It’s over! It’s all over! The Pistons win the NBA championship, the seventh game of the final series, and the sellout crowd at the Pontiac Silverdome is screaming, delirious, dancing in the aisles. And here comes Isiah Thomas, the hero of the game, bursting into the locker room. And there he goes. Out the back door.
The back door?
Here’s how the Free Press experts forecast the Pistons’ playoff chances:
* MITCH ALBOM: I actually like the Pistons’ chances against Boston better than their chances against Atlanta. Unfortunately, should they beat Washington — and they should — they would have to play the Hawks first.
In a long series, the Hawks just have too many horses. The only way the Pistons would get to a conference final — assuming they play Atlanta in the second round — is to catch the Hawks early, winning the first two games and putting the pressure on.
He was lying on a table, with an ice bag on his shoulder and a towel covering his face. Right here. The former Cy Young Award winner. The one-time toast of Detroit. Among the highest-paid relievers in the major leagues.
Willie Hernandez, on ice.
“Ready to talk?” said the visitor.
“Sure,” he said, not moving, “go ahead.”
Let us deal today with a timely sports question. How do you choose a company softball team?
I can answer this. The answer is, there are lots of ways. My favorite way is in a bar, late at night, with a hat, 50 pieces of paper, and a group of people who like to sing in Swedish, even though they don’t speak Swedish. And plenty of ice. But that is just my way. And I don’t hit very well.
CHICAGO — This is the face of a man confused. This is the face of man of being spun around like laundry. This is my face.
“Heck of a game last night,” someone says.
“Uh . . . yeah,” I answer, quickly flipping open my notepad, “excellent forechecking.”
“In the baseball game?” he says.
Oh. Wrong pad. I sigh. This has been going on all week. You say baseball, I say hockey. I say baseball, you say hockey.
CHICAGO — It was over in an accident, a freak, a mini-moment that was here then gone, so fast that Shawn Burr couldn’t really remember how it took place. But now, in the crowded locker room, that was all anyone wanted to know.
“Did you see it coming?” someone asked.
“I sort of did,” he answered, smiling.
“Did you mean to knock it in?” someone yelled.
“I was just trying to get out of the way,” he said.
“Where did it hit?” came the question.
“On the glove,” came the answer.
“Which hand? Which hand?” they hollered.
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