The last nine minutes were like something out of a war movie, explosions, bodies flying, nobody sure who was still out there, or, for that matter, who was even left standing. Vladimir Konstantinov hit the ice to block a shot, and his hand went numb from the impact. Paul Coffey took a stick to the head and lay face-down, bleeding. Sergei Fedorov saw a rebound and tried to flick it past the goalie, the crowd screamed, the puck hit the goalie's leg pads, the crowd screamed again, Fedorov tried again, off the body -- denied!
A woman wept. Her sobs echoed through the courtroom, distracting you like someone coughing during a movie. Her voice, raw and broken, cried as the first
LONDON -- I have been in England for a few days now, and you'll be happy to know the skies are still cloudy, the sandwiches are still buttered, the Royal family is still nuts, and British journalism is still somewhere between "The Front Page" and "Striptease."In fact, the next time someone accuses the Free Press of being a "homer" newspaper, I'm going to send over a copy of last week's London Daily Mirror, which had, on its cover, a giant photo of two British soccer players, wearing World War II helmets, over this headline:"ACHTUNG! SURRENDER!For You, Fritz,
LONDON -- Last week at Wimbledon, American Pete Sampras caused a stir when he said there was "nothing to watch" on British television. Bloody hell! The Brits went bonkers! At least the Brits who weren't watching TV. Those who were, naturally, were sound asleep.Sampras was not completely correct. There is, in fact, something to watch on British TV -- but that something usually involves the beetle and its mating habits.
WIMBLEDON -- Oh, great. As if sitting through a week of rain-interrupted tennis and having a match called because of darkness and getting stuck in the hinterlands of the outside courts where the cheers from the big stadium erupt just as you're trying to serve -- as if all that weren't enough for Todd Martin, today he gets to be the most hated man at Wimbledon, and the enemy of all England.Great."Are you aware or interested in who you're playing in the quarterfinals?" a British reporter coyly asked Martin on Tuesday.
Grant Hill must feel like the boy in the bubble. Every autumn, people come to peek at how he's progressing. Has he changed? Is he ready to wear the crown? Has he grown fangs? Adopted a scowl? Is this the year of Grant Hill, finally? Is this the year? Is this the year? . . .
Once again, the eternal question arises: "You call that art?"This time, the questioner is Rudy Giuliani, the mayor of New York City, who is so incensed by a new exhibition that he is threatening to take over the museum.And this time the art in dispute involves the Virgin Mary, which has long been a favorite of the masters, and elephant poop, which has not.
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.
