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    Gold Medal Strategies: Business Lessons From America's Miracle Team
    Gold Medal Strategies: Business Lessons From America's Miracle Team
    Gold Medal Strategies: Business Lessons From America's Miracle Team
    Ebook296 pages3 hours

    Gold Medal Strategies: Business Lessons From America's Miracle Team

    By Don Yaeger and Jim Craig

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    Business lessons from one of the greatest Olympic teams of all time

    It's been called the greatest upset of all time, the most memorable Olympic moment ever, the "Miracle on Ice." No matter which superlative is used, no one can deny that the U.S. men's hockey team's defeat of the Soviet Union in the medal round of the Lake Placid Olympic Games was a defining moment for Cold War America.

    The U.S. team's goalie was a Boston University student named Jim Craig, who is now a leadership expert and keynote speaker to business audiences. Gold Medal Strategies gives you Craig's unique lessons from the "Miracle" team on team dynamics, leadership, motivation, and other important management topics. With his unparalleled perspective, Craig dissects and analyzes the elements of a successful team, how to assemble one, and what philosophies will keep the team's shared goal a reality. This book outlines the necessary skills and details the specific techniques you need to maximize your business readiness, hone competitive cooperation, gather your strategies, and attack your challengers.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWiley
    Release dateMar 11, 2010
    ISBN9781118023440
    Author

    Don Yaeger

    Don Yaeger is an 11-time New York Times Best-selling author, longtime Associate Editor at Sports Illustrated and today is one of the most in-demand public speakers on the corporate circuit. He delivers an average of 70 speeches a year to an average annual audience of 100,000. He lives in Tallahassee, FL, with his wife and two children. He is the host of the highly-rated Corporate Competitor Podcast, and offers training courses developed from his years of research into high performance habits.  www.donyaeger.com

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      Book preview

      Gold Medal Strategies - Don Yaeger

      Introduction

      When ABC sportscaster Al Michaels bellowed those words—Do you believe in miracles?—with about four seconds remaining in our game against the Soviet Union on Friday evening, February 22, 1980, he gave to the sports world a phrase for the ages. He also inspired the term Miracle on Ice, which in turn inspired the title of an HBO documentary, Do You Believe in Miracles? The Story of the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey Team, and a Disney major motion picture, Miracle. The word miracle is attached to what the 1980 U.S. Olympic team did in February 1980 in Lake Placid, New York.

      Miracles are inspiring; they give us hope, support the notion that all is possible, and are the stuff of high-level drama. What we accomplished on that sheet of ice in that village in the Adirondacks in upstate New York was all of that. But it was not a miracle—even if I believe in them. Highly improbable? Yep. Astounding? Maybe. Shocking? You could say that.

      But not a miracle.

      What we accomplished at Lake Placid was the result of a lot of hard work—and a lot of smart work. It was the result of exceptional and brilliant mentorship. It was the result of sublime execution and poise in competition. It was a result of one of the best demonstrations of team chemistry in sports history.

      Of course, what had, and what was going on in the world at the time of our victory, greatly enhanced the chest-swell and feel-good quotient of beating the Soviets and then, two days later, clinching the gold medal with a win over Finland.

      America was in a big funk—and had been for a while. Vietnam and Watergate were still very much open and sore wounds. Our economy was in a bad way; we were in a deep recession with high inflation and high unemployment. We had to deal with an energy shortage. So pervasive and gloomy was the mood in the land that on the evening of July 15, 1979, President Jimmy Carter delivered a primetime television address to the nation—which would later be popularly known as the Crisis in Confidence Speech—in which he spoke about what he called a fundamental threat to American democracy, a threat, the president said, that is nearly invisible in ordinary ways. It is a crisis in confidence. It is a crisis that strikes at the very heart and soul and spirit of our national will. We can see this crisis in the growing doubt about the meaning of our own lives and in the loss of a unity of purpose for our nation.

      Things would get worse for our country.

      On November 4, 1979, 66 U.S. citizens—63 working at the U.S. Embassy and three working at the Iranian Foreign Embassy in Tehran—were taken hostage by Iranian students and militants. Thirteen of the hostages were released by the end of the month, and another was released the following January. But 52 Americans would be held hostage for 444 days.

