by Mitch Albom | Jul 4, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — I am sitting with a yellow pad in the shade at an empty tennis court. I am trying to figure out where I went wrong as a child.
“Kindergarten?” I ask myself, nibbling at the pencil. “If I had only cut out kindergarten. Or bedtime stories. . . . “
I have just finished watching Michael Chang play at Wimbledon. I have just finished listening to Chang conduct a post-match press conference. I have been watching Chang for days here at Wimbledon. This is my overriding impression:
How old is this kid?
by Mitch Albom | Jul 2, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON, England — To tell the truth I always liked John McEnroe, and this, to some people, is like admitting you eat garbage. McEnroe was a brat, foulmouthed, temperamental, but I am a sports fan, I watch baseball and football. I am used to such things.The...
by Mitch Albom | Jun 23, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
THE LIVE ALBOM* Everyone’s talking about this movie, “Field of Dreams,” in which a baseball voice comes to Kevin Costner and says: “If you build it, he will come.” * Tom Monaghan says the same thing to the mayor about a new stadium. * How...
by Mitch Albom | Jun 20, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
It’s not that I wouldn’t like to meet the President. But I figure, hey, why make the trip? I already know what will happen when the Pistons visit the White House today. . . . In the Rose Garden. . . . JOHN SALLEY (huddled in the corner with the President):...
by Mitch Albom | Jun 16, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
Just a moment ago, he was dancing. Just a moment ago, he was spritzing champagne on his teammates, laughing with those gap-teeth, shaking his big nasty body and singing “BAAAD BOYS! BAAAD BOYS!” Just a moment ago, Rick Mahorn was the muscle around the heart of the Pistons’ brand-new NBA championship team.
And now he is gone.
by Mitch Albom | Jun 15, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
INGLEWOOD, Calif. — Joe Dumars is gazing at his teammates on the dance floor and holding a champagne bottle, which should tell you how far this party has gone. Joey? Champagne? He lifts the bottle awkwardly to his lips.”So you’re drinking now?”...
by Mitch Albom | Jun 14, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
INGLEWOOD, Calif. — In the end, there would be no denying them; they wanted this more than life itself. No more waiting. No more excuses. The Pistons were storming the throne room, grabbing the basketball, stealing it, owning it, banking it off glass, slamming it through the rim, counting the seconds until destiny lifted her veil and gave them that long-awaited kiss, smack on the lips.
One-two-three-four.
Champions.
by Mitch Albom | Jun 13, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
INGLEWOOD, Calif. — Wouldn’t it be funny if beneath that crusty exterior, those dagger eyes, those tightly crossed arms that look as if they’ll squeeze the heart from his chest, beneath those throaty screams, that pounding on the table, the slap on the forehead as he collapses in his chair, beneath the pacing feet and the churning stomach and that look to the heavens whenever Dennis Rodman makes a boo-boo that seems to say, “Why me, Lord? What did I ever do to you?” — wouldn’t it be funny if beneath all that, Chuck Daly was really . . . an optimist?
by Mitch Albom | Jun 12, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
INGLEWOOD, Calif. — They needed a hero. They needed someone to combat the Hollywood ending that was about to unfold. The Pistons were winning, the Lakers were dying — but suddenly the Lakers were rising again, feeble bones, pulled hamstrings, the ghosts of champions past, howling and clanging chains.
by Mitch Albom | Jun 11, 1989 | Detroit Free Press
LOS ANGELES — And here comes Richard Pryor. He walks over, grabs John Salley’s hand and begins to shake it. A photographer requests a picture, and the two men turn toward the camera.
“Spider maaan,” says Pryor, looking not at Salley but straight at the lens, “you Detroit guys are taking care of business.”
“Yeah, we are,” says Salley, also looking straight ahead.
“You’re kickin’ some butt,” says Pryor.
“Thanks, Richard.”
“Takin’ care of biddd-ness!”
“Yeah, Richard.”
“I lost 50 bucks on you, man.”
“Sorry, Richard.”
Click, click.
