Detroit Free Press

BOSTON -- The sneaker sat in the paint, all by itself, as if it had fallen from a shelf. The man who had been wearing it, Isiah Thomas, was on his back now, a few feet away, grabbing the foot with the sock on it, writhing in pain. Even here, 800 miles away, you could hear the groans from Detroit: "Oh, nooo. Now what?"

TAMPA, Fla. -- Normally it takes a few hours before something really idiotic happens at the Super Bowl, but this being a short week and all, it took only five minutes. Here we were Tuesday morning, the sports media, just me and 3,700 of my closest friends, being herded into Tampa Stadium for our opening interviews with the New York Giants. And the first thing I saw when we walked on the field, dancing among the players in a tight black dress, black hat, black fishnet stockings and black leather boots, was "Downtown" Julie Brown from MTV. Doing interviews. Or trying.

Who is that guy? What's keeping him up there, floating toward the -- look there he goes again, up and slam! -- he's gotta be jet-propelled or something. He comes out of nowhere, and then -- wait, there he goes again uuuuuppppp annnnnd slam! Whooee! Those long arms, the grip, the way he sucks the ball in then floats toward the hoop. He just hangs there, waiting, living in the breeze. He looks so natural, so right.

DRYDEN -- "May I see the bird, please?"I actually yelled this. I know. It is not a sentence you can picture me yelling. It is not a sentence you can picture anyone yelling, except maybe Prince Charles or Ace Ventura, Pet Detective. "May I see the bird, please?" And that's not all. Here is the whole phrase:"May I see the bird, please?" . . . BANG!Blown to pieces.

Once again, it's time for Mr. Oscar, the man with the Academy Award answers. He's the Best Boy! The Key Grip! Let's go to this year's mailbag.Dear Mr. Oscar: What is the secret of "The Crying Game?"I (boo hoo) can't tell you.Dear Mr. Oscar: If Clint Eastwood actually wins Best Actor this year, what will his acceptance speech be like?"Unnnh . . . rrrr . . . thank you . . . rrrnnn."Hey dude. I don't see "Wayne's World" nominated for nuthin', dude. What's the matter with those sphincter boys dude?Shouldn't you be in wood shop class?

CHICAGO -- The game ended the way they all seemed to end, the way this whole damned, crazy post-season has ended. Bang -- and you're dead. Less than 100 seconds left on the regulation clock, the crowd on its feet, screaming like beasts. Paul Ysebaert bumped into Sergei Fedorov deep in his own end. The puck squirted loose, here came Chicago's Greg Gilbert, scraping it out, shoveling it to a driving Brent Sutter, who pushed it past Tim Cheveldae for the only goal that mattered -- which was also the only goal of the night. Game over.Red light.Darkness.

LAKELAND, Fla. -- Year after year, winter after winter, the voice stirs from under the snow. It heats up, it melts free, it crosses your lawn and taps the frost from your window. "Time to wake up," it seems to say. "It's spring. I'm back."