Good Morning, Mr. Marinelli:If you are who we say you are - namely, the Lions' new head coach - then welcome to Detroit. To be honest, most of us never heard of you. But we already know a lot about you.For example, we know you are taking this job, which makes you A) an optimist, B) desperate, C) the wrong man for the position or D) the exception to the rule.Let's hope it's D. We know you're 56 years old, which will be used against you ("If he's so good, how come nobody hired him before?") unless you win.
I would like to write a glowing column about Chris Webber, one that celebrates him home. But it's not that easy.I would like to cheer his return, talk about winning a title with his hometown team in the autumn of his career. But it's not that simple.I would like to share only positive things about Chris Webber as I have been privileged to know many of them, his family, his intelligence, his grace. I once liked this kid as much as I've ever liked any young athlete in Detroit. But that wouldn't be the whole story.
I must confess I never understood sexy cheerleaders, since every sport I ever played in, the coach screamed at me to "Focus!" and how can you focus when a pretty girl in a skimpy skirt is jumping up and down and squealing?Still, I just accepted it. Boys played. Girls cheered. This was before our current age of enlightenment, which includes both the U.S. women's soccer team and the Laker Girls, proving we're not really enlightened, just confused.This brings us to the recent controversy over the Pistons swimsuit calendar.
When are certain people involved with this Duke lacrosse team case going to use the word they seem to be consciously avoiding?Liar.It's a word for someone who tells lies. And so far, the only thing certain in this case is that the accuser has told many of them. The biggest, of course, may be that she was raped. Now she says she can't be sure. As a result, rape charges against the three players were dropped, charges that have damaged their lives forever.Yet no one calls her a liar.
Grant Hill wanted to buy a house. This was years ago, when he was still a Piston, still figuring his future would be in Michigan. He asked if I could show him around a particular neighborhood. So one afternoon, in the off-season, we took a ride. Hill was looking for privacy, and we saw a "for sale" sign at the bottom of a long, hidden driveway. We drove up through a thickly wooded area and emerged into a clearing that surrounded a huge, modern house."Whoa, this is nice," Hill said.
This was Christmas night. In the basement of a church off an icy street in downtown Detroit, four dozen homeless men and women sat at tables. The smell of cooked ham wafted from the kitchen. The pastor, Henry Covington, a man the size of two middle linebackers, exhorted the people with a familiar chant."I am somebody," he yelled."I am somebody!"they repeated. "Because God loves me!""Because God loves me!"They clapped. They nodded.
When I was a kid, I shoveled snow to make a few dollars. One time, a friend and I did a driveway for a grumpy old neighbor. We pooped out before all the snow was gone, and when we asked to be paid, the old man refused."You don't finish, I don't pay," he said.We skulked off. But those were the rules of the marketplace. You wanna get paid, you gotta do the job. Simple enough, right?
Mitch Albom writes about running an orphanage in impoverished Port-au-Prince, Haiti, his kids, their hardships, laughs and challenges, and the life lessons he’s learned there every day.
