NEW YORK -- That does it. I am drafting a petition to the Womens Tennis Association: No more press conferences for girls under 18. Let them play. Let them shower. Let them go home to their Sting records.But keep them away from the microphone. Really. It's for the best. And I have been thinking about this for a while, ever since Steffi Graf mumbled through her first few years, and then Gabriela Sabatini mumbled through her first few years, and then Jennifer Capriati laid about 400,000 "you knows" in a single sentence.
Personally, I don't want to know whether Nancy Reagan slept with Frank Sinatra in the White House. For one thing, I have a lot of good Sinatra records that I would have to throw out. Also, I might have children one day, and maybe I'll want to take them to Washington, D.C., and then what do I say? "Look, kids, there's where Abraham Lincoln sat. And there's where Franklin Roosevelt discussed the war. And there's where Frank and Nancy did it."
So that was the first game of the season, right? We won't count those other three, right? How can you count baseball games when you can't even put your shampoo and after-shave in their regular spots, or stack your shoes in a messy pile and hang a picture of your kids near the pants hook?
HOUSTON -- They came out like a famous rock group on opening night of the tour. Chris Webber was first man called, and to a roar of applause sauntered to mid-court, looking mean, ready to roll. Next was Ray Jackson, who slapped his arms around Webber as if they hadn't seen each other in years.
I am about to say something that has needed to be said, and I hope you forgive me if it sounds a little blunt:We stink.I am talking about fans at the Palace. I am talking about their attitude and their volume. I am saying it now, because if this city really wants the Pistons to get serious tonight against the Bulls, well, we ought to heed our own advice.
I hear voices. I open my door. Look who's on my porch, singing Christmas Carols . . . * George Foreman: "The Christmas Song" Chestnuts roasting on an open fireWhipped cream hanging from my nosePumpkin pies and a burger or twoAnd milk shakes, fries, and Cheerios,Everybody knows, a turkey and some Pizza HutThey enable me to punchWhen Holyfield drops, I'll eat Tootsie Pops,And wait for Tyson, hey, where's my lunch?* Sergei Fedorov: "Winter Wonderland"Sleigh bells ring, I am scoringIn the room, I am snoring
CHICAGO -- His fingers were raw and he blew cold smoke with every command, but Erik Kramer fought the wind and frantically waved his teammates into position because he still believed something could happen, even as the clock ticked down its final seconds. Unfortunately, he was so involved with this idea that he lined up under the wrong man, the guard instead of the center, and almost goosed the poor guy offsides.
NEW YORK -- He swung the bat and he heard that smack! and suddenly the ball was screaming toward the upper deck in left field, and good night, this one was halfway to Jupiter. His teammates leaped off the bench. Even the Yankee fans roared. And finally, the man who all year refused to watch his home runs, the man who said this 50 thing was "no big deal" -- finally, even he couldn't help himself. He stopped about halfway to first base and watched his ball bang down in the deep blue seats of Section 32, waking up the ghosts of Maris and Ruth and Gehrig.
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.
