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."
After awhile, even journalists get tired of bad news. It seems as if every time you pick up a paper, the stories are shocking, depressing or disgusting. And that's just the sports pages.Wouldn't it be nice if, just once, you could control the news flow? Then we might see stories such as these:
* LIONS 20, HOUSTON 17: I picked them last week. They won last week. I'm on a roll.* DALLAS 20, NY GIANTS 10: Used to be a pumpkin pie game. Now it's mashed potatoes.
ATLANTA -- Listen my children and you shall hear, of the midnight series, that you missed this year.It was fun. It was wild. It was worth seeing, live, when it happened, when Dave Winfield smacked that ball in the heart- draining 11th inning and you could hear Canada cheering from 2,000 miles away. What a moment! Finally, after years of flirting with glory, this Toronto franchise had become real, Pinnochio touched by the magic wand, the best team on paper to best team in the flesh. . . .
First the shot, which made a thudding sound as it hit Chris Osgood's pads. Then the swish, as several Red Wings skated the other way. Then the swelling roar, as Dino Ciccarelli surged ahead of a defender, puck on his stick. Then the explosion, as Ciccarelli flicked a shot past the sprawling San Jose goalie, Arturs Irbe, for a Detroit goal, its sixth of the night.Blowout. Blow out.
The other day, a teenager asked me a question: "Did you really live in the '60s?"Well, yes, I said."Wow! Cool! How was it?"I took a deep breath. I knew this was coming. Whenever America runs out of ideas, it decides to "bring back" an era. As near as I can figure, the era must be at least 20 years old to qualify, which is just enough time for us to forget how stupid it was.
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.