      On December 27—with the Cold War already at Arctic temperature—Soviet troops invaded Afghanistan.

      Uncle Sam was hurting at home. It couldn’t rescue its hostages. It couldn’t boot the Soviets out of Afghanistan.

      The 1980 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid—which would open on February 13 and close on February 24—was set against this national and international angst, uncertainty, and fear. We were hosting an international festival, but there seemed to be little reason to smile and celebrate, even if big things were expected from American athletes like speed skater Eric Heiden, figure skater Linda Fratianne, and alpine skier Phil Mahre.

      For sure, there were some smart hockey people who looked at the U.S. hockey team and recognized it was very good and could surprise people and maybe win a bronze medal. In those years, U.S. amateur hockey did not have a track record of success, and a third place in the Olympics would be a major accomplishment.

      But as for the gold medal, it was certain that the Soviet hockey squad, a longtime powerhouse, would win it for the fifth consecutive Olympics.

      The Red Army Team was a collection of some of the best hockey players on earth—amateurs in name only—who were also employees of the Soviet state and military. They trained hard, intelligently, and innovatively. The players worked together seamlessly and cooperatively, and together they played a game that was precise, elegant, fast, and highly effective. National Hockey League teams and NHL all-star teams faced the Soviets and got trounced.

      An exemplar of the country and the military complex that sponsored it, the Soviet national team was mysterious and powerful. Its players wore plain red uniforms with CCCP (Russian for USSR) stitched on the front. Their faces showed little emotion—hardly ever a smile—as they dismantled opponents.

      At Lake Placid—and on American ice—the Soviet hockey team would win a gold medal, and a battle in the Cold War, and the entire episode would make us feel even worse. To certify what the United States—and everyone else—was in for: Four days prior to the Opening Ceremonies of the games, we played the Soviets in an exhibition game at Madison Square Garden and lost 10-3. It wasn’t good.

      The next day in my hometown newspaper, The Boston Globe, sportswriter Peter Gammons commented on anti-Soviet political protests outside of Madison Square Garden the night of the game, and on the game itself: Hockey is simply not the place for the evocation of political passion, not when it involves the Soviets. That was yesterday’s first lesson. The second is that no one in the Olympics is going to challenge them.… As long as it’s hockey, the Soviets will always have the last laugh in the Olympics. That they reminded us of yesterday.

      Considering international hockey history and that a Soviet victory at Lake Placid was all but unanimously conceded and accepted, it is understandable what word came to the mind of Al Michaels and what he blurted through that headset. It was appropriate. It was also appropriate to exult in a group of American college kids that beat the big and bad Soviet Bear at a time when America desperately needed a victory.

      Yet it didn’t take a miracle to win the unwinnable and beat the unbeatable and to lift the spirits of a nation. The fact was we were a great hockey team, a collection of very good and great players, who operated under the mentorship of a great coach and his staff—and who together demonstrated teamwork for the ages. That we beat the Soviets and won Olympic gold was not a supernatural event—even if sometimes it seems that way.

      I also remind people that our gold medal effort at the XIII Winter Olympic Games was not just about one game—but seven games. We won because of the teamwork we exercised and put forth in a thrilling last minute come-from-behind tie against Sweden, and in wins over Czechoslovakia, Norway, Romania, West Germany, the Soviet Union, and Finland.

      We won because of proper preparation—and then focusing and playing our best hockey at the most important time. I am forever fortunate and blessed to be a member of that team.

      Today my vocation—and avocation—is traveling the country, inspiring people and organizations, and teaching and coaching winning teamwork. The experience and examples of the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team are fundamental to the way I make a living—and they also play an integral role in the way I make my life.

      It is immensely rewarding to help people and groups perform optimally and achieve their full potential. Through this book, I continue those efforts—and in it I hope you find motivation and guidance that will help you win your own gold medal and get to the top of your own victory podium … and, okay, even maybe create your own miracle.

      1

      Great Teams Think of Themselves as Winning Underdogs

      It's David versus Goliath, and I hope we remember to bring our slingshots.

