by Mitch Albom | Sep 14, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
* DOLPHINS 31, LIONS 17: I remember in 1985, when Don Shula was dealing with the Lions in a possible trade for the NFL rights to Anthony Carter. The Lions got picky. Shula said, “Who do these guys think they are?” And he traded Carter to Minnesota instead. Six years later, Shula has the same attitude toward the Lions. And, unfortunately, he’s gonna get his way again.
* NY GIANTS 23, CHICAGO 20: Lawrence Taylor is complaining. He says he gets mugged by opponents on every play. Hey, LT. You’re from New York. They’re just trying to make you feel at home.
by Mitch Albom | Sep 13, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
BOSTON — “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I coo at the Boston Garden walls.
Silence.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are. . . . “
They are in here somewhere. I know it. Those ghosts or leprechauns or pixies or whatever you call them, the invisible spirits that ensure the Celtics never lose a crucial game in this building. They are in here. I have come to lure them out.
“Look what I’ve got! . . . ” I sing, waving a piece of green cheese. “Yoo hoo! Little sprites! Look what I’ve got!”
Silence.
“Little spri-i-i-ites! . . . “
by Mitch Albom | Sep 13, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
You find me in the newspaper composing room, late at night, near a vat of ink. I use bold face. I use big type. I am laying out the headlines. Tomorrow’s headlines. Today.
IRISH DO IT AGAIN, BEAT U-M, 10-9!
FREAK PLAY WINS IT! IRISH 10, U-M 9!
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“Preparing,” I answer.
I know what is coming. It is that time of year. The cool winds are blowing, the tan lines are gone. Michigan plays Notre Dame. That time of year.
by Mitch Albom | Sep 9, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
One finger is broken. Another is dislocated. Several others have ligament damage. You shake hands with Robert Clark, it’s like shaking an egg carton. Be careful. Don’t squeeze.These are not hands for football, not right now, but then, Clark has always had...
by Mitch Albom | Sep 8, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
Nobody listens to pop music anymore; they watch it. They flick on MTV, plop in a couch, and let the images take over. What was once a drumbeat is now a cue for the video editor, jump cut, jump cut, dancing bodies, lips, hair, ocean waves, naked girls, gangs waving their fists, guitar players sticking their tongues out.
by Mitch Albom | Sep 7, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
* LIONS 21, GREEN BAY 20: I took a lot of heat for saying the Lions would at least cover the spread last week. As it turned out, all they covered was their eyes. Wouldn’t you, if you lost by 45 points? So I write that off to Washington, to Opening Day jitters, to bad sushi the night before, whatever. I pick them to win this week, and if they lose, at home, against the Green Bay Packers, I promise, right here, I am not picking them again this year.
by Mitch Albom | Sep 5, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
He answered the door with a dazed look, like a man who’d just been slapped in the face. “I don’t know why they did it,” he said, letting his guest inside and digging his hands into his pockets. “Maybe it was my birthday. I just turned 35....
by Mitch Albom | Sep 4, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
NEW YORK — That does it. I am drafting a petition to the Womens Tennis Association: No more press conferences for girls under 18. Let them play. Let them shower. Let them go home to their Sting records.
But keep them away from the microphone. Really. It’s for the best. And I have been thinking about this for a while, ever since Steffi Graf mumbled through her first few years, and then Gabriela Sabatini mumbled through her first few years, and then Jennifer Capriati laid about 400,000 “you knows” in a single sentence.
by Mitch Albom | Sep 3, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
NEW YORK — Near the back of the men’s locker room, on a single wooden bench, Aaron Krickstein sat by himself, watching a silent TV screen and counting down the minutes. Soon he would become the loneliest man in New York City, the man who would try to beat the legendary Jimmy Connors, a one-time tennis villain who has finally reached his 39th birthday and who suddenly everyone wants to take home and cuddle.
“When was the last time you played a 39-year-old?” someone asked.
“My coach,” said Krickstein, smiling.
by Mitch Albom | Sep 3, 1991 | Detroit Free Press
NEW YORK — Near the back of the men’s locker room, on a wooden bench, Aaron Krickstein sat by himself, counting down the minutes. Soon he would become the loneliest man in New York City, the man who would try to beat Jimmy Connors, a former tennis bad boy who just turned 39, and suddenly everyone wants to take him home and hug him.
“When was the last time you played a 39-year-old?” someone asked Krickstein.
“My coach,” he said, smiling.
