C HARLOTTE, N.C. -- The shot was a prayer; it left Scotty Thurman's hand with one second left on the shot clock and arched so high, the President of the United States could have reached out and touched it from his special seat in the upper deck. Who knows? Maybe he did. How else could a championship like this be decided, but by presidential decree?
"I am leaving, I am leaving"but the fighter still remains -- Paul Simon "The Boxer"He was playing touch football on the lawn of the library. Just another college afternoon. A student came running over, told him an NFL team was on the phone. Down at coach's office. Hurry up. Dave Krieg laughed, threw another pass.
MINNEAPOLIS -- He did it with mirrors, right? He was air-dropped in by helicopter? Wait. I know -- he was disguised in a Vikings uniform the first three quarters, then ripped off the purple on that first play of the fourth. That's it? Something like that? There has to be an explanation for how wide open Herman Moore was on that one incredible play, Halloween night, when the weirdness began and didn't stop until the Lions had a strange, questionable, but ultimately huge come-from-behind victory.
The Free Press' college basketball writers reveal how they see the Road to Minneapolis. Last year, they didn't see the Road to Indianapolis too clearly. No one predicted Duke would win the national championship.
Stop the season. Right now. On a high note. Quick, somebody, knock me out and let me sleep until next September. After all, isn't this what we dream about? Rodney Peete throwing touchdown bombs? The defense sacking the quarterback? A near-sellout crowd making airplane noise as the Lions dance on the Silverdome turf? A happy ending? Isn't that what we dream about? Stop the season. Quick, somebody get me a hammer."But what about the record?" says the voice of reason. "What about the Lions' losing record? After all, this just makes five wins against nine losses."
NEW YORK -- A bead of sweat was working its way down Jon's forehead, dripping from his thick, sprayed hair and toward his cheekbone. He tried to ignore it and held his microphone straight, but man, it was hot, damn hot. The heat seemed to burst from the subway grates and the restaurant fans and the exhaust pipes of buses that rolled past Madison Square Garden, past the rows of blue-uniformed riot police, hundreds of them, just waiting, leaning on their barricades, wiping their foreheads. It was June 14, the latest day in hockey history, and the fever was on 33rd Street.
AUGUSTA, Ga. -- So here is what the 1991 Masters came down to: the final hole, the final round, three of the biggest names in golf tied for the lead -- and all three totally disgusted with themselves. Jose-Maria Olazabal was scowling in the sand, already his second bunker of this hole. Tom Watson, playing behind, had just watched his tee shot sail into the pine needles off the 18th fairway. And Ian Woosnam, all 5-feet-4 1/ 2 inches, had followed Watson with a blast into the crowd, so far left of the fairway, he needed a traffic cop get him to his ball.
Gerald Henderson was at the computer in his Philadelphia office Saturday when the phone rang. The Pistons. They needed a guard. Fast. Henderson, who had only been playing pick-up basketball three times a week, shut off the computer, packed a bag and got on a plane for Detroit. The next morning he was at the Beverly Hills Racquet Club, shooting hoops -- just hours before the Pistons would play the Lakers on network television. "Don't hurt yourself," one of the surprised pick-up players there told him. "They need you today."
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.
