Charles Woodson had an injured toe Sunday, and some questioned whether he would play. But Woodson said there was no way – no way! – he was missing a game here. Can you blame him?
I mean, who would miss a chance at the Lions?
SOUTH BEND, Ind. – They fumbled on their opening series, they fumbled on the next kickoff, they got snagged for pass interference on a long bomb and then, on the very next play, gave up the actual long bomb for a touchdown. They were tagged for 21 points in the opening 10 minutes and 9 seconds, and at one point, in between scores, Notre Dame brought a cluster of fans onto the field. I thought they had called “Next!”
Both sides need to take Sarah Palin out of the box.
The Democrats and certain media members began packaging this woman the moment she hit the national stage. They labeled her a hunting mama. Bill Maher called her “a stewardess.” Maureen Dowd likened her to Eliza Doolittle of “My Fair Lady.”
All of that is unfair and, for her critics, self-defeating. Nobody fits so easily into a box. Yes, Palin knows how to shoot a gun. But suggesting she’ll skin a moose on the White House lawn only makes you look stupid.
ATLANTA – This is why I never watch the exhibition season.
Did that really happen? Was it really that awful? Shut it down before it worsens. It’s a joke. It’s a tragedy. It’s as depressing as the Kwame thing, but not as interesting.
There are few truisms in the NFL, but one of them is this: When the Atlanta Falcons put a whupping on you, it’s time to close shop.
Oh, wait. You can’t.
That was just the season opener.
Today is the first day of football season, and I will again watch a game from the press box. I have enjoyed this perch for many years now, but there was a time when it was the furthest thing from my mind.
That memory came back to me last week, sadly, when I got the news: Ed Guthman had died at 89.
Keep walking, Kwame. Out the door, off the stage and into a jail cell. You had a chance, on what could have been the most honest night of your life, to truly stand up, to change the image of who you are and perhaps begin to change yourself. Instead, you put cops at the door, blocked reporters you didn’t like from coming in, then bathed in sycophantic applause before leaving in a gush of phony bravado, like an ego-mad athlete being tossed from the game.
Christine Beatty sat in the courtroom, staring at her feet, hollow as a ghost, even as the columns seemed to be collapsing around her in some Biblical destruction scene, the mayor about to plead guilty, the police chief quitting, helicopters flying over the Manoogian Mansion. And you wondered, as the man she once considered the “love of my life” began his life as a convicted criminal, if she finally realized what everyone in this town should know by now:
Charm and arrogance are a treacherous combination.
Bill Davidson is ready to go. He sits behind his desk, holding his arms, and before I can fully sit down, he grins and says, “OK, let’s start.”
At 84, Davidson needn’t wait for anything or anyone. And those who know him suggest, at his age, he’s not waiting around for the perfect words, either. He speaks his mind, honestly and frankly. He is at times impish, coy and painfully blunt.
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