BOSTON -- In the end, they simply showed too much courage to lose. It's that simple. The gods of fate who have been stealing these heartbreaking games from Detroit and handing them to Boston must have watched this one Wednesday night and finally said: "Enough. Even we can't be this cruel."
INGLEWOOD, Calif. -- So this is what it comes down to for the Detroit Pistons: 48 minutes to live or die. They are skin and bone now, a cornered animal, a team without its captain that is relying on prayers, guts and the power within.One game. The world championship."Are you hoping for a miracle?" someone asked Isiah Thomas, their star, as he sat beside his crutches during a press conference Monday."Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I am."
This is the third of five excerpts from "Bo," by Michigan football coach Bo Schembechler and Free Press columnist Mitch Albom. Today's excerpt deals with Bo's favorite players.I knew he was special the first time I saw him. We were working on deep fly routes."Are you watching this kid?" I whispered to Gary Moeller."Yeah," he said, "he's so fast, he's coming back for the ball!"
There are hot dogs and caps and pennants all around me. On the bed is a notebook full of box scores. Over here are the batting averages, and here are the lefty-right tendencies, and Sparky Anderson's predictions, I left them around here somewhere. . . . "Ahem," says a distant voice.Ahem?"Football," it says.Football? Yeah, sure. That's a good one. It's World Series time. Where did I put those pitching charts? Dwight Gooden's book. Keith Hernandez's book. Darryl Strawberry's book. Does he have a book? Every Met has a book, doesn't he? I think --
"ALL RIGHT, LISTEN UP, EVERYBODY! Welcome again to our annual Detroit sports Thanksgiving meal. You know, I tell ya, there ain't nothin' better than getting together with people you ain't seen for a while and just -- ""Enough, Sparky. Say grace so we can eat.'"Grace so we can eat.""DIG IN!""Jeez, Gibby, use a fork, will ya?""Aw, listen to you, Jack. Hey, Isiah. Pass me the cranberry sauce.""Behind the back or through the legs?""Heh-heh. Good one, Zeke.""Thanks, Lam."
CALGARY, Alberta -- I am standing in snow. My feet are numb. My nose is leaking down my face. You are in an easy chair, wearing fuzzy socks.We are both experiencing the Winter Olympics.I am the journalist.Ah-choo!Let the Games begin! Wow! Just saying it gives me chills, although, with any luck, they will go away by spring. Maybe my jaw will defrost by then. Gold medals? Silver medals? Victory? Defeat? The triple salchow? Yes. Well. Easy for you to say.
EAST RUTHERFORD, N.J. -- He had the look of a man who had just walked into a bulldozer. He had the look of a man who had just skinny-dipped in the Arctic circle. He had the look of a man who had just discovered a horse's head in the sheets. Woof."Did you even know what you were doing out there by the last play?" someone asked Washington quarterback Jay Schroeder, after his team's 17-0 NFC title loss to the New York Giants."Well," he said, dizzy from a mild concussion, "I had an idea of what was going on out there."The idea was this: His team was getting killed.
MINNEAPOLIS -- I get on the shuttle bus. I take my seat. My colleague from a National League city sits next to me. He has never been where we are going. I look at him sadly. Nothing I can say will prepare him. Nothing."You look a little pale," he notices."Just wait," I say.The bus turns on a downtown street. The people of Minneapolis are swarming, as if on pilgrimage. And here is their mecca: the huge, round shape. The pastry-puff roof. The ramps like octopus tentacles. We are entering the Metrodome.Good God!
EDMONTON, Alberta -- Once upon a time, before we ever heard of them, they were best friends, two blond-haired boys skating on frozen lawns in Brantford, Ontario. Wayne Gretzky says they were seven. Greg Stefan says they were five. Whatever."We used to call Wayne 'Weener,' " says Stefan. "He was dominant even then. He'd score seven or eight goals a game.""We met when Stef joined our local tyke team," says Gretzky. "He was the best goalie around. One time, he lost his stick and dove to the ice and stopped a puck with his face mask. I'll never forget that."
Up goes the shot, down comes the rebound, in goes Bill Laimbeer."That's one," he says, grabbing it.Up goes the shot, down comes the rebound, out comes Bill Laimbeer."That's two," he says.Up shot, down rebound, out Laimbeer."That's three," he says.
This is something I've always wondered about. When a team plays a game on a Thursday -- as the Lions did a few days ago -- what do they do on Sunday afternoons?Do they watch the other games on TV?Does Eric Hipple invite Joe Ferguson and Chuck Long over to his house, and open a six-pack of beer and a box of pretzels?And what does his wife say?Does she come downstairs, shake her head and say, "I don't know what you see in that game. Why don't you do something constructive, like rake the leaves?" She couldn't really say that, could she?
MINNEAPOLIS -- I get on the shuttle bus. I take my seat. My colleague from a National League city sits next to me. He has never been where we are going. I look at him sadly. Nothing I can say will prepare him. Nothing."You look a little pale," he notices."Just wait," I say.The bus turns on a downtown street. The people of Minneapolis are swarming, as if on pilgrimage. And here is their mecca: the huge, round shape. The pastry-puff roof. The ramps like octopus tentacles. We are entering the Metrodome.Good God!
