JACKSONVILLE, Fla. -- If I had a dog -- which I do, but I mean if I had a dog with me, right now, down here -- I would say to him, "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore." Or rather, "Toto, we're not at the Rose Bowl anymore." That's assuming his name was Toto, of course. And that he remembered the Rose Bowl. I remember the Rose Bowl. In fact, this morning I remember the Rose Bowl the way I remember my first girlfriend. I miss it desperately. I want it back in my arms.
A few years ago, I met a great guy. He was warm and good-natured. He told funny stories. We hit it off immediately, which was good, since he was going to marry my sister.And since the wedding, they have been blissfully happy. They gave the family a baby this year, a little boy. Last week, at Thanksgiving, we made fools of ourselves gurgling in baby talk.
Chris Spielman dropped into his stance, set his jaw and snorted. He waited for the snap. Then he sprang forward -- and threw a block.A block?For the running Barry Sanders?Chris Spielman? Fullback?This was all you needed to know about the stunning event called the season opener at the Silverdome on Sunday: the Lions' defense was everywhere -- including its own backfield.
WASHINGTON -- The day began to die on the second play from scrimmage, when Erik Kramer was smothered and the ball squirted loose and the Redskins picked it up as if lifting a penny off the sidewalk. You knew then, somewhere in your stomach, that the theme of this chilly championship game would be simple and sad: The dream ends here.
Maybe you see God. Maybe that's the sensation football players whisper about, after a crunching hit coughs the life from their bodies and they collapse like puppets into the turf. Maybe it's a religious thing, the gates of heaven swinging open, your maker taking a fleeting look, ready to call you home.
Mike Peplowski deserved better than this. He had the scars, and he put in the years. No way a Spartan like him should have to exit the greatest rivalry of his college career on the short end, while two young Wolverine players, Ray Jackson and Chris Webber, danced on the scorer's table, shaking their hips and leading the crowd in a wave. Peplowski looked down. He kept walking.
When Bill Bonds arrives with three cameras -- one of them always pointed at himself -- and asks a million questions so he can look good on the local news, that's not journalism. It's theater.When Bo Schembechler bangs his fist on the podium and says "NO!" to this, "NO!" to that, and insists he is doing it "for the fans," that's not negotiating. It's theater.When Ed McNamara drops his jowls and looks deadly serious and says, "This is all part of a plot for the Tigers to move out of Michigan," that's not informed knowledge. It's theater.
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.
