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 . . . "
Once upon a time, when Kirk Gibson went out socially, you locked up the women and children. He was a serious party animal, a whole frat house rolled into one reckless body.Now Kirk Gibson goes out socially to his son's elementary school, with the other fathers, leaning against the bulletin boards, and when the teacher asks them to write something in their children's journals, Gibson takes the pencil and writes his name and the date and the usual stuff. Then he adds a message to his boy. The message reads, "You never know unless you try again."
It was a New Year's Eve party. She was a high school senior. She left in her car. Three minutes later, she was dead.A drunk driver killed her, just a mile from her home. She never saw him coming. He was not even injured. When he crawled out through his window and saw the wreckage, according to a witness, he said, "Boy, am I in trouble now."The girl's parents were called. They came quickly. On the way over, they prayed it was a mistake. When they saw her blue Volkswagen, crushed like paper, they stopped praying.
CHICAGO -- I must be honest. Before they ever jumped it up Sunday afternoon, I wanted the Pistons to send five YMCA guys out there and let them play the Bulls. Lose big. Why not? I figured Detroit would never win Game 1 anyhow, no way, not after playing so hard Friday night against the Celtics while the Bulls sat around, foaming at the mouth. Let the maniac fans here scream themselves hoarse. Let Chicago win by 400 points. Let the real Pistons rest. See ya in Game 2.
* LIONS 19, BUCCANEERS 10: The Bucs ain't the Bears.* WASHINGTON 20, ATLANTA 10: Sorry, Falcons. That "Hail Mary" stuff only works once every 30 years.
Andre Ware stood on the sideline like a man who had just been scolded. He crossed his feet. He uncrossed his feet. He folded his arms. He unfolded his arms. His jaw was tight. He stared out into space.
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.
