Detroit Free Press

A scout's journal . . . I don't follow the big names. The big names, they got plenty of guys following them. You think Ki-Jana Carter is gonna go unnoticed? Come on. We already know his shirt size and his favorite sports car. How much more can a lousy scout dig up?Me, I go for the small names. I beat the bushes. I check under rocks. I scour the country for every backwater college that still believes in the tackle and the forward pass.And I watch. And I make notes.Sometimes I have a drink and fall asleep.

I am from Earth. You are from Mars. I take your hand and we go Christmas shopping."Very big," you say, as we pull into the mall parking lot. "Is this a center for intelligent life-sharing experience?" "YO, JERK, THAT'S MY SPACE!" I yell.We park the car, and walk through whipping wind and blinding snow, as we cross the approximately 37 miles to the mall entrance. When we open the door, we are flattened by an army of exiting shoppers."Are their loved ones in danger?" you ask, wiping the footprints off your space suit.

Irecently returned from Japan. I have the business cards to prove it.There are business cards in my pants pockets and my shirt pockets. Last night I found one in my hair. This is because Japanese people, upon meeting in a business setting, immediately bow and present their card. And you are supposed to present yours.Unless, of course, you don't have one. Like me. In which case you stand there holding their cards and smiling stupidly, like the neighbor who has no candy for the trick-or-treaters."I am honored to meet you," my Japanese associates would say.

When people hear that Dennis Rodman wants to blow his brains out, sleep with men and play his last game in the nude, they say to themselves, "Wow, that guy is crazy."I say, "Must be another magazine article."Rodman is a magazine publisher's dream. For one thing, he'll pose any way you want. Because magazines sell mostly by their covers, getting Dennis to photograph in hot pants and a dog collar -- as he does on this week's Sports Illustrated cover -- is their idea of heaven.

SAN DIEGO -- Let's face it, John Elway is probably not going to win this Super Bowl, either. Not his fault. Just bad luck. His Broncos were beaten in his first try -- "We were in the game until halftime, and then the Giants dominated us," he recalls -- and they were beaten in his second try -- "The Redskins dominated us in the second quarter," he recalls -- and they were beaten in his third try -- "The 49ers dominated us before kickoff," he recalls.

File this under "be careful what you wish for."Last week, Monica Lewinsky took her act to London. She went hawking her new book, her new makeover, her new staff of publicists and managers and, she hoped, her newly swelling pocketbook, which stands to grow by millions if she is a success.She longs for that, of course. Success. Even more, she longs to be a successful victim. It beats working for a living, which, at last glance, Monica was having a hard time doing. When the president can't help you get a job, you know your marketability is low.

Reporters avoid eye contact as Scotty Bowman passes. He heads down the Joe Louis Arena tunnel, alone, walking in a half-stomp, half-limp, a four-star general with a stone in his boot. Suddenly, he sees an arena worker carrying a large piece of pipe."Hey," Bowman says, jutting out his chin. "What happened?"There is a frozen moment before the worker answers. It is in this moment that the Bowman legend hisses. The way he asks the question. His squinty eyes. That jaw. You can almost hear the analysts now...