EASTLANSING — Even in paradise, the dark clouds managed to find A. J. Granger. He already had endured a long bout with mononucleosis that left him weak and depleted on the basketball court, haunted him his entire sophomore year.
Then, after getting over that, his mother was in a car accident, breaking five ribs and her wrist.
This was the last magic trick, the final yank of the tablecloth. The Red Wings, just hours before the NHL trading deadline, burned up the phone lines, said “deal,” “deal,” “deal,” “deal,” and acquired four new players, three of them major personalities, in hopes of finally straightening the wheels on their wagon roll to a third straight Stanley Cup.
“I went to bed last night with a wish list,” general manager Ken Holland said.
“We had lots of irons in the fire. We had lots of lines in the lake.”
ST. LOUIS — He threw it like a man who believed things can fly — balls, dreams, even underdog teams. Mateen Cleaves, a one-time quarterback, cranked his arm and heaved the ball almost the length of the floor. It soared over the heads of all those celebrated Kentucky players, who raced desperately to reach it before Cleaves’ teammate, Andre Hutson.
“The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted the spoons.”
— Emerson
The people who run the Olympics have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
Inside are goodies such as free trips, jobs for children, college scholarships and an old favorite, cash.
These goodies were offered by cities hoping to host the Olympic Games. Since the Games and all their tourism dollars come only once every two years, you can see how, as the competition swelled, so did the pot.
My experience with tattoos began and ended with the kind you licked. Remember? They came in cereal boxes and were cartoon characters, like Mighty Mouse. You slurped one side with your tongue, then pressed it against your skin as hard as you could. When you peeled it away — ta-da! — you had a tattoo.
It could have been a night to forgive the sins, to embrace boxing once again. Instead, when the decision was announced, you realized why you threw this dumb sport out of your house in the first place.
MILWAUKEE — I sat about 10 feet from Mateen Cleaves’ mother Sunday afternoon. At one point, in a wild and noisy game the Spartans trailed much of the way, Mateen complained to a referee about a foul, and an opposing fan yelled, “Aw, Cleaves, stop your crying!”
At which point, Mom let him have it.
The fan, not Mateen.
“YOU MIND YOUR BUSINESS!” she yelled. “HE ONLY TAKES DIRECTIONS FROM ME!”
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