8

Great Teams Manage Through Ego and Conflict

“The aim of an argument or discussion should not be victory, but progress.”

—JOSEPH JOUBERT

It was February 22, 2005, a quarter of a century to the day of our victory over the Soviet Union at Lake Placid—and there had been no NHL hockey played all winter, actually longer than that. That's right. An irreconcilable dispute between NHL owners and players had resulted in an owner lockout of the players that began on September 16, 2004, and was still in effect more than five months later. Things wouldn't get resolved until the summer. No regular season. No playoffs. No Stanley Cup winner. It would be the first time in the history of professional sports in North America that an entire season was cancelled because of a labor dispute.

But on the 25th anniversary of the “Miracle on Ice,” an incensed sports columnist named Gary Shelton, writing in the St. Petersburg Times, had hope for something of a season to be salvaged——and he invoked the better angels and example of the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team in his attempt to persuade NHL commissioner Gary Bettman and the NHL Players Association executive director, Bob Goodenow, to return to the negotiating table. Here is an excerpt from Shelton's column:

Bring them into the room. Use force if necessary.

Cuff them. Carry them. Drag them. Gag them. Drop them off. Prop them up.

This is not a negotiation. This is an education. So put Bettman in this chair and Goodenow in that one. Dump the lackeys and the yes men on the floor. Just get them into the room and strap them where they sit.

Ready? Turn on the projector.

We're going to settle the silliness you have brought to hockey.

Do you recognize what you are seeing? You should. Those images rolling across the screen are members of the United States’ 1980 Olympic hockey team. Look closely, guys. You can see sacrifice up there. You can see achievement. You can see the selflessness and teamwork, discipline and resiliency. Look, and you will see the pure love of hockey. You will see possibilities instead of proposals, performance instead of posturing. Pay attention.

Evidently, some of you have forgotten the things this team knew by heart.

I don't cite those words to criticize the players or the owners in the drama—many of whom I know well and respect. What I am pointing out is that we had the fortune of not tussling with money and being seduced by it—and we were able to come together and put aside our differences, work through the problems, and leave our egos at the door, so that we could do something great. We had the benefit of not being big names and not worrying if U.S. amateur hockey administrators were making money off of us. No contracts. No clauses. No fine print. Indeed, the only contract decisions with which we had to deal were to hold off signing a pro contract so that we could play in the Olympics. Our lives were infinitely simpler and less complicated.

We weren't big shots. We weren't stars. If we were going to do something great we needed each other and had to do it together. We couldn't afford to wallow in our differences to get laid low by towering egos.

We needed to manage through ego and conflict.

My teammate Jack O’Callahan recently sent to me this reflection on how we managed through ego and conflict:

I think the ego issue was not a big part of our team's makeup or the makeup of the individuals. The one common denominator was that all the players respected what the others had done for their college teams, many if not all had been drafted by NHL teams, and we were all in the same place—whether we would ultimately be one of the final 20 players. I think Herb's leadership in setting very high team goals kept anyone from getting too ahead of themselves as individuals. The leadership that was focused, demanding, and held the players accountable kept the dynamic tight.

Jack—or “OC,” as the team called him—has excellent insight in pointing out how shared challenges and a shared goal helped prevent and manage disrupting influences. In our final tune-up game prior to the Olympics—the one in which we got manhandled by the Soviets—Jack sustained a knee injury that would have kept a less tough competitor out of the Olympics. Herb and the staff had a tough choice to make: A final roster had to be submitted to the Olympic organizers before we arrived at Lake Placid. If Jack was kept on the team but couldn't skate in the games, then we would lose a vitally important defenseman position. But the right decision was made and Jack was kept on the squad. He missed the first two games of the Olympics (not the five games that Miracle dramatized) but, for the remainder of the games in the Olympics, he was ready, if not at 100 percent physically, then definitely at the full quotient of his normal and fiery spirit. Because OC was still a bit hobbled, in the games he did play at Lake Placid, he did not see the number of minutes he did in our pre-Olympic competitive preparation. How Jack handled his reduced playing time is testament to his willingness to check his ego at the door and to not pout, moan, or complain that he had been given a bad break. His attitude remained as positive and supportive as ever throughout the Olympics. And it goes without saying that when he was on the ice he gave it his all. I think it is poetic justice, in a way, that in one of the most famous photographs in sports history—the photo that Heinz Kluetmeier shot of the on-ice celebration after the Soviet game—OC is prominent, on his knees, his arms outstretched, his mouth open wide, and yelling for all the world to hear.

