I once worked at a football stadium. I sold programs. I was 14. Before the game, I lined up with the other vendors, including the guys who sold beer. They had to be older, of course, but they still trudged through the stands, like me, hoping for customers.At the end of the day, like me, they pocketed, in cash, a small percentage of what they brought in. And they went home, many via bus or subway.
Eleven years old. I was in the fifth grade. I wore black sneakers. I rode a Sting-Ray bicycle. I climbed trees with friends. I had never kissed a girl. I ate Cocoa Puffs for breakfast. That summer I went to sleepaway camp and a man landed on the moon. When I got home, I built a plastic model of Apollo 11 and kept it in my bedroom.Eleven years old. I have been thinking about how young that is, in light of arguments last week over how old it is.
Last week, at age 82, Richard Knerr died. You probably don't recognize his name. You probably can't pronounce it. He wasn't an actor or a war hero. He cured no diseases. Made no scientific breakthroughs.In fact, you could say Richard Knerr was about one thing and one thing only: fun. But if you measure a man by what the world would be like without him, here a few things that, minus Knerr, you would never know:The Hula Hoop.The Frisbee.The SuperBall.Those alone took up a third of my childhood.
Today America will erupt in celebration.But an outsider might ask: What are we so happy about?For most, this is the worst economy of our lives. People are losing houses. People are losing jobs. We are in two wars, and the Middle East is again simmering with violence.What are we so happy about?
There were two news-making plane crashes this past week. Miraculously, no one died in either one.But while the passengers of a US Airways jet were overjoyed to see rescuers in the frigid waters of the Hudson River, a pilot named Marcus Schrenker was much less happy.Schrenker, flying over Alabama last Sunday, radioed that his Piper PA-46 turboprop was having trouble. He said his windshield had imploded. Then, without telling air traffic controllers, he parachuted out, leaving his plane to fly on auto pilot until it finally crashed in the Florida Panhandle.
Beware the assistant coach.He can be as seductive as ice cream, or as bitter as vinegar.He can startle you with quick success, or break your heart with constant defeat.He can sprout like a giant before your eyes, or shrink in stature and skulk off in the sunset.But one thing you always can say about an assistant coach - when elevated to the position of head coach: Nobody knows nothing.So don't tell me Jim Schwartz is a great bet for success to lead the Lions, or I will tell you the same was said of Rod Marinelli, who just finished an 0-16 year.
Here's something I'd like to see on Thursday. George W. Bush, being sworn in for his second term as president, then shaking hands with a few dignitaries.And everyone goes home.
Before we close the book on the college football season, I wonder if you had the same feeling I did watching Florida trounce Ohio State for the national championship. It didn't leave me cheering. It didn't leave me satisfied.It left me depressed.
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.
