As he lifted the razor, he thought about her. And as he pulled it across his scalp, he thought about her. He shaved down to stubble, making himself bald, the hair falling in globs on the floor. And all the while he thought about her.He thought about the happier times, like the night they met, at a high school dance in Canton, Ohio. They held each other close during a slow song. It was nice. But then that fast Prince tune came on, "Little Red Corvette," and he backed away because he was this macho football player, and macho doesn't do fast dances.
CLEVELAND -- He was pitching for everyone who ever got a little old, a little paunchy, anyone whose boss ever came to him and said, "We're going in another direction." For 12 seasons Orel Hershiser, gave his heart, soul and body parts to the LA Dodgers, he won them a world championship, he won them endless awards, he won them fans and filled their coffers with gold. He was loved by the media and loved by the community -- and it made no difference. None whatsoever. When he turned 36, and only pitched one complete game all season, the front office suits came down and said, "Thanks, Orel.
LET'S TRY to figure how far the Pistons will go in the playoffs.First let's try to figure whom they'll play in the playoffs.Well, before that, let's try to figure whether they'll make the playoffs.Maybe we should figure out the playoffs.You see the problem.
My philosophy of life is simple: Anything you can do lying down is OK by me.Which is how I came to be here, Joe Louis Arena, pulling a mask over my nose and mouth and sliding into the infamous hyperbaric chamber that now sits behind the Red Wings locker room. The chamber has made quite a stir as the latest techno edge in sports. As I understand it, you put injured or fatigued hockey players inside, they breathe pure oxygen for around half an hour, and they come out as Michael Jackson.
For one night, they could let it go. They could allow themselves a flush of satisfaction. The war was not won, but a battle had been claimed, and only the most stoic soldier could come out of Friday night without a smile. So here, at Joe Louis Arena, amidst a shower of octopi, and a deafening chant of
Joe Dumars dragged himself through the tunnel like a man headed for his own execution."Flu," he croaked.He shook his head slowly, as if to add, "Can you believe the timing?" His eyes were glassy. His head was clogged. And that wasn't the really bad part. The bad part was around the corner, on the Palace floor, Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls were waiting.
"The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted the spoons." -- EmersonThe people who run the Olympics have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.Inside are goodies such as free trips, jobs for children, college scholarships and an old favorite, cash.These goodies were offered by cities hoping to host the Olympic Games. Since the Games and all their tourism dollars come only once every two years, you can see how, as the competition swelled, so did the pot.
Each day, the door opens, and the reporters charge inside. They fan across the locker room and surround the biggest stars. Sergei Fedorov gets a big group. Paul Coffey gets a big group. Steve Yzerman gets a big group.Nicklas Lidstrom gets the two guys from Sweden. Day after day. Game after game. They sit by his locker and converse slowly, as if having a cup of coffee. They are there for one reason: to write about Nick. Nick at night. Nick in the morning.Just Nick."What about tonight's game, Nick?" they will ask today.
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.