In the summer of 2009, U.S. Olympic hockey officials had OC speak to members of the squad that would represent the United States in men's hockey at the 2010 Vancouver games. In front of my teammate were not the college kids we were—not the unheralded nobodies we were in the summer before Lake Placid—but a group of rich NHL stars, not one of whom needed to play in the Olympics to earn their bona fides as a great hockey player.

But the NHL standouts listened and were respectful—and this all suggested that they had their egos in check—and it all bode well for Vancouver. When OC finished speaking, the NHL players gave him a standing ovation.

I talked to OC shortly after he gave that speech, and he told me the primary message he wanted to get through to the 2010 U.S. Olympic team was that a collection of great players was just that— a collection of great players; it wasn't necessarily a team. It would take a team to win Olympic gold. OC said he told them it had to be about team first.

The U.S. players got the message. They played together and as a team in winning the silver medal—losing in sudden-death overtime to the heavy pre-Olympic favorite, Canada.

OC and his talk to the 2010 U.S. men's Olympic hockey team—and the values he emphasized—are emblematic of the type of person he is. He is a winner on and off the ice. After the Olympics, OC had a successful nine-year career in the NHL, seven of which were with the Chicago Black Hawks and two with the New Jersey Devils. While still playing pro hockey, OC—who was accepted as an undergrad to Harvard University—purchased an options membership at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange and in the offseason studied and interned in the futures market. When OC retired from the NHL, he spent three years as a futures pit trader; he then launched, along with former Harvard star and NHL player, Jack Hughes, a company called Beanpot Financial Services which is a broker and dealer for institutional clients.

Jack is still a competitor. As he has told me many times, the trading pit is another arena of competition. And you need to prepare for it just as carefully and with as much focus as you would for a hockey game. You have to practice and be in condition—mentally and physically.

There would have been no “Miracle on Ice” had ego and conflict not been managed. We would have left Lake Placid with no medal at all.

More great efforts have been undone by ego left unchecked and conflict not resolved than can ever be imagined. This negative energy brings down sports teams, companies, political campaigns, armies, and even societies and nations.

But the thing is this—ego and conflict can be healthy if managed and controlled. When they are not controlled, they become a monster that eats your group from within.

Managed and controlled, ego and conflict are energy and a source of winning ideas and inspiration. Not managed and controlled, they cause people to fight each other, not the competition—and that is a formula for losing.

Ego and conflict, untamed, prevent the sharing of a dream—and they disrupt the shared dreams that are in place.

Throughout the journey of the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team, the team had a lot of ego and conflict percolating within. What changed in the journey, though, is that, early on, there were egos and conflicts that were sufficiently managed so we could be winners. Right from the get-go, the process of managing through turmoil was underway—but it was just a start; we all had a bit of a go-it-alone and Wild West mentality among ourselves. We weren't a team.

We got there of course. It was rough and there were many blow-ups and angry and hurt feelings; there were doubts and misgivings and many questions that had to be overcome. But we dealt with the hurt and licked our wounds—and we overcame doubt and found, together, the answers we needed to win.

We stood on top of the victory platform at Lake Placid—all 20 guys—because we were able to manage through ego and conflict. Great teams manage through ego and conflict.

Find a Buffer-A Go-Between

Curiously, and this is discussed in the chapter “Great Teams Have a Real or Invented Enemy,” a primary way that ego and conflict were managed on our team was for the players to coalesce and get together to oppose our coach, the man we called the Ayatollah. He was our common enemy. When we were all together and complaining about Herb—and in unison working our tails off to prove his negative assessments of us wrong—then ego and conflict were managed in a way that created positive energy. This strategy was a bit unconventional; it also got the job done.

