SAN DIEGO — I am looking for horses. I see no horses. This is what I see: a Denver Broncos PR man skipping across the football field, yelling:
“This way, Amigos! This way!”
Strange, I think. Even for the Super Bowl.
“The Amigos will be at midfield! Right now! Clear the midfield area for the Three Amigos!”
No horses. No sombreros. No sagebrush. Just three short football players in
ATLANTIC CITY, N.J. — Beneath his wool ski cap, Mike Tyson was sweating. The camera lights were hot. A hundred people were crammed in front of his table. Everyone was screaming.
“DID HE EVER HURT YOU?”
“WHEN DID YOU KNOW YOU HAD HIM?”
“WHO’S NEXT? WHO’S NEXT?”
ATLANTIC CITY — Larry Holmes was flat on his back, his legs spread apart, while the referee tried to jiggle the mouthpiece from between Holmes’ teeth. A mob of people hovered over him, three guys in red satin jackets, a policeman, a doctor.
“Get out, get out,” the ex-champ mumbled.
There was a time, back in college, when I laced up boxing gloves and tried to prove myself in a ring. I was not very talented; I did more ducking than hitting. But one night, while sparring with my coach, I tagged him, unsuspecting, and he straightened up and blinked. At that moment, I felt a surge of naked power, almost primitive, as if my blood had thickened and I was bloated with muscle. It was a manly thing I had done. I felt manly. And then he pounded the hell out of me.
The quietest Piston stays on the court after practice ends; dribble, shoot, rebound, shoot again. The big stars are on their way home. The camera crews pack up and leave. Pretty soon it’s just the ball, the basket, and Joe Dumars. Plain ol’ Joe.
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