Personally, I don’t want to know whether Nancy Reagan slept with Frank Sinatra in the White House. For one thing, I have a lot of good Sinatra records that I would have to throw out. Also, I might have children one day, and maybe I’ll want to take them to Washington, D.C., and then what do I say?
“Look, kids, there’s where Abraham Lincoln sat. And there’s where Franklin Roosevelt discussed the war. And there’s where Frank and Nancy did it.”
OK. You’re at a cocktail party. You’re standing on the table. You’re waving your arms, howling like a moose, you’ve got the whole room listening to you. . . .
And you blank out. You were about to tell them why the Pistons will win their third straight NBA championship, starting with Game 1 of the playoffs tonight at the Palace. You were about to tell them why the other NBA teams are not that good, why the Pistons have nothing to fear, now that Earl Strom has retired.
Well now, wasn’t that a fun little NFL draft? The No. 1 pick bolted to Canada, the No. 6 pick never went to college, and Todd Marinovich went in the first round to the LA Raiders, where his cocaine possession charge will be laughed at as kid stuff.
Wait. Did I mention the Lions? Amazing. They went into Sunday with one first-round pick and came out with two. They needed a receiver and a defensive
lineman — and they got a receiver and a defensive lineman. I am not prepared for this. I must take a Maalox and sit down.
ATLANTIC CITY, N.J. — He would not go down. He would not go down. No matter how many times Evander Holyfield hit him square on the mouth, flush in the stomach, smack on the head, George Foreman would not budge, would not slip, would not buckle. He would not go down. Somewhere in the middle of this heavyweight championship fight, it ceased to become about winning and became all about survival. The crowd was roaring, “George! George! George!” They screamed as he refused to even sit on a stool between rounds.
ATLANTIC CITY, N.J. — You bet I’m rooting for George Foreman tonight. And so is every American male over 19 or 27 or 31 or whatever age your metabolism changes and suddenly, one morning, after eating the same healthy food you’ve eaten since you were a boy — namely, a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, a baloney sandwich, three Mallomars, two burgers and a half-liter of Coke — you wake up with Bill Murray’s body. But not his sense of humor.
AUGUSTA, Ga. — So here is what the 1991 Masters came down to: final round, final hole, three of the biggest names in golf tied for the lead — and all three totally disgusted with themselves. Jose-Maria Olazabal was scowling in the sand, his second bunker in two shots. Tom Watson, playing behind, had just watched his drive sail into the pine needles off the 18th fairway. And Ian Woosnam, all 5-feet-4 1/2 inches, had followed Watson with a blast into the crowd, so far left of the fairway, he needed a traffic cop to get him to his ball.
Hey, guys? The hole’s over here.
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