WIMBLEDON, England — Ivan Lendl will keep coming back here until they cut his arms and legs off. And he’ll never win this tournament. He can practice at his mansion until the servants go home. He can fly to Australia for special training on grass. Heck, he can start sleeping with a Toro lawn mower for all it matters. It won’t matter. He is not taking this title.
WIMBLEDON, England — She took aim at the last tennis ball, she slipped, she whiffed, the crowd groaned, and the freshest story of this Wimbledon tournament was over. Jennifer Capriati was out after four rounds. You think she was angry? You think she was down? She came into the press room wearing an MTV T-shirt and beaming from ear to ear as if she had just won the lead in the school play. Which, come to think of it, she sort of has.
WIMBLEDON, England — I whiz into customs on my skateboard, the Walkman blaring in my ears.
“Your destination, sir?” asks the customs man.
“Wimbledon,” I say.
I open my suitcase filled with stuffed giraffes and fuzzy teddy bears. I unzip the bag containing 14 copies of the New Kids on the Block album, and the latest issues of Tiger Beat magazine.
“Where did you say you were going, sir?” the agent asks again.
I repeat, ‘Wimbledon.”
Nelson Mandela’s recent visit may have reminded Americans of the things we take for granted, but it also suggested something we sorely miss: great speakers.
Mandela came to Detroit Thursday and, with his thick South African accent, ignited a group of autoworkers by declaring “I am your flesh and blood. I am your comrade.” Later, before a packed house at Tiger Stadium, he recited the words to, of all things, a Marvin Gaye song — and again set the crowd on fire. “Brother . . . brother . . . there’s far too many of you dying. . . .”
Riiiiing!
“Hello?”
“Hello, Chuck Daly? Terry O’Neill from NBC.”
“Hi, Terry.”
“Just calling to see where we stand. You know we want you as our TV analyst. You and Pat Riley? Together? Awesome, babe. Big money. And we can make sure you guys never wear the same suit, don’t worry about that.”
“Thanks, Terry, I haven’t decided yet.”
“I’ll call back. Think peacock, Chuck.”
Click. Riiiiing!
“Hello?”
“Hello. Chuck? Harold from Philadelphia. Let’s get down to brass tacks. We want you. You want us. The GM job is open. What’s it gonna take?”
PORTLAND, Ore. — Vinnie Johnson had the microphone. Isiah Thomas was next to him on stage, with his own microphone. Now and then he would sing a couple of words and Vinnie would sing, too. The band, watching, hooted its approval. Now Vinnie wanted Joe. “WHERE’S BROADWAY?” he bellowed to the raucous crowd. “WHERE’S BROADWAY JOE?”
Joe Dumars sat at a back table and dipped his head. Shy by nature, he didn’t relish stepping onto the stage in front of all these people. His wife, Debbie, nudged him. He shook her off. But Vinnie would not give up.
PORTLAND, Ore. — They danced off the court and into the castle on the clouds, carrying the scars and lumps and exhausted smiles that told you the journey was tough, the journey was costly, but the journey, finally, was over.
“We’re back!” the Pistons seemed to roar as they headed for their champagne locker room and their rightful place on the throne, after beating Portland, 92-90, with a last-minute flourish to capture their second straight NBA championship. “We win! We won! We’re back! “
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