Michigan State got all of the attention last week for its 37-31 Hail Mary win over Wisconsin, and rightfully so. It was a huge stage and a dramatic upset win that all but assured Wisconsin won't be playing for a national title this year.

But a week before in California, two Division III schools ended their game in crazily similar dramatic fashion when Redlands University rallied from a 21-0 deficit to top Claremont-Mudd-Scripps to win 30-24:

Here's how it happened:

Now compare it with Michigan State:

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Quarterback Chad Hurst scrambled right, and launched the ball down the field. It was batted laterally and caught by his receiver, Tyler Aubrey. Just like the throw that Michigan State quarterback Kirk Cousins and receiver Keith Nichol.

Even better? The Spartans were ranked 16th nationally going into their win. The Bulldogs were ranked 15th. Redlands won again in tight fashion last weekend 42-40 over Occidental, so stay tuned to the Spartans to see if the mirror image thing is more than just a fluke.

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Remember being a kid in the pool, trying to outdo your friends by holding your breath underwater? The first few seconds were easy. Things got a little uncomfortable at six or seven seconds. But around 15, your lungs began to sting with a desperation and your mind began to scramble. Finally you felt the need to just give up and explode to the surface to devour as much air as your body would hold.

That desperate lack of oxygen has become the air Ted Harty breathes.

When the 37-year-old freediver was just a kid in Atlanta, he found comfort at the bottom of a swimming pool the way other kids do on a bike or with a baseball bat. He learned to scuba dive and eventually his longtime love of water, coupled with an athlete's competitive streak, led him to the challenging sport of freediving.

A few days ago, he made history at it, somehow putting aside both his fear and human instinct to set the U.S. national record for Dynamic Apnea freediving. Harty swam 170 meters in a pool on a single breath. That's more than a tenth of a mile.

Watch Harty setting the mark at the AIDA Individual Indoor Freediving World Championships in Italy, spending nearly three full minutes underwater:

It almost seems like an optical illusion -- some sort of Houdini act. And then you see Harty emerge and take in all the sweet air he can.

Not bad for a one-time smoker.

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So here's what actually happens underwater during the three styles of freediving: In Dynamic Apnea, which Harty did, the diver swims with fins or a monofin in a pool, holding his breath while swimming as far as he can. Dynamic No Fins is performed when the diver swims without the aid of fins or a monofin, but still holds his breath while swimming as far as he can doing a modified breast stroke. Static Apnea is a test of pure breath hold for time. The athlete holds his breath with his face in the water while floating on the surface of the pool.

Having kicked the college Marlboro Reds habit -- he has a psychology degree from Vanderbilt and a computer science degree from Georgia Tech -- Harty spent a year working as (surprise!) a professional magician in Atlanta before moving to Florida and taking up a life aquatic. He started scuba diving in 2005 and did his first freedive in 2008.

"It's very addictive," Harty says. "In 2008, I was a out of shape overweight scuba instructor that could barely run a mile. Now I'm a U.S. national record holder!"

Harty now spends the majority of his time teaching in Ft. Lauderdale through his company, Immersion Freediving.

Teaching freediving full-time gives him an advantage, in that he spends plenty of time underwater. But part of his training is done on dry land, following breathing exercise programs he can do from the comfort of his couch.

Three years ago, he struggled to hold his breath for more than a minute. Now he can go six.

Freedivers, especially those who train and compete in pools where you can come up for air almost immediately, talk of the "evil monkeys" in your brain that tell you to give up.

"You can quit whenever you want in the pool, as soon as your brain says, 'This sucks, I want to breathe,'" Harty says. "In the ocean there is no quitting. The pool requires a different mentality. You have to override a strong desire to quit."

Harty has no intention of quitting, even with a U.S. record behind him. He plans to keep fighting the evil monkeys, and teaching his bold, amphibious students how to do the same.

"I felt a great feeling of validation, that all my training worked," says Harty of his record-breaking swim. "It was an amazing confidence builder.

"I mostly look at my self as a teacher not and athlete, but I thought 'Hey now I can say I'm a good athlete as well.'"

He's both a teacher and an athlete. And anyone who says otherwise is simply wasting his breath.

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Baseball history is six outs away as Shelly Adams briskly navigates through the basement of the Rangers Ballpark in Arlington.

She arrives at a playroom for "Little Rangers Buckaroos" to fetch 10-month-old Kaiden and 4-year-old Keira.

"We have to go meet Daddy," she explains to her little girl in pigtails and cowboy boots. "There's going to be a celebration."

Minutes later, it's raining ticker tape as Texas pitcher Mike Adams trots across the diamond and hoists his daughter into his arms.

