They don't resent each other, and they don't resent the media. They resent the coach. Let's get that straight. Andre Ware, Rodney Peete and Erik Kramer, the three quarterbacks on this odd little merry-go-round in silver and blue stretch uniforms. Point the finger at one man: Wayne Fontes.In this way, they are no different from most American workers. They blame the boss.And, like most workers, they have to bite their tongues and keep it to themselves.Andre Ware played all day Sunday in the win over Phoenix at the Silverdome. He was not bad, but not great.
It's that time of year again, when the temperature drops and winds howl and snowstorms hit and so people naturally say, "Hey, let's go up in a plane!"This explains the huge lines at ticket counters this past week, as airlines ran their annual "holiday" fares.(By the way, the word "holiday," as we all know, is airline code for "more small print at the bottom of the ad." No one has ever read this print, since even a cockroach would need glasses to do that. However, scientific research reveals that one of the lines, blown up 5,000 times, reads as follows:
* Detroit 20, NY Giants 17: First of all, you should know that I always get these Lions picks wrong. Second, the Giants stink.* Dallas 107, Cincinnati 102: The Bengals score all their points in the final three minutes, after the Cowboys leave the field because they're laughing so hard.
PASADENA, Calif. -- In the end there was no Santa Claus. No Happy New Year. Bo Schembechler could only stand there, the headphones dangling, as the final seconds of his career ticked away. The wrong way. Michael Taylor, his quarterback, threw wide, the ball hit the ground. He threw deep. The ball sailed past the intended receiver.
Cecil Fielder, his hair still wet from the shower, was buttoning his shirt with a towel around his waist, as if he couldn't get out of Detroit fast enough. A TV reporter approached for an interview. Fielder waved him off. Sorry. Not talking."See you next spring, Cecil," said a locker room guy."All right," Cecil said, not looking up. He pulled a gray sport coat off the hook and slipped it over his shoulders.
That sound -- clank! -- you heard -- whompf! -- from inside -- thud! -- the Palace -- whifff! -- was, believe it or not, the NBA Eastern Conference finals. At least that's what they call it in May. In February it's just a game where a lot of people miss their shots.
Nothing dogged the Fab Five's reputation more than trash talk. And never was there more trash talked than in the Michigan-Cincinnati game during the 1992 Final Four in Minneapolis.The young Wolverines were already famous for jawing, and the Bearcats were pretty damn good, too. Cincinnati's entire roster was made up of transfers or junior college players, which meant that -- unlike the Fab Five -- most of the Bearcats were not highly recruited. They were the leftovers. And they had something to prove. They flexed. They boasted.They talked.
It was Opening Day. I think. The weather was great. Sort of. The fans had a wonderful afternoon. Most of them. Didn't they? The operative word, this time, was confusion. How were we supposed to feel on this first day of baseball, 1991? Happy? Resentful? Mixed-up? A fan walking to the gates of Tiger Stadium on Monday could buy peanuts -- or sign a petition. He could get a yearbook -- or a letter from Ernie Harwell. He could wear a Tiger cap -- or purchase a shirt that read "The Owner Made a Boner."
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.
