MIAMI-- I was awakened Super Bowl morning by a phone call from a radio program that wanted to know if I was shocked.No. The only thing that shocks me is that a radio program, a TV network, a newspaper reporter or anyone in this tangential business of covering sports thinks they really know what "kind of guy" a player is.
SEATTLE -- They lost their first superstar over the summer, when he retired without a phone call. They lost their second superstar minutes into Sunday's season opener when a lineman came flying into his knee. Down he went. Off he went. Carted away. Future uncertain. Herman Moore gone. Barry Sanders gone.And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all the superstars the Lions had."For a split second there," offensive tackle Ray Roberts would later say, "I thought I heard all the TV sets in Detroit click off at once."
LONDON -- I can still see the old train station in that northern Italian village. Can still feel sun on the back of my neck and the weight of a huge canvas pack on my shoulders.I was just out of college, traveling across Europe, as kids did back then. I had little money -- too little to spare for phone calls or a newspaper -- and the next train wasn't for hours. I took a place against the white stone wall of the station, dropped on my rear end and exhaled."This," I said to myself, gazing at the hot empty streets, "must be what they mean by 'the middle of nowhere.' "
Once again, the end of the year draws near, and all I want for Christmas is my time back.That's right. Here in America, Home of the Hype, we give up so many hours to subjects that seem SOOOOOOO important at the moment, yet turn out to be a colossal waste of time.I want mine back.I want it now.For example, every minute spent talking about "The Phantom Menace," an overblown, big, fat zero of a film that was nonetheless on the cover of every magazine and paper and on the lips of every TV broadcaster, radio host and McDonald's Happy Meal dispenser this summer?
First of all, Michigan basketball players, their coaches and fans must understand one thing: The game didn't begin with them. There is a bad news history in this sport, and much of it has to do with fancy cars and hidden envelopes of cash and outsiders who get too cozy with the players.
ATLANTA -- The plane sat on the tarmac, stuck in limbo, and the man who would have to save the World Series for the New York Yankees sat inside it, feeling the beads of sweat starting to form."How long?" he wanted to know.Maybe a half-hour, he was told. Maybe hours. No way to tell. Computer problem."Computer problem?" he thought.He envisioned every travel nightmare you can think of. Flight gets canceled. Back-up flight gets canceled. He spends the rest of night wandering around an airport . . ."Wait a minute."
The ball came out of the lights in a quick drop -- which is what Corey Raymond was doing beneath it. His feet got tangled. Down he went. He watched the ball land in the hands of the New York Giants' Chris Calloway, who raced to the end zone with the catch, the victory, and any chance the Lions had of convincing people they are worth betting on this year.
CLEVELAND -- It was almost 50 years ago and the World Series was a thing that was played during the day, under the sun, as baseball should be. Irving (Sonny) Dwosh, now a retired carpet layer, was just a few years out of school. On game days, he and his father went to Peterson Nut Company and picked up 25 pounds of peanuts. Sonny carried one bag, his father carried the other. They set up on Third Street, near the bridge that straddles the freeway."Good spot," his father said. "People have to walk past to get to the game."
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.