"One day hopefully she'll remember that and she’ll somewhat understand what I felt," he says.

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From Lubbock to Laredo, the Lone Star State is reveling in the Rangers' second straight American League championship and Adams, a native Texan, can't believe his luck.

Less than three months ago, the premier setup man was with the last-place San Diego Padres. He arrived at work on July 31 thinking he was about to become a closer because teammate Heath Bell seemed destined to be traded. Instead, it was the 33-year-old Adams who was told to pack his bags.

Two days later he took the mound for his favorite childhood team, and his big boss is now Nolan Ryan, the Rangers’ legend he grew up emulating.

"It's the best thing that’s ever happened to me in baseball," Adams says. "At the beginning of the season I would have never thought I would have ended up in Texas and competing for a World Series."

Mike Adams was raised in Sinton, a quiet South Texas country town 370 miles from Arlington.

"Coming to the Dallas-Fort Worth area was like a wow for them," says Nelda Chapa, an aunt who had Adams and his siblings stay with her each summer in the 1980s.

The vacations always included trips to the old Arlington Stadium, where the "Ryan Express" pitched from 1989 to 1993.

"Michael was so anxious to be at the games," Chapa recalls. “That was my thrill, to see that excitement in his face."

So fast-forward to this past Sept. 23. The night was like déjà vu for Chapa, who was in the stands to see her nephew and the 2011 Rangers clinch the A.L. West title.

"He had a grin from cheek to cheek," Chapa says. "That was so neat to have watched. He was like a little boy again."

But this time around it was Ryan watching Adams pitch a scoreless eighth to help the Rangers' cause. Adams admits the reversal of roles is still a bit surreal.

"It's one of those things where you want to go out there and make him proud because of who he is and what he meant to me growing up," Adams says.

Unlike Ryan, the lean and lanky Adams is not your typical Texan.

"I love fishing,” he says. "But I don't hunt, I don't wear cowboy boots and I don't listen to country music."

His Texas vices are the Dallas Cowboys and Whataburger fast food, both minutes from his new ballpark home.

"This is the perfect place for me," says Adams, who will be a free agent after the 2012 season. "Hopefully I'm here beyond next year and for a while."

That would bring smiles to South Texas too. Adams has dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members who can now catch his fastballs and sliders on local TV.

"You can tell the difference from the time he was in San Diego to when he is back in Texas," says Nelda Chapa, who now lives in San Antonio. "All the towns around here are buzzing."

Leading the charge is 77-year-old Amelia Chapa, his maternal grandmother who blesses Adams from her easy chair.

"She gets real excited when she sees him," her daughter says. "She'll do the Sign of the Cross so that he’ll do good with his pitching."

That kind of affection isn’t lost on Adams. He throws hard, but his heart is soft.

"Family” is tattooed across his left collarbone. The names of his children are inked on each arm and stitched on the backs of his baseball spikes.

"The one thing that’s always going to be there is my family,” he says.

It's why Kaiden and Keira were rushed to the field last Saturday.

"She doesn't understand the World Series,” Shelly says. "She just knows the season isn't over."

-- Jason Sickles is the Dallas editor for Yahoo!

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The afternoon is late, the last player gone and Mark McGwire leans against a hallway beneath the Busch Stadium stands. He crosses his enormous arms and smiles. The previous three hours have been spent doing the thing he loves most: watching men hit baseballs, offering advice, being a friend, an advisor, a psychologist. Now comes a joy every bit as great.

He gets to talk about hitting.

And the laughter rolls off the concrete corridor.

"I could do this for hours!" he gushes.

He raves about the players he mentors as the St. Louis Cardinals hitting coach, appreciating the way they listen, the way they want to learn, to absorb. His eyes dance as he talked about the way young Daniel Descalso and David Freese and John Jay were forced into increased roles and how they have come to hit and how it seems that everyone is doing something in this year that was supposed to be a disaster for the Cardinals.

McGwire disappeared after those steroid hearings in Washington, the ones during which he dabbed at tears and said he was sorry. And when manager Tony La Russa brought him back and put him together with Mike Aldrete as co-hitting coaches last year, there was speculation that the whole thing would not work out, that McGwire was simply a slugger who didn’t understand the nuances of hitting and that the cloud of steroids would follow him everywhere.

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Instead, the questions came fast and went away and McGwire disappeared into the batting cage and the Cardinals hitters got better and better until they had the best batting average and scored the most runs in the National League this year.

"That wasn't an accident," Freese says. "Nothing we do here was an accident. That's Mark McGwire."

But this is not about McGwire. It never really was. La Russa knew this. Having managed him for so long in Oakland and St. Louis, he understood something about his superstar first baseman. McGwire was shy. He hated attention. He hated being the star. And La Russa realized that at some point, when the timing was right, McGwire would make a great hitting coach.

