PASADENA, Calif. -- Suddenly, the grass had turned to track, the football to a baton, and he was back in his lane, chugging his arms and lifting his legs and leaving them all in the dust. Tyrone Wheatley was gone, baby, he was cape and boots, nobody would touch him. The crowd was roaring and the TV announcers were gushing and the end zone was getting closer and closer, he was going in -- he was going in! -- the longest run in the history of the Rose Bowl, 88 yards of gobbled grass, and nobody knew that he was doing it all on one leg. The right leg.
When NBA players start treating their coach like a substitute math teacher, it's time to say good-bye. Ron Rothstein was liked by few, tolerated by most, and flat-out ignored by others. It is no surprise he is fired this morning. I keep waiting for an eraser to hit him in the back of his head.Bye, Ron. Enjoy the money. Find an island and try to bring down your blood pressure.
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.
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.
