There are bonds you are born with, like your parents or siblings, and bonds you choose, like friends and lovers. Then there are the bonds that come along by accident, that somehow choose you, and draw you in like destiny.For Kris Draper, the Red Wings' oft-grinning forward, the bond began with a phone call. A teenage girl from Shepherd, he was told, had leukemia and was in the hospital. She was a huge Draper fan. Could he possibly call her?
He sounded a bit nervous. But then, if you were being handed, at the same time, the biggest paycheck of your career and the second-worst team in pro football, wouldn't you be nervous, too?"Just tell me one thing," I asked Steve Mariucci, the Lions' new head coach, Wednesday afternoon, "tell me you can win more than three games next year.""Ah, ah . . ." he said, stalling, "we'll go one game at a time.""No," I insisted. "Please. Just say you can win three games. Just say it. You can, right?""Ah, ah," he laughed. "Don't put words in my mouth."
In many ways, they're a lot alike.The Red Wings have won Stanley Cups. The Avalanche has won Stanley Cups.The Red Wings have a goalie who speekeeng with dee accent. The Avs have a goalie who speak wit' an' accent.The Wings have a captain who is quiet, rugged and wears No. 19. The Avs have a captain who is quiet, rugged and wears No. 19.And while the Wings have a foreign phenomenon, Igor Larionov, who is 41 yet skates like a kid, the Avs also have a foreign phenomenon, Peter Forsberg, who took the regular season off yet is leading the playoffs in points.
Editor's note: This column contains lyrics that could be offensive. But the Free Press thinks they're important to understand the columnist's view.Hip, hip, hooray for Dr. Dre! He sure showed those bullies who is boss. He's a champion for the First Amendment! A hero for freedom of speech!Let's pause for some Dre lyrics.I don't give a f--- about the bitch Because I don't give a f---! And I don't give a f---!
Amidst the lies, money and media of this presidential election, many of us figure nothing we do matters. I've modified this poem, first written in 1992, to reflect the unique challenge we face this Tuesday.I heard a knock upon my door And opened it to see All the poor around the world Looking back at me In old clothes and worn-out shoes With families to feed, They held their hands out, hopefully, Could I address their need? "Too many," I said, overwhelmed, And shut the door instead For I am just one person, "There's a way," a small voice said.
They read off the names of the dead. There were prayers and tears and scribbled notes for "10 special angels." The governor called them all "champions." Heads shook in disbelief. Trembling lips were bitten.It was a memorial service Wednesday for the 10 members of the Oklahoma State basketball program who died last weekend when their small plane crashed in a snowy Colorado field.All involved were too young. The victims, the families, the crying students who packed the Stillwater gym Wednesday.
America is the big guy. Iraq is the small guy. Because of that, no matter what we do, certain perceptions will never change.So even though America, the big guy, has an army of volunteers, while Iraq, the small guy, pulls men from their homes and threatens to kill their loved ones if they don't fight -- we, the big guy, are the bully.And even though America, the big guy, wears army uniforms and rides in army tanks, while Iraq, the small guy, wears civilian clothes and drives Toyotas and blends in, waiting for an ambush -- we, the big guy, are the bully.
Get out of town. Change the scenery. Change the view. Go to Canada. Western Canada. Far western Canada. Anywhere but here, Detroit, Joe Louis Arena, where the only thing the Red Wings have is bad karma, two quixotic playoff losses, a memory reel of clanged posts, missed chances, intercepted passes, fluttering pucks and questions, questions, questions. How is this happening? Where is your goalie? Where is your power play? Vancouver again, 5-2? Who are these guys? Who are you guys?
So they changed the goalie and they're back on home ice and they are saying the right things about patience and experience. Here's the cold truth: The legacy of these Red Wings is on the line tonight at Joe Louis Arena. If this team of All-Stars, assembled on Mt. Olympus, paid for with chests of gold, should nonetheless be slashed in its Achilles' heel by the lowly Nashville Predators, history will not be kind. A hockey paradise will have been squandered.
She was not my grandma. We both knew that. My grandparents had been wonderful. They died years ago.This grandma I met only recently. Met her in a nursing home. Visited her in hospitals. She was 79 and I never saw her healthy. Come to think of it, I never saw her standing up. I saw her on gurneys. In beds. Once I saw her sitting in a wheelchair, doing rehab with a therapist -- she had to pull little plastic tabs out of a wad of goopy clay, and she rolled her eyes as if to say: "Can you believe this? A woman my age? Playing with goop?"
It was a crisp autumn Sunday, a day when churchgoers shook hands in parking lots, and men grabbed rakes to gather leaves before the football games started. A chill was in the air, and we pulled up our collars against the oncoming winter.By sunset, our perspective had changed. As the news came that bombs had been dropped in Afghanistan, and missiles had been launched and threats were flying back and forth across the oceans, we realized that chilly shiver was more than just the change of seasons.War had begun.