"He doesn’t make it about himself," La Russa says, standing in his office. "That's what makes him a good coach. He doesn't want any publicity, he wants you to get better."

This was probably always going to be the best fit. After the steroids and the congressional hearings and everything else that happened, baseball wasn't calling McGwire and he wasn't begging for the chance to step back into the national glare again. But La Russa has always built a safe house for his men, the ones who have performed for him, the ones who have been most loyal. If someone was going to call for McGwire, it was going to be his old manager.

At the time it seemed like charity, La Russa rescuing his former slugger caught in an endless whirlpool of controversy and hidden behind the walls of a Southern California gated community. But La Russa shakes his head no.

"It wasn't loyalty," he says. "He had a passion for it."

Yet how much could even La Russa know how this would work?

How could he know that Descalso would say as he did Tuesday: "It's been as good as anyone could ask for."

Or Freese would say "I'm so glad he’s here." And that just as he does, Jay would run by and shout, "Me, too!"

This is the test of a coach's impact on his players. How much do they want to hear what he has to say? How excited are they to grab their bats and race to the batting cage and take swing after swing and listen to his evaluations?

He has an ease with them, they say. He's not a coach or an instructor; he's a friend.

"It's never about him, it's just awesome," Freese says. He grew up outside St. Louis watching McGwire play, lying on his bed staring at the TV in 1998 when Big Mac broke the all-time single-season home run record.

And the irony of what he just said made him laugh. It's still so unbelievable. He and Mark McGwire?

Talking hitting?

Yes, he has gushed his teenaged obsession to his hitting coach. McGwire knows his poster was on the wall of Freese's bedroom. And the player has asked so many questions, gotten so many stories. Like the time McGwire broke his bat and kept on hitting balls out at the Home Run Derby. Or that day McGwire got mad at a Jim Joyce call and took off his helmet and stuck it on the handle of the bat? Oh, Freese loved hearing about that one.

Once, during spring training in Jupiter. Fla., McGwire stepped into the cage and took batting practice with them. Soon the old swing was there, balls rocketing off the bat into the warm ocean air. Then came the home runs. Several of them.

"He's still got it," Freese says.

But more importantly, McGwire understands hitting. There was a point early in his career when a job like this would have been unfathomable. "He was a see-it-hit-it guy back then," La Russa says. And even though he hit a lot of home runs in those first few years, he never felt like a complete hitter until he came across Doug Rader in 1992. It was Rader who taught him the finer points of hitting. It was Rader who got him to change his stance and it is Rader who inspired the great renaissance of his career.

No matter what supplements or banned substances might be attached to McGwire's name in the 1990s, Radar made him a complete hitter.

And now McGwire wants to pass these lessons along.

The players in his charge say he spends a lot of time watching them, assessing their strengths and weaknesses, and then he begins his work. But it is never a complete rebuilding. He is not a believer in making everyone follow one system, nor does he think he should adjust a hitter's stance or swing or too much else. Their mechanics got them to the big leagues, he feels. It's their mind that will keep them here.

When McGwire took the job, he told La Russa that he was less interested in the title of "batting coach," that he thought the role should be called "psychologist." Everything is about thinking, he says. So many young players chase a bad pitch and then say they need to change their swing when in reality they simply need to stop swinging at bad pitches. It sounds so easy and yet little in hitting ever is. He figures he can relate to their failures, having stuck out 1,596 times in his 16-year career. He remembers too well in 1991 when he batted .201 and drove home after the games listening to the radio talk shows killing him, certain that at any day he was going to get a call saying he had been sent to the minor leagues.

Certainly he can tell a few young players their lives are not over with a pair of 0-for-4s.

"I think it's more like being a doctor of psychology," he says.

He smiles again.

Laughter fills the hallway.

He is having fun.

Then he is told how much the players in the clubhouse rave about him, how they say he is the reason everything has worked so well this year. He seems moved.

"I really appreciate that," he says. "It's very cool."

And here he was thinking he was coming back to help them and instead they were helping him.

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Tony Horton, host of the wildly successful P90X workout videos, is kind of like Bon Jovi. Both are easy to ridicule for optimism that borders on corniness. But both have used a sunny disposition to inspire a cult following that is both enduring and lucrative. P90X, succeeding where nearly all fitness infomercials have failed, has made nearly half a billion dollars in its first seven years.

That's largely because of Horton, a 53-year-old who, like the 49-year-old Jon Bon Jovi, doesn't take himself too seriously. He's even quick to point out his own tie to '80s rock -- his cameo at the end of Cyndi Lauper's "I Drove All Night" video.

