What I Love about Sports: the Great Unifier

I spent 14 of my 24 years in broadcast journalism as a sportscaster. That gave me the opportunity to meet a lot of great people, cover scores of memorable sporting events and witness life lessons learned through skill, agility, competition and teamwork.

Another reason that I love sports is because of its ability to bring people together for a common cause, especially in times of need. History shows sports gives individuals, teams, families, communities and nations the opportunity to heal, rally and overcome as one.

Mark my words. When COVID-19 finally buries its ugly head, the floodgates will open and citizens worldwide will once again flock to be together. And sports will serve as a great unifier.

“I think the American people need sports right now,” said Drew Brees, New Orleans Saints quarterback. “That’s typically something that really brought us through a lot of tough situations throughout our country. I think people have been able to lean on their local sports teams or national teams to unite them and get their minds off their challenges and daily struggle.”

Here are a few examples.

Hurricane Katrina – New Orleans Saints

We begin with Brees and my hometown Saints. In August 2005, Hurricane Katrina pounded the Gulf Coast, caused more than $125 billion in damage, left more than 1,800 people dead and millions homeless. The tragedy transformed the Louisiana Superdome from the home field of an NFL franchise to a shelter for thousands upon thousands of locals unable to evacuate the devastating floodwaters.

The Saints, too, were homeless. They played every game away from New Orleans that season, struggled to a 3-13 record and fired their head coach.

As the city of New Orleans ever so slowly rebuilt its infrastructure, I remember hearing a national sports talk radio host, who had no ties whatsoever to the city or the state, criticize the franchise and its efforts to rebuild the damaged Superdome amidst the controlled chaos citywide. He belittled city and state officials for putting any focus at all on football.  

I remember saying to myself, “You’re not from there. You can’t speak for locals. You can’t speak for the mayor. You can’t speak for the governor. You can’t speak for those of us who have or had ties there. Shut up! Give the people something to rally behind. They need this. Give them an emotional outlet.” 

That break came in a big way on September 25, 2006. The nation tuned in to Monday Night Football to watch the Saints and their emotionally-charged fans host their long-time rivals, the Atlanta Falcons. Just 90 seconds into the game, Steve Gleason, a player I covered as a sportscaster for his senior year at Washington State University, broke through the line and blocked a punt. The ball bounded into the end zone where a teammate recovered it for a New Orleans touchdown. The Superdome crowd exploded in excitement, delirium, dancing and pure joy. The Saints rolled over Atlanta that night 23-3 in a game many to this day, still say boasted the greatest atmosphere in franchise history.

“I think it symbolized not only maybe the resurgence of our football team, but the resurgence of the city and the recovery and the rebirth,” Brees told SBNation.

(Three seasons later, this New Orleans native celebrated on the news set just hours after the Saints won Super Bowl XLIV.)

September 11, 2001 – Major League Baseball

On September 11, 2001, terrorists launched four deadly attacks on the United States that killed nearly 3,000 people, injured more than 25,000 and caused more than $10 billion in damage.

Our shocked nation stopped, mourned, honored and remembered those we lost that day. After that brief period, sporting events on the local, high school, college and professional level gave Americans prime opportunities to come together, sing together, cheer together and just plain feel a sense of “being one.”

My greatest personal post-September 11^th memory came at Veterans Memorial Arena where the Spokane Chiefs of the Western Hockey League played their first game after the attacks. With the arena lights dimmed, players from the Chiefs and the opposing team skated one-by-one to the center circle until it was entirely surrounded in an alternating fashion. Then a spotlight shone on a door at the far end of the ice. It opened and the only American member on the Chiefs roster, Kurt Sauer, burst onto the ice carrying an American flag. The crowd exploded in cheering and applause as he skated at full speed around the rink and eventually stopped at center ice. It was a simple display of patriotism yet for those in attendance like me, it was absolutely electrifying.

On the national level, I remember how Major League Baseball altered its seventh inning stretch tradition of singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame to God Bless America. And then on October 30, 2001, President George W. Bush threw out the ceremonial first pitch before Game 3 of the 2001 World Series on an emotionally-charged night. And he fired a strike right over the plate.

 USA-Russia Cold War – The Miracle on Ice

My favorite unifying moment is my all-time favorite sports moment – the Miracle on Ice. It happened on February 22, 1980. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing. I was downstairs at my house with my family watching the United States hockey team, made up entirely of young amateur players, take on the powerhouse Soviet Union, winners of four previous gold medals and a squad that pounded the Americans 10-3 in an exhibition game just three days before the games began.

As a family, we had the opportunity to personally watch Team USA beat the Tulsa Oilers in an exhibition game in Wichita, Kansas, only one month earlier. Plus, given that we lived in hockey-crazed Canada for three years in the early 1970s, we understood the game and we were all-in for this David versus Goliath showdown.

Internationally, this was not just a game. It was a politically-charged showdown between the world’s two superpowers in the midst of a Cold War that featured decades of finger-pointing and threats of nuclear war. In response to Russia invading Afghanistan right before the winter Olympics, President Jimmy Carter announced the U.S. would boycott the 1980 Summer Olympic Games in Moscow. Instead of boycotting the Winter Games, Russia announced its hockey team would come to American and win gold on U.S. soil.

Captain Mike Eruzione, goalie Jim Craig, head coach Herb Brooks and the scrappy Americans played the game of their lives beating the Soviets 4-3. Chants of U-S-A, U-S-A could be heard in the arena, on the streets of Lake Placid, New York, and across the country. The American people rallied together as one in one of the greatest upsets in the history of sports.

Come this fall, I, for one, cannot wait to blend into a crowd and let loose. Because that’s just the unifying kind of effect sports can have on us.

After Eight Generations of Holyoaks...

The email hit my in-box at 3:37 p.m. on February 27, 2020. It simply stated, “Hey Mark, you are recorded on this land!” And with that, it came to an end. After approximately 165 years and eight generations of Holyoaks, our direct family line no longer owns land in Parowan, Utah.

George Eli Holyoak

The Holyoak coming-to-America story goes way back to the mid-1850s. George Eli Holyoak and his family joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and started their 4,800-mile emigration journey to Utah from their home in England. They survived what must have been an eternally long nine-week journey on the ship “Windemere.” Along the way, a number of fellow travelers became seasick and developed cholera resulting in multiple deaths and burials at sea. The ship later caught fire and started to leak. Men, women and children used buckets and pans to keep it afloat until finally reaching the final destination up the Mississippi River at Quarantine Island in St. Louis.

From there, they later camped at the Missouri River where George’s oldest daughter died, leaving behind a husband and two young children. While crossing the plains, George’s beloved wife Sarah died of mountain fever. Ten days later a second daughter, Ann, passed away from the same sickness. He buried them both and painfully left them behind on the plains of Nebraska. 

Original farmhouse (1860's-1929)

The Holyoaks forged onward and arrived in Salt Lake City in September of 1854. Shortly thereafter, George and his family answered a call to settle in Parowan in the southern part of Utah. They purchased property and homesteaded at the southern end of what is now 200 South Street, but to this day locals still call it Holyoak Lane.

Fast forward to four generations later. Grandpa Vern had passed away leaving the old stone block farmhouse vacant. Dad asked us kids if we wanted to take over ownership of the farm and two pieces of outlying property. We each had families, busy lives and none of us lived anywhere close to southern Utah. We declined so he and Mom continued to care for the place by taking two trips there each year.

In September 2017, Lori and I decided to take an impromptu trip the farm to spend about a week with my parents. It was so nostalgic. And so fun. 

                             Rabbit Hunting                                                Mom + Hi-Q + only 2 pieces left = "A Sharpie"

We ate together around the old farm table, did a little rabbit hunting from the back of the pickup like old times, watched general conference via the Internet, played vintage games, laughed until we cried (at least Mom and I did), ate burgers and milkshakes at the Dairy Freeze in town, and Dad and I repaired fencing and then used shovels and Grandpa’s old 1954 Martin-Harris tractor (that still purrs like a newborn kitten) to drill holes in the ground to construct a fence out of old cedar posts on the outlying 37-acre property. It was hot, hard work but it was great to have some quality one-on-one time with Dad. Before Lori and I left for our Montana home later in the week, I wandered through the house to take photos. Not knowing the future, I didn’t know if I would ever have the chance to return.

In the late summer of 2018, Dad was diagnosed with cancer. He passed away about four months later. He knew Mom did not want to oversee upkeep of the farmhouse and land but he hung onto it for tax purposes. After his passing, Mom and I chatted and I offered to help her sell the land. We found a buyer for the house and surrounding couple of acres. After a burial service in Parowan in early March, we all took one final opportunity to walk through the old farmhouse and adjacent garage/shop before heading to Cedar City to sign paperwork to sell it. Each of us claimed some things that tied us to the old place. Lori and I, who only several months previous finally moved back in our home after a house fire, acquired some things to help furnish our rebuild house including four old wooden chairs, a couple of wood bins (actually acquired earlier), some kitchen items, an old quilt and a few other things. I was very fortunate to receive Dad’s old farm truck to eventually be used as a plow truck to deal with snow in the winter, and Kenny got some tools and the old tractor with a blade, bucket and several other attachments.

Not very long thereafter, my back-and-forth dealings with the realtor and several suitors continued and led to the sale of the larger, 120-acre piece of outlying property where Grandpa used to run his cattle. Mom signed the final paperwork and it was sold. That only left the smaller piece of land where Dad and I built the fence.

We initially received a couple of low-ball offers but we passed. In early February 2020, we relisted the property with a reduced price. We had two immediate offers and started negotiations. One offer was clearly superior so we pursued it. Again, after a flurry of paperwork the process came to a successful conclusion on February 27.

Now in my late 50s, I look back on my time in Parowan on “our” land with a flood of fond memories including visiting my Great Grandma, many trips rabbit hunting, successful fishing outings to Panguitch Lake, borderline out-of-control races with my siblings on Grandpa’s three-wheeler (which is now sitting in my shed – he originally acquired by trading his horse to get it), hunting for arrowheads, and my favorite and by far most anticipated activity of all of hopping in Grandpa’s Vern’s old, dusty pickup to go with him everywhere – to feed the cows, grocery shopping, cutting and bailing hay, picking up the mail, going to church, stopping by his brother’s or sister’s houses, bottle-feeding orphaned calves, shooting prairie dogs, trips into the mountains, eating mints out of his glove box, climbing atop the old barn with my brothers to hammer loose nails back into the old trusses, being given a metal rod and sent into the chicken coop to dispatch of invading sparrows that ate the chicken feed and just plain spending time with him.

I’m so grateful to have those memories yet I am so sad! The next time I drive down I-15 in southern Utah, pass Parowan and look to the east on the southern edge of town, it will be the first time I pass the old farmstead in eight generations of Holyoaks that it won’t be “ours.”

The old chicken coop