Herb was the enemy—and the liaison between the enemy and the players was Craig Patrick. Without Craig Patrick and the role he played, we would not have won gold. Herb was often harsh and straightforward and bitingly critical. He assigned Craig the job of acting more like a big brother to us and passing information both ways—from Herb to the players and from the players to Herb—that both sides wanted passed.

Craig did not betray the confidence of either side. Yet he had an ear to the ground on which Herb operated and on which we operated, and he was able to make suggestions and deliver advice to Herb and to the players that resulted in better communication and understanding across the organization.

Craig, a talented player and an astute hockey mind, was the right guy for this job. A hockey guy inside and out, he loved the game about as much as anyone could.

Again, as I mentioned in Chapter 7, it would be Craig's role as a player-coach in the 1979 World Championships in Moscow that would be his tune-up for his job on the 1980 U.S. Olympic team. Herb was looking ahead to Lake Placid—and the need for a smart hockey mind that would operate in that liaison capacity—when he selected Craig as player-coach for the 1979 tournament. Craig was nearing the end of his professional career, and since he absolutely could not leave hockey, the next step would be to the coaching and administrative ranks. Coaching and playing in Moscow were all part of the transition.

Remember, it was Craig Patrick—not Herb Brooks—who, in the tournament in Moscow, delivered to me the terrifying news that I would play in the next game against the fearsome Czechs.

In the summer of 1979, Craig had just hung up his competitive skates, but he still had so much of the player in him—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. He had just finished his pro and international career a few months previous. He would be 34 years old at Lake Placid while Herb would be 42. Craig had a lot more in common with the players—in terms of recent experience in hockey—than did Herb.

So as we prepared for the Olympics, and during the Olympics themselves, Craig Patrick was the buffer, the intermediary, the liaison, and sort of a sounding board as well, who diffused friction and calmed things down. In terms of hurt feelings and bruised egos, Herb wasn't in the business of tending to those and giving the warm fuzzies. Craig jumped in to handle that chore.

When Herb entered the locker room in the first intermission of the Sweden game at Lake Placid, and was about to jump ugly, real ugly, with Rob McClanahan, he caught my eye and gave me a wink—and then he caught Craig's eye and gave him a wink. What Herb was doing here was mitigating a bit the mayhem he was about to set off. When Herb was leaving the locker room—amid the ranting and hollering—he gave a wink to both Craig and I and said, “That oughta get ’em going.” It sure did.

What wasn't shown in Miracle was what happened after Herb walked out. Craig Patrick then took over and calmed things down. He told us to forget about Herb and what he said—and that we had a commitment to one another—and that it didn't matter how furious we were at Herb, we had to go out and play.

Craig Patrick and Jim at 2010 Robertson Cup Banquet.

Credit: Jim Craig

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In the locker room—as he frequently did—Craig played the good cop to Herb's bad cop.

If Craig hadn't done his job then and there, we would have lost our focus and almost certainly the game. And if we had started out the Olympics with a loss, the possibility of any miracle would have been erased almost as soon as we started. Craig was also the guy who took the team's message to Herb—and again this was dramatized in the movie—that he needed to hear out some of the guys regarding how unsettling and dispiriting it was with only a few weeks to go to the Olympics to keep on bringing in new players for a look.

Over and over, Craig Patrick kept the boat steady and the train on track. He does not get enough credit for the miracle.

No One Is Bigger Than Team

One of the greatest coaches and examples of a brilliant leader and true gentleman is UCLA basketball coach John Wooden. This book was in its early development stages when Coach Wooden died at the age of 99. Of all the accomplishments of Coach Wooden, all the games won, the national championships, the trophies, the awards, the most important and enduring testament to his contribution to society is what type of men the players he coached became—and how many of them adored and kept in frequent contact with him.

As he built and mentored the most dominant men's basketball program in history, he never sought to grab the limelight and make it about him; indeed, his calm and poised demeanor on the sideline was a hallmark of his coaching. And while among the greatest to ever step onto a basketball court played for him, he made sure that no player was above the interests of the team.