      —HERB BROOKS, prior to the U.S.—Soviet game at the 1980 Winter Olympics

      People remember that during the Olympics, the mask I wore had shamrocks on it—one on the right and one on the left, to the outside of the eye openings. The shamrocks were for luck, and also a nod of pride to my Irish heritage. During the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics, the U.S.A. starting goalie, Ryan Miller, played with a mask on which were painted Olympic and patriotic images—and also a shamrock, which I was honored to learn he had placed there as a tribute to me.

      I am a mix of Irish and Scottish ancestry, with a bit more of my lineage weighted to the Irish side. My people came from the British Isles. Fundamental to my family history is something that is fundamental to the history of tens of millions in America: Leaving a place—a familiar place, even if at the time it was a place short on opportunity—and traveling to a place about which a lot had been read and talked about, a place that held great promise, yet no guarantees, and about which there was still a lot that was unknown.

      You came to the United States because you were persecuted, hungry, and hoping for something better. Many came here because they had to escape something, or get away from someone or something, even the law.

      You came with dreams—big dreams. You had big hopes. You believed you could defy the odds, do the seemingly impossible, even the miraculous.

      And if you were one of those who got off the boat and were on your way to making a name for yourself, you stepped onto American soil with something to prove; you had a chip on your shoulder. You were a winning underdog.

      Peggy Noonan, author and newspaper columnist, former speechwriter for President Ronald Reagan, and a chronicler of the American experience, recognizes that people infused with the spirit and identifying themselves as a winning underdog made America great. In one of her Wall Street Journal columns she wrote, Our people came here not only for a new chance, but to disappear, hide out, tend their wounds, and summon the energy, in time, to impress the dopes back home. America has many anthems, but one of them is ‘I'll show ‘‘em!’

      I'll show ‘‘em! is about being a winning underdog.

      Great teams think of themselves as winning underdogs.

      Kindle Your Competitive Fire

      I am one of eight kids who grew up in a lower-middle-class family in North Easton, which is actually a village within the incorporated town of Easton. North Easton is located about 30 miles south of Boston. I had four older sisters; I was the third oldest of the brothers. My mom, Peg, and my father, Don—the man for whom I famously searched the stands at Lake Placid—were devoted, loving, and very warm people.

      My father was a talented athlete (he is a member of the Oliver Ames High School Athletic Hall of Fame, the high school from which he graduated in 1936, and from which I graduated in 1975). He was a Big League prospect in baseball, and had a full athletic scholarship to attend Assumption College, but the very summer he was to head off to college, he seriously injured his hand while working in a factory. He did not go to college.

      My father made most of the money coming into our household as the food service director at a local community college; he also worked part-time jobs, and volunteered on the town board of health for close to 30 years, as well as being a youth sports coach. He was busy. Yet not as busy as my mother who, as a homemaker with eight kids and our family's chief operations officer, worked around the clock.

      Our home was small; it had one bathroom. When I speak to groups, a story that always gets a loud laugh—and if you are part of a big family, you laugh with understanding—is when I tell of how growing up in the Craig family, on those rare occasions when we had a steak dinner, if you had to get up from the table for anything—to answer the phone or go to the bathroom, whatever—then you took that steak dinner with you; because if you didn't take it with you, you could be certain that when you returned to the table, the steak would be gone, if not everything else on your plate as well.

      We didn't have a lot, but we had enough. We were also a team. It was understood by us, and in town, that if you touched one Craig then you touched them all.

      I was a kid and I was already indoctrinated in the all for one and one for all quality that enabled a group of guys, unheralded and underestimated, to one day make history in the Adirondacks. And soon I would have something to prove. I had attitude that kindled the fire—and I would become a winning underdog.

      I was in fifth grade. It was 1968. Back then, Easton had three youth sports leagues: Little League, a church basketball league, and an ice hockey league. That was it, which in many ways I think is a good thing. (I am concerned that today we start kids in sports too early, and that they are overscheduled, but I won't go on about that here.)

      I was already playing baseball; I was a catcher. I didn't play hoops, but our postman, Phil Thompson, told my parents that he thought hockey would be good for me. Smart guy, that Mr. Thompson.

      I started out with borrowed skates; they were a little big so I put cardboard in the toes. I played goalie, because I liked the equipment; it looked similar to a baseball catcher's equipment. Plus, it seemed that the goalie didn't need to know the rules. No rules for the goalie—just stop the puck.

