NEW ORLEANS -- A huge electronic TV screen hovered over the Superdome floor Monday night, like God's eyes, and the players below in this NCAA championship flashed across in glorious motion. This was basketball of the 80's, instant-instant replay. Look up and see yourself dribbling. And as the final minutes evaporated before nearly 65,000 crazed spectators, there was only one question in the house: Who would be the star? Who would be the final face on that massive screen, looking down at us all? No one knew.
LAKELAND, Fla. -- "The weirdest thing," says Jim Walewander, ripping open a miniature box of Cheerios, "was when one of these guys asked me for an autograph. What should I write? 'Good luck in taking my job'?"We are sitting in the dimly lit cafeteria of the Tigers' minor league complex, surrounded by lanky, young baseball players. We are eating breakfast. Actually, Walewander is eating. I am watching."Milk," he says, pouring some onto his cereal. "You got to conserve this stuff down here. You're only allowed one glass per breakfast."
LOS ANGELES -- I usually do not write about the same subject twice in two days, but if Isiah Thomas can fly halfway across the country to explain a 10-second remark, then the least I can do is devote a day's space to the same purpose. Let's get two things straight right now -- which apparently some people missed in the column that appeared here Wednesday. 1) Isiah Thomas is not a racist. And 2) Isiah Thomas, like any one of us, has the right to say anything he wants. To deny either of these statements would be ignorant and incorrect.
CHICAGO -- It was like watching one of your favorite TV shows get canceled.Washington 27, Chicago 13.Bad news, Bears.Yes, America, the air waves are safe once more. No more videos. No more Super Bowl shuffles. No more Taco Bell commercials, if we're lucky. McMahon, Payton, Ditka, the Fridge? All passe now. This is 1987. The Redskins advance, the Bears go back, where? Their caves, I guess.
NEW YORK -- Let's get this straight. The guy has a mansion in Connecticut, and he drives to work each morning, 40 minutes down the New York thruway, and when he's done he drives home and feeds the dogs and watches the VCR.This is a foreigner?Well, this is Ivan Lendl, commuting tennis star. The only thing he needs to win the U.S. Open today is his racket, his shoes, and the correct change for the toll booth."Why do you do so well here?" someone asked him, after he beat Stefan Edberg of Sweden on Saturday, 7-6, 6-2, 6-3, to advance to today's final.
LAS VEGAS -- By the time you read this, history will have been made here in the Nevada desert.Some sort of history, anyhow. Either Larry Holmes will have equaled the record 49 straight victories set by Rocky Marciano, or his younger opponent, Michael Spinks, will have destroyed the belief that a light-heavyweight cannot steal a crown off the head of a heavyweight champion.
There were bodies all around the net and the clock was down to 1:11 left in overtime -- overtime! -- and somebody shot, at first nobody was sure who, but suddenly the St. Louis players were leaping into the air and the sellout crowd in Joe Louis Arena rose to its feet desperately looking for the red light, where was the red light, it couldn't be over without the red light . .
OAKLAND, Calif. -- It was the biggest moment of his baseball life, he was about to pitch the bottom of the ninth, lead his teammates to the promised land of the World Series, and there he was -- sitting in the dugout, his head back, his eyes closed."What were you doing?" someone asked Orel Hershiser."I was singing hymns," he said.Oh.
He sat in an office behind smoked-glass windows. He wore a sports jacket and a button-down shirt. No pads. No helmet. These were the final 60 minutes of Doug English's football life. He was going out as a civilian. "You OK, big fella?" a front-office guy asked."I'm OK," English said."You mind waiting here until the press conference?""Well, I don't have any other plans," English said.
Sometime this afternoon, I will drive over to Jacques Demers' place and honk the horn. That should make at least two punk rockers happy. I am talking about the two guys who stopped me outside Joe Louis Arena before the first game of this crazy Toronto-Detroit playoff series -- they had leather pants and leather jackets and spiked hair and Red Wings shirts; I can only assume they liked punk rock -- and who only wanted to ask me this: "Did you drive Jacques to the game tonight?"And I said no, not this time.
Petr is getting a new car. He does not know what kind. But he hopes it will be very fast.We are in a Chevrolet dealership. Petr is sitting in a chair, looking at the ceiling. Petr's translator, Ivan, is doing the talking, because Petr speaks no english."K-l-i-m-a," says Ivan, spelling Petr's last name. "He is new hockey player for Red Wings . . . yes . . . he make lots of money, don't worry."Ivan laughs. Petr laughs, too, even though he has no idea what's going on.
CALGARY, Alberta -- The van that would take me to the greatest adventure of my life was speeding toward the East German border. The driver, a bearded man called Bob (Bullet) Hughes, was talking nonstop. He wore a red cap, to hide his bald head, and furry boots, one of which was slammed on the gas.
