by Mitch Albom | Apr 29, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
Steve Yzerman wanted to break something. He paced the locker room, while his sweat-drenched teammates slumped on their chairs, reeling from the evening’s defeat. Yzerman grabbed a glass and moved to a private area behind the showers. Now he was alone. He cocked the glass like a baseball pitcher —
“Throw it! Vent your anger!” the voices sang in his head — and he was about to smash it into a thousand pieces, when, suddenly, another voice inside whispered, “What good will that do? It won’t change things.”
And he froze.
by Mitch Albom | Apr 27, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
When NBA players start treating their coach like a substitute math teacher, it’s time to say good-bye. Ron Rothstein was liked by few, tolerated by most, and flat-out ignored by others. It is no surprise he is fired this morning. I keep waiting for an eraser to hit him in the back of his head.
Bye, Ron. Enjoy the money. Find an island and try to bring down your blood pressure.
by Mitch Albom | Apr 25, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
Year after year, the NFL combs the country for the best young college football players. And today, draft day, many of those players will huddle around TV sets with their loved ones: mom, dad, sister, brother, agent, lawyer, accountant, personal trainer, PR flack and shoe company representative.
Many are called, few are chosen.
by Mitch Albom | Apr 20, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
The young Toronto goalie, Felix Potvin, keeps a religious charm inside his catching glove, a gift of luck from his father. Monday night, he would have been better off with an extra hand. Or a wooden stake. Or a silver bullet. You want to stop the Red Wings when they...
by Mitch Albom | Apr 19, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
In the movies, directors use a trick called “timepieces.” A dog, for example, will enter the film as a puppy. Next time you see it, its legs and ears are longer. Next time you see it, it’s shaggy and full grown. This lets you know that years are...
by Mitch Albom | Apr 18, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
He was walking through the field to get to his father and suddenly, there it was. A big black snake.
“Were you scared?” the boy is asked. “No,” he says now.
The snake had a yellow belly. It was poisonous. The boy did what he was taught to do in his Guatemalan mountain village: he did not run. He watched the snake, saw it move towards him.
“Then what happened?”
“Bit me,” he says.
by Mitch Albom | Apr 16, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
THE LIVE ALBOM
* My shock of the week: carob raisins, vegetarian burritos and hazelnut coffee at Tiger Stadium. Next thing you know, the dugout will have a hardwood floor and a Miro poster.
* And Pachabel on the loudspeakers.
* By the way, you think that Home Run Bar in Tiger Plaza is large enough? Take that, and the giant daiquiri stand, and on a hot day, you might as well roll the paddy wagon right up to the gates.
* Eric Montross, I know Dolph Lundgren. I worked with him. You, sir, are no Dolph Lundgren.
Eric’s reality Eric’s dream
by Mitch Albom | Apr 14, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
Here was my first clue that things had changed down at Tiger Stadium: I heard a vendor recite poetry.
“Don’t be shy, don’t walk by
till you try our roast beef on rye. . . . “
His name was Rasean Reeves, a 19-year-old from Detroit, he was smiling while he worked — maybe that was my first clue, come to think of it — and he was working in something called the Ball Park Deli, which was in something called Tiger Plaza, which is a giant food court on what used to be the players’ parking lot. Now Rasean had a new poem.
“Fill your belly,
by Mitch Albom | Apr 7, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
NEW ORLEANS — They walked slowly into the breakfast room, their feet making no sound on the carpet. James Voskuil pulled at a dry biscuit. Juwan Howard poked at a plate of bacon. They joked softly about the night before, their first trip to Bourbon Street on their final night in New Orleans. For a few minutes, it was as if nothing had happened. Then someone mentioned a North Carolina player who was also there on Bourbon Street, surrounded by a cheering mob.
by Mitch Albom | Apr 6, 1993 | Detroit Free Press
NEW ORLEANS — It ended with Chris Webber looking desperately for something he didn’t have — time, hope, help. He grabbed a rebound, his team trailing by two points, and he called for time, he screamed for it. The ref stared at him blankly. Confused,...
