Rick Carlisle wears a suit and tie and a dress shirt and dark socks and he's not allowed to play anyhow, so all he could do was call time-outs. Sometimes that's effective. And sometimes it's all you've got.We lost track of how many time-outs Carlisle, the Indiana coach, signaled for during the bloodletting that was the late second and third quarters Tuesday night. Suffice it to say, he spent the nest egg. Time out, ref. Time out, ref. Making a "T" with his hands. Touching his shoulders. Why bother, Rick? It was like trying to save theTitanic by scooping with a paper cup.
INDIANAPOLIS -- When you absolutely, positively have to win a game, it's nice to have your opponents shoot like trash-can drummers on the streets in New York. You know, clank, clank, thump, thump? The Pacers saw the bottom of the net Sunday about as often as Bill Gates sees a phone bill, and their futility was all over the scoreboard.
The nice thing about a Pistons-Pacers game is you go in with such low entertainment expectations a fast break seems like Paul McCartney doing "Yesterday." You want to scream.Well, let 'er rip. When Ben Wallace is playing like a mad scoring machine, when the Pistons have 52 points at halftime, when you can actually hear their thundering feet moving downcourt with (gulp) speed -- then holler away.Because you know the night will at least be fun -- and most likely victorious.
Like it or not, the Pistons are playing the Pacers again, starting tonight at the Palace. So listen up, because these are the rules:1. If you can drink it, you can't throw it.2. Popcorn goes in your mouth.3. It's a buzzer, not a boxing bell.4. Chill.5. If a player lies on the scorer's table, give him a break: Maybe he's tired.6. Ron Artest is not playing. There's no reason to scream at him.7. It's a ticket, not a hunting license.8. It's a hot dog, not a missile.9. Be nice with your ice.10. Be like Yoda with your soda.
She was born in the Depression and she was raised in Brooklyn, in a small apartment above a drugstore named Berg's. Her father worked in a post office. Her mother stuffed $3 a week in an envelope for food money. They had no phone. They had no car. She and her school friends would hang out on the fire escapes.
On a night when LeBron James sat near the Detroit bench - two earrings, one pair of shades, one shirttail hanging from his sweater - and Chuck Daly sat a few feet away - one blazer, one silk necktie, one full head of hair - you could argue that the Pistons were surrounded by the future and the past. But this night was about the present. And the present was tense.
When Bud Selig was a kid growing up on the west side of Milwaukee, he didn't use drugs. He didn't know much about them. They were for the "bad" kids and he was a "good" kid. He didn't drink, he didn't take pills, and to this day, he says, he has never let a cigarette touch his lips.
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.