But behind the fun Horton pokes at himself, there's a secret that has propelled the man to greatness. And like hair band music itself, it’s a point of pride that might make others ashamed.

You see, there was a time when Tony Horton could barely support his own weight.


Remember the President's physical fitness test? Most American kids had to go through it to test their strength in P.E. class. You'd think Horton, the son of a strong athlete, would ace it. Not so.

Horton hardly mustered 15 push-ups. When asked to do a dip, he couldn't do a single one.

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"I shook like a leaf," he says.

You've heard the cliché about the guy who's picked last on teams at recess. Well, that was Tony Horton, who was born in Rhode Island but raised mostly in Connecticut. "P.E. class was this horrible, embarrassing thing," he says.

Horton went on to play high school football, if you can call it that.

"I was a tackling dummy," he says. "I was keeping stats, holding my helmet. It was humbling and embarrassing. There were athletes and then there was everybody else. They just thought the rest of the kids were pathetic."

If you watch or use the P90X videos, which consist of several hour-long workouts designed to "confuse" muscles with their variety, you see a guy who has obviously overcome all that. But if you listen carefully to what Horton is saying, you find the key to his success. Everyone thinks the reason to go through 90 days of torture is to look great. That's part of it. But a lot of the motivation comes from Horton himself, who understands that most of the people using his video are much more like the high school Horton rather than Horton the hulk.

"My middle name is Sawyer," he says, "but I always said it was 'Scared.' I was petrified a lot."

So he understands many of his viewers are also scared. They can’t do 50 push-ups, certainly not 10 pull-ups, and they probably can’t get through Day 1 of 90 without frustration, exhaustion, and some self-loathing.

Hence the now-iconic phrase, "Do your best and forget the rest."

"That all stems from my experience when I was younger and I couldn’t do things," Horton says. "People [using the video] understand they can hit the pause button. They don’t have to do the exercise the way they see it."

That's a far cry from most exercise videos, where everyone on the screen is in perfect shape and smiles through the workout as if it's a pleasure to torch every muscle in your body. In the P90X videos, demonstrators can be seen doubled over and even losing balance. No, they’re not out of shape by any means. But they all seem fairly regular. Horton chides one about his (relatively) advanced age. One actually works out on a prosthetic leg.

In a phone interview, Horton tells a story about training singer Tom Petty: "I put a dumbbell in his hand and he nearly fell over," Horton says. "He pretty much died after 30 minutes. But Tom Petty was in the same place I was [in high school]. I was thinking, 'What do I need to do to inspire him?'"

That's not really how most trainers think. Many are in it for the money, or for the false sense of power.

"When I look at a lot of trainers, and I see their style of trying to motivate people, I'm just blown away," Horton says. "People are screaming at you. The person putting you through this discomfort better be understanding or you won’t come back. You have to be a great communicator."

Horton is certainly that. His background is not so much in fitness but in stand-up comedy. That too, he says, is because of his awkward childhood.

"I used humor as the only way to get through life," he says. "I had a speech impediment. I had the attention span of a squirrel on crack. I moved seven times as a kid. I probably had some level of depression, for sure."

Weightlifting was something he got into because he liked the class he took at the University of Rhode Island. He thought the coach had a good sense of humor, and he looked up to him. It went from there.

Horton moved to California to try to make it in entertainment and he wasn't too proud to, say, get in bed with a rock queen or don a horrendous bare-midriff outfit as a pitchman for Ab Works.

Even when he brags -- mentioning the fact that he did 35 straight pull-ups in front of a group of American soldiers -- he couches it in feigned weakness: "I thought I was going to hurl."

Truth is, he's got lots to brag about. He's sold more than three million P90X sets since the program launched in 2004. He's made his brand a household name -- in a good way. Even Bruno Mars has sung about P90X.

Now there's a sequel coming out: P90X2. Can Horton keep it up? His 10-minute trainer videos were different from the much-longer P90X originals, starring a hot model who looked incredible before, during, and after every workout. Now the P90X2 videos are "for fit people who want to become superfit." He's dropped the cardio segment, which was for people who couldn't quite keep up with the hellacious Plyometrics jump-training workout. And he's added "Plyocide," which, well, you can imagine how hard that must be.

Can Horton appeal to the elite fitness buff -- the P90X "graduate" -- and still be accessible to the spare-tired suburban dad? What can you do after you've started a revolution? That's a question not even Bon Jovi could answer.

Tony Horton is now a star. He is rich and famous. He has a huge outdoor training facility in his backyard. He says, "I want to peak in my 90s," and he just might. He's a long way from the scared kid he was in Connecticut nearly 40 years ago.

But he knows he can’t go much farther unless that scared kid comes along with him.

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