MUIRFIELD, Scotland -- He was huddled against the wind with his wife and his baby daughter. They were alone, in front of the clubhouse, a few hundred feet from the 18th green, where, at the moment, the fans chanted wildly for the British Open champion: "ON THE GREEN! ON THE GREEN!" they demanded.He should have been the hero. But he was not the hero. Paul Azinger kissed his wife's forehead and looked off beyond the noise, beyond this coastal golf course, beyond the North Sea. He looked off to someplace far away.
The first time I ever saw Walt Terrell, he was sitting against his locker, sucking on a beer. He looked very content, and I did not disturb him.The next time I saw Walt Terrell, he was in the same position. I did not disturb him.The next 92 times I saw Walt Terrell he was in the same position -- except sometimes the beer was a cigaret or a chicken wing -- until finally, I came to believe that if the clubhouse suddenly exploded into a huge ball of fire, Walt Terrell would lean over and go, "Hey. Did you hear something?"
Just a moment ago, he was dancing. Just a moment ago, he was spritzing champagne on his teammates, laughing with those gap-teeth, shaking his big nasty body and singing "BAAAD BOYS! BAAAD BOYS!" Just a moment ago, Rick Mahorn was the muscle around the heart of the Pistons' brand-new NBA championship team.And now he is gone.
NEW ORLEANS -- Listen, boss. The kid was a professional hustler, I don't care how high his voice was. He had a shoe- shine brush and a jar of polish and he was about nine years old, but he didn't fool me; he was on the make just like everybody else in this city during Super Bowl Week, the biggest, liquor-crazed, money-soaked Pep Rally of the American calendar year. And the little newt had his eye on my shoes, which made me nervous."I betcha I can tell you where you got those shoes," he said."How much?" I said."Five bucks," he said.
They came off the court like bounty hunters who had just killed a bunny rabbit. The Pistons shot the Bullets -- dead, finally, the fifth game of this best-of-five opening round playoff series. There was no champagne. No loud cheering in the locker room. There was . . . relief."What did this series teach you?" someone asked center Bill Laimbeer, after Detroit beat Washington, 99-78, to advance to the NBA's second round."That every game is a bitch," he said.
SEOUL, South Korea -- The door swings open on weak hinges, and we step inside, tracking mud from the empty lot."Excuse us. Is anyone here?" the translator asks. The house is old and silent and it smells of stale food."Excuse us. Hello? Hello?"Nothing."Hello? Hel-"Who is there?"
Oh, boy. This is the week of the Bounty Bowl. The word is the Cowboys this time have put a bounty on Buddy Ryan's head. Five dollars to the first guy who can find it.And now, this week's picks. . . .
He is making a point. You have to be blind to miss that. Here is Jack Morris, maybe the top pitcher of the '80s, telling the baseball world smack in the middle of its winter meetings that he is through with the Detroit Tigers,that there are four teams now -- and only four teams -- he wants to deal with, and knock, knock, he'll visit the first one, the Minnesota Twins, on Tuesday morning, and they better have their pens ready."Go ahead," he seems to say, as subtle as a brick through a window, "just try to ignore me."
PASADENA, Calif. -- They had the ball! They had the ball! Todd Krumm was cradling it, dancing with it, raising it above his head and leaping into the arms of teammate Kurt Larson, and only gravity kept them from flying off into space. All the waiting, all the lean years, all the talk of Rose Bowl jinx -- it was all crushed down and squeezed inside this little brown football, and now, Michigan State had it. God. At last.
He finally hit bottom in the cold dawn of Thursday morning, when a U.S. customs agent made him drop his pants and watched a packet of cocaine fall out of his underwear. Standing there, in a windowless room at the American border, alone, about to be charged with drug smuggling, Bob Probert was no longer a hockey player. He was no longer a Detroit Red Wing. He was no longer some tragic hero to the boozy faithful at Joe Louis Arena, who all along have continued to chant, "Hey, leave Probert alone!"He was a criminal suspect.Arrested. Cuffed. And led away.
That's it. Cut it out. Not another word about William (The Refrigerator) Perry. I'm sick of hearing about William (The Refrigerator) Perry. I'm tired of seeing his face on everything. I'm tired of all those silly stories about how much he weighs. Enough!
Well, here we are, just one week from the end of the NFL season, and this is what we can say about the playoffs: Nobody's going.Or everybody's going. Who can tell? With the sudden parity in the NFL, a .500 record can be your ticket in, or your ticket home. We can anticipate a very long day next week, in which the NFL pundits try to sort through the numerous tie-breaking procedures.But somebody will inevitably be unhappy. And what happens if, after all the analysis -- division wins, points against, and toughness of schedule -- there is still a tie?
