Detroit Free Press

They come at Bill Laimbeer like kids in a zoo. Look at the beast. You think he bites? This is Laimbeer's life now, every day, in a restaurant, on the street, you can't hide when you're 6-feet-11. Even at home, he's sitting on his porch by the lake, and people approach in their boats and they kill the engine and float past, staring, whispering, "That's him, there. Look."

Last Monday, Cincinnati Bengals coach Sam Wyche decided he didn't want to let a female reporter into his team's locker room. For this, commissioner Paul Tagliabue fined him nearly $30,000 and rejected Sam's plan to chase out the women -- and the men -- after 20 minutes. I have heard a million ideas on this male/female locker room thing. About the only one that made me laugh was the one suggested by Shawn Burr of the Red Wings. Shawn said: "I think the fairest thing is if everyone took their clothes off."Wonder what Sam would think of that one?

Twice a week, in the early morning, he takes his cane and tries to walk around the block. His steps are labored, his movements stiff and exaggerated, like a puppet yanked by strings. He passes the red brick house and the one with aluminum siding. Cane. Step. Cane. Step. You can do it, he's thinking. But by the time he turns the corner, he is sweating. Soon he is short of breath. Past the silver fence now. Around the next corner. Cane. Step.

WIMBLEDON, England -- I saw it. I swear. It was gone in an instant, but I saw it. Men's semifinals, third set, a hotly contested point, and I spotted -- are you ready for this? -- a bead of sweat on Pete Sampras' forehead!Well. I thought I saw it.Maybe someone's air conditioner was leaking.The Iceman Serveth. Everybody duck. The latest racket in the world of racquets is this skinny, dark-haired, unflappable tennis machine that makes the cop who chased Schwarzenegger in "Terminator 2" seem like Fred MacMurray.

He likes boats. You probably didn't know that. He keeps one in a Detroit marina, complete with bathroom, shower, microwave, couch -- "That ain't a boat, that's a house!" says teammate Mark Aguirre -- and sometimes during the season he'll go down and sit in that boat, not going anywhere, just rocking on the water and taking it all in.

For a few minutes Sunday night, he was his old self, firing those high-arching jump shots that threaten to bring down rain before they swish through the net. Two points. Another two points. Then he drove deep into the Atlanta defense and did the between-the-legs thing, the trademark left-right-left-right dribble -- sort of like the old Ali shuffle -- followed by a one-handed whip pass across the court. Beautiful. Then he led a fast break. Then he stole the ball. Then he shot again. Two points.