Detroit Free Press

I have this theory about the Red Wings in the playoffs. This is my theory. They should leave town.I don't mean for good. I mean for the start of each series. Even if they have earned home ice, decline it, start on the road. Begin each series with enemy fans, booing and hissing, telling them they're no good. There's less pressure to please the home crowd. And I think they'll perform better.

SAN DIEGO -- I blame El Nino.What else, Curt, could make a mature, respected, otherwise intelligent sports writer like yourself behave like a sea monkey?Look at you, bobbing back and forth, picking the Denver Broncos. How cute. What other colors do you come in?It must be El Nino, Curt. They blame it for every other nutty thing that happens here in California.And nutty is the word, my old, old friend, when you open your mouth and say, "The Denver Broncos will win the Super Bowl."

Let me tell you about my neighbors.On one side, in a tri-level house, are Morty and Josie, who have two kids. Josie has big blond hair and wears frosted lipstick. Morty is the life of the party, always laughing and smoking a cigar.On the other side are Jay and Shirley and their three boys. The boys play football at the side of the house. Whenever they get any spare change, they put it in a cup in the kitchen so that one day they can buy a swimming pool.

ATLANTA -- Big men don't cry, but this big man did. He stepped onto the medal stand, and when the anthem played, he wept. These were not tears of joy, mind you. Not one of those Olympic moments where the hero breaks down in a flood of patriotism.No. The big man, a Greco-Roman wrestler, was on the podium for silver medalists, and it was a few inches too low to keep his heart from breaking."That was the saddest moment of my life," said Matt Ghaffari, "having to stand there and listen to the Russian anthem being played, watching the Russian flag being raised.

My back hurt.This was nothing new. My back often hurts. When it does, I visit a chiropractor. I like my chiropractor. He always makes time for me. There was only one problem.I was in Spain; he was 4,000 miles away.Thus begins today's "what I did on my vacation" column. I looked for a chiropractor. In a foreign country. And I can safely say this: In Spain, which is a lovely country, you have a better chance of being stabbed by a bullfighter than having your spine adjusted."Can you recommend a chiropractor?" I asked the people at my hotel.

Scotty Bowman loses it. Not his temper, his ring. He had been playing with it, rolling it around, and it flew out of his hand and rolled under an orange seat in the Tiger Stadium mezzanine. Next thing you know, the 61-year-old coach of the Red Wings -- the man some call a genius, others call a dictator, but none, absolutely none, calls warm and fuzzy -- is poking under the seats like a kid, amidst the peanut shells and hot dog wrappers, trying to get his ring back."It went over here," he tells some fans, who quickly join the search. "You see it? . . ."

This is what awaits the survivors.Joe Lelli gets out of the car and squints against the cold December wind. That's the lake, he says, the last place he remembers them all together, Jim, Jack, Graham and him. It was just before Christmas, the water was frozen over, hockey time, and he remembers the way they jostled for the puck. "We hit each other so hard we just started giggling," he says. "It was so much fun."