Well, the United States was pretty good. The team reached the semifinal round after four victories and a tie — and was going to meet, yes, the all-victorious Soviets. The winner would play for the gold medal.

The Lake Placid arena was an 8,000-seat bandbox shaped like a cockfighting amphitheater. In the tiny balcony space called the “press box” there was no room for our newfangled computer. The thing, a Teleram, about the size of a small suitcase, was in the basement. I was to type my story on my Olivetti portable typewriter, and bring the copy downstairs to be transmitted.

The game was scheduled for 5 p.m. on a Friday, Feb. 22. ABC wanted prime time, but the Soviets demanded the earlier start for their audience. So the game wasn’t broadcast live here, but taped for later viewing.

The Americans went down by a goal twice. I was impressed by the way they kept their poise. The game was tight, and I realized this might be the biggest story I would write. I remember thinking over and over: “What is my lead going to be? Am I up to this?”

They won, 4-3, as the broadcaster Al Michaels exclaimed in the final seconds, “Do you believe in miracles? … Yes!” For the first time, I heard the chant “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!”

The place was going mad with stomping and singing and people crowding the aisles while I was in the balcony trying to file my story to the Teleram. We were on deadline. I had to get a story to New York immediately.

We dispatched Dave Anderson, who would win a Pulitzer Prize for his commentary that year, to the landing below. I typed a page and crinkled it into a ball — and threw it down to Dave. He caught it on the fly! He muscled his way to the basement, to our computer, where our colleague Gordon S. White Jr. retyped the page and sent it off to The Times. Then Dave ran back up.