Bo’S New Statusto The Assembled Masses, Schenbechler A Legend
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. — He is walking past the hotel patio and the crowd is swelling — first two reporters, then four, then the TV stations. Is it Stallone? Is it Elvis?
“Bo,” says the PR man, “these gentlemen are from ESPN. They want to follow you around today.”
“Um-hmm,” says the husky, balding coach, without breaking stride. “Well, all right, men. But I’m late for a team meeting.”
“That’s OK,” blurts the cameraman, “we’ll just follow you and shoot. We don’t need to interrupt.”
“Um-hmm.”
Listen Closely – Mo Sounds A Lot Like Bo
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. — Gary Moeller is wearing a tie these days. Pretty soon, the jacket will follow. He’ll develop that special walk, the brisk pace that discourages autograph hounds. His eyes will focus straight ahead. His mind will work a mile a minute. He inevitably will have someone on his right or left, a PR guy, an assistant, and he’ll turn and say, “How much time do I got?”
GETTING NOWHERE, VAINISI WILL BE GONE
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. — After a while in this business, you learn to see through press conferences and concentrate on the people behind them. So I heard what was said at the Lions’ offices Wednesday, about how Chuck Schmidt would be promoted and how Jerry...
Leroy And Bo: Together, A Roaring Successhoard Hears Wisdom In U-M Coach’S Shouts
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. — You want to get Leroy Hoard’s attention? Put a whistle around your neck, make your voice sound like Bo Schembechler’s, then sneak up behind him and yell, “DAMN IT, LEROY! NOT AGAIN!”
Chances are he will spin around and plead, “It wasn’t me, Coach! I didn’t do it!” Or maybe he will race down the street and block somebody.
Mark Messner: His Father’S Son
Isn’t life funny, Mark Messner thought. He held a spoonful of malted shake up to his father’s lips, which were black and peeling, burned from the chemotherapy. “Here you go, Dad,” he said. His father rolled his eyes and made a “mmm” sound, like a child. Mark smiled, pulled the spoon out and dug it back into the cup.
SANTA MUST KNOW HOW TO PICK ‘EM
Well, it’s Christmas, and I am hoping Santa allows me to get all my picks correct this weekend so I can walk down the street without having some nice old lady stop and say, “Hey! There’s the moron that picked Philly over New Orleans. You cost me five...
SIMS ERA FINALLY ENDS; ALL HAIL THE NEW KING
Billy Sims, wearing a charcoal suit and a silk white shirt, crossed his arms on the sidelines and waited for his legend to die. The New Kid took a handoff and scampered for eight yards.”Runs like he’s from Texas, don’t he?” whispered Jerry...
Barry Sanders: Quietly Flying Highlions Running Back Has Learned To Absorb And Endure
First of all, Barry Sanders doesn’t mind dancing. As long as someone else is doing it. Sure, when he scores a touchdown, he hands the ball to the referee like a mailman delivering a phone bill. But he isn’t bothered by those who prefer a wiggle or a shake. “Hey, I used to love Billy (White Shoes) Johnson, and the Washington Smurfs and all,” he says, looking down at his hands. “It’s just . . . not me.”
Nothing Wrong With The Lions’ Memories
OK. I’m on the bandwagon.
I walked into the Lions’ locker room this week after practice and was barraged by “Look who it is!” “Hey, didn’t you pick us to lose to Chicago?”
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” They strutted past. They pointed at me and laughed.
You know what you call that?
Cockiness.
I haven’t seen that with the Lions in years.
And that’s what has been missing.
Of course, I wouldn’t mind if they took it out on the opposing team instead of me, but. . . .
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