Their hair is thinner now. Their bellies jell over their belts. Their muscles are fleshy, no longer tight. Some have had doctors tell them to slow down, watch the blood pressure. When you meet them, many do not seem big enough to have done what they did on that cold Saturday in November 1969.But then, what they did was the stuff of giants.
NEW YORK -- He has had these days before, days where he comes out and plays like the Boy King. And the perfect thing, when this happens, would be if Aaron Krickstein's brain just blew a fuse and he was left with only his body and his racket. Then he could continue doing whatever he is doing, doing his best stuff, which, in the second set of the quarterfinals of the U.S. Open on Thursday was simply this: beating the shorts off defending champion Boris Becker.
Like all good heroes, they waited until the final reel of the movie, until you were on the edge of your seat, chewing your fingernails. And suddenly -- ta-da! -- they were Indiana Jones, ducking the spears, dodging the boulders, swinging across the canyon by a single rope. Never a doubt, right? The home team wins? So when it was all over, and the Atlanta Hawks were lying in shreds on the Palace floor -- their hopes of upsetting the champions almost laughable now -- here were the Pistons, blowing on the smoke of their guns and saying "Trust us. We know what we're doing."
There's this story about Fiorello La Guardia, who was mayor of New York during the '30s and '40s. He was serving on police court one cold winter night when a shivering old man was brought before him. The man was charged with stealing a loaf of bread. "My family is starving," the man said.
Have you ever known someone and not seen him for a while and then suddenly he pops up and you say, "Whoa! What happened to him?"I had that reaction the other night. Tiger Stadium. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a New York Yankee taking batting practice. He was small for an athlete and he looked kind of familiar, sort of boyish looking, with close-cropped blond hair and pale skin and a sort of vacant expression, like a surfer waiting for a good wave. He was . . .He was . . .Omigosh. He was Jim Walewander.
It was late at night and snow was falling. I was driving home over the bridge. Suddenly, I spotted an old man standing on a girder, staring down into the icy water. He was wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his hair greased back in a James Dean style. There was a tattoo on his arm and a cigarette dangling from his lips. I recognized him as a character I hadn't seen in a while, Mr. Macho.He squatted as if to jump."DON'T DO IT!" I screamed. He glared at me. "Why the hell not?'"Because you have plenty to live for."
THE LIVE ALBOM* My shock of the week: carob raisins, vegetarian burritos and hazelnut coffee at Tiger Stadium. Next thing you know, the dugout will have a hardwood floor and a Miro poster.* And Pachabel on the loudspeakers. * By the way, you think that Home Run Bar in Tiger Plaza is large enough? Take that, and the giant daiquiri stand, and on a hot day, you might as well roll the paddy wagon right up to the gates. * Eric Montross, I know Dolph Lundgren. I worked with him. You, sir, are no Dolph Lundgren.Eric's reality Eric's dream
LOS ANGELES -- Sinbad, the comedian, took the envelope, broke the seal, and read aloud:"And the winner, for best original song, is . . . "My hands were sweating. My heart raced. How embarrassing! A few months back, when someone called to say a song I had written had been nominated for a Cable Ace Award, my reaction was more noble: I laughed. Cable? Awards? I kept thinking of this "Saturday Night Live" skit, in which a man bursts on stage to accept "Best Weather Map.""I want to thank my mother!" he gushes. "People said this couldn't be done. . . . "
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.
