Detroit Free Press

I guess getting away from it all just ain't what it used to be.I have just returned from five weeks in Europe, and here is the thing I remember most: It was not a French schoolboy skipping down a cobblestone street; it was not a lovely serenade on a canal boat in Venice.It was CNN.

SEATTLE -- The last time he was here, he wore a cast on one foot and street clothes to the game. He sat behind the Michigan basketball team as it played for the national championship. And when that championship was won, and the buzzer sounded, he ran onto the floor, cast and all, and celebrated in a happy pile of players. The whole world was ahead of Eric Riley in those days. He was a redshirt freshman, an apprentice to glory, just waiting for his turn in the uniform. "I thought," he says now, "I would be celebrating like that again. Only with me playing."

I am very impressed that Bo knows everything. Only he doesn't, of course. Nobody does. His agents and business managers, who must be laughing all the way to the bank, would like you to believe that Bo Jackson is a Renaissance Man, all things to all people, all people to all things. But he is not. And now that Bo is coming to our town, I will prove it. For example, here are a few things in Detroit alone that Bo does not know:What Vernor's is.How to find Antons at the Renaissance Center.How to find the Renaissance Center.Who Bill Bonds is.

I guess we ought to talk about this Andre Waters guy, since everybody else is. Dan Dierdorf of "Monday Night Football" pretty much nailed the Philadelphia safety to the wall, calling him a "cheap-shot artist" and saying there's "no place for that kind of stuff in the NFL." The league, meanwhile, fined Waters $10,000 for cheap-shot tackles. All around the NFL, Waters is known as the kind of guy who would shake your hand and slam his knee into your groin.

Like most people, I wanted to be liked. I wanted to walk into every room and have people smile, reach for my hand, slap me on the back.I picked the wrong job.I became a sportswriter.My kind are greeted with sighs, smirks, head shakes and spit. Occasionally a poke in the chest. Now and then, a bucket of water. I am blamed, vilified, avoided, ignored, sometimes tolerated, never trusted.I am a sportswriter.And I wonder what went wrong.

THE LIVE ALBOM* Every one of Cecil Fiedler's home runs is impressive, but here it is Thursday night, bottom of the eighth, two outs, nobody on, the stadium is falling asleep, and Dennis Lamp of the Red Sox knows he really doesn't have to pitch to Cecil. Doesn't have to give him anything. And what happens? Lamp gets two strikes, then puts a pretty good sinker down low. And Fielder, who has been swinging at air since last weekend, takes this pitch and smacks it into the bleachers for his 49th home run.

MINNEAPOLIS -- I have stopped listening to Bobby Knight.I no longer attend his press conferences. I do not interview him. I had no interest in his insulting words these last few weeks of the NCAA basketball tournament. And I did not go to hear him after Indiana's semifinal Saturday against Duke.I see no point. My reason is simple: Why would anyone willingly enter a room when he knew he was about to have garbage dumped on his head?