NEWS ITEM: Pitcher Mitch Williams, distraught over the World Series and death threats from Phillies fans, did not join the team when it returned from Toronto. Some say we never will see him in a Phillies uniform again. His whereabouts are unknown.The year: 2018. Date: Oct. 26. Ship's log, somewhere in the South Pacific.A bad storm hit last night. The ship crashed against the rocks. I washed up on this uncharted desert island.
MINNEAPOLIS -- At the risk of being rude, I think it's time the AFC took its marbles and went home. This is not its game, this Super Bowl thing. The AFC has about as much fun here as the guy in the sponge toss who gets dropped in the water. Splash! Down goes this year's AFC sacrifice, the Buffalo Bills, in embarrassing fashion, 37-24, to the Washington Redskins. Don't let Sunday's final score fool you. Here was another Super Bowl so lopsided that Washington was ready to dump Gatorade on coach Joe Gibbs -- at halftime.
PORTLAND, Ore. -- Vinnie Johnson had the microphone. Isiah Thomas was next to him on stage, with his own microphone. Now and then he would sing a couple of words and Vinnie would sing, too. The band, watching, hooted its approval. Now Vinnie wanted Joe. "WHERE'S BROADWAY?" he bellowed to the raucous crowd. "WHERE'S BROADWAY JOE?"Joe Dumars sat at a back table and dipped his head. Shy by nature, he didn't relish stepping onto the stage in front of all these people. His wife, Debbie, nudged him. He shook her off. But Vinnie would not give up.
BUFFALO, N.Y. -- For those of you who went out Christmas shopping Sunday afternoon, let me sum up what happened here in the tundra:The Lions fumbled the ball with less than three minutes left; missed a field goal with less than one minute left; missed another field goal with 12 seconds left; lost Bennie Blades to injury, Dennis Gibson to injury, George Jamison to injury; converted one third down all day; and spent most of the afternoon dodging snowballs thrown by the fans.And they won.And they set a franchise record for victories.
NEW YORK -- A bead of sweat was dripping down Jon's forehead, from his thick, sprayed hair toward his makeup- covered cheekbone. He tried to ignore it and hold his microphone straight, but man, it was hot, damn hot. The heat seemed to burst from the subway grates and the exhaust pipes of buses that rolled past Madison Square Garden, past rows of blue-uniformed riot police, hundreds of them, just waiting, leaning on their blue barricades, wiping sweat from their foreheads. It was June 14, almost summer, the latest day in hockey history, and the fever was all over 33rd Street.
BOSTON -- The last time I had breakfast with Bill Laimbeer he stole my grapes. Just reached across the table and grabbed them. Didn't even say thanks -- although he did close his mouth when he chewed. "These are good," he said, swallowing.Then he stuck me for the check.So it's risky business eating with Laimbeer. But I am doing it again, four years later. I am sitting here as he orders eggs Benedict, two bagels, cream cheese, large orange juice, coffee -- and I am doing it because I want to know one thing: I want to know whether he is ready to quit.
MINNEAPOLIS -- I would like to tell you how this dead skunk of a football game ended, but I must admit, I stopped watching somewhere between the Vikings' third touchdown and the Lions' fifth stupid penalty -- which, I believe, was about nine seconds into the game. Talk about quick death! I could have left the stadium knowing the outcome of this game and scalped my tickets to fans still coming in.
I am starting my own talk show. I figure everyone else has one.My show will be called "Get A Life."It will be not be like Phil or Oprah or Sally or Maury.It will never be confused with Geraldo."Get A Life" will have no guests."Get A Life" will have no male strippers. No lesbian truck drivers. No teacher-student love triangles, or circus performers who worship the devil.There will be no men who want to be women. Or women who want to be men. There will be no porn queens who drive school buses. No Mafia hit men. No nudist cops.
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.
