In the end, you could no more stop them than you could stop the moon. They rose to the occasion, they rose to the challenge, and finally -- when the last seconds ticked away and Chris Osgood threw his hands into the air and leaped into a hug from Larry Murphy as a lonesome octopus came flying onto the ice -- finally, they raised the roof. They were back to the big stage, the Stanley Cup finals, and they burst through the curtain with a certain swagger, as if they knew it would happen, as if they've been here before.
MIAMI-- "When he arrived here, we're all like, 'We traded for him? He's going to be our quarterback?' " -- Jamal Anderson, Falcons running backFootball will forgive you many things. Fragility is not one of them.You can have a big mouth. You can oversleep. You can have a police record. But if you break too easily, they start looking elsewhere.
TAMPA, FLA. -- From one side came defensive lineman Chidi Ahanotu, breathing fire. From the other side came defensive end Warren Sapp, ready to chew someone's arm off. There was no escape. No hole to dive into. It was like being trampled by buffalo, and all Gus Frerotte could do on this final fourth down was try to wrangle his hand free and whisk the ball away, like a man heaving the treasure as he goes off the cliff.Incomplete pass. The Tampa crowd roared.And that was the end of our kidding ourselves around here.
INDIANAPOLIS -- It wasn't the way he chewed gum as he jogged out of the tunnel, nor the ease with which he carried the ball in his first lay-up drill, one-handed, effortless, as if putting a glass on a shelf. No. What convinced you the guy was back for real were those familiar beads of sweat glistening on his smoothly shaved head, exerting himself again, in basketball, after nearly two years away. His number was already retired and a statue erected in his honor. Now he stripped off his warm-ups to the familiar red-and-black uniform. The crowd exploded.
ATLANTA -- The barbell sat there like a mountain. "Go ahead," it seemed to say, "move me."Out came the last lifter. He already had won the gold medal; this was for history. The weight stood at 518 pounds. If he hoisted it to his shoulders, then pushed it over his head, he would better the world record by more than 16 pounds.In the audience, his fans waved the flag of Greece.In the hallway, the silver medalist, from Kazakhstan, watched with intense interest.In the waiting room, the bronze medalist, from Ukraine, bit his lip and stared at the TV screen.
When he was a kid, he was only trying to reach the couch. His older brother blocked the way, grinning and cooing, "Come on, try it. Come on." And so young Charles Woodson, with a balled-up sock under his arm, dove into every invisible air tunnel, hoping for a clear chute to the promised land of bouncy cushions."I'm gonna score on you!" he'd yell."No, you're not!" his brother would answer.
It was every suspense film you ever watched, every thriller you ever read, every nervous waiting room you ever sat in all rolled into one nail-biting, double-overtime evening at Joe Louis Arena, 19,000 exhausted fans, tapping their chests at every break to make sure the old ticker was still working.And finally, a few minutes before midnight, the doctor emerged, smiling with the good news:It's a goal!
MILWAUKEE -- I sat about 10 feet from Mateen Cleaves' mother Sunday afternoon. At one point, in a wild and noisy game the Spartans trailed much of the way, Mateen complained to a referee about a foul, and an opposing fan yelled, "Aw, Cleaves, stop your crying!"At which point, Mom let him have it.The fan, not Mateen."YOU MIND YOUR BUSINESS!" she yelled. "HE ONLY TAKES DIRECTIONS FROM ME!"
They may be good, bad, glorious or depressing. But you have to admit, the Michigan-Notre Dame game will always give you memories.Gary Moeller has memories. Five memories from five autumn afternoons when it seemed like the whole world was watching. Moeller was head coach of U-M from 1990 to 1994, which was the last time the Wolverines and Irish met.A lot has changed since then. Neither Moeller nor Lou Holtz is in charge of those teams anymore. Neither man left under happy circumstances. Both will be working other jobs when the two football teams reunite Saturday.
Paul Coffey was on his knees, his left leg throbbing, his head slamming the ice in frustration. No. No. No. No. Seconds before, he had watched a bullet go through the lungs of Detroit's Stanley Cup hopes, and he was helpless to stop it, like some ill-fated soldier in the movies, who reaches, reaches, but just can't pull his friend into the foxhole."Get up! Someone get him up!" you could almost hear the Joe Louis Arena crowd scream Tuesday night, seconds before the goal that gave New Jersey a commanding 2-0 lead in these finals. "Somebody blow a whistle! Somebody do something!"
In his latest book, "Tuesdays with Morrie," published by Doubleday, Free Press columnist Mitch Albom writes about the final lessons from his college professor and mentor, Morrie Schwartz. The Free Press is running excerpts today through Thursday.The last class of my old professor's life took place once a week in his house, by a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves. The class met on Tuesdays. It began after breakfast. The subject was The Meaning Of Life. It was taught from experience.
