect for the mourning Marlins, their clubhouse was closed to the media pregame, a completely understandable move. Frankly, I didn’t want to be in there. Instead, manager Don Mattingly and a heavily crying Scott Boras — Fernandez’s agent— did group interviews in or near the dugout.
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The Marlins all wore black No. 16 Fernandez jerseys. After a slow, single-trumpet “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” the Mets crossed the field to share hugs and tears with their opponents. When the Marlins huddled on the infield grass, Giancarlo Stanton — who had the contract of a leader but not necessarily the reputation of one — said: "If someone's struggling, pick them up. We're going to find a way to do this. I love you guys." First pitch came at 7:16 p.m. 
The greatest can’t-make-this-up moment came in the bottom of the first, when the first swing from Miami’s first batter, Dee Gordon, resulted in a home run into the upper deck. It was an 85-mph pipeshot from Bartolo Colon and the only homer from the 170-pound Gordon all season.
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In-game recollections after that are blurry. I remember Justin Bour, who is burly and not fast, finished his first career triple with a belly-flop slide, making everyone in the home dugout smile. Adam Conley, back from the disabled list that day, pitched three scoreless innings and said afterward, “That was Jose’s mound today.” The box score reveals Colon got rocked for seven runs in 2 1/3 innings and Yoenis Cespedes, Fernandez’s countrymate, went 0-for-5 in the 7-3 Marlins win. 
In the postgame clubhouse, Fernandez’s locker was still intact, his belongings virtually untouched except for a lone rose tucked into the jersey he was supposed to wear during his start that night. 
The most touching moment of the night came after the game — near midnight in a mostly empty stadium when the Marlins returned to the mound, beers in hand and some still wearing No. 16. With the press box’s view of the field closed, I went to an empty broadcast booth to watch the private moment from afar. I don’t know what they said, but there were a few laughs mixed in. They stayed for about 16 minutes, poured out their drinks on the dirt and walked off just as the lights went out.

SPCRAZYTIM200520

Marlins Fernandez Killed

Mets Marlins Baseball

The Marlins' first game after Jose Fernandez's death was a memorable one

From the Press Box: The Marlins' first game after Fernandez's death

Colin Stephenson

I’ve seen a lot of games during my 30-plus years in press boxes all over North America. The craziest one I’ve ever seen was played just over two months ago. 
On March 5, I watched Rangers forward <a href="https://www.newsday.com/sports/hockey/rangers/mika-zibanejad-rangers-capitals-1.42515524">Mika Zibanejad score five goals</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;— including the game-winner in overtime — to power the Rangers to a 6-5 win over the Washington Capitals in front of a delirious crowd at Madison Square Garden. I’ve seen plenty of hat tricks, and even the occasional four-goal game. But five goals? No, never saw that before. Not in hockey, anyway. 
Now, I’ve witnessed some great/ amazing/bizarre sports moments in my career. I was there for Game 6 of the Rangers-Devils series in 1994, when Mark Messier promised a Rangers victory, then scored a hat trick in a 4-2 win that forced Game 7. And I was there for Game 7, when Stephane Matteau scored that double-overtime goal that sent the Rangers to the Stanley Cup Final against Vancouver. 
I was in the overflow press box for that one, just below the old blue seats. And when the Devils’ Valeri Zelepukin tied the score with 8.3 seconds left in regulation, I remember a young boy in front of us turning around in exasperation and saying, “I feel like hitting that Zelepukin in the head.’’ 
I also was there when Roger Clemens threw Mike Piazza’s broken bat at him as he ran out a foul ball in Game 2 of the 2000 Subway World Series at Yankee Stadium. And I was there the night Odell Beckham Jr. made that still-unbelievable one-handed catch against the Cowboys that made him the biggest star in the NFL at the time. (That catch was the sickest single thing I’ve seen in a sporting event, by the way.) 
But five goals, including the overtime winner, against one of the top teams in the league, in the thick of a playoff race? Now that’s just plain crazy. 
Zibanejad completed his hat trick to put the Rangers up 4-3, and Washington’s Alex Ovechkin tied it. Zibanejad’s fourth goal made it 5-4, and Ovechkin tied it again in the final minute of regulation. 
But Zibanejad was simply not to be stopped. He won it on a breakaway backhand shot 33 seconds into the three-on-three overtime. I get the feeling that if the OT hadn’t been sudden death, Ovechkin would have tied it again — and Zibanejad would have won it in the shootout. 
Zibanejad had a stunned look on his face in the locker room afterward. He simply couldn’t believe what he had just done. 
“I don’t understand it,’’ he said. “I feel like I’m speechless.’’

Hockey

New York Rangers

spCRAZYCOLIN200519

Mika Zibanejad's five-goal game vs. Capitals was just plain crazy

From the Press Box: Mika's 5-goal game was just plain crazy

spRANG200306

Neil Best

It was snowing. I had not slept on my red-eye flight. I had arrived by taxi at Giants Stadium at 7 in the morning to retrieve my car, at which time I discovered taxis from Newark Airport to Giants Stadium cost more than I knew. 
So I had to beg the guard in the security booth at the players’ entrance to lend me $10, with the promise I would return when the locker room opened to reporters that afternoon and pay him back. He reluctantly obliged. 
I was too dazed and confused to care. This was on Jan. 6, 2003, and was a fitting twist less than 12 hours after the conclusion of by far the craziest game I have covered, attended, watched, listened to, read about or otherwise experienced in a half-century of following sports. 
It also was the most complicated. 
Shortly after filing our inadequate game stories, Paul Schwartz of the New York Post and I agreed there was only one way to properly chronicle the Giants’ 39-38 loss to the 49ers in a wild-card playoff game at 3Com Park: 
With a book. A long one. 
It’s all a blur now, just as it was that evening. 
Jeremy Shockey threw a cup of ice at a young fan. The Giants blew a 38-14 third-quarter lead. Trey Junkin came out of retirement to long snap for the Giants and botched two snaps, one on a potential game-winning field goal. 
Cris Collinsworth, calling his first playoff game for Fox, messed up a rules explanation that left millions of viewers confused. The Giants’ undermanned defensive line was relying on Frank Ferrara, a stuntman from Staten Island. 
The Giants’ Shaun Williams got into a fight with the 49ers’ future Hall of Fame receiver, Terrell Owens. Niners quarterback Jeff Garcia ran around a lot. 
Some of all that probably is out of order. 
There was so much going on that what would later become the biggest story to come out of that game initially was an afterthought, a mere paragraph or so in the initial game story. 
Giants guard Rich Seubert was stewing in the visiting locker room that he had declared himself an eligible receiver before being dragged down by the 49ers’ Chike Okeafor on a desperate pass from holder Matt Allen. This was after Junkin’s errant snap on Matt Bryant’s 41-yard try for a winning field goal in the final seconds.
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Referee Ron Winter, without conferring with colleagues, ruled the game over because the Giants had an ineligible receiver downfield — which they did, guard Tam Hopkins — but he did not recognize Okeafor’s foul on Seubert because no one told him Seubert was eligible. 
The penalties should have offset, giving Junkin, Allen and Bryant another crack at it. 
That week, Paul Tagliabue would describe the incident as the most disappointing involving officiating in his then 13 years as commissioner. It led to new guidelines for officials talking things out with one another before making decisions. 
But it was too late for those Giants, who had been on a late-season roll and seemed poised for a deep playoff run. 
Many follow-up articles have been written about that game, several by me. But no book — yet.

spCRAZYNEIL200518

1753246

Giants' playoff loss to 49ers in 2003 was the craziest

From the Press Box: Giants' playoff loss to 49ers was the craziest

NFC Championship Litke Football

Laura Albanese

This story is part of our "From the Press Box" series, where Newsday sportswriters share their experiences covering great performances, memorable moments and the craziest games. 
On the best of days, covering a World Series involves living in a high-frequency world of extremely regulated chaos. Batting practice takes on a frantic circus vibe as media members pour in from all over the world, and even media conferences can become sort of a sideshow — a mix of questions both hounding and bizarre. 
But Nov. 1, 2015, was not the best of days. It was Game 5 of the World Series, the night the Mets got eliminated by the Kansas City Royals. It began with Lucas Duda missing a pick at first base during infield practice, with the ball careening into my chest, and ended with David Wright escorting his team and the assembled media horde onto the field to say thank you to the devastated fans who remained. Spiritually, it was his last big act as captain. We didn’t know it then, but his career was all but over. 
It also was the day that Duda — poor Lucas Duda — made an errant throw to the plate in the ninth inning, giving the Royals the tying run. (Kansas City won 7-2 in 12 innings.) 
Who would’ve thought Duda’s defensive lapse during pregame would portend what was to come? 
In the press box and beyond, the misadventures seemed to follow me like a lost puppy. I had three baseballs in my possession because after I got hit, Mets media relations boss Jay Horwitz procured a few — one of which probably was the one that hit me, he said — as a memento of (very little) pain and suffering. Duda, ever the gentleman, came up to me and apologized, as if it were his fault that I decided to chat with someone directly behind the first-base bag. 
Ready to write the funny story I had for Twitter, I noticed I didn’t have my laptop charger and would have to write my early stories on my cellphone. I spent the actual game going station to station, like a sad, millennial Oliver Twist, searching for someone with an HP laptop who would let me siphon just a little power for a few minutes. Thank you to the reporters who helped, and yes, I finally went and got a Macbook like everyone else. 
The truth is, though, I mostly forgot about that stuff until a friend reminded me. What stays in my mind is the end. Going to the clubhouse after the Mets had been eliminated was like walking directly into heavy fog. It wasn’t muted so much as it was in mourning. 
Wright had done everything he could to play during that postseason. But he was gaunt and showed up to pregame with heavy bandages around his torso that made it look as if he had just come back from war. 
His was the voice that rung out in the silence, urging everyone to “come on.” He ushered his teammates out to the field and the media followed. There were a good number of fans left as the Mets applauded the people who had been on this ride with them. Some were crying. And then Wright hobbled back in, the rest of us wordlessly filing in behind him. He would play only 39 more games. 
As for me, I gave two of the baseballs away to some Mets fans I knew but kept the scuffed one I assume hit me. It sits on top of my keyboard as a testament to the strangest game I ever covered and a writing instrument that would never run out of power on deadline.

New York Mets

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The night I got hit with a baseball while covering the World Series

From the Press Box: The night I got hit with a baseball while covering the World Series

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