Good morning, New York, and how are we feeling toda —
Ooh, sorry. Are we talking too loud? Bad headache, huh? Here. Try some of these aspirin. It was a nasty fall you took last night. All the way from the clouds to the pits. Lie back, and we’ll try to explain what happened.
On the one hand, I really don’t want to write this column. It’s a pretty foolish issue. On the other hand, sometimes foolish issues grow into serious ones, and it’s best to nip them in the bud.
First, let me say I like Sparky Anderson. I always have. He’s a bona fide legend in baseball, even if the Tigers lose the rest of their games this season, which we are praying very hard won’t happen.
The letters began coming a few weeks ago. They were small. Very small. I’d say they were small enough to fit inside a comic book panel.
The return address read: “Riverdale, USA.”
There was no stamp.
“Please help us,’ the first letter said. “Tell them it’s not true.”
(signed) Betty.
I had to use a magnifying glass to read it.
The second one was much the same.
“It’s not us.” (signed) Jughead.
Then came the third one.
“Give us a break. That guy doesn’t even look like me. How are the chicks up there?” (signed) Reggie.
We lost a great man this week. He died in a hospital bed in Philadelphia. Few people noticed, because he didn’t have a hit TV show or a People magazine cover. You make your living playing jazz saxophone in America, you don’t expect a big funeral.
The season begins now. You can forget all those January nights in Denver and Charlotte when you just want to get to the buzzer and get to the plane and get out of town. That is the opening act, the lube job. This is the real thing. Inside the Palace Thursday night, the minutes ticked down and the Pistons were ready. They marched through the tunnel, heads up, eyes glazed, like rock stars sucking in the last breath before they leap onstage.
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