There is an oft-told story of how UCLA center Bill Walton, who had earned All-American status the previous year, showed up for the first day of practice the following season sporting a full beard. John Wooden frowned on beards; he wanted all his players to be clean shaven; it was something all the players had in common and it supported teamwork. Wooden told Walton that the beard had to go. “But it is my right to have a beard,” responded Walton. Wooden replied, “Yes, that is right, BiIl—that is your right. I respect people who stand up for their rights. And we are going to miss you.” Walton shaved the beard that day. Following his playing days at UCLA, a week did not go by when Walton did not call Coach Wooden to talk.

Consider the Herb Brooks approach to dealing with the “beard” issue when building a team and managing ego and conflict. Herb, too, had a prohibition on beards—but he faced an issue because Ken Morrow had been sporting a beard prior to being selected to try out for the team. So this is where Herb meshed pragmatism with rules— and he did it in coy fashion. He announced that there could be no beards on the team—but if you had a beard prior to being a member of the team, then you received a waiver; you were grandfathered in.

There was only one player the rule affected: Ken Morrow.

John Wooden and Herb Brooks knew that you sow all sorts of dissension in the ranks when you play favorites and allow certain players rights and privileges not accorded everyone on the team. Sure, you reward success—and it is important to have winners and losers (otherwise, why play?)—but the rules need to be the same for everyone—with the sly exception that Herb made for Ken Morrow.

Conflict also arises when the star receives all of the spotlight, is showered with adulation and media attention, and the supporting cast remains in the shadows. This conflict largely resides in the world of sports, but it can happen in any sector. I know the reality and the economics about how big money dictates where the cameras focus and who sits to take questions at press conferences—but that doesn't mean that those who support the superstars don't get miffed and disgruntled if they don't receive their due.

But the money isn't going away.

I said that the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team was not a Dream Team, but a Team of Dreamers. We arrived at the village in the Adirondacks largely unknown. There were no big names on the team. If there were any celebrities in international hockey at the time they were on the Soviet squad. Compare our situation with that of the 1992 U.S. Olympic men's basketball team—the original Dream Team—that arrived in Barcelona as rock stars. This collection of hoops superstars were mobbed and followed everywhere they went. Indeed, the coach of the team, Chuck Daly, said of the experience, “It was like Elvis and the Beatles together. Traveling with the Dream Team was like traveling with 12 rock stars. That's all I can compare it to.”

We didn't have to deal with such interest. Traveling with our team—the Team of Dreamers—was like traveling with … well … 20 amateur hockey players from the United States. Early in the Olympics, every player on our team could walk through the center of Lake Placid and not command a single autograph request. Not a single request for a picture. This would change soon, of course, but for the moment we were anonymous.

Our coaching staff considered the anonymity a positive. Herb wanted it this way. No prima donnas and there would be no conflict. If the spotlight started to shine too hot and directly on one player, then our unity could be disrupted. It was only natural; we were kids who still had a lot of growing up to do—and impressionable young people can get jealous and miffed easily. Herb took criticism for handling all the media interviews himself and keeping us away from the microphones. It was suggested that he was hogging the media and public attention. This wasn't the case. What Herb was doing was minimizing the potential for big heads and overarching egos that could affect our play.

In that preventing big heads and outsized ego was a priority, Mike Eruzione was the right captain for the team. He provided the leadership and experience and competitive fire: he was the second oldest on the team and had played in college, semi-pros, and two World Ice Hockey Championships. Yet there were many players on the team who had garnered bigger headlines and accolades. This suited Herb Brooks fine; it all synched with his strategy for tamping down on the ego and getting through the conflict.

Mike Eruzione was a superior captain and leader; he was the right captain for the team. It is fitting and well deserved that Mike was the guy who scored the game winning goal against the Soviets. And let me tell you something about that goal—that shot. Mike jokes that a friend said to him, “If that shot were three inches to the left you'd be painting bridges now.” It is modesty. Mike Eruzione could always score—and he put that puck where it was supposed to go at a time when we needed it to go there.

Everyone Has an Important Role

I've written about how everyone on a team needs to be accountable for themselves and for each other. Everyone has a role to play. Remember how Gary Smith, our trainer, used his wits in the Soviet game to hold back one of our players and prevent a too-many-men-on-the-ice penalty which would have left us short-handed against the most potent office on earth. And remember the role that our team physician Dr. Nagobads had in the Soviet game—timing our shifts, making sure no shift was longer than 40 seconds.

Great friends: Jim with Dr Nagobads.

Credit: Jim Craig

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When everyone on the team has a role—when everyone is invested in the process—it helps manage ego and conflict. And when you do that you give yourself a better chance to win. Everyone has an important role. Respect that role. You earn respect in giving respect, in assigning respect. David Packard, co-founder of Hewlett-Packard, understood and practiced this concept. Consider this excerpt from his book, The HP Way: How Bill Hewlett and I Built Our Company:

I recall the time, many years ago, when I was walking around a machine shop, accompanied by the shop's manager. We stopped briefly to watch a machinist making a polished plastic mold die. He had spent a long time polishing it and was taking a final cut at it. Without thinking, I reached down and wiped it with my finger. The machinist said, “Get your finger off my die!” The manager quickly asked him, “Do you know who this is?” To which the machinist replied, “I don't care!” He was right and I told him so. He had an important job and was proud of his work.

Packard—who, by the way, was a heck of an athlete at Stanford University, lettering in football, basketball, and track and field—didn't have so big an ego that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, recognize that a machinist was right in reproaching him for interfering with his work.

The HP Way was big on being inclusive and rewarding everyone across the company.

Establishing a culture of managing through ego and conflict begins at the top.

And, sometimes, even people with mountainous egos can manage and oversee an organizational culture that helps manage conflict. Consider mega-casino and hotel developer Steve Wynn, known as Mr. Las Vegas. Wynn, a billionaire, has an Everest-size ego for sure—but he also invests his employees with importance, respect, and responsibility. Just prior to opening his most opulent, newest, and biggest hotel-casino, Wynn Las Vegas, Wynn and his business partner, his wife, Elaine, assembled the employees of the facility. Steve Wynn said to them:

On behalf of myself and Elaine I'd like to get something straight. As of this minute, you will be doing me a great favor, each of you that are in this room, if you will please now refer to me as Steve and her as Elaine, wherever you see me, wherever you are. There's enough Wynn plastered around this building (laughter) to last us the rest of our lives (laughter and applause).

And I gotta get you to take responsibility. And I gotta get you to feel ownership. So I say this to you. In the opening days of this hotel, and maybe weeks, I empower every one of you that comes in contact with a customer—if you find that the food was cold, or the room wasn't ready, or the reservation was wrong, or the customer was upset, or they think they should have won the bet—don't look over your shoulder for a boss. Give ’em back the chips, cancel the check—on your own (applause).You got my permission (applause). Customer satisfaction is now in your lap as well as mine.

I do a lot of business in Las Vegas, and I have stayed at every one of Steve Wynn's hotels: Wynn Las Vegas, Bellagio. The Mirage, Treasure Island, and Encore—and every hotel is run efficiently and delivers premium customer service. I keep going back.

Making sure that everyone has an important role in the organization facilitates and supports winning teamwork.

Agree to Disagree—Work It Out

Growing up in a big Irish Catholic family—you know, the one with eight kids and one bathroom, and not a lot of money, but enough—was a high-spirited and sometimes raucous experience. We could disagree and argue and get mad at one another—but we could never stop loving each other.

I learned early in life that you can't be enslaved to hard feelings, and that holding grudges usually saps more energy and inflicts more hurt on the holder than on the object of the grudge.

I also learned that some of the best resolutions, best results, and more enduring and valuable understandings are reached and achieved when people are willing to “get into it” and disagree and listen and fight for ideas and positions. When such emotional tumult is permitted and encouraged—and properly managed, even refereed—then you have an environment in which optimum potential can be achieved.

This is the type of environment in which no idea is a dumb idea—and one in which people understand that the best way to have good ideas is to have lots of ideas. Benjamin Disraeli said, “Never apologize for showing feeling. When you do so, you apologize for the truth.”

Again, I go back to the value of low PDI. You know that members of our team could challenge authority – such Herb and Craig Patrick—then we had little reluctance in speaking up to one another. But here's the thing—we would speak and argue and get it out of our system and move on. You have to move on.

It's like the scene in the movie when OC and McClanahan begin to throw down—and Craig Patrick moves in to immediately break it up. Herb holds Craig back, saying, “No, let ’em go.” Herb knew what would happen: OC and McClanahan would get their licks in and perhaps some noses and lips would be bloodied—but they would also blow off emotion and get through some conflict. Their teammates broke things up as soon as they hit the ice.

When OC and McClanahan were separated, Herb lays into everyone—he said that the brawl between the players looked like, and this is a wonderful Herbieism, “Two monkeys trying to hump a football.” He tells us that we need to get over the regionalism and the pettiness and to start—now—becoming a hockey team.

We did become a hockey team. And there were many more disagreements. But we knew we couldn't dwell on the differences and needed to come together.

Get Outside Your Comfort Zone for the Team

Dave Christian was an outstanding center and scorer at the University of North Dakota: Over just two years and 78 games he tallied 70 points. One of the Fighting Sioux teams he played for made it to the NCAA championship game—a loss against a Herb Brooks-coached University of Minnesota squad. Herb knew all about Dave, his scoring, and the offensive threat he posed. And these were the talents that put Dave front and center on the radar screen of Herb and Craig Patrick as they fashioned together their recruiting sheets for our team.

Following the 1980 Olympics, Dave went on to play 18 seasons in the NHL, scoring 340 goals and 433 assists in 1,099 regular season NHL games. And here's a bit of trivia: Which player, from the moment he first stepped on to the ice in an NHL game, took the least amount of time to score a goal? That's right—it was Dave Christian, playing for the Winnipeg Jets, who scored his first goal only seven seconds after he stepped onto the ice to start his NHL career.

Like Craig Patrick, Dave Christian descended from hockey royalty. Dave's father, Bill, and uncle, Roger, played for the 1960 U.S. Olympic team that performed the first miracle on ice, winning the gold medal at the Squaw Valley games. Bill and Roger, along with Hal Bakke, founded the Christian Brothers Hockey Company, makers of the famed hockey sticks.

As a member of the 1980 U.S. team, in the run up to Lake Placid—just as he did in college—Dave played as a center. This is the position he knew and that he enjoyed—and in which he gave us high-level value. A scoring center in hockey is something like a gun-slinging passing quarterback in football: it is a position that is a lot of fun to play—especially when you are putting up points. It is not like you are mucking around and knocking heads in the interior line in football and creating opportunities without receiving much credit—or like being a checking defenseman in hockey who is not given much of a green light to rush the net. Scorers and the offense—in all sports—grab most of the glory.

As I frequently say of playing goalie, and this applies to many positions of defense in athletics, we are there to prevent scores—and oftentimes, if we are effective or perform brilliantly in shutting down our opponent, it does not generate the enthusiasm or crowd response as when the offense beats you.

In December, one of our defenseman, Bobby Suter, broke his ankle. It looked like he would still be a go for the Olympics, but it wasn't certain. Herb needed to bolster and shore up our defense—and he got the idea to not bring in another defenseman, but to keep Bobby on and to move Dave Christian to defense. This could have been a problem if less of a team player had been asked to make the switch—but Dave was a team player through and through. When Herb told Dave that he needed him to give up his glamour spot, the one that he had played with great effectiveness his entire career, and to move back to scraping up and defending along the blue line, Dave took on the job with full body and soul.

“It wasn't a big deal; it needed to be done to make us as competitive as possible,” said Dave. “Plus, I had played some defense in high school; I knew what I was doing. It was all about team—nothing else.”

When Jack O’Callahan got hurt only a few days before our first Olympic game against Sweden, our blue line strength was further depleted—and the earlier decision to move Dave Christian became even more vitally important.

We would not have won at Lake Placid without Dave Christian playing defense. Bobby Suter was back but the ankle was not totally healed. Against the Czechs he hurt it again and, although Bobby is as tough and hard-nosed as they come, he was further hampered and not what he was. And, of course, there was OC who was not 100 percent either.

Dave Christian did not score any goals at Lake Placid, but he had eight assists, the most on the team during the tournament, and his skating speed and ability to thwart and throw off opposing scorers was vital to our success.

It seems that the qualities and values you learn early in life that are imbued in you as a youngster—when properly nurtured—direct you to help out and think of others and act selflessly.

As I have said, none of the players on the team were poor growing up—but none of the players came from affluence either. Almost to a man, every player came from a background in which they had enough, but not much more. Self-reliance was embedded in the code of the households of all 20 players. And in many ways, those guys from the Iron Range of Minnesota almost could not help but think of team first because in the Iron Range, if people didn't think of one another, people would not survive. I mean, when the iron mining was good then people had jobs but they didn't make much money. When the iron ore got depleted, then unemployment in some areas could be like 80 percent. During the winter temperatures sometimes hit 40 or 50 below zero. That is some hard living.

I think about an Iron Range kid like Buzz Schneider, one of the nicest people you could ever meet. A solid leader, Buzz was the oldest member of the team—an elderly 25—and the only guy on the team who had played on the 1976 U.S. Olympic squad. Buzz—a member of the famed Conehead line—was from the Iron Range town of Babbitt.

Buzz was fast and a menace for defensemen and goaltenders. He scored a hat trick on Vladislav Tretiak in the 1975 World Championships. He played full out from start to finish. He gave nothing less than 100 percent 100 percent of the time.

Now I have just told you about Dave Christian, a Minnesota kid, thinking first of team and not of himself when he made the switch to defense. And then I remember reading the Boys of Winter and finding out something I didn't know, but which, of course, didn't surprise me. When Buzz Schneider was entering his senior year in high school hockey, and was one of the top-scoring forwards in Minnesota prep hockey, his coach told him he wanted to move him to defense. Buzz said fine, whatever the coach wanted.

Compare the self-entitled and me-first attitudes of many of today's athletes—from youth leagues up to the pros—with those of young men like Dave Christian and Buzz Schneider. Really.

As for Buzz Schneider, it seems that being able to check ego runs in the family. Buzz's son, Billy, was a multisport standout athlete and found himself as part of a casting call audition for a role as one of the players in the Disney movie Miracle. You'd think that Billy might have mentioned to director Gavin O’Connor who he was—or Buzz may have let O’Connor know that that kid was his son. Nope. For sure, networking was done to get Billy into the auditions—but once there he had to deliver on his own. And he did. O’Connor, who maintains he did not know whose son Billy Schneider was, selected Billy to play, well, yes, of course, Buzz Schneider.

Beyond the Ice—Other Mentors and Coaches

Back in the mid part of the twentieth century, the U.S. Military Academy at West Point (Army) had a juggernaut of a football program under coach Earl “Red” Blaik, himself a graduate of West Point, where he played football. Blaik coached the program from 1944 through 1958, compiling a record of 168-14-14, including two national championships and five undefeated seasons, with the Black Knights finishing three of those seasons with no ties.

Red Blaik—nicknamed “Colonel” by his players—was a great coach for many reasons. One reason he was such a great coach is that he studied the game exhaustively (he was one of the first to break down game films play by play) and that he cared so much about the qualities of character when selecting his teams and his coaches.

Don Holleder had the character that Red Blaik was looking for.

In 1954, Army finished 7-2 and ranked seventh in the country. The Black Knights led the nation in total offense. They had four strong running backs, a top-notch senior quarterback, Pete Vann, and Don Holleder, a junior All-America end (in the era of “two-way” players, Holleder also started at defensive end).

Planning for the following season, Blaik was up against it in terms of whom to play at quarterback. He didn't have on obvious heir to Vann. He thought it over, and arrived at a number one candidate—one who hadn't played a down in the backfield, never mind at quarterback. That candidate was Don Holleder.

It was not orthodox football thinking. Blaik knew that Holleder didn't have enough time to learn and practice to be a standout passer, but he also knew that he was a heck of an athlete and a competitor; he could bring a lot to Army's run-intensive T formation attack. Blaik knew other things about Holleder. In his autobiography, Blaik wrote that he knew Holleder “could learn to handle the ball well and to call the plays properly. Most important, I knew he would provide bright, aggressive, and inspirational leadership.”

Blaik approached Holleder with his idea. He asked Holleder not to play the position at which he was an All American. He asked Holleder if we would be the team's quarterback. Blaik was right about Holleder's leadership qualities. Holleder said that for the good of the team he would do it. He would continue to play at defensive end as well. Imagine today a quarterback in NCAA Division I football playing every down from scrimmage, and mixing those downs up between QB and defensive end.

In moving Holleder from end to QB, Blaik recognized that the Army coaching staff would have to work particularly hard with, and give particularly focused attention to, Holleder so that he could run the T formation competently.

Moving Holleder from end to QB was a solution to a problem, yet it also resulted in many adjustments—for coaches and for players. In addition, the 1955 team had been depleted significantly by graduation, injury, and a player being ruled ineligible because of a disciplinary infraction.

Adding to the challenge Army faced was all the second-guessing and criticism in the press and in other sectors about Red Blaik's quarterback decision.

It was an up-and-down season for Army.

The Black Knights won their first two games, but then failed to score an offensive point in losing the next two, to Michigan and then Syracuse. Holleder took much of the blame for the losses.

The media and fans and cadets on campus were saying that Coach Blaik had made a bad personnel decision. Don Holleder went in to see Coach Blaik; he told his coach that he was aware of the widespread unhappiness with his play at quarterback. Holleder was obviously deeply bothered. Blaik put his arm around Holleder's shoulder and said to him, “It doesn't matter what anybody else thinks or says around this place. I am coaching this Army team. And you are my quarterback!”

Things got a better; the game after Syracuse was an Army win over Columbia. Up next was a solid Colgate team, which resulted in another Army win, with Holleder throwing for three scores and running for another. Then came a loss to Yale before a packed house at the Yale Bowl. A lopsided victory over a weak University of Pennsylvania squad did little to quell the boo birds.

Army (5-3) prepared for its final contest, its annual showdown with Navy in Philadelphia. Navy (6-1-1), featuring the nation's top passer in George Welsh, was a big favorite.

The night before the game, in a team meeting, Red Blaik told the team how tough it had been that season, having had to over and over walk across the field to shake the hand of the coach of the team that had just beaten Army.

Red Blaik, the “Colonel” emphasized how difficult one more of those walks would be.

“That walk tomorrow before 100,000 to congratulate (Navy coach] Eddie Erdelatz would be the longest walk I've ever taken in my coaching life,” he said.

No one spoke for a few moments. Silence. Then a voice. It was the voice of Don Holleder.

“Colonel, you are not going to take that walk tomorrow.”

What happened the next day at Municipal Stadium in Philadelphia?

Navy scored a touchdown its first possession but did not convert on the extra point. The Midshipmen controlled the ball most of the first half, and two more times made it the Army 20. But both times, Holleder, the defensive end, came up big, once batting away a fourth-down pass, and on the other series recovering a Navy fumble at the 13-yard line.

Army stayed on the ground and made it to the Navy one-yard line when time expired in the first half.

In the second half, Navy had the ball on the Army 20, but again lost possession on a fumble. Army responded, marching (I know, I know; an old metaphor, but with this team it fits just right) 80 yards for the TD. The Cadets converted on the PAT. It was Army 14, Navy 6.

That finished the scoring for the afternoon.

Holleder did not complete a pass in the game—although he did throw an interception.

But the scoreboard told what was important.

In the long history of Army football and the Army—Navy football rivalry, the Army victory over Navy in 1955 remains one of the program's highlights.

Don Holleder was on the cover of the following week's Sports Illustrated.

Some may have called “heroic” what Don Holleder did in sticking it out and succeeding at quarterback. Some may have called “heroics” what he did on the football field. Maybe, some felt, he was the “hero” of the Army—Navy game of 1955.

Don Holleder would have told you that nothing he did on the football field was heroic. Nothing he did on a football field in Philadelphia made him a hero. What Don Holleder did on a battlefield in Vietnam made him a hero.

On October 17, 1967, Major Don Holleder, who had requested to be sent to Vietnam, was killed while attempting to rescue fellow Black Lions of the Army's Second Battalion who had been ambushed in the jungle of Ong Thanh, approximately 50 miles north of Saigon. He was one of 58 Black Lions who died in the attack.

Don Holleder left a wife and two small daughters. You can find his name on Panel 28, Row 25, of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.

Great Teams Manage Through Ego and Conflict—Chapter Recap