CHAPTER 1: In which I travel to Alaska and learn that all dogs are not created equal, although most smell alike.ANCHORAGE, Alaska -- Mush! Whoa!Get off my leg!All right. I admit it. Before arriving here for the Iditarod Sled Dog Race -- or, as they call it in Alaska, The Last Great Race On Earth -- my canine knowledge was somewhat limited. This, basically, is what I knew about dogs: If they urinate on your carpet, it's damn hard to get out.
ATLANTA -- Not that I spend a lot of time looking at other men's bodies, but I'll tell you this: Bruce Smith is an eyeful. He will grab your attention. This is not a human, this is a sculpture. This is a block of granite in comic-book proportions. The Incredible Hulk? The Thing? Schwarzenegger's role model?
BARCELONA, Spain -- Now, wait a minute. I think we've taken this "all sports are equal" thing a little too far here. Badminton? Badminton is an Olympic event? You win a medal for slapping a birdie over a net? What's next? Olympic hot dog grilling?"Badminton's cool," someone says. "Go see it."Listen, pal. I know badminton. I know the roots of badminton. The roots of badminton are in your basement, in a box that sits untouched until the Fourth of July barbecue, when you take it out and pray the moths haven't completely eaten the rackets. Here is what happens next:
LEXINGTON, Ky. -- The first newspaper I ever worked for, where I earned as much money as your average beggar, was also the first place I faced The Old-Young Thing. It didn't last long. Just long enough for the publisher, a fat man with a goatee, to bring in a tall fellow whom, he told me, "will be the editor from now on."This bothered me, mostly because, until that moment, I was the editor. (It was a tiny newspaper; being editor only meant you got a desk.) But what really bothered me was that this fellow, who was otherwise a nice guy, turned out to be younger than me.
SAN FRANCISCO -- Joe Montana, maybe the greatest quarterback ever, stood on the sideline, clean as a marine during inspection. All around, players were drenched in mud, swallowing it, spitting it, their numbers smeared and camouflaged by it. Montana, still neatly pressed, crossed his arms and shuffled his feet, his famous No. 16 as bright as a lighthouse beacon. This was his time of day, late afternoon. This was his time of game, fourth quarter. But this was not his time. Not his. Not the 49ers'. Not anymore.
The last time Jud Heathcote switched jobs, he made sure the guy behind him got to take over. This was his thinking: You're loyal, you work hard, you get rewarded in the end. He even delayed his exit a few days when he heard the big shots might pull a fast one on his assistant. They didn't. The guy got the job: head coach, Montana. And Heathcote left happy. That was in the early '70s, when a lot of people had different ideas about life.
CHICAGO -- So there was another bullet in the chamber after all. The Bulls fired, the Pistons went down, and now we are left with 48 minutes of basketball war to determine who gets off the ground and who stays there until next fall.
It was an ocean town, where people strolled barefoot on the boardwalk, ate saltwater taffy, and rode the Ferris wheel on a grimy promenade called the Steel Pier. Those who lived there worked in food joints, small hotels, or as jitney drivers. They made seaside wages, which were low, and many older residents did not work at all. It was hardly a boomtown, but it had its charm. Poor charm, perhaps. It became a poor place. A poor place that wanted to be rich.It turned to casino gambling.The town was Atlantic City.
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.
