The flowers at the funeral were bright and colorful, white orchids and pink carnations spreading across the pulpit. A singer wailed a plaintive hymn, "I know He holds my hand." A church elder urged the assembled to ignore the newspapers and remember that "a man's legacy is not determined by one chapter of his life." He said only those who truly knew the Lord could say who they thought He was.Then he asked the mourners: "Who do YOU think Eddie Martin was?"
It is easy to imagineAmerica without prohockey. Look around. We are living it.The NHL has been shut down for three months. Guess what? Life goes on. Sports go on. Remember when people used to say "football, baseball, basketball and hockey" as if they were four equal slices of pie? Well, ESPN hasn't lost 25 percent of its content, newspapers haven't cut 25 percent of their space, and the idea hockey might constitute a large chunk of the U.S. sports stage is now laughable.
Win. Spin. To do the former, you often need to do the latter. The wheels began turning in Detroit on Thursday afternoon, the moment Rasheed Wallace, a big, volatile guy whose former owner all but threw a party when he finally dumped him, joined the Pistons in a three-team trade. The Pistons are a team that prides itself on selfless, blue-collar behavior. Wallace fits that bill the way Janet Jackson fits "overdressed."
Like most Americans, I have been glued to my TV, watching the war in Iraq. My channel of choice has been CNN. After a while, I began to notice a name I hadn't heard before: Walter Rodgers.There it was again. Walter Rodgers. I wondered whether this was a general, or a strategist, or maybe a soldier exhibiting great bravery, given that his name -- Walter Rodgers! Walter Rodgers! -- was being tossed about with unabashed worship.
Isn't it a shame," someone says, "that we only see each other on such sad occasions?"It is the most common sentence at a funeral. You hear it from relatives, ex-neighbors, friends who moved out of state.Only death, it seems, can make us slow down long enough to reunite. We hug. We kiss. We share a collective grief, until someone remembers a story that makes someone else smile. And in the end, we are reminded not only of how much we love the dearly departed but also how much we love the ones who are still around.
A2-year-old was running on the playground last month, as 2-year-olds do.He banged into a railing, as 2-year-olds do.And he got a cut on his head, as 2-year-olds do.His mother sued the city, as parents do. The accident, she claimed, hurt "his modeling and acting career."No, I am not making this up. In a letter to city officials, the mother claimed the railing was painted the wrong color. It was too green, she said, making it blend in with the landscaping. It should have been painted a brighter color, she insisted.
The Red Wings fan bites his fingernails. The Red Wings fan taps his feet. The Red Wings fan approaches a stranger in a Tampa Bay Lightning cap."How scared should we be?" he says."Well, if you're asking me," the Tampa Bay fan says, leaning back on his rocking chair, sliding a weed between his teeth, "pretty darn scared."
ATLANTA -- With less than a minute left, the ball came off the rim and Andre Hutson rose to it like, well, like a Spartan. His big hands clamped, his elbows swung, and he owned that ball, he owned it, never mind that three Temple players tried to get it away from him, three men in black shirts, pulling, swiping, tugging, it was his, the ball was green, the score was green, the day was green, and the lights to the Final Four were turning green, too.
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.
