DAYTON, Ohio -- Throw out your hands. Make two fists. Wave them around over your head and start running backward.Hey, hey, hey, do the Spartan Shuffle.Or The Scott Skiles Shuffle, really. But what's the difference? He is this team, like it or not, and every time he backpedals after a score and does that little "whoopie" step that looks as if he's punching someone in the face, he is injecting magic into Michigan State, this little basketball team that can-can. And who knows how far it will go?
Alvin Hayes looks out the window. Then he looks at the clock on the wall. It's 9 in the morning and he's waiting for the car to pull up so he can get the hell out of here and back to the real world for a few hours. Rehab centers are better than prison, he figures. But not much. "Like the Army," he mumbles. They check your every move, give you penalty points if your bed isn't made right, and, ho, God forbid you get caught hiding anything when they strip-search you. Forget it. You're dead.
"I like a look of Agony, because I know it's true." -- Emily DickinsonNEW YORK -- His eyes were vacant, as if someone had sucked out any hint of anger or disappointment. Maybe he never felt those things to begin with. The last glimpse of Dwight Gooden in the 1986 World Series was clean and sanitized: dressed in street clothes, dipping to the mike for a few questions, then heading to the airport."Whose fault?" the reporters had wanted to know Thursday. "Why did the Mets lose?"
CALGARY, Alberta -- A few months ago, Bob Trenary was sitting in a restaurant atop Detroit's Renaissance Center. He looked out the window and saw, way down at the bottom, an ice rink."Let's try skating," he said to his wife.She agreed. Down they went. "You won't believe this," Trenary said to the rink attendant, "but my daughter is the national figure skating champion." The guy shrugged. Trenary pushed away. After five minutes, his ankles were throbbing. He wobbled to the wall, removed the skates, went back upstairs, and ordered a drink.
BOSTON -- Aha. I know what's going on here. Not long after Saturday's game -- when Fenway Park had emptied and the Red Sox had clobbered the Tigers for their 24th straight home victory -- I heard the telltale clue: quiet, soft, but definitely there. Giggling."We did it again," the leprechauns chuckled from somewhere inside the stadium, maybe behind the right field bleachers. "We still got it. Heh-heh."
I am empty. I am broken-hearted. All around me, college football fans are gearing up for the weekend. They wave Michigan banners. They wave Iowa banners. They talk of how Miami will beat Notre Dame, or how Notre Dame will beat Miami. They stock up on pretzels and hot chocolate.I sit by the window."What's wrong?" asks a voice."Alone," I say, sadly, waving a blue and white pom-pon. "All revved up and nowhere to go."
SEOUL, South Korea -- When the Koreans see him on the street they raise one hand and squeal, "Pit-cher! Pit-cher!" and Jim Abbott smiles as he has always smiled -- despite all the attention to his handicap -- because, as he keeps telling us, it's really not a handicap at all."Oh, I have a little problem taking photos," he says, laughing, and holding a make-believe camera with his good hand. "I sort of have to turn it upside down like this to snap the picture. Other than that, I don't have any problems."
"How you feeling?" someone asks."Ah . . . OK," Kirk Gibson mumbles.He limps through the doorway. His left ankle is in a plastic cast as big as a ski boot. He plops down near the whirlpool and undoes the straps. It is 9 a.m. It is the Henry Ford Hospital, Center for Athletic Medicine. Kirk Gibson is the first patient. As usual. Every morning. An hour and a half. At least. And more in the afternoon.There are no bat boys here. No pine tar. No tossing jock straps at each other. This is therapy. This is dull. This is boring, and it hurts.
Let me give you a date," I say to Bo Schembechler, who is sitting in the big chair behind his desk.He nods OK."Oct. 5, 1963," I say.Nothing."Miami of Ohio beats Western Michigan, 27-19," I say.Nothing."Well? Doesn't that mean anything to you?"He looks confused."Bo, that was your first win as a head coach.""Was it?" he says."Your first win, Bo."He grins. "Oh, yeah," he says.
The Michigan basketball players walked slowly to the airport gate, some talking, some joking, some, like Rumeal Robinson, wearing headphones to tune out the world. If you expected anger, grief -- well, there was none. They had lost their coach to a better offer, they had been stiffed two days before the NCAA tournament, but if they had learned anything from Bill Frieder, Papa Hoops, who kissed them good-bye on the late night news Tuesday, it was take care of yourself first, baby.
CHICAGO -- By the end, he was leading them all, his teammates, the fans, even the referees, marching them like a crazed army toward the end of his personal rainbow. Michael Jordan was taking over the game. Bank shot, good! Lay-up, good! Jump shot, good! "Here I am," he seemed to say to the Pistons' defenders, "try and stop me."
This is his first hockey game. He is very excited. He hands his ticket to the attendant at Joe Louis Arena, who hands it back and looks up, and up, and up."Aren't you . . .?" the attendant asks."Wayne Gretzky?" says John Salley.
