Detroit Free Press

On the one hand, I really don't want to write this column. It's a pretty foolish issue. On the other hand, sometimes foolish issues grow into serious ones, and it's best to nip them in the bud.First, let me say I like Sparky Anderson. I always have. He's a bona fide legend in baseball, even if the Tigers lose the rest of their games this season, which we are praying very hard won't happen.

There goes your old friend baseball. You remember him from a happier time, when he walked with his head high, waving at children and swatting home runs. He is stooped over now, fat and bloated, drunk on his own greed. There is no saving him. No one even wants to try.

CHICAGO -- So there was another bullet in the chamber after all. The Bulls fired, the Pistons went down, and now we are left with 48 minutes of basketball war to determine who gets off the ground and who stays there until next fall.

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.