The quarterback was so hot, steam was coming from his head. He crossed his arms. He glared at his coach. He was in the building physically, but in his mind, he was packing his suitcase.Congratulations, Wayne Fontes. Of all the boneheaded moves you have made with the Lions, this one tops the pile.
* Detroit 28, Washington 16: The Redskins beat the Cowboys. The Lions beat the 49ers. So I guess these are the two best teams in the NFC, right? Then how come their combined records are 4-9? Pick vs. spread: Lions.* Tampa Bay 24, Atlanta 23: Once upon a time, we pickers would see Tampa Bay and automatically put a "0" for the score. Ah, the good old days. Pick vs. spread: Falcons.
Sometimes you play basketball, sometimes it plays you. Maurice Taylor knows this. He remembers the airport a few years ago, waving good-bye to his mother, who was moving to Tennessee for a better job.Taylor wanted to go, too. A self-described "mama's boy," he couldn't imagine a day without her, even though he had been living with an aunt in Detroit for several years, because his mother's east side neighborhood was not the place for a budding basketball star.
Down on the bayou, they have this tradition: When their football team stinks, they wear bags over their heads.Grab a bag, Lions fans.Cut out one eye to see the gaping holes of the Lions' defensive line Sunday. Cut another out to see Scott Mitchell throwing the ball to the wrong team. Cut a mouth so you can scream "NOT AGAIN!" when a New Orleans never-heard-of-him waltzes into the end zone.Then pull that sack over your head so no one can identify you.
Deshawn Chatman was tired of watching his mother do crack, tired of the smell, the little white pellets, the way she lit up from the four-burner stove in their kitchen. He was tired of finding her incoherent on the couch, her eyes glassed over, too high even to speak to him. So one day last spring he quit the thing he loved the most, the Cooley High basketball team, and he walked the few blocks to his small, decaying, red brick house on the northwest side of Detroit.
Yes, sir. It's that time of year again. You open your door and on your porch is the entire sports world, singing its unique versions of popular Christmas carols. Such as ...Scott Mitchell sings ..."I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"I saw Bobby picking Charlie BatchAnd I knew my Detroit years were thruHe could have used me onceMaybe let me kick some puntsInstead I'm standing every weekWith a clipboard like a dunceI saw Bobby picking Charlie BatchAnd I knew that I would say good-byeOh, I wonder what you'll say
In the lower bunk slept a 3-year-old boy. He wore pajamas. He kept his miniature cars nearby. This was his room, and he had a toy chest and a closet for his baby clothes. In the upper bed slept his roommate. A grown man.A guy named Tom Izzo.
EN ROUTE TO NAGANO, JAPAN -- I wave good-bye to the lucky ones, the ones who get to see the Winter Olympics."So long," I say to my buddy with the big-screen TV, as I board the plane for Japan, "enjoy the event.""You, too," he says, waving."Lucky stiff," I mumble.I should not feel envy, but I feel envy. I am jealous of their luck. I am jealous of their good fortune. Mostly, I am jealous of their seat."Don't forget to tell me what happens," I yell to my buddy who owns a sports bar. "I want details."
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.
