ALL-AMERICAN!
He is a cop in this city and his regular job is on the streets, chasing robberies or shootings, but now here he was, holding Roger Clemens’ glove. It was cradled in his forearm, safe as a baby. Clemens, one of the greatest pitchers ever, had asked him to hold it...
MEET THE REAL DETROIT
The New York Times wrote about Detroit over the weekend. A story about our baseball stadium. Not our gorgeous, new, comfortable, well-lit stadium in the heart of a thriving theater district, but our old and unused stadium at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull. I...
A FAREWELL THAT DETROIT WILL REGRET
Later today, he plans to load up his van and drive to Manhattan, Kan. He doesn’t know the streets there, not the way he knows them in Detroit. He has never been inside the basketball arena there, even though he has mopped or painted every gym he has ever worked...
Lewis Out As Wings Coach — Here’S Why
Like a lot of folks in Detroit, I’ve known Dave Lewis for a while. And that’s the problem. He has been here as a player. He has been here as an assistant coach. And he has been here as head coach.
Familiarity breeds contempt.
In sports, it breeds the door.
So Lewis is out today as the Red Wings’ skipper. What should we make of this? Well first, let’s admit, just talking about hockey – as if it’s actually, you know, a sport that plans on playing sometime soon? – is almost exhilarating, isn’t it? I pretty much forgot we had a team.
On Our Birthday, What’S Patriotic?
Her son was dead. He died serving our country.
At this point, you’re thinking “Iraq.” But this young man never wore a helmet. He never carried a gun. His name was Andrew Goodman. A white college student. Forty-one years ago, he went from New York City to Mississippi after hearing the Ku Klux Klan firebombed a church. He tried to help.
He was murdered.
And yet, here is what Carolyn Goodman told me a few weeks ago when I asked if she regretted her son’s devotion to civil rights:
Brown Vs. Pistons: A Game Of Chicken
For weeks, Larry Brown has said he’ll go to the Mayo Clinic, spend three days, then let the Pistons know if he can coach.
Those three days are up today. But if you’re expecting a yes or no, forget it. For one thing, this is the Mayo Clinic, not Lourdes.
For another, this is Larry Brown, where the answer is rarely yes or no, but more like “Well, if these guys want me, and if these guys don’t ”
Feel Their Pain As The Pistons Confront Life As Ex-Champs
SAN ANTONIO – They were taking Richard Hamilton to the interview area, and because the Pistons’ locker room was on the other side of the arena, the walk was long and he had to look at everything. This is what he passed. He passed a huge open area with tables full of Spurs fans. He passed a group of Frenchmen, soaked with champagne, cheering Tony Parker. He passed Spanish-speaking journalists, emerging from the steamy San Antonio locker room, gushing over Manu Ginobili. He passed a curtained area where Spurs VIPs posed for photos with a giant golden trophy.
Just One Ending Remains: Win It!
Novelists say when they start a new book that they often have several endings in mind. But at some point they choose one and throw out the others. No more “maybe this happens, maybe that.” They find their North Star and sail toward it defiantly.
Same goes for the Pistons, on this morning of the last day of the last game of the year. All other endings have been thrown out now. All other possibilities — early exits, unexpected collapses — are crumpled in the trash can. There is one page — and one page only — that completes the book of Detroit’s operatic season.
Win it.
See Ya Thursday!
SAN ANTONIO – They took every stone the devil could throw, and they caught the last one and threw it back in his face. It took history. It took belief. It took desperation in every dribble. But mostly it took hope, and with every Pistons achievement – every Rip Hamilton jumper, every Rasheed Wallace put-back, every Ben Wallace block, every Chauncey Billups three-pointer – there was hope. They were supposed to die, because that’s what teams do when faced with silly odds. But here they were at the end, heading off the floor with one more game to play.
Dead men walking.
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