Detroit Free Press

He was what you want an owner to be: decisive, trusting, smart, camera-shy - and rich. Bill Davidson had seen ...

And then he's gone.Corey Smith was a professional football player. He played here in Detroit. When journalists entered the locker room after a Lions game, they scattered to get quotes. Now and then they went to Smith. I did it. I did it without thinking. I played my role, Smith played his. A notepad. A question. An answer.And then he's gone.

I had this idea, before the rematch between the Red Wings and Penguins, that Marian Hossa might wait until Sidney Crosby had the puck and was flying down the ice and then he'd yell, "Yo, Sidney, right here!" and out of habit, Crosby would fire the puck to his old teammate."I did that against New Jersey," Hossa told me earlier this week. "Their defenseman (Colin White) was under pressure and I yelled, ‘Whitey, Whitey!' and he sends me the puck behind the net."Really? "Yeah. Right on the tape."

You give them life, they try to kill you.That sentence should never apply to your children. But it does in the sad case of a Maryland teenager named Cory Ryder, who tried to hire a hit man to kill his parents.According to reports, Ryder, who was 16 at the time, met with a man he believed to be an assassin - but who was actually an undercover police officer - in a hotel room last June. During their conversation, Ryder offered his stepfather's pickup as payment for the kill."Two bullets is all it takes," he allegedly said.

FT. BRAGG, N.C. - One by one they approached, polite and smiling. They were so young. I have been on a book tour for weeks, and the bags under my eyes are so noticeable that I have taken to jealously checking the lack of bags under other peoples' eyes. Theirs had none. No crow's-feet around the edges. No wrinkles on their foreheads. They were so young."Thanks for coming," they said."Thanks for having me," I said.Some were holding babies. Some were with pregnant wives. Some were so clean-shaven, they did not appear capable of growing more than a few stray whiskers.

Friday night, at a high school football playoff game, it was damp and cold, and the players bounced on their toes to keep warm. Near the Rochester Adams bench, amidst all these bigger teenagers, stood Jordan Kidder, barely five feet tall, with glasses and braces, a school cap, a jersey, a varsity jacket and a job to do."Watch this for me, Jordan, OK?" a player said, running over."OK," he said."Some water, Jordan," another said."Here," he said, handing over a bottle."How's it going, Jordan?" another said, slapping his hand.