You are calm. You are serene. You are a perfectly mature adult who is not the least bit worried that tonight could mark the quick death of a once promising hockey season. Not at all."Coffee?" asks your spouse."COFFEY? WHAT ABOUT COFFEY? DON'T TELL ME HE GOT HURT! THAT'S ALL WE NEED! HOW DID HE GET HURT? BLAST IT! CURSES! RATS! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!"Your spouse runs upstairs. Must be having a bad day.Not you. You are fine. You are at peace. You go to work, enter your office, nod at your colleagues.One of them says, "How's things?"
BARCELONA, Spain -- I got Carl Lewis out of bed once. He was a college kid, spending the summer at his parents' house in Willingboro, N.J. I arrived for an interview -- you could do that with Carl back then -- but he had overslept. I rang the bell. I rang again. Finally, he came wobbling down the steps, wearing his underwear, rubbing his eyes.
We don't know how to win," Chris Spielman said. His jaw was clenched. His hair was sweat-soaked. He spoke as if in a trance. "We don't know how to win. Before you can win, you have to know how. Washington knows how. Maybe one day we will. But right now, we do not know how to win. It's that simple."
EAST LANSING -- The screamers can take the year off. Save your voices. Save the gas. The Michigan-Michigan State basketball rivalry, which, when it's good, is really good, is no better than lopsided this winter, one of those years when the light shines in only one direction. Green light. Spartans go. The Wolverines will spend most of their season just trying to get across the street.
You find me in the newspaper composing room, late at night, near a vat of ink. I use bold face. I use big type. I am laying out the headlines. Tomorrow's headlines. Today.IRISH DO IT AGAIN, BEAT U-M, 10-9!FREAK PLAY WINS IT! IRISH 10, U-M 9!"What are you doing?" you ask."Preparing," I answer.I know what is coming. It is that time of year. The cool winds are blowing, the tan lines are gone. Michigan plays Notre Dame. That time of year.
LONG BEACH, Calif. -- The dream was out of breath, it was gasping for air, all the magic the Michigan Wolverines had once enjoyed in climbing to the national championship now seemed to be stacked against them in another color uniform. Who were these Loyola Marymount Lions, and how on earth did you stop them? One by one, the U-M seniors stepped forward to fight the sword, and one by one they fell. Here was Mike Griffin, fouling out meekly as a tank named Bo Kimble raced past him for a slam.
The last time I saw Kirk Gibson, he was wearing black- and-green camouflage clothes. His beard was wild and unkempt. He had a plate of ribs in front of him and was chomping like a happy man. He and a few friends were on their way hunting, somewhere up north, and he had stopped to do a radio interview. This was November, just three months ago, and while I cannot remember every detail, I can tell you this: The last thing on his mind was baseball.
I don't want to sound like someone's grandmother here, but where does the time go? Wasn't it yesterday we were saying hello to two rookies, John Salley and Dennis Rodman, one a lanky, flamboyant kid from Georgia Tech, the other a complete unknown from somewhere in Oklahoma? Wasn't it? Yesterday? I remember when Salley first showed up, because he came on a local radio station, did a typical rookie interview, and then, when asked whether he had any messages to the city of Detroit, he said, "Yeah. Tell all the good-looking ladies that tonight, 8 o'clock, I'll be at . . . "
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.
