There is one reason that Robert Blake's murder trial will not become another O.J. Simpson affair, and that reason is as clear as the hand in front of your face.Or should I say the skin on the hand in front of your face?
Get out of town. Change the scenery. Change the view. Go to Canada. Western Canada. Far western Canada. Anywhere but here, Detroit, Joe Louis Arena, where the only thing the Red Wings have is bad karma, two quixotic playoff losses, a memory reel of clanged posts, missed chances, intercepted passes, fluttering pucks and questions, questions, questions. How is this happening? Where is your goalie? Where is your power play? Vancouver again, 5-2? Who are these guys? Who are you guys?
Ageneral manager is not a player, nor a coach. He doesn't skate or knock pucks away, he doesn't blow a whistle.What he does, in a front office sort of way, is paint. He paints a portrait of a team he wants, he paints faces over each roster spot, and finally, when all the trading and cutting and buying is over, he leans back to examine his canvas.
You couldn't miss Bob. To begin with, he was too tall. I may be average height, but when we stood together, I felt Bob bent over me like a huge tree looking down at an acorn it had dropped.Or maybe I was intimidated. Bob McGruder could do that to you -- not because he spoke loudly, because he didn't. And not because he was quick to anger, because he wasn't. Not because he glared, stared, looked over you, through you, or dismissed you altogether as some bosses do.
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.