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."
ATLANTIC CITY, N.J. -- You bet I'm rooting for George Foreman tonight. And so is every American male over 19 or 27 or 31 or whatever age your metabolism changes and suddenly, one morning, after eating the same healthy food you've eaten since you were a boy -- namely, a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, a baloney sandwich, three Mallomars, two burgers and a half-liter of Coke -- you wake up with Bill Murray's body. But not his sense of humor.
I am about to tell you a remarkable story that not only restores my faith in newspapers, newspaper readers and humanity in general, but also makes my dog extremely happy.Here I was in my house Thursday morning. I had just returned from the Iditarod Sled Dog Race in Alaska, a wonderful assignment that, unfortunately, was being cut short so I could get to Florida and write about -- ahem -- spring training baseball."Well, dog," I said to my golden retriever, as I unpacked the long underwear from my suitcase, "too bad I didn't get to see the end of that race."
LA PLAGNE, France -- I rarely go to bobsled races, because I can see the same thing at a bank robbery. Two guys in masks come running out, jump in a vehicle, duck and drive away. Big deal.But I did attend the Olympic bobsled race Sunday, because certain circumstances demanded it, such as national interest, and the fact that if I didn't go to bobsled, I had to go to figure skating, in which the ice dancerswere scheduled to do The Original Mandatory Program, which this year is . . . the polka! I am not making this up. Roll out . . . the barrel!Also, Herschel Walker.
VAL d'ISERE, France -- Being the first skier on the Olympic downhill is like being the first float in a parade: People wave, but they're looking over your shoulder. They're waiting for the good stuff that comes next.
The conventional wisdom in basketball says no game in January can be that important. The Chicago Bulls would like to believe that.Forget the fact that the Bulls were tied for first place coming into the Palace Tuesday night. They were little better than an also-ran to the suddenly streaking Pistons, who have won six straight and sent fans home early with a 100-90 embarrassment of Michael Jordan and company."It was a strange game," said Pistons coach Chuck Daly on a night when his team so dominated that it led the Bulls by as many as 21 points. "They looked a little flat."
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.
