NEW YORK -- So there we were with nothing to do on a Monday night in Boston except maybe eat another lobster and talk about Bill Buckner's spring training when I suddenly turned to Mary Schroeder, our ace photographer, and said, "Say, Mary. I've got a smashing idea. Let's jet on down to the Big Apple for the premiere of that hot new comic sensation that everyone is talking about. Won't that be a stitch!"And Mary said: "Spiffy!"And I said: "James, call the limo!"
* Detroit 21, Chicago 20: Now look. If Erik Kramer has a good game, the first person around here who asks"Why can't we get a quarterback like that?" I slap.* Indianapolis 24, Washington 6: Let me get this straight. The Skins are paying millions to Heath Shuler, hundreds of thousands to John Friesz, and they're starting a guy named Gus Frerotte at quarterback? Gus Frerotte?
First of all, about the haircut. He does it himself. Before each game. Calls it the "high inside fade, with the bald spot and the sideburns." When he explains this, he rubs the naked skin above his ear and smiles, a huge smile, a smile that will make him famous one day."The sideburns," he proudly notes, "are my personal thing. You got to be a little different, you know."Next, the earring. Little gold thing. Goes with the sideburns, I guess. He only wears it off the field, away from the football team. Coaches just don't understand. You know how it is.
For one thrilling Sunday, it was perfect chaos, all these inspired men doing things they weren't supposed to do, exploding like a silver-and-blue volcano after years of bubbling frustration.
New YORK -- Next time I go to a tennis tournament, I'm bringing a 6-month-old baby, a barking dog, and my rather large friend, Mendel, who tends to eat a lot of Mexican food, then burp. And when some umpire asks us to leave because the poor tennis player can't concentrate on his serve, I'm going to stand up, turn to my group, and lead it in a resounding chorus of: "WAAAH! Grrrrr. Urrp!"Which brings us to today's subject: Monica Seles.And grunting.
One by one they pushed the door open and reacquainted themselves with destiny. Joe Dumars, as usual, was first man in. He took a seat by his locker, with his trademark can of Coke, and his trademark disc player and headphones. He had his trademark book, a novel. At his feet, as usual, sat two of the young Pistons ball boys. They were opening his mail."Somebody wants you to test-drive drive a Rolls-Royce," said one, reading the invitation."A Rolls-Royce?" said Dumars, not looking up.'Yeah. 'We want you to experience the luxury of our . . . um . . . ' "
I took a vacation. I went to France. When I go away, I like to go far away, someplace where they don't speak English. I do this not because I enjoy ordering what I think is a hamburger, only to have the waiter bring me ox brains.I do it because going someplace where they don't speak English is the only way to escape my addiction.My addiction is the news.
ALBERTVILLE, France -- The thing about printing your own money, the bearded man tells me, is finding a place to do it. It's damn hard. You can't just build a mint, you know. Even if you do run the country.He reaches into the pocket of his blue jeans, which he wears with a denim shirt and white socks and bedroom slippers, not a bad outfit for a deputy minister of the government, and he pulls out a few bills, colorful little things with the picture of a mountain. They are signed by the "Secretary of Finance of Slovenia.""Tolars," he calls them.
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.
