Detroit Free Press

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.

My grandmother, who grew up in Brooklyn, used to talk about getting the news during World War I, how the family would wait for the paper each day and read sketchy stories with no pictures.Later, my father would talk about World War II, how the family huddled by the radio when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and how the news crackled from that old speaker in the wooden casing.

It was time for Juwan Howard to tell his grandmother about life as a man, to tell her about college and basketball and the new fame he had found in Michigan. He leaned over. He began to speak. "I'm doing good, Grandma," he said. "College, it's, like, not as easy as I thought it would be. But you know, I'm doing OK. I'll get good grades, like you want. . . . "Our basketball team is doing fine. We're progressing. We just need a little time. The fellas are real nice and all. We're like . . . this family. . . . "

CHICAGO -- I can think of better ways to start a season.I can think of better pictures than this: thousands of Chicago Bears fans going from depressed to delirious in the final five seconds, lighting up victory cigars and mocking the Lions. I can think of less disturbing heroes than this: Jim Harbaugh, whom I still remember from his pimple days at Michigan, now raising his fists in triumph as a Bear, after his last pass of this humid afternoon found the curled arms of Tom Waddle for a touchdown.