He gets the best parking spot. That's one perk. Over the years, he jokes, his space has moved "closer and closer" to the Joe Louis Arena door and now "I only get bumped for two people.""Mr. Ilitch being one?" I say."And his wife being the other," he laughs.
Don't try this at home. Ben Wallace takes his left wrist in his right hand and squeezes. The wrist shifts, making a soft cracking noise that sends a shiver down an observer's spine.And that's his good hand."That's what happens when I'm shooting free throws," he says, flopping the right hand now - the one that has been injured for years. "I can shoot 10 straight good ones. On the 11th, it just slips out. I don't know when it's gonna happen.""And you have to fix it," I ask, "right there on the free-throw line?""Yeah.""You just pop it back in?"
Joey Harrington sounded like a kid who had just gotten his acceptance letter to college."I'm going to Miami," he crowed.He was speaking on a cell phone from Washington, a city he had never visited. He was doing the tourist thing, he said, standing in front of the Jefferson Memorial. It's a place kids go on their class trips. But for Harrington, the longest tour of his life finally had concluded. He'd found a new team. He'd settled on a new city. All that remained was the legal separation from Detroit.
They met in a soda shop over a milkshake - he ordered it, she served it - and six weeks later, he asked her to marry him. This was 1947 and she was still in high school. So they waited until she graduated. During that time there were dates and laughs and flowers - flowers, because his work was landscaping - and there was baseball, too, always baseball.
Attendance was mandatory. You had to be on time. Appearance mattered. No outside items were permitted. And no one left until all were dismissed. I am not talking about school, church or the military.I am talking about family dinners.If I had to point to one thing as the glue of my childhood, it would be those meals. They were fixed and firm. We waited for everyone. We never had the TV or radio playing. And we stayed at that table - eating, talking, laughing, yelling - sometimes for hours.
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.
