NEW ORLEANS -- It was after midnight when the glass slipper finally gave way. One second. One miserable second. They were that far from another amazing victory, that far from sleeping on the doorstep of the Final Four. And then a freshman from New York City let fly a shot that would make any playground proud, and it fell through the nets and the miracle was on its way out.
LOS ANGELES -- The young man was tall and broad-shouldered. While his teammates spoke of touchdowns, he spoke of flying a jet across the skies of Kuwait. Chad Hennings is a Dallas defensive lineman, who, unlike most of the players in Super Bowl XXVII today, served in the military. I found him intelligent. Engaging. Then someone asked about gays."In the military? I'm against it. Absolutely. Nothing against gays, you know, but the idea of living with them? In close quarters? Nuh-uh."
NEW ORLEANS -- When tonight's game is over, and the Michigan kids look anxiously for their parents in the tunnel, the way most college players do, Juwan Howard will be alone for one hurtful moment. He was raised by his grandmother. She died the day he committed to Michigan. So when his teammates share their joy, or seek parental comfort, when they hug their mothers and fathers, Howard will close his eyes and pretend he's hugging his Grandma. "Just because I'm here, and she's there in heaven, doesn't mean we can't do the same thing as these guys."
Maybe now that he's retiring, Bill Laimbeer expects gratitude. A suspended sentence. A shrug, a grin, an "aw, heck, you weren't so bad." Maybe he figures, now that he's hanging 14 long, bumpy years, the spotlight will fall on the good parts of his story -- like his statistics -- and not the bad parts -- like his elbows.Well. He should know better. Not long ago, I asked Laimbeer whether he thought he'd ever make the Hall of Fame. He snorted a laugh, and said, "No."Why not?"Because the powers that be don't want me in there."
CHAPTER 1: In which I travel to Alaska and learn that all dogs are not created equal, although most smell alike.ANCHORAGE, Alaska -- Mush! Whoa!Get off my leg!All right. I admit it. Before arriving here for the Iditarod Sled Dog Race -- or, as they call it in Alaska, The Last Great Race On Earth -- my canine knowledge was somewhat limited. This, basically, is what I knew about dogs: If they urinate on your carpet, it's damn hard to get out.
ATLANTA -- Not that I spend a lot of time looking at other men's bodies, but I'll tell you this: Bruce Smith is an eyeful. He will grab your attention. This is not a human, this is a sculpture. This is a block of granite in comic-book proportions. The Incredible Hulk? The Thing? Schwarzenegger's role model?
BARCELONA, Spain -- Now, wait a minute. I think we've taken this "all sports are equal" thing a little too far here. Badminton? Badminton is an Olympic event? You win a medal for slapping a birdie over a net? What's next? Olympic hot dog grilling?"Badminton's cool," someone says. "Go see it."Listen, pal. I know badminton. I know the roots of badminton. The roots of badminton are in your basement, in a box that sits untouched until the Fourth of July barbecue, when you take it out and pray the moths haven't completely eaten the rackets. Here is what happens next:
LEXINGTON, Ky. -- The first newspaper I ever worked for, where I earned as much money as your average beggar, was also the first place I faced The Old-Young Thing. It didn't last long. Just long enough for the publisher, a fat man with a goatee, to bring in a tall fellow whom, he told me, "will be the editor from now on."This bothered me, mostly because, until that moment, I was the editor. (It was a tiny newspaper; being editor only meant you got a desk.) But what really bothered me was that this fellow, who was otherwise a nice guy, turned out to be younger than me.
SAN FRANCISCO -- Joe Montana, maybe the greatest quarterback ever, stood on the sideline, clean as a marine during inspection. All around, players were drenched in mud, swallowing it, spitting it, their numbers smeared and camouflaged by it. Montana, still neatly pressed, crossed his arms and shuffled his feet, his famous No. 16 as bright as a lighthouse beacon. This was his time of day, late afternoon. This was his time of game, fourth quarter. But this was not his time. Not his. Not the 49ers'. Not anymore.
The last time Jud Heathcote switched jobs, he made sure the guy behind him got to take over. This was his thinking: You're loyal, you work hard, you get rewarded in the end. He even delayed his exit a few days when he heard the big shots might pull a fast one on his assistant. They didn't. The guy got the job: head coach, Montana. And Heathcote left happy. That was in the early '70s, when a lot of people had different ideas about life.
CHICAGO -- So there was another bullet in the chamber after all. The Bulls fired, the Pistons went down, and now we are left with 48 minutes of basketball war to determine who gets off the ground and who stays there until next fall.