      The young goalie – the dream begins. (Notice the baseball catcher's chest protector that Jim is wearing. Not long after this photo was taken, Jim's parents bought Jim a hockey goalie chest protector. Money was tight, recalls Jim, but my mom and dad said that I shouldn't be out there without the right equipment. So they bought me that goalie chest protector.)

      Credit: Jim Craig

      ch01fig001.eps

      I was good—I could skate and had solid reflexes. I was also small—smaller than almost all the other kids in the league. Being small, though, didn't prevent me from dreaming big. I wanted to play in the Olympic Games. One time, in seventh grade, the teacher saw me not paying attention to her lecture; instead I was busy writing on paper. I was near the back of the class, and the teacher walked toward me and called out, Jimmy, what are you doing? I looked up and said, I am practicing my autograph. I am going to be in the Olympics some day and people are going to want my autograph.

      I was all of 12 years old, and already I had attitude and was kindling my competitive fire.

      When I was still in junior high, almost every Sunday morning throughout the year, I used to travel into Boston with the older guys who were already playing hockey for Oliver Ames High School, the school I would soon attend. We traveled the 25 miles to Boston Arena (now Matthews Arena) so that we could play against the best high school and amateur talent around.

      A car would pull into my family's driveway at about five A.M. Among the players I drove in to the city with were Ricky Bodio, Ray Daly, Peter Deibel, and Billy Condon. They were juniors and seniors at Oliver Ames, and since they were talented and tough athletes, I looked up to them figuratively; and, since at the time I was 5′1″ and 120 lbs., I also looked up to them literally.

      I would lug out my equipment, join the guys, and, all packed together, we were on our way. We got on the ice around 6 A.M. and put in a good five hours; sometimes we would play until noon. It was a sacrifice and tiring—but I also loved it. I would stay in net sometimes for four hours straight and take the best that the older players could dish out. I knew they were determined to break this little squirt in net, but I was just as determined not to fold. I wanted to prove to the older guys that I could hack the pressure and, if I was already in high school, that I could back them up. Just as importantly, I wanted to prove to myself that I could take it.

      The practice paid off. I started for the varsity when I was a freshman. Yet I remained small. As a sophomore, come hockey time, I was all of 5′5″ and 120 lbs. Yet even a few years prior to becoming a Boston University Terrier, I was already a terrier in practice in games; that is, I played with emotion, confidence, and attitude that were outsized for my frame. After practice ended, I stayed on the ice and had our assistant coach, Gerry Linehan, fire shot after shot at me.

      I grew. My senior year, when I stood in net for the Oliver Ames Tigers, I was 5′10″, 170 lbs. We lost only one game during the regular season, and we made it a couple games into the state tournament before losing to the eventual state champion. I made a couple of local newspaper all-scholastic teams, but I didn't make the big city newspaper teams at the Boston Globe and Boston Herald. Not one Division I college was interested in offering me a scholarship. I knew I could play at that level, but it seemed, with the exception of my mom and dad, no one else did.

      As well, I had next to no concept of what was involved in applying for college. I had worked hard in the classroom in high school and done all right but not great in the grades department. I didn't do well on my SATs. I am not even sure if I took any Achievement Tests.

      I wanted to go to college, but it seemed I wasn't prepared.

      I mean, the application essays were daunting. And there were application fees. Just swinging the money to apply to college was going to be difficult.

      But I got the break in the person of Mike Addesa, the hockey coach at the College of the Holy Cross, an independent NCAA Division I program. Mike had been a high school hockey referee who worked many games in which I played. He was impressed by what he saw, and he told me he thought I could play major college hockey. He helped with the process of applying to Holy Cross, and he told me that, provided I was accepted—which he said was just about guaranteed—I would receive a full athletic scholarship.

      Things looked good. That was until I didn't get accepted at Holy Cross.

      What now? I consulted and talked with my family and friends, and we felt that an excellent option would be to attend Norwich Academy, a military college in Vermont that had a Division III hockey program.

      I applied and was accepted to Norwich. I arrived for the fall semester. I stayed at Norwich Academy for about two weeks. This wasn't a good fit. What confirmed that this wasn't the place